4-3 My first short story ever

I hadn't learned at this point to show and not tell. So this is a bit "telly" and not "showy." But I was so thrilled to have come up with something. Fiction is not my forte. Clive Mighty was a name of a person who left my place of employment before I got there. I heard someone say his name and loved it, stealing it shamelessly for a future story. I thought it was a fabulous character name and just crying for a story to live in.

Words of a Lifetime

Clive Mighty didn’t possess what you would call a complex nature. The fifteen square miles or so of Waterloo, Alabama contained all he ever would know about life and he grew into an old man never having slipped outside the county line. He was just fine with that. “I do all my traveling in my books” he often said. “A man can meet some fine folks in books, can go to some mighty far places.”

While not a scholar by any stretch, he loved to read more than anything else in the world. His momma, Irene, had started looking after the small Waterloo library after Miss Iris Holloway, who had been a quiet but effective librarian for 53 years, suffered a stroke right there at the check-out desk stamping little Peter Pinkney’s Jungle Book renewal. Young Peter recovered from the event; Miss Iris did not. With no qualified candidate on the horizon to replace her, which is to say, anyone with breath and limbs willing to tackle the job, a rotation of overwhelmed volunteers managed just well enough to keep the doors open, but it looked as if the library would close. Irene met her beloved husband at the library when she was seventeen and figured to repay her cosmic debt by rescuing the old place. Through her attentive, organized efforts, the library again thrived and little five-year old Clive discovered the sweet agony of anticipation inherent in a reader’s life. He was not without the maximum eight books a week for the next ten years of his life, which is when the library lost its appeal for Irene and he had the limited stacks just about read and memorized. Fortunately, by then fifteen, his book habit was buried bone deep and he invented ways to get rides to Bridgewater, the county seat, whose library enticed him with a much larger, more sophisticated collection and the librarian always assumed he was a college student which he liked.

Clive felt more at home in books than he did in his own life. Real people requiring real conversations made him a bit nervous; but book characters seeped into him slow and comforting, and he drank them in like dry ground after a soaking rain. Over the years, he stuffed his growing collection into every unused nook of his small but cozy house like a squirrel tucking away provisions for a long winter’s siege. Clive savored words, silently rolling them around on his tongue so as to suck all the flavor out of them - he didn’t read as much as absorb the page. He loved looking up new words that promised uncharted territory. He thrilled at how different authors could mix and match common everyday words all together in distinct and separate ways, how each could be telling a similar tale but with such different melodies in their sentences; an enchantment he often compared to the centuries of transcendent music that have sprung from the same twelve notes, a fact which never ceased to amaze and enthrall him. So it was the natural progression of things that Clive should take over as the Waterloo librarian after his graduation from Bridgewater City College. As he sat for the first time behind the massive oak desk that served as check-in/check-out and general information, he reached his hand underneath, groping for what he knew he would find among the ancient, hardened chewing gum mounds. Clive Mighty is here. The deep grooves and scratches tickled his fingers as he remembered that rainy Saturday afternoon when he had crawled under the desk on a private, personal dare. Irene had disappeared for a stack straightening, a perfect opportunity for him to claim the space as his own with a small knife recently given him for his eleventh birthday. Now, a matching eleven years later, Clive chuckled at the prophetic carved message. “I’m back” he whispered to the ghost-boy, whose muffled giggles, born of the innocent elation of new adventure, still echoed off the polished wood. Clive Mighty is here, alright. So began his career with books and he remained at the library, at that desk content, efficient, and well-liked for the next fifty years.

Other than the library, there wasn’t much else in life that caught Clive’s eye. He had liked girls well enough, but they never had taken to him and his shy ways. Most girls had been easily baited by the hook of his thick brown hair, twinkling eyes, and medium, stocky build, but his body language, along with a mind that inexplicably turned simple in female company, betrayed the helpless discomfort he felt circling in their bewildering orbits. They tittered and shimmered down the street in a pageant of hats and slender calves peeking out from the latest A-lines. His mouth simply dried up at the sight of them, watching as he usually did from the safe distance and easy separation provided by the large library windows. After a few disastrous attempts at dating a few of the quieter ones, he gave up all hope of finding married bliss and learned to live with a lower set of expectations. Truth be known, it came about a bit easier than he thought, helped along by the fact that cats were better company than he ever knew and he soon owned three fat, furry felines of varying and dubious genealogies which had the full run of his house and heart.

He had been orphaned at twenty-three, when his parents died within six months of each other; his father of a heart attack while watching an Alabama game, and his mother of sheer loneliness and grief, everyone reckoned. His small family home melded gradually into a comfortable blend of old and new as he replaced Irene’s twenty-year old curtains, added more and more bookshelves, and planted a few white peony bushes around the house. Books, cats, and peonies. This pretty much summed up Clive’s life, until now. Until Dolly.

“Excuse me, but I’m hoping you can help me find a copy of May Sarton’s Journal of a Solitude. Do you know it?” The voice resonated in normal tones; it possessed nothing out of the ordinary that would cause Clive’s seventy-two year-old heart to quicken in unfamiliar flutters. But there it was. Extraordinary. Clive turned around from helping a young patron discover the card catalog and faced the owner of the voice. She was, he guessed, approximately sixty-fiveish, all of five feet tall, and topped by a head full of thick, white hair, the kind of white that glows in its good health. Her face radiated good genes, calm intelligence and an agreeable humor. Clive had never seen her before and he was instantly curious before he could stop himself.

