Bernice
Bernice was working the evening shift at the library, 5 through 9. The dinner hour was usually quiet, but by 7:30 or so, the library hummed. The new director was big on having a book club meeting in the evenings, or musical performances, anything to draw the people in and keep the numbers up—and growing.
Bernice didn’t mind the evening. The morning shift had all those baby and toddler classes, with children trailing in after their nannies, or crawling behind their strollers. Occasionally, there would be a mother. Some of those mothers could be quite demanding. Self-checkout seemed to confuse them; but, okay, that’s why Bernice was at the desk, to help out. However, why the complaints when they discovered they couldn’t take out any more books because some items on their card were overdue or lost and, after all, it wasn’t their fault? Who knew where the kid had stashed them? Let’s not even talk about damage from teeth marks or dried cereal.
Always a smile on her face, that’s what Bernice had to remember, even in the afternoons between two thirty and three thirty when the schools let out and the children came here instead of going to an empty house. Most of them spent some time studying. But to go past the bathrooms was to smell a certain odor she was familiar with from Eden. Where do kids get this weed? Even if it’s legal, it shouldn’t be for these young ones. Was she becoming an old fogey? She didn’t think so, but she only had herself to ask.
Letting her thoughts drift, she wished something would change for Eden. Her father’s death had hit Eden very hard. Of her three children, Bernice recalled only Eden crying copiously at the funeral. But then she was always dramatic. What did Riley call her, a drama queen. Poor Eden. After having been to their father’s condo, all three children had come to Bernice’s semi-cramped apartment after the funeral. Semi-cramped because when she had to leave her house, there were pieces of furniture and kitchenware she couldn’t bear to give up. Her children expected her to be bitter. But was she?
All the advice columns said give yourself a year before you make any rash decisions after a life-changing event. And within that year since the divorce was final, Jerry was dead. Was that another life-changing event? Did she have to wait another year?
She felt sorry for Jerry. Very occasionally. When she wasn’t incredibly angry. They had known one another forever. They were young together and so in love. Then there was his residency and his practice and the children, and it had been such a good life. A fulfilling life—for both of them. She thought.
Until the divorce papers arrived.
But—water under and over the bridge. Jerry was dead. She was alive. Life went on. So she assured her children that she was just fine. Then Eden stated quite boldly that she hoped Bernice would be continuing her monthly allowance.
Her monthly allowance? That had been a shocker. “You get a monthly allowance?” Bernice, herself, had only gotten a lump sum after the divorce, no spousal support because, gee, couldn’t she still go out and work? True, there was the pension and the stock and the house but— Eden, monthly money from Jerry, really?
“Daddy knew how expensive living in DC is. It’s only two thousand a month. No problem, right?”
Bernice looked at her other two children. Frank gave one of his famous eye rolls, while Riley just shook her head in disgust. “Wake up to reality, Eden,” Riley said. “Dad is dead. Mom will