Bettie Page Presents: The Librarian (2 page)

CHAPTER 3

A girl with dyed red hair and wearing a Columbia University T-shirt handed Regina a crumpled pile of requisition slips.

“So do I, like, just wait here?” The girl leaned on the desk.

“You can wait at one of the tables and just watch the board for your number. That will indicate your books are ready for pickup,” Regina said.

Regina was already addicted to the predictable rhythm of the Delivery Desk: the quiet early mornings, the afternoon hub of activity, and the slow drift in the early evening as people left for dinner—some returning, some gone for the day. She knew she was lucky to spend her days in arguably the most beautiful room in the entire city. And while her job was not intellectually challenging, she did get a certain sense of satisfaction in handing the books over to the eagerly waiting library patrons. She wondered, as she looked out at the rows and rows of people bent over books and laptops, what everyone was working on. Was the next great American novel being written in that room? Was something being invented? Was history being rediscovered?

And yet sometimes, when there was a lull, she felt fidgety.

“Why don't you read something?” asked Alex, a wiry, slightly-awkward-but-cute-in-a-puppy-dog-sort-of-way NYU student who worked part-time running books from the various rooms to the Delivery Desk.

“Are we allowed to read behind here?” she asked.

“No one's ever said anything to me,” he said. “And you and I both know Sloan doesn't miss a chance to jump down our throats. So I'd say yeah, it's cool.”

Regina thought maybe she and Alex could be friends, although she'd never had a real guy friend before. Her mother always warned her that guys were never real friends—that they “wanted only one thing.” But Alex did just seem genuinely friendly. Although, she felt she had somehow offended him when he told her that he liked her haircut, that it was “very Bettie Page.” Regina had said, “What's a Bettie Page?” And he'd looked at her kind of funny, as if not sure if she were serious or joking.

“You know—the legendary pinup model? With the black hair and the short bangs?”

Regina had nodded, although she had no idea who he was talking about. People sometimes told her she looked like “that girl on that show . . . with the bangs,” or they would snap their fingers and say, “Zooey Deschanel.” She had seen Zooey Deschanel's sitcom, and while there might have been some resemblance in coloring and haircut and even facial features, the star's zany effervescence made any further comparison ridiculous, in Regina's opinion. Now she would have to Google this Bettie Page person.

“Is it truck time?” Alex asked.

Ever since her first day at work a few weeks ago, Regina and Alex had fallen into the habit of walking out for lunch together to grab a burger or hot dog from the food truck that parked around the corner on Forty-first Street. But today, Regina decided she would try to find Margaret to see if they might have lunch together.

•

She took the South Stairs up one flight, to the fourth floor, which was home to first editions, manuscripts, and letters, and also the Trustees Room. She passed a room that was gated off, and she took notice of it.

She found Margaret logging a pile of books into a ledger.

“You do this all by hand?”

“Yes. And we have an intern put it into the computer. I can't be bothered with those machines.”

“I wondered if you wanted to have lunch together. I brought mine, and we could sit outside. . . .”

Margaret was already shaking her head. “I don't eat lunch on Tuesdays,” she replied. Regina wasn't sure what to say to that. Margaret added, “As you get older, you need to sleep less and eat less. You'll see.”

“Okay, then. Well, I'll see you later, I guess. Oh, by the way—what's Room 402?”

“Barnes Collection—visited by special permission. First editions of Virginia Woolf and Charles Dickens.”

“I used to take the library tour once a year when I was a kid—I don't remember it.”

“They built it about five years ago. The Barnes family donated twenty million dollars. They renovated the entire Main Reading Room. Remember when it was closed for over a year?”

Regina nodded.

“The Barnes Room used to be open. I spent some time in there, but not since I had to start bothering with permission.”

“Whom would I ask for permission?”

Margaret shrugged.

Regina was not one to ignore authority, but she couldn't imagine that the works were meant to be hidden from library staff. It made sense that the public couldn't go traipsing through the room at will, but surely it couldn't hurt if she just took a peek.

The dark bronze doors were framed in marble, with the words
JASPER T. BARNES ROOM
in gold letters. Regina gingerly approached the door, and thought that if it were locked, that would solve her dilemma of whether or not to try to sneak a look inside.

