Twelve Angry Librarians

“That could be a problem, then,” Laura said. “If they have any brains, they’ll ignore that and hire you anyway. I’m sure the staff would rather have you than anyone else.”

“That I don’t know,” I said. “They’re a great group, overall, but I’m a bit of an outsider to them, in some ways.” I folded my napkin and laid it by my plate after a glance at my watch. “I have to be getting back to the office, sweetheart. I’m sorry I can’t stay and talk longer.”

I pushed back from the table and then went to kiss her cheek. “I need to get home and take a nap,” Laura said. “Frank will probably be wondering where I am.”

“Drive carefully.” I decided not to mention the decision about Frank’s job. I knew they would let me know once they had figured it out. I felt convinced they would move. Suddenly the food refused to settle in my stomach.

“I will, Dad,” Laura said. “You go on back to the library and don’t worry about me. I need to ask Azalea something before I go.”

“Okay. Come on, Diesel,” I said. “Time to go back to work.”

The cat gave Laura a few last chirps and warbles but then followed me to the back door.

On the walk back to the office, I couldn’t stop thinking about this move to Virginia. I felt sure that Frank wouldn’t be able to resist taking the job. He had every right to make that choice, but I wanted to be sure that Laura agreed with him.

My lunch turned to lead in my stomach as I considered what life would be like with my grandson and his parents in Virginia. I had reached the age where I hated long driving trips, but I would have to get used to them if I wanted to see my family often. They would be too busy for trips home except for the holidays.

If I seriously pursued the job at Athena, I realized, I would have a far from flexible schedule myself. I wouldn’t be able to take off for Virginia when I wanted.

When Diesel and I reached the office, we found it empty. Melba must have been on her way back from lunch.

I opened my e-mail and scanned the list of new messages while Diesel circled around several times in his chair before settling down to nap. I saw that there was one from Forrest Wyatt, and I clicked on it.

As I read, that lump of lead in my stomach began to dance around, and I felt sick—and then furious. There was an attachment to the message—the résumé of one Gavin Fong, who had just today applied to be the director of the college library.

THREE

I scanned Forrest Wyatt’s e-mail message a second time to make sure I hadn’t misunderstood the import. No, I decided once I finished, I hadn’t made a mistake. According to Forrest, Gavin Fong submitted his letter of application and résumé earlier today. Forrest asked that I make a recommendation whether this candidate should receive further consideration by the entire search committee. The next meeting was set for tomorrow morning.

My initial—but mental only—response to this request consisted of words that would have my aunt Dottie and my grandmothers rolling in their graves. I doubted Melba would be shocked. I’d heard her use the occasional earthy expression herself. I, on the other hand, rarely ever did.

Gavin Fong deserved the profanity, at least in my mind. I decided I couldn’t respond right away to Forrest’s message. I had to let my temper cool before I tried to frame a coherent, reasoned reply.

Diesel’s loud meowing finally penetrated my focus on the e-mail on my screen. “Everything’s okay, boy.” I scratched his head and repeated my words. After a moment, he evidently decided things were fine. He went back to the nearby chair, jumped into it, and curled up for a nap. I knew he missed the window ledge in my office upstairs, but he had found a new favorite spot in this office.

I forced myself to open the attachment with Gavin Fong’s résumé. I couldn’t, in all fairness, write a response to the college president without having at least examined the man’s qualifications. I couldn’t simply tell Forrest I despised the man for his behavior nearly thirty years ago in graduate school.

The résumé followed a standard format, and I read through it fairly quickly, despite the fact that it was twelve pages long. To my surprise I discovered that Fong had earned a doctorate in education five years ago. I didn’t recognize the name of the institution, but there were many online schools these days offering degrees of all kinds.

Over the years since our graduate school days Fong had published a number of articles and three book chapters, the most recent one dated two years ago. None of the titles sounded remotely interesting to me, but they were—mostly—published in respected library science journals.