The Twelfth Child (Serendipity #1)(57)

It got so that Abigail would be standing on the front steps long before Miss Spencer, unlocked the door. “Well now, aren’t you the early bird,” the librarian would say as she snapped on the light. As the day wore on, Miss Spencer would go to lunch and return, only to find Abigail still sitting there. When it was time for the library to close, she’d have to flicker the light on and off to rouse Abigail from her seat and start her toward the door. Miss Spencer, who had worked there for almost fifty years and never before witnessed such behavior, grew concerned. “Is there some sort of problem?” she asked.

“No,” Abigail answered wistfully, but the librarian noticed that her book on the mating of alligators was held upside down.

Being a woman experienced in the art of hiding behind books, Miss Spencer said, “Well, if you’ve time, I’d like you to share my lunch. It seems that I mistakenly packed two sandwiches today.” Abigail followed along to a tiny back room where they sat at a round table and ate lunch, which as it turned out, also included two apples and two cupcakes. “I see you always look at the classifieds first,” Miss Spencer said, “are you in need of work?” Abigail tried to answer but the word got stuck in her throat and made it seem as though she was choking. “Oh, my goodness,” Miss Spencer exclaimed, and took to patting Abigail on the back.

Three days later Abigail did mention the fact that she was looking for work. “I’m a writer,” she said, “but, other than working for Miss Ida Jean Meredith, I’ve no experience.”

“You worked for Ida Jean Meredith?”

Abigail nodded and said nothing of how she’d been a hostess at Club Lucky for the past three years. “Until she died.”

“Why, her poetry is magical – pure genius!” Miss Spencer was suddenly aglow. “We have three of her books right here in this library. One of them autographed!”

“The newspaper said that’s not qualifying experience.”

“What do they know?”

“They wouldn’t hire me – not even for obituaries.”

“Peasants! No vision! A person of your experience shouldn’t waste their time writing chit-chat destined for the trash bin!”

From that moment on, Miss Spencer took a great interest in Abigail. “We’ve a wonderful new book on architecture,” she’d say, “now, that’s what you should be reading!” But Abigail still grabbed hold of the Richmond Courier the first thing each morning and ran her finger down the help wanted columns – acrobat, juggler, tug boat captain – when she’d finally determined there was not a single job she could qualify for, she’d offer to help Miss Spencer. She spent hour after hour rolling a metal cart with a squeaky wheel through the aisles, reaching up to the highest shelf and squatting to the lowest to replace each book in precisely the right place. When the cart was empty of books, she studied the Dewey decimal system so she could sort the index cards. On several occasions Miss Spencer even allowed her to handle check-outs. Abigail loved the sound of the date stamp thunking down against a card – it seemed so sturdy, solid as a house made of bricks.

By August, the stack of dollar bills in Abigail’s shoebox had grown noticeably smaller, despite the fact that Gloria was paying more than her share of the expenses. Abigail started to worry and took to considering employment listings she had previously passed by – she’d let her finger linger on the advertisement for draftsman, wondering precisely what such a job might entail, then she’d considered the opening for an elephant trainer, thinking, how hard could something like that be? Shortly before Labor Day, she got to feeling truly desperate and asked Gloria if there were any other openings at ChickenCastle. As it turned out, Mildred, the cashier, had developed a spur on her tailbone and could no longer sit for such long hours, so she’d given her two weeks notice.

Early the next morning, Abigail walked into ChickenCastle and asked if she might have the job. That afternoon she went back to the library.

“I missed you this morning,” Miss Spencer said. “We’ve a number of books to be replaced in the stacks, and some overdues you can check on.”

“I got a job,” Abigail said despondently. “I won’t be able to help anymore.”

“With a book publisher?” Miss Spencer asked anxiously.

“Not exactly.”

“A periodical?”

“ChickenCastle.”

“What do they publish?”

“Nothing. They sell fried chicken. I’m going to be the cashier.”

“Cashier?” Miss Spencer echoed, looking as if she was about to fall over in a dead faint. “A girl of your ability? A girl with aspirations of becoming a writer?”

Abigail shrugged. “At least it’s a job.”

“Lord-in-Heaven! A person who’s worked with Ida Jean Meredith, dishing out fried chicken!”

“I won’t be serving the chicken,” Abigail answered. “I’ll be the cashier.”

“Absolutely not!” Miss Spencer snapped.

“I’ve already got the job”

“Well, you’ll simply have to tell them you can’t accept it.”

“Why would I do that?”

“Because I need you here at the library.” Miss Spencer started clacking the overdue stamp down on a bunch of books like a machine run amuck.