She placed her hand on the gold handle, and, with only a few seconds of hesitation, pressed down. The door was unlocked, and she pushed it open.

The first thing she noticed was that the room was much simpler in style than most other places in the library. It was English classical, and the walls were floor-to-ceiling books in wooden and glass shelving. In the center of the room was a long, dark wood table—almost like a dining room table, surrounded by antique chairs finished in red leather.

And then she realized she was not alone.

A strange, almost keening sound emanated from one corner of the room, a space obscured from the view of the doorway. But as she stepped farther inside, the source of the noise became shockingly clear. A naked woman was bent over a marble bench, her arms supporting the weight of her upper body, her head down, her long hair sweeping almost to the floor. Behind her, a man—also naked—stood with his hands on the woman's hips, pumping into her with a ferocity that made Regina question if what she was witnessing was a woman in the throes of pleasure or in pain. A part of her—the practical, rational part of her—knew that she should turn around and get the hell out of there. But another part of her—a part she didn't quite understand—was riveted.

Regina, her heart pounding, quickly realized that what she was seeing was most definitely pleasure. The steady rhythm of the two bodies moving together, the uncontrolled moans of the woman, and the sheen of sweat on her long arms that Regina could see, even from her distance—it was raw ecstasy. Regina knew it was wrong for her to be there, and, as if punishing her for her trespass, her own body betrayed her with a hot flicker of excitement between her legs.

Ashamed of herself, Regina tried to avert her eyes, but instead ended up looking directly at the man's face, and to her shock, she realized that she actually recognized him: the dark tumble of hair, the black eyes, the chiseled features. It was the man from the steps the day before.

And from the smile on his face as their eyes met and locked, it seemed he recognized her, too.

CHAPTER 4

Regina backed out of the room and had the sense to close the door behind her with shaking hands.

Her first thought was her shame at being drawn into that dirty little scene. She should never have watched—she should have run out immediately. Or, better yet, stopped them. Her embarrassment turned to anger.

This was a
library
. What was
wrong
with people?

She took a deep breath, fortified with her sense of outrage. Once she was in the safety of the hall corridor, she scurried down the South Stairs back to the rotunda outside of the Public Catalogue Room.

Safely back in the library's more public sphere, she was able to compose herself and returned to the Delivery Desk, where Alex was leaning against her chair, playing Temple Run on his iPhone.

“Slow day,” he said. “Even the book nerds don't want to be inside when it's seventy-five degrees and sunny.”

Regina nodded, and placed her lunch bag back on her desk. The top of the brown paper bag was wet from the perspiration of her hands.

Alex eyed the bag suspiciously. “I thought you were going to eat lunch?”

“I'm not hungry.”

He looked at her suspiciously. “What's up with you?”

“Nothing,” she said. She felt as dirty and ashamed as if she had been the one bent over the marble bench. And she knew she felt this way because, as much as she hated to admit it, despite the outrageous sacrilege, for one fleeting moment she wished it had been her.

What was wrong with her? It had to be Carly's influence—all the crazy nocturnal goings-on in that apartment were getting to her. She was sleep deprived. And she was living with someone who had no sense of decency. Her mother had been right: nothing good could come out of her move to New York.

“If you say so. But I'm starving, so it's off to the truck. Want me to bring you something?” He jumped up and fished his earbuds out of his jacket pocket.

Regina didn't want him to go. She was grappling with her disturbing discovery. She had walked away, but she couldn't just forget about it. She wondered if she should report the incident to Sloan, but the idea of doing so made her feel queasy.

“Wait—can I tell you something?” she asked.

“Sure,” he said. “Burger or hot dog?”

Her mind formed the words, but her mouth wouldn't play along.

“I don't like the food truck,” she finally said.

He shook his head. “Okay, Finch. Thanks for the news flash.”

•

She was on the third-floor landing of the brownstone where she lived when she heard the rap music thumping from her apartment. With a sigh, she continued climbing. By the time she put her key in the door, she knew she wouldn't be able to hear herself think even with her bedroom door closed.

“Hey—what's up?” asked the guy sitting on the couch and sucking from a large bong.

