A Tinfoil Sky (9 page)

Mel knew what she needed to do next. She needed to lie. She was going to look Gladys straight in the face and lie.

“I’m sorry about last night, Gladys. I know I shouldn’t have gotten up. I wanted to sneak something from the fridge.”

This, Mel knew, was critical. She couldn’t just say she was making her way to the bathroom, couldn’t just say she was getting a drink of water. She needed to confess to something that she knew Gladys would be angry about, but it couldn’t be about Gladys’s things and it couldn’t involve the library card.

Gladys didn’t reply. Mel was relieved for the silence.
Twenty-four days
.

When Mel came out of the bathroom, Gladys was finishing her tea. The key sat on the table next to the plate with the toast, as though waiting for Mel. Mel picked up the plate and ignored the key. Gladys walked to the door. Mel followed her out, then sat down in the corner of the hall, under the window. Gladys didn’t seem to notice the bruise on Mel’s forehead; Mel told herself that it didn’t matter. But what she also knew, though she didn’t
want to think it, even to herself, was that it did matter: grandparents were supposed to care.

“You don’t need to call the judge,” Mel said quietly. “I won’t do it again.”

Gladys didn’t answer; the sounds of Gladys locking the door were deafening. Mel’s eyes fell to the floor and she let her fingertips follow the grain in the wood.

The growth rings in trees tell you how old the tree is; that’s what makes the grain in wood. No two trees are exactly the same. The rings are like fingerprints
.

Mel looked up again when Gladys had turned the corner. The shadow of the leaves coming through the window fell dark on the wall. The sun was shining. She finished her toast, slid the plate under the door, and left the building. Mr. Frohberger would know Gladys’s phone number.

“Well, let’s see,” Mr. Frohberger said as he glanced down at a list by his telephone. “This is it right here.” Pulling a pencil from behind his ear, he jotted the number down on a slip of paper. Mel thanked him – grateful he hadn’t asked her why she couldn’t get the information from Gladys – and left for the bus stop.

Once at the library, Mel took the steps two at a time and swung the front door open. She saw the librarian as
she approached the circulation desk. “I’ve got it!” she blurted out in Marilyn’s direction. “Apartment 2, 410 West Maple …”

“Great!” Marilyn answered. “Let’s get this done.”

Mel watched as Marilyn filled in the forms.

“Here you go,” she said. “Sign the back, and I’ll laminate it for you.”

In her best handwriting, Mel deliberately wrote her full name, Melody Anastasia Tulley.

“Anastasia. That’s a beautiful name. Is it a family name?” Marilyn asked.

“Maybe,” Mel answered. “I’m not sure.”

“Well, either way, it’s beautiful.”

When Marilyn returned with the card, Mel held it to her cheek. It was warm and smooth and it made her think about Cecily, about how, when Mel was little, Cecily would always say “It’s great to be home!” whenever they walked into the library.

Mel hummed as she walked down the long, narrow aisles of books, her fingers tapping the spines like piano keys. The song “It’s Beginning to Look a Lot Like Christmas” was terribly unseasonable, she noted, but she hummed on anyway. Everything was wonderful; she was in the library. She was there as a patron, a card-carrying patron, and she intended to take full advantage of her
privileges. Mel wondered briefly about Sleeping Beauty, if she would see him, if he would notice her.

She took her time with each book she pulled from the shelf. Her fingers traced the edges. Some, she noticed, hadn’t been opened in years, and others were well worn, their edges tattered and pages yellowed. There was no reason to rush. Altogether she could borrow fourteen books, but it was more than she wanted to carry to Gladys’s. Cecily would have loved songbooks and travel books; Mel picked out two for her, not because she could get them to Cecily or anything. She did it just because she could. She found
The Last Battle
, the book she’d been saving to read but was forced to leave behind when she and Cecily had fled Craig’s place.

Once Marilyn helped her check out her books, Mel turned and walked to the front exit. She was almost afraid to push the large arched door open, but she did. She counted as she walked down the stairs: one, two, and three. She continued to count each step as she proceeded down the cobbled sidewalk. Four, five, six. Still, no one stopped her. Seven. She walked toward the concrete picnic table. Eight, nine. She sat down. Ten.

Next to the picnic table, there was a bronze fountain, a sculpture of a family. There was a book in the child’s lap, and the parents enveloped the child’s body
between their own. Emerging from the bronze book, like a pop-up card, were exquisite bronze birds in a birdbath, and the sound of the real water splashing over them made Mel smile. She carefully laid the books out on the table and examined each book individually. Three of them could fit into her pack; the other nine would need to be carried, which was fine. Mel liked the feel of the books in her arms as she walked to the bus stop. When the driver opened the door, Mel smiled up at him. She leaned against the front seat and rummaged through her pack, gathering the appropriate change. Once she’d deposited the fare, Mel sat down, but not without glancing at the other passengers and smiling – she couldn’t help it – and then she carefully folded back the cover of
The Last Battle
.

When Mel got off the bus at her stop, she could hear Mr. Frohberger whistling. It was precise and clear, and it made her want to dance. She imagined being lifted into the air and twirled around and around. As she turned the corner, she spotted him sweeping the front walk.

“That’s quite a load of books you’ve got there,” he said.

“I picked up my library card today,” Mel said, slowing her pace and then stopping. She shook her hair down onto her forehead, covering up the lump.

“So the library must have some good books.”

“Thousands!” Mel answered. She could tell Mr. Frohberger would like to talk more, but she continually needed to lift a knee up to keep her books from slipping down and falling to the ground.

