The Legend of James Grey Read online

  “You call me if you need anything, you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir.” She waved over her shoulder as she shuffled to her car. Morty stood and watched her back out of the parking lot and drive away. As she turned onto the main street and glanced into her rearview mirror, she saw him descend the stairs and cross the grassy lot toward his cottage.

  Emma gripped the steering wheel with both hands and cranked the air conditioning to help ease the nausea brought on by the pounding in her skull. Don’t barf. Don’t barf. Don’t barf. When she crawled into her bed that night and closed her eyes, she saw an image of a man’s bulbous green eyes staring at her, calling her one of Morty’s characters. As she drifted off to sleep, she wondered, If I’m a character in a book, am I the hero or the villain? Do I have a choice?

  The next morning Emma awoke feeling as though she’d partied all night at Jay Gatsby’s, only she’d forgotten the actual party but still had to suffer the consequences. She hadn’t felt this hung over—or hollow—since she’d left her brother Bobby’s gravesite a year ago after finishing a bottle and a half of cheap wine with Thomas.

  The day of her brother’s funeral, Emma and Thomas had sat on the brittle, yellowing grass drinking straight from the bottles until the sun set and the crickets lamented a song through the cemetery. The clouds had huddled together, forming one giant blob of dismal gray that had blotted out even the starlight. She’d dirtied the hem of her skirt when she’d knelt beside Bobby’s headstone and traced his name with her fingers. Thomas had literally carried her to his car while she sobbed against his chest. The rest of the night blurred by, leaving behind only fractured memories, but the morning after she’d felt exactly as she did now—a throbbing head and an ache so deep she feared it might never be alleviated.

  The scalding shower water soothed the pounding in her skull until she faced away from the spray and the water assaulted her bruised head like a hailstorm. She wrapped a towel around herself and wiped her feet on the flatter-than-a-johnnycake bathmat. She stared at her pronounced collar bones and her pale skin and wondered when she’d started looking like the plastic skeleton from her high school science classroom. When you gave away your heart to someone who didn’t want it, that’s when.

  Emma’s sorrow had become a living entity all on its own, a Peter Pan-like shadow that lived outside of her yet followed her everywhere. Her sadness was often deep and hungry and selfish. In its constant need to fill her, she was starved of many other useful emotions. There were moments when she understood she was treading—or had dived headfirst—into the territory of self-pity, but she had lost her way out of it, and now she wasn’t sure it was worth finding the path out. Mostly she realized that she had forgotten the sound of her own laughter.

  She cried out when she pulled the brush bristles through her long brown hair and over the golf ball-size lump on the back of her head. Rather than risk additional pain by blow drying, she decided she’d let her hair air dry. Then she dressed in a pair of jeans and a light cotton shirt. In the narrow galley kitchen, she chased her last two Aspirin with a large glass of tepid water. She made one cup of instant coffee and sat drinking it on the sofa while picking at the threads sprouting from a busted seam. Through the sliding glass balcony door, Emma watched the wind push through the pine trees and flutter lime green dogwood leaves. Summer heat pressed against the glass, causing the air conditioner to create condensation like drops of sparkling dew across the lower half of the door.

  The microwave clock displayed the time as fifteen minutes to nine, so she hand washed her mug and returned it to the cabinet. Then she dumped a couple of handfuls of Fruit Loops into a plastic, zip-top bag. She grabbed her purse, her dog-eared copy of The Legend of James Grey, and a half-filled notepad before she climbed into her car and drove across town.

  Mystic Water bustled with early morning activity. Kids dressed in brightly colored bathing suits leaped in and out of a water sprinkler that waved through the air like a windsock. Their laughter rushed along beside Emma’s car and invited her to smile. Scooper’s Ice Cream Parlor turned on its neon pink Open sign, and Lucky Anderson stepped out on to the sidewalk to roll out the blue- and white-striped awning. The temperature already soared past ninety degrees; Emma imagined the parlor would be full of patrons by midmorning.