“Um, just getting back from work,” Regina said. At least she recognized the guy—he was one of Carly's more regulars. Under other circumstances, Regina would probably call him Carly's boyfriend. But considering it had been a different guy responsible for last night's two a.m. headboard banging, “boyfriend” probably wasn't the most accurate moniker. “Do you mind turning down the music?” she yelled.

“You don't like J?”

She's got an ass that'll swallow up a g-string

And up top, uh, two bee stings

Regina went into her room and closed the door. It looked like another night of self-imposed exile until Carly went out—if she went out. Regina hoped she would make some friends at the library so she had someone to go out with once in a while.

The music suddenly dropped about twenty decibels. And then she heard a knock on her door. Reluctantly, Regina cracked her door open.

“That better?” Derek asked.

“What? Oh—the music? Yeah, thanks.”

“Why don't you ever go out?” he asked.

“Excuse me?”

“Carly said she's never seen you leave the apartment at night.”

Regina felt herself turn red. “I don't see how that's any of your business.”

“Dude—no offense. I'm just saying—you can come out with us tonight. We're hitting a show on Rivington. I promise you'll be home before you turn into a pumpkin.”

Regina shook her head. “No, thanks.”

CHAPTER 5

Rivington Street was the strangest place she'd ever seen.

The shadowy corners, the beautiful and achingly hip women drifting along the sidewalks with their cigarettes, the bizarre storefronts that left you wondering if they were bars or shops. They all made her wish she'd stayed under the covers when Derek—this time, with Carly—came knocking once again to insist she “go out for once.”

Regina, not wanting to sit home obsessing about the scene she had witnessed at the library, finally gave in.

They turned onto Norfolk Street and walked to the end, where they reached their destination, a bar called Nurse Bettie.

“
Toto
,
I've a thought we're not in Kansas anymore,” Regina joked to Carly, who rolled her eyes.

“Just . . . chill,” Carly said.

It was a small space, dimly lit, with tin ceilings and exposed brick walls. The bar itself was dark wood, surrounded by vintage photographs framed in gold and silver and shelves of colorful liquor bottles. The sound of French pop music filled the room.

Across from the bar was a shelflike table and red-topped silver stools that spun around. Regina and Carly got the last two free stools, and Derek went to the bar for drinks.

Carly surfed her iPhone. She had a way of always seeming bored, and Regina wondered if that was just particular to Carly, or if it was a common trait among people who had grown up in Manhattan. Regina couldn't imagine ever feeling blasé about her surroundings in New York. Every street corner, ever food vendor, every noisy crowd left her filled with wonder.

“What's your Twitter user name?” Carly asked.

“Um . . . Regina?” Regina said.

Carly typed something into her phone. “At Regina?” she asked.

“At Regina what?”

Carly put her phone in her lap and looked at her with an obvious effort to remain patient.

“Are you on Twitter?” she asked.

“I don't think so,” said Regina.

Derek joined them and handed each one a drink.

“Two Moscow Mules,” he said.

Carly took a sip. “Mmm. Good. What's in it?”

“Lime juice, Ketel One, and ginger beer,” Derek said.

Regina tried hers but didn't like it. She put it down on the ledge behind her.

“What time does the show start?” Carly asked. Regina couldn't hear his answer, because he mumbled it straight into Carly's mouth before they started making out. Regina looked away, trying to figure out where a “show” would take place in such a small room.

“What is the show?” asked Regina. Neither one answered. She hoped it was live music, maybe a blues singer. That would seem to fit the mood of the bar.

When the two of them finally remembered she was there, they made an attempt to bring her into a conversation.

“So what does a librarian do all day?” asked Derek dutifully.

Carly looked at her expectantly. Regina didn't know if it was the pressure she felt to somehow contribute to the evening, or the weeks of feeling out of place finally wearing on her, or her genuine need to confide in someone, but she blurted out, “Well, today I walked in on two people having sex.”

Derek perked up. “At the library?”

“Yes,” Regina said.

“Maybe I've been too hasty in my dismissal of that particular venue,” said Carly.

Regina took another sip of her drink. Still terrible.

“New York is full of exhibitionists,” said Derek.

