Our Missing Hearts (29)

The librarian laughs. That’s out of my area of expertise, she says. I meant with another book. Or finding information.

This is finding information, he says. There’s someone there I need to talk to.

All last night he’d thought about it. His mother has left him this address for a reason, he is sure of it. No one else would have known about the cubby, let alone left something inside. Her letter, the story, this note: it is too much to be a coincidence. To Bird it has the certainty of a prophecy, or a quest; he feels it with the arrogant confidence only a child can have. This Duchess, whoever she is, will have something to tell him about his mother, and therefore his next step must be to go and hear it.

The librarian rubs a knuckle to her temple. I’m sorry, she says. I can’t really help with that.

Please, he says. It’s for a good reason. I promise.

But still she shakes her head.

I’m not a travel agent. And even if I were, I can’t help a kid run away.

I’m not running away, Bird begins, but she’s not listening anymore.

I’m sorry, she says again, and starts to turn away, and he decides to bluff.

I know about what you’re doing, he says, though of course he does not quite yet; he knows only that it is something illicit, something shameful or perhaps even illegal, and therefore it is a crowbar: something that can be used to pry, or—if it comes to that—something to swing.

She doesn’t answer but pauses, half turned away from him, and from the slight stiffening in her posture he knows she’s listening and decides to press further.

I saw that man, he goes on, his gaze trained on her back. And what you were doing the other day. The note in the book.

And then, steeling himself, he takes the plunge: I saw what you put in your pocket, he says.

It works. The librarian turns around, and though her face is calm and still, there’s a new tightness in her voice.

Let’s talk in my office, she says, and then her hand is on his elbow, pincerlike, and she marches him back through the shelves and to the staff only office again. This time, once they’re inside, she grabs him by the shoulders, her eyes blazing.

I knew you were spying, she says. That other day. I knew you were going to make trouble. You cannot mention to anyone—anyone—what you’ve seen. Do you understand?

Bird tries to wriggle free, but can’t. I just need your help, he says.

No one can know, she says. People will get hurt—really hurt—if anyone finds out.

Like that man? Bird says. A guess, but a right one. The librarian releases him, leans back against the wall, hugging the book to her chest.

He’s trying to help, she says. And risking so much just to try. Most people won’t even do that. They’d rather just close their eyes, as long as it’s not their kids at stake.

She turns back to Bird.

How old are you? Twelve? Thirteen? You’re old enough to understand this, aren’t you? People’s lives are at stake. Children’s lives are at stake.

I’m not trying to cause trouble, Bird says. His tongue is awkward and unwieldy, a fish flopping on the shore. I’m sorry. I really am. Please. You’re helping them. Can’t you help me, too?

From his jeans pocket, he extracts the paper with the address, now battered and wrinkled.

I’m just trying to find my mother, he pleads, and then it strikes him: this, of all things, might convince her. She’d known his name, before. How else, but through his mother? It is all coming together in Bird’s mind, the pieces zippering neatly together. The painting on the street, the banner in Brooklyn, the ephemeral flyers that dot the neighborhoods. His mother’s poems, the stolen children, our missing hearts. He can see it all, as clearly as a spider’s web misted with dew, the wispy strands crisscrossing into a magnificent, crystalline whole. They’re on the same side.

My mother is one of the leaders, he says, proudly. A feeling he’s never dared claim about her before, and saying it feels like standing full height after years of crouching.

The librarian gives him a look. A wry look, as if he’s about to tell her a joke she already knows.

Your mother, she says.

Bird clears his throat. Margaret, he says, his voice cracking just a bit on the M, a hairline fracture. Margaret Miu.

It is the first time he’s said her name aloud in as long as he can remember. Maybe ever. It feels like an incantation. He waits—for what? Earthquakes. Lightning strikes. Bolts of thunder. But all he sees is a half smirk at one corner of the librarian’s mouth. He’d thought it would be a password that let him through the secret entrance into sparkling rooms beyond. Instead he’s smashed his nose into a wall.

Oh, I know exactly who your mother is, the librarian says.

She studies Bird, leaning in closer to him, so close he can smell the morning’s sour coffee on her breath, and he sags under her gaze.

You know, I didn’t recognize you at first, she says. The last time I saw you, you were a baby. She used to come in, with you in a sling. But when you asked me about her book, I realized who you reminded me of. Why you looked familiar. You look a lot like her, actually, once I made the connection.

Bird has so many questions he wants to ask, but they all jam together in his mind and fall in a muddled heap. He tries to picture it: his mother, here, among these very shelves; himself, snuggled small against her chest.

She used to come here? he repeats. Still processing the idea that once his mother stood in this very spot, touched the same books that stand all around them.