She ignored him and walked up the path to the little house. Over the door painted in large black letters were the words ELIZABETH FLETCHER IRWIN MEMORIAL LIBRARY. The sign was almost bigger than the building. There was a hand-lettered pasteboard card in the window giving the hours: MON. WED. FRI. 12 NOON TO 3 P.M. Today was Monday—she felt sure about that, but she didn’t have a watch so she had no idea if it was noon yet or not. She tried the knob. It turned, and the door opened. They were in luck.
A bell tinkled as they walked in. From the back came a strange little voice. “Make yourself at home. I’ll be right out.” The witch in Hansel and Gretel! Angel’s heart skipped a beat.
She forced a smile at a still belligerent Bernie. “See how friendly they are?” He shrugged. For a minute Angel just stood there barely inside the door, looking around at the shelves of books. It was much tinier than the school library in Burlington, but no use comparing. It was a library. It had books. “You want a book about trucks, Bernie? They probably got a book about trucks.” She headed for a sign hanging from the ceiling that said CHILDREN’S.
“No. I hate books about trucks.”
“You don’t and you know it.”
“I do, too. You don’t know what I like and what I don’t like.”
The argument ended abruptly at the sight of a strange, bent-over figure emerging from the curtained doorway in the back wall. “Hello,” she said, the curve of her back forcing her to twist her face sideways to look at them as she spoke. Bernie shrank against Angel. She put her arm around his shoulder, willing him to keep his mouth shut.
“I haven’t met you before,” the woman said. “Are you on vacation here?”
Angel shook her head. “We’re visiting our grandma, Miz Morgan, up the road.”
“Well, my goodness. I haven’t seen Erma Morgan in a hundred years. How is she?”
Surely the woman was teasing about the hundred years. “Fine,” said Angel.
“She’s more than a hundred years old,” Bernie whispered, his eyes wide with shock.
“No, no.” The woman laughed a cackly laugh. “I just mean I haven’t seen her in a long time. I used to know her back when we were both schoolgirls.” She laughed again. “Wa-a-a-y back in the olden days when it was my grandmother, the one I was named after, who ran the library.” She rubbed her hands on the apron she was wearing. How did she dress herself in the morning? Angel wondered and tried to picture the little woman pulling clothes over her head and bent back and fastening things. “Now, what can I help you with today?” She may have asked the question more than once while Angel was staring.
Angel’s face felt like it was on fire. “I’m a—Grandma thought we might do some cooking while I’m here. And I can’t seem to do anything without a book.” She laughed apologetically. “So I wonder if you have any cookbooks a kid like me could understand.”
“Hmm,” said the woman, and she started shuffling toward a shelf to her right. She walked at such an angle that her head got to the place before her feet did.
“What’s the matter with her?” Bernie was whispering so loudly that the woman must have heard. If so, she pretended she hadn’t.
“Keep your stupid mouth shut for once, Bernie,” Angel said in his ear.
The woman turned her whole body around to face them. “Could you give me a hand here, uh—I’m sorry, I didn’t get your names—”
“Angel. Angel Morgan. And he’s Bernie.”
“I’m glad to meet you, Angel, Bernie.” She gave a funny little shake of her head in their direction. “Everyone calls me Miss Liza. Now, Angel, if you’d be so kind...” Angel left Bernie still standing a few steps from the door and hurried over. Close to the deformed body of the librarian, Angel felt like a giant. Like a giant on the outside, anyway. On the inside she was feeling, well, as though she wanted to reach out her hand and touch the strange little woman’s wrinkled cheek. She knows how it feels to have everyone staring at her and whispering behind her back, but it hasn’t made her mean. It hasn’t even made her pull into a shell.
“I have some tongs here somewhere, but why don’t you just reach up”—the librarian waved her crooked arm toward the top shelf—“and see if you can find what you’re looking for.” She swiveled her head from one side to the other. “There’s a stool around here, I know.”
Angel located the stool and climbed up to survey the shelf. There were at least a half-dozen cookbooks. She looked at the titles carefully. Cooking Made Easy. That should do it. She pulled it out. It must have been bought by the librarian’s grandmother. The pages were almost yellow. There were no pictures, and the print was teeny. She put it back. One by one she examined all the books. She could feel Bernie’s fear from across the room. “I’m sorry to be so slow....It’s just—”
“No, no,” Miss Liza said. “Take all the time you need. Meanwhile—Bernie, is it? Would you like to see some books?”
Angel waited for Bernie’s “No,” but it didn’t come. He was probably still frozen witless. “Go on, Bernie.” She turned from the cookbooks. “Get yourself something to look at. I’m going to be a while.”
“How about if I read you a story?” the little old lady asked. “What kind of story would you like?”
Still no answer from Bernie. “He likes trucks,” Angel called.
“I do not!” said Bernie. “Trucks are stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.”
“I know just the story for you, Bernie Morgan,” the librarian said.
Soon Angel could hear Miss Liza’s voice reading: “‘One day Stanley Q. Stupid had an idea. This was unusual. “Calling all Stupids!” Stanley shouted.’”
“Why are they all stupid?” Bernie asked.