“So what did you
do
?” asked Carly.

“Nothing. I ran out of the room.”

Carly and Derek seemed to consider this.

“I guess there's nothing else to do. Unless you saw an opening to jump in,” said Derek.

Carly laughed. “Now you're talking,” she said.

Despite their turning it into a joke, Regina felt relief in talking about it. She didn't know what upset her more, the idea that someone would so callously desecrate her precious library, or the fact that she not only recognized the perpetrator but found him so attractive. “I didn't even tell anyone. But now I feel like maybe I should tell my boss. I mean, what if it had been a child who had walked in on them?” Regina knew this was unlikely, considering the fact that she'd trespassed in a restricted area. But it was the best way she knew how to express her outrage.

“Were they, like, normal people, or did the guy look like a perv?” asked Carly.

An image of the man's dark eyes and distressingly handsome face flashed through her mind.

“What does a perv look like?” asked Derek.

“You!” said Carly, punching his arm.

•

By eleven, the bar was filled even beyond standing room, with everyone angling to get a spot as close to the back of the room as possible. Regina soon figured out why.

The French pop music was replaced with the instantly recognizable Fats Domino song “Blueberry Hill,” and the back corner of the room became a stage bathed in blue and gold overhead lights. The area was set with a small, old-fashioned-looking oven and a square Formica table. A beautiful woman stood next to the oven. She had shoulder-length dark hair, with short bangs. She wore an old-fashioned gingham dress, cinched tightly at the waist with a flared skirt. Her apron read,
HAPPY HOMEMAKER
. Regina noticed that her shoes were black patent-leather platform heels.

“She has your haircut,” Derek said to Regina. Carly looked at her.

“Yeah,” Carly said. “You've got to work on the whole hippie, blousy, peasant-skirt thing you have going on from the neck down. But your hair is totally mod.”

“I didn't mean to cut my bangs this short. But I went too far on one side, and then I had to even it out. . . .”

“Whatever. Just commit to it,” Carly said. “It's working for you.”

The woman onstage bent down to open the oven door, and her dress rode up high enough to expose her seamed stockings and garters. The crowd clapped, and a few people hollered. Regina felt the first blush of confusion but kept a poker face.

The woman pulled a pie out of the oven and carried it over to the table. She made a big show of removing her apron and fanning herself with it before tossing it into the audience. Again, the roar of the crowd and applause. Then she took her finger and stuck it in the center of the pie, removed it, and licked it clean.

“What
is
this?” Regina asked Carly.

“Shh. Just watch.”

The woman fanned herself now with a napkin, and turned her back to the audience. With one hand, she slowly unzipped her dress and it fell to the floor. Regina could barely hear the music over the clapping and whistling. The woman faced the audience, now clad only in a red satin bullet bra, red panties and garters, the stockings, and her platform heels. “Is this a strip club?” Regina asked.

“No! It's burlesque,” said Carly. “Don't tell me you've never been to a burlesque show before.”

She must be joking,
Regina thought.

The woman unhooked her bra and shimmied it off her shoulders. Regina looked away, but when she peeked back at the stage, the bra was on the floor, and all that covered the woman's full, round breasts was a red sparkly patch over each nipple. She pulled out a cake knife and began slicing the pie.

The contrast between the woman's lush, nearly naked body and the mundane task she performed was confusing. There was just enough distraction for Regina to feel as if she wasn't really watching something sexual. But then the woman picked up one of the slices with her hands and took a bite, and a glop of blueberry filling fell between her breasts. She made an exaggerated “oops” face, and trailed one finger from her belly up to her cleavage, scooping the blueberry off of herself and licking it from her finger, her eyes half closed in pleasure, her tongue lapping at her own hand. Regina shuddered, feeling that the woman couldn't look more wanton if she were fingering herself onstage.

And then she felt her own breath had quickened, her nipples hardening and tingling inside of her bra.

“I'm going to head home,” Regina said.

“Don't be ridiculous—the show is just getting started,” Carly said.

“I'm tired.” Regina hopped off of her stool and pushed her way through the crowd to the front door, where she saw a long line waiting to get in.

She wondered why she always felt safest on the outside.