  Once she arrived at the library, Emma tossed her purse into a bottom drawer of a small cabinet tucked beneath the circulation desk. She walked through the first floor sections, popping Fruit Loops into her mouth, until she found Morty in the folk and fairy tales section near the front of the library.

  His blue button-down shirt was neatly pressed and tucked into his gray slacks. His black shoes shined in the morning light. His gray-white hair was neatly combed and parted, and his black glasses matched his polished shoes. Morty dressed like a man better suited for a lawyer’s office or for a corporate job. He had always told Emma that one secret to never growing old and looking like an elderly, frail man was to take pride in the way he dressed. For a sixty-five-year-old head librarian, who was probably the smartest, best-dressed man she knew, Morty looked anything but elderly and feeble.

  He looked over at her and then shelved an oversize copy of Norse mythology bound in navy blue leather. “Morning, sunshine. How’s the concussion?” He cocked his head at her as if daring her to lie about how she really felt.

  Emma shrugged and avoided his steady gaze. “I’ve had worse days, but it hurts like the dickens.” She motioned toward the back of her head.

  “No permanent damage, I hope?”

  Emma pushed her hair behind her shoulders and rubbed the back of her neck. “We’ll have to wait and see.”

  “How’s the heart?” he asked, his voice gentle and kind.

  Emma rolled her eyes, even though she knew his concern was sincere and valid. Her heart had taken more of a beating than the cracking she’d given her skull. “Still there, but wishing it was shriveled and black and lifeless.”

  Morty huffed and shelved another book. “To give the Grinch a run for his money?”

  Emma straightened a book on the shelf, lining up its spine evenly with the ones on either side. “I’d totally beat him.”

  Morty chuckled. “Because if you’re anything, it’s heartless and cruel, especially to children.”

  Morty had a way of pulling out Emma’s smile even when she didn’t feel like ever smiling again.

  “Anyone been in yet?” she asked.

  Morty shook his head, and they walked toward the circulation desk. He pointed toward a rickety cart that Emma thought had been built at the same time the library had—a millennium ago. The right back wheel lagged as though caught on bubble gum, and the front left wheel squeaked to high heaven. “As my minion, I’m going to force you to shelve the rest of those.”

  Morty slid back the cuff of his blue shirtsleeve and checked his watch. Even from a distance the silver face was so large Emma could tell the time. “Margaret should be here in half an hour. She’ll want to set up in the Story Time room before the kids start crowding in. I told her she could bring cookies again, but she’d have to keep an eye on little Brendan Foster. He likes to shove extras into his pockets.”

  Emma’s lips twitched in one corner. “And his mama sure didn’t like sending those extra cookies through the wash.”

  Morty exhaled and rubbed his ear. “I got an earful.”

  “Two earfuls.”

  Morty’s dark eyes searched her face, and his expression reminded Emma of the few times she’d seen her grandfather and he’d lifted her up in his arms as though she was a prize at the fair. He’d looked at her with such pride and love.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Morty asked. “Work half a day, and if you’re not up for working the afternoon, take off.” He tossed his thumb over his shoulder as he walked off. “I mean it, kiddo.”

  She popped the last of the Fruit Loops into her mouth. “Morty, I’m fine.”

  As he started toward the main staircase leading to the second floor, he said
, “That’s what women say when they’re anything but.”

  She walked over to the library cart. The cart’s three shelves were loaded with children’s books—picture books, board books, read-a-longs, easy readers, and chapter books—all needing to be returned to their homes on the first floor.

  Three brochures were sitting on top of the children’s books, and Emma’s eyes narrowed. She picked up the glossy tri-fold papers and waved them in the air. “What are these?”

  She pinched them between her forefinger and thumb and held them away from her body as though they were tainted. Words slipped out from between the pressed pages. Continue. New faces. Matriculation.

  Morty turned and looked at her. His smile lifted his cheeks. “Three great colleges with outstanding English programs. Two close by and one a thousand miles away in case you need a change of scenery.”