“You better keep moving before those books end up on the sidewalk.”

“You’re right. I probably should. Bye!” Mel started walking again.

“Give your grandmother my regards!”

“I will.”

“Mr. Frohberger said to say hi,” Mel called to Gladys, who was at her usual spot when Mel came through the door.

“Don’t you be bothering Ed Frohberger.”

“I wasn’t … I was …”

“I told you, don’t you be bothering Ed Frohberger. Cecily’s caused him enough trouble.”

Mel stood in purposeful silence with her books in her arms.

“And just make sure every last one of those books gets back to the library. The last thing I need is the police coming here looking for missing books!”

Mel almost laughed.
The police? Looking for missing library books?

She walked to the couch and sat down, carefully putting the books on the floor beside her. She pulled the light blue library card from her pocket, turned it over, and read her signature, Melody Anastasia Tulley. Her head was throbbing. The card had not been all that easy to get, but it was worth it.

Mel thought about what Gladys had said, about Cecily causing Mr. Frohberger enough trouble, and she thought about Cecily saying that she wanted to apologize to him.

Mel knew what to expect the third morning, and she was awake and ready before Gladys came into the living room. Having folded back the tinfoil on the window when she woke up, Mel knew it was storming outside. As Gladys locked the door, Mel sat down in the corner with her plate of toast and looked up through the window into the dark clouds that filled the sky. She hadn’t spoken to Gladys since last night. If Gladys could be cold, so could she.

The cracking thunder shook the glass in the window, and the tree branches scratched back and forth across the building’s clapboard exterior.

Mel thought about the last storm, under the overpass. The towed Pinto, Cecily gone, and the long night she had spent curled up in a ball. A shiver ran up her spine. She
set the plate and toast beside her on the floor and opened her book. The library wouldn’t open for three hours.
Cecily will be back in twenty-three days
.

Although she’d snuck peeks at him on a number of occasions, this was the first time Mel had been so close. He was lying down, legs draped over the arm of the couch next to the window, asleep, or at least appearing to be asleep. Mel, unintentionally, took the extra moment his closed eyes afforded her to look at him longer than she would have if he were reading, or talking with a friend. She noticed his faded jean jacket, pressed white T-shirt, the way his hair hung in front of his face. He was definitely around her age, probably a little older.

“Can you believe it?” Marilyn said to Mel as she walked toward the sleeping teen.

Mel looked at the librarian and then at the boy on the couch. She felt her face blush, knowing full well she’d been caught staring.

“Come on. Wake up and help me with some of these books,” Marilyn said.

The boy looked up.

Mel wanted to die. She could feel the heat on her face changing her skin from fair to flaming red.

“Hey,” he said, nodding in her direction.

“Hey,” Mel repeated.

“Melody,” Marilyn said. “This is my son, Paul.”

“Hi,” Mel choked out.

“Paul, this is Melody. And believe it or not, when she comes to the library, she actually checks out books and reads them.” The tone in Marilyn’s voice was light and joking.

“Maybe
you
can convince him there’s more to do in here than sleep,” Marilyn said as she cast a smile in Mel’s direction and then handed Paul an armload of books to shelve.

“Uh, I gotta go,” Mel said, and then she headed for her usual table near the windows across from Paul, Marilyn, and the cart of unshelved books.

The letter arrived exactly one week from the day Mel last saw Cecily.

Twenty days to go.

Mel brought the letter to her face. She could smell the smoke she knew Cecily had blown onto the paper before she sealed the envelope. “I love you, too, Cecily,” she whispered, “more than anyone.”

After folding the letter and sliding it back into the envelope, she tucked it into the front pocket of her backpack and went into the kitchen. She hoped that Gladys might ask her how Cecily was doing, that she might wonder if Cecily was okay. But Gladys didn’t ask. She just glanced at Mel and went back to looking at the TV. The key had been moved; it was in front of the vacant chair at the table.

The next morning, Mel went by Frohberger’s on her way to the library. She’d seen three or four greeting cards in cloudy plastic wrapping in the glass case by the cash register.

“What can I do for you this morning?” Mr. Frohberger asked.

“Um, I was wondering how much those cards are.”

“How does fifty cents sound?” Mr. Frohberger said as he lifted them out of the case and put them on the counter.

Mel picked up the card with the sparkling birthday cake. “I’ll take this one.” She knew Cecily would love the glitter. “Do you have stamps?”

“No, sorry, I don’t,” Mr. Frohberger said as he shook his head. “But I’m sure the twenty-four-hour place down the street does.”

“Okay,” Mel said as she set two quarters down on the counter and carefully slipped the card into her pack.

She wanted to ask him more about when he knew her as a little girl, and about Tux, but Gladys’s words about Cecily causing him enough trouble returned, and they kept her from asking.

Mel headed out the door for the bus. “I’ll see you later,” she called back.

“Mel, I’d like to talk to you,” Marilyn said when Mel arrived at the library.

Although Mel couldn’t imagine why Marilyn wanted to speak with her, she couldn’t help but wonder if she were in trouble.

“Oh … sure,” she replied, her mouth suddenly dry.

“The library is looking for a student to fill a part-time position. Just two hours, once a week, until the end of the summer. Is that something that you might be interested in applying for?”

“Oh … yes! Absolutely!” Both relief and surprise pulsed through Mel’s veins.

“Well, then, here’s a copy of the job posting.”

Mel quickly read through the first few lines. “This sounds great, but I need to talk to my grandmother. Can I apply tomorrow?”