“Of course, I’ll be happy to get that for you, Mrs....?” His voice trailed off in the question he hoped would have an encouraging answer.

“Waycross. Dolly Waycross. I’m new to Waterloo, you see. My husband passed about two years ago, and I inherited a small house here belonging to his family that up to now has been tied up in probate. To me, a house doesn’t seem like a home until you get a few library books scattered around just begging to be read. Don’t you agree? I have always found Miss Sarton’s views on solitude to be of comfort, in a sad sort of way, if you know what I mean, and I’d love to be able to read it again, especially now that I am experiencing true solitude myself.”

Clive just gaped. Dolly snuck a quick glance at his nameplate on the desk. “Mr. Mighty?” she prompted gently. Clive smiled, recovered, and grasped his chin with a weathered hand in a lifelong gesture of contemplation, appearing to be gathering thoughts of great weight. “Ah yes, of course. Right this way, Mrs. Waycross. I know just where it is.” She’s alone, she’s lovely, and she’s new in town. Oh my. Oh my indeed.

He guided her toward the appropriate stack and Clive prayed that the book was in so he could prove his library was efficient, sufficient for every need, that he was able to grant her every wish. He conversely prayed it was not in, giving him a reason to perhaps call her when it was returned, and maybe he could even bring it to her house. It was in.

“Here you go," Clive murmured as he handed over the book to a pleased Dolly. “Will there be anything else?” Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “With your being new to town and all, I’d be honored, I mean, I’d be happy to show you around. If you like, that is. Being a stranger in town can be a little intimidating I would imagine. But I don’t want to appear forward, Mrs. Waycross, I just thought...” He stopped and looked at her helplessly, the old familiar freeze creeping in to lock up the knees, empty the brain, twist the tongue. He waited for the inevitable refusal. It wouldn’t be haughty, combined with a cruel laugh and a wave of the hand as with the girls of his youth; no, it would be kinder perhaps, with more consideration and respect that comes with age, but still a reminder of long forgotten pain.

She looked startled for only a minute. “Well, I think that’s a mighty good offer,” she said, smiling at her little pun on his name. “I really am just finding my way around and any help in learning the town’s shortcuts would be very much appreciated.” Lightly touching his arm she leaned in a little, allies in a private war, and quipped, “At our age, we should look for all the shortcuts we can get.” She beamed warmly at him, blissfully unaware of the thaw-effect her easy consent had produced in the man.

Finding his voice, he responded with a growing steadiness, “I think I know just the ticket - what are you doing??? - we’ll go on a walking tour of Waterloo -am I really saying this?- and I’ll be sure to include the all important Citizen Summary, just so you know who’s who and what’s what.”

“Citizen Summary?” Dolly asked, placing a hand over her chest in mock dismay. “You mean...”

“Yep,” conspired Clive, immensely enjoying the way this conversation was proceeding. “You will come to know all of Waterloo’s deepest and darkest; the surliest waitress at Margo’s Courthouse Cafe, the slowest bank teller, poor Shirley, at Fidelity Union, the friendliest and fastest check-out line at the Piggly Wiggly and the best days for sales at Winston and Waggler’s department store. There are certain nights when it’s best to avoid the teen-infested town square and there are certain glorious weeks when Lou’s Creek rushes with the fresh water of a new season.” Oh, there is so much, so much more. He paused, suddenly aware that he had been prattling like a town gossip, which also reminded him to add Winifred Snipps to Dolly’s need-to-know list. He felt glorious, he felt terrified; he felt - Alive.

Dolly, obviously pleased with both Clive and his suggestion, replied in an excited whisper, “ Sounds marvelous. When do we go?”

Clive winked and said, “Well, first we need to get you a library card so you can check out that book of yours.”

Looking down at the book in her hand, she chuckled. “Heavens, I almost forgot about that little bit of business. I’ll definitely be needing a card, seeing as how I’ll be a frequent patron of your fine library. Reading just fills one up to the brim with contentment, I’ve always said, and it brings me such happiness knowing I have a book waiting for me every day. I do believe, Mr. Mighty, that both your library and your kindly offered tour have made my welcome here a truly memorable one.” Dolly extended her unoccupied hand in thanks.

He grasped the hand as if it was a promise that might be broken at any moment and gently murmured a soft, “I’m so glad.” They walked back to the information desk so Dolly could fill out the paperwork and obtain her library card, sharing a companionable silence; each in private wonder at the slight, but definitely noticeable current zipping along their veins, the kind of current that new hope can bring.

Clive handed Dolly her new card, making sure he noted her address information before filing it away. He spoke first. “I don’t work at the library tomorrow. Would that be too soon for your Waterloo walk? It’s a Thursday and Thursdays are when Al puts all the meat on sale at the Piggly. I mean, we can’t miss that.” Clive smiled, relaxed and easy in her company.

“I think tomorrow would be perfect.” Dolly replied as they headed toward the front doors of the library. “And maybe after, you would consider coming over for some lemonade and a game of Scrabble. I’ve always loved Scrabble; it allows me to play with words, and I think words are just endlessly fascinating. Don’t you? ”

Clive held the front library door open for her as she prepared to step into the morning. “Why yes,” he replied warmly as she faced him for his answer. “As a matter of fact, I do.”

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Quote of the day: The floor was littered with crumpled carnations of drawing paper. Michael Chabon - "The Amazing Adventures of Kavalier and Clay.
Chosen for that perfect image of crumpled, tossed paper as carnations. I've crumpled up a pile of paper in my time - I love using carnations as a counterpoint to the frustration those crumpled pieces of paper represent.