  Emma grabbed the brochures with her other hand, crushing them in the middle. She held the damaged papers by her side as irritation caused her head to throb. “If I wanted to go back to school, I would. I’m fine here. I like it here. I don’t need a degree to be your assistant.”

  Morty stopped smiling. He closed the space in between them as his shoes clicked against the polished tiles. “You are a year away from having enough credits to graduate. Mystic Water will still be here when you’re done. If you don’t want to go back to the university, that’s okay, but you need to go somewhere. Your credits will transfer to all of these colleges. I checked.”

  Emma slapped the college brochures on the countertop. She’d come home from college a year and a half ago to take care of Bobby while he went through chemotherapy. They’d had no family left except each other—just the two of them against the world, he’d liked to tease. Bobby had lived six months, suffered at least five and half of them, and then he’d left her, causing her heart to feel devastated and flatter than a penny on the train tracks. Bobby’s leaving had only repeated a pattern that everyone else in her life before and after had continued.

  She’d half believed she’d go back to the university, but for what purpose? Wasn’t that one of her main questions: What’s the point anymore? She’d lost her eagerness to go out and see the world with a college degree when Bobby was sick. Her sole focus had been on him and getting him well again, and she had failed. She hadn’t been able to save Bobby, hadn’t been able to beg him enough to stay, hadn’t said enough fervent prayers—her list of failures was long, like Les Misérables long. Going back to the university now felt futile. If she were only going to scurry back to Mystic Water and hide out in the library, did she really need a diploma?

  “If you need me, I’ll be putting away books.” She pointed to the brochures. “You can add those to the ashes in the furnace.” Emma squeaked and shoved her way toward the children’s section. She shelved books up and down the aisles in an irritated huff until she heard the front door open with a whoosh of air.

  Margaret Marshall walked into the foyer and lifted one hand in a wave while she balanced a plate of cookies in her other hand. Her curled, blonde hair draped over her shoulders and bounced as she walked.

  “Morning, Mrs. Marshall. Can I help you with anything?” Emma asked.

  Margaret thanked Emma as she handed her the plate of cookies and a stack of napkins. Emma breathed in the scent of warm chocolate chip cookies as she followed Margaret into the Story Time room. Once inside she placed the cookies and napkins on the far table.

  Margaret dug through her worn canvas bag of books and removed a hardback copy of Washington Irving’s short stories. “I checked this out last week, and I need to return it. Television and movies have skewed my students’ knowledge of the real Ichabod Crane, and I needed to set them straight. I was satisfied in knowing they enjoyed Irving’s original story just as much as all of the copycats. It’s so mysterious and open-ended.” She passed the book to Emma.

  The book warmed in Emma’s hands, radiating heat like a lava rock. Words rippled out of the book like circular waves leaving an epicenter. Green eyes. Singing. Bible. Emma looked up at Margaret. “Did—did Ichabod Crane have green eyes?”

  Margaret tapped a pink fingernail against her matching pink lips and then nodded. “Most people remember the description of his skinny body and smallish head, the opposite of a bobblehead, I would imagine. But, yes, I think he did. Glassy green. Why do you ask?”

  Emma’s head buzzed, and she lowered the book, causing the words to dissipate. “Just an image I remember. Do you need anything else?”

  Margaret turned in a full circle, her knee-length polka dot skirt twirling out like an opening umbrella, as she studied the room. “Not at the moment. Thanks, Emma. I’ll holler if I need you.”

  Emma carried Washington Irving’s short stories to the circulation desk and dropped it behind the high front counter. She tapped her finger to the front cover of the book. The world was full of coincidences; Emma knew that, but her fingers tingled, so she grabbed her notebook and jotted down her thoughts, a haiku this time.

  My Ichabod Crane, Lover of she who did not, You were never found.

  Then she closed her notebook and returned to her task.

  As Emma shelved the last children’s book, the story time children began pushing through the front doors. Their tiny voices and whispered giggles filled the downstairs until they were safely snuggled away in the Story Time room.

  Emma opened one of the side drawers in the desk and pulled out her mug. She needed coffee, but Morty would probably encourage her to have at least two cups of green tea before she imbibed high levels of caffeine again. When she straightened, she saw one of the mothers slip out of the children’s room and walk toward her.

