Chapter 12

Cora

Life wasn’t great ... actually ... it pretty much sucked. The years lumped along. Time crawled. David graduated from high school ... one of 19 seniors. Beck was a sophomore and turned 15 ... smart kid ... she skipped a couple of grades. Chuck, was Chuck. Good kid but strange.

Strange ever since the babysitter fell down the stairs and busted his skull. Sounded like a watermelon dropped off a five story building on to concrete. We’re pretty confident he died then. I snatched him up and started praying. He shuddered, his head rounded out and he started breathing again. He lived ... but he is strange.

The strange included reading at two ... no ... really. Cereal boxes. He started reading cereal boxes ... and at three he was reading the ingredients ... out loud and then he said:

“What’s BHA and BHT?”

We didn’t know.

“Look it up,” I said.

“Where?”

“Library.”

I read stories at the library in town on the Saturdays I could. It was something I could do and the Department of Children’s Services counted it as a real job and kept me on Food Stamps and Rent Assistance.

This particular Saturday, the County Director showed up and listened to me read. I was nervous. Too nervous to read ... so ... I made up a story ... about being an archaeologist’s daughter with a pet rattle snake.

While I was expanding on how the snake felt ... dry, smooth and heavy ... Charley came up and said, “Butylated hydroxyanisole (BHA) and the related compound butylated hydroxytoluene (BHT) are phenolic compounds that are often added to foods to preserve fats and oils and keep them from becoming rancid. They are added to food, cosmetics, and packing of products that contain fats to maintain nutrient levels, color, flavor, and odor. BHT is also sold as a dietary supplement for use as an antioxidant.”

Exactly ... word perfect ... from memory ... after reading it once.

That stopped the show. Remember ... he’s three ... going on four but still...

The director said, “Who is this kid?”

I raised my hand... “Guilty.” I said. “Charlie ... I’m telling a story.”

“Sorry,” he said.

“It’s okay ... why don’t you sit and listen.”

“I’d rather go look up Antioxidant.”

“Alright.”

So ... I finished the story ... The snake got run over by a jeep full of visitors ... and the director went to find Chuck. I started checking out books and issuing library cards.

Two hours later, after clearing up the devastation that was Children’s Corner, I went to find Chuck and the director sitting at one of the adult tables reading the A volume of the encyclopedia ... Charley was reading ... the director was open-mouthed staring. She looked up as I approached.

She said, “I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn’t saw it with my own eyes and heard him. I have heard so much about you. Mrs. Patterson,” she’s the branch librarian, “Tells me wonderful things. I have a paying job for you. You start Monday after the kids catch the bus and you’re off in time to get home. Eight ‘til Three. Five days a week and Story Hour on Saturdays. The President has decided that a librarian does not have to have a degree in Library Science to be a librarian and I think you can do the job.”

It was a job I could do. Five years worth of can do. When I took the job, Story Hour was a few kids in a corner of the Children’s Library. After the first month, attendance at the Saturday Story Time had moved to the large amphitheater. After five years, we now had hundreds of kids and their parents all listening ... spellbound. Mind you ... those parents used to drop their kids off and go wherever. We had three readers and me. Story readers and a story teller.

The director came to me and said, “I’m going to hate myself for this.”

That scared me.

She said, “The library in Lewistown Montana has an opening for a full time Children’s Librarian. The director and I went to school together. I insist you to apply.”

People from as far away as Maine and Florida applied.

I got the job ... at the going rate for a Masters of Library Science. Me ... Librarian. Me ... not a lick of college ... I’m a librarian. Whodathunkit.

The director said, just before we moved, “You never talk about it. It’s been bugging me for five years ... when were you in Arizona, where was the archaeology dig and what school does your father teach anthropology?”

“I’m terrified of snakes. I’ve never been to Arizona. My dad is a drunk defrocked Baptist preacher.”

“You made up the story?”

“On the spot ... while you were sitting in your chair listening.”

“I was convinced ... when you started describing how the snake felt...”

Looking her in the eye, I said, quite quietly, “The scales only lay on the body one direction. When you rub in that direction, the scales are smooth. If you rub the other way the snake doesn’t like it.” I kept on until I saw that look of belief in her eyes. She was getting into it ... even rubbing her hand up and down her arm.

I stopped.

She looked up, shook her head and I grinned.

Her eyes went wide and her eyebrows receded into her hairline. “I don’t believe it ... you told me it was a lie ... you told me you hate snakes ... yet, I was convinced. How do you do that?”

“I’m a storyteller,” I said, “It’s what storytellers do. What we have always done. Centuries of it.” I smiled. “Let me tell you what a snakes forked tongue feels like when he kisses your cheek. It’s dry and feathery and the eyes are attentive ... like he knows what you’re thinking,” She touched a finger to her cheek, “ ... See, did it again.”

We moved. Lewistown, Montana ... Fergus County. Middle of the state. Foothills of the Judith Mountains. Hot in the summer, cold in the winter. Looking out the front door is a view of the Big Snowy Range. Looking out the backdoor is the Judith’s. In the summer, when school is out, Story Hour uses the Middle School Auditorium. I need the room.