She pauses, and rubs her temples.
My great-grandfather was at Carlisle, she says simply, as if that explains everything. Then at the sight of Bird’s blank face, she snorts. You have no idea, do you, she says. How could you? They don’t teach you any of this. Too unpatriotic, right, to tell you the horrible things our country’s done before. The camps at Manzanar, or what happens at the border. They probably teach you that most plantation owners were kind to their slaves and that Columbus discovered America, don’t they? Because telling you what really happened would be espousing un-American views, and we certainly wouldn’t want that.
Bird doesn’t fully understand any of these things, but what he does understand, suddenly, and with head-spinning force, is how much he does not know.
I’m sorry, he says meekly.
The librarian sighs. How can you know, she says, if no one teaches you, and no one ever talks about it, and all the books about it are gone?
A long silence unwinds between them.
I didn’t mean to make trouble, Bird says finally. Honest. I just—I just want to find my mother.
She softens.
I only knew your mother a little, she says. And a long time ago. But I remember her. She was a nice person. And a good poet.
But a bad mother, he thinks.
Only when the librarian replies does he realize he’s spoken out loud.
You shouldn’t say that, she says. Not about your own mother.
She puts her hand on Bird’s shoulder again—gently, this time. A tender squeeze.
I’m not saying there aren’t bad mothers, she says. Just that you don’t always know. What makes them do something, or not do something. Most of us, we’re trying our best.
Something in her voice makes Bird pause. A brittle sound. Something stretched too thin, more cracks than whole.
Do you have kids? he asks.
Two, she says slowly. I had two.
Past tense. Snipping the sentence in two: before, and after.
What happened to them, Bird asks.
My little girl got sick, she says. During the Crisis. We couldn’t afford the hospital, hardly anybody could. Then my boy ran out of insulin, toward the end.
Her eyes have drifted away from him, are focused somewhere just over his shoulder, on the wall beyond.
Wherever your mother is, whatever she’s doing, the librarian says, I’m sure of this: she’d be happy to know you grew up and stayed well. That you’re still here.
Then she blinks, once, twice. Returns to the present, to him.
But look, Bird, she says, if you want to get to New York—you need to find your own way. I can only pass on information. Not people.
Bird nods.
And I can’t let you go until you promise not to speak about any of this. Please, Bird. You of all people should understand. Pretend you don’t know anything—I mean anything—about this. People’s lives are at stake.
I would never, he says, the last word half garbled. I could never. And then, to prove to her he means it: My best friend, Sadie, was one of those kids.
A long, startled pause.
You knew Sadie? she says.
And then Bird remembers: of course. Sadie, after school every day, stopping by the library, even just for a few minutes.
We’d talk, the librarian says. Hard not to notice a little girl coming in like that, on her own.
A sudden hot flare of hope sears through Bird.
Is that where she went? he says, excited. You sent her home? Back to her mom and dad?
But the librarian shakes her head.
I couldn’t find out where her parents had gone, she says. Nobody could find out anything, except that they weren’t home anymore. And then all of a sudden, Sadie was gone, too.
A moment of silence, in which the librarian’s eyes on him are gentle and kind. It feels good, surprisingly good, to talk about Sadie with someone who knew her. To remember her.
Listen, the librarian says. I can’t take you to New York. I don’t know anyone who can. But I can do something.
She leads him back out of the office and through the shelves to a thick maroon binder. Inside: pages and pages of timetables, printed in pale blue columns.
Train schedules and routes, she says. This binder here, this one is buses. At the station, you can go to the counter, but there are also machines that sell tickets. In case you wanted to avoid— questions.
Thank you, Bird manages to say.
She smiles. I told you, she says, that’s my job. Information. Passing it on. Helping people find what they need.
She sets the opened binder atop the shelf and slides it across to him.
What you do with this information, she says, is your own business only.