  The mother waved a book before she placed it on the counter. “Morty suggested this book last week for Tyler. He said all young boys love it, and he was right. Downside is that Tyler has been jumping off of everything. It started with his bed, and this morning he asked if I thought there was an easy way to get onto the roof. Lord, have mercy, the roof.” She rolled her brown eyes as she shook her head. “Boys. God love them, but they just grow up to be men while still holding onto their little boy spirits, right? What do we do with them?”

  Not fall in love with complicated ones, that’s for sure, one voice in Emma’s head said. The words not yours slinked out of her notebook, so she shoved the book aside.

  Emma refocused on the mother and glanced at the returned book. She pressed her lips together when she read the words Peter Pan printed in gold letters across the glossy paperback. She thought of the young boy leaping toward her in the antiquities archives. She fluttered the pages with her fingers and out slipped a few words. Come away with me. Never grow up. Always believe. Emma slapped her hand on the book, and the words rushed off the desk.

  She looked up at the mother and forced a smile. “For the most part, only their little boy bodies grow up.”

  The mother smiled and nodded before she returned to the Story Time room. Emma stared down at J. M. Barrie’s novel. She stacked it on top of Washington Irving’s stories while her fingertips burned. She heard Morty’s designer shoes approaching her from behind, and she whirled around.

  Morty lumbered across the way with an armful of books and a stack of folders. He raised his eyebrows in question at her.

  “Someone returned a book with The Legend of Sleepy Hollow in it, and then Peter Pan was just turned in,” Emma said.

  Morty dropped the books on the desk. “And I had scrambled eggs for breakfast with two biscuits.”

  Emma frowned. “I’m serious, Morty.”

  “So am I. I shouldn’t have had two, but I was a glutton this morning.” He patted his rotund belly and shrugged. “But I’m an old man. Shouldn’t I enjoy the simple things in life, like buttermilk biscuits?”

  “Morty,” Emma said and sighed. “Those are the same two books from the vision—the dream I had.”

  Morty placed the stack of folders next to the books as the front door opened again. “Emma, you work all day, nearly ever
y day, in books. You’ll dream about them now and again. What’s this dream you’re talking about anyway?”

  “Last night when I was downstairs and I…well, I guess I fell, but I thought I saw Peter Pan and a skeletal-skinny man. He was singing psalms, and he had green eyes. And there was a blonde woman. Beautiful, like a fairy tale queen or something.”

  Morty stepped toward the front of the desk. “Sounds like a woman I’d like to dream about. Do you think she can cook?” Morty sidestepped Emma. “Good morning, Mrs. Little. How can I help you?”

  “Good morning, Morty,” Mrs. Little said. “I almost hate to return this one.”

  Emma turned to face the tall, middle-age patron just as she heaved a heavy book onto the high counter. Emma tilted her head and read the spine. Greek Mythology. Mrs. Little propped her arms on the desk and leaned toward Morty. Her glossy, maroon lipstick shined in the morning light.

  A smile stretched across her rosy face and dimpled her cherub cheeks. “Can you imagine being so beautiful that people would go to war over you? Just to have your love?”

  Morty chuckled. “Not in the least. Did you enjoy your reading?”

  “Very much. I need another suggestion. Something mysterious, I think.”

  Morty walked out of the desk area and led Mrs. Little toward the staircase where adult fiction lived on the second floor. As they walked up the steps, Emma heard her ask, “Do you really think Helen of Troy was that beautiful?”

  “Stunning,” Morty said. “Breathtakingly stunning.”

  Emma stared at the returned mythology book, and very slowly, she reached out and touched it. The hardcover heated beneath her fingertips. A woman’s laugh, followed by the echo of Greek words, drifted through the library, and Emma thought of a woman whose voice was as smooth as honey, whose face she could not look upon directly. Helen of Troy.

  Emma glanced toward the vault door leading to the antiquities archives and thought, What in the world is going on?