Comfort & Joy

Her look turns worried. “Aren’t you coming?”

“Not this year, Bertie. I don’t feel too festive. ”

She eyes me knowingly. As a twice-divorced woman, she thinks she understands, but she can’t, not really. Bertie has three kids and two parents and four sisters. My own math doesn’t add up that way. “Take care of yourself, Joy. The first Christmas after a divorce can be . . . ”

“Yeah. I know. ” Forcing a smile, I start moving. In the past year, this technique has worked well for me. Keep moving. I walk down the hallway, turn left at the empty cafeteria and head for my space. The library.

My assistant, Rayla Goudge, is already at work. She is a robust, gray-haired woman who dresses like a gypsy and tries to write all her notes in haiku. Like me, she is a graduate of U. C. Davis with a teaching certificate. We have worked side by side for almost five years and both enjoyed every minute. I know that in May, when she finishes her master’s degree in library science, I will lose her to another school. It’s one more change I try not to think about.

“Morning, Joy,” she says, looking up from the pile of paperwork in front of her.

“Hey, Ray. How’s Paul’s cold?”

“Better, thanks. ”

I store my purse behind the counter and begin my day. First up are the computers. I go from one to the next, turning them on for the students, then I replace yesterday’s newspapers with todays. For the next six hours, Rayla and I work side by side—checking the catalog system, generating overdue notices, processing new books, and re-shelving. When we’re lucky, a student comes in for help, but in this Internet age, they are more and more able to do their school research at home. Today, of course, on this last school day before the winter break, the library is as quiet as a tomb.

That is another thing I try not to think about: the break. What will I do in the two and one-half weeks I have off?

In past years, I have looked forward to this vacation. It’s part of the reason I became a school librarian. Fifteen years ago, when I was in college, I imagined traveling to exotic locales in my weeks off.

“Joy, are you okay?”

I am so lost in memories of Before that it takes me a second to realize that Rayla is speaking to me. I’m standing in the middle of the library, holding a worn, damaged copy of Madame Bovary.

The bell rings: The walls seem to vibrate with the sound of doors opening, kids laughing, feet moving down the hall.

The winter break has begun.

“Do you need a ride to the party?” Rayla asks, coming up to me.

“The party?” I say, as if I’m actually thinking about it. “No, thanks. ”

“You’re not coming, are you?”

Rayla has always been able to do that: pierce my defenses with a look. “No. ”

“But . . . ”

“Not this year, Ray. ”

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Rayla sighs. “So, what will you do tonight?”

We both know that the first night of our vacation is special. Last year, on this Friday evening, Stacey and I met up for dinner and went to the mall, where I agonized over the perfect gift for Thom.

It turned out to be my sister.

Those are exactly the kind of memories I try to avoid, but they’re like asbestos: invisible and deadly. You need special gear to get rid of them.

Rayla touches my arm. “Have you put up a tree yet?”

I shake my head.

“I could help you decorate one. ”

“No, thanks. I need to do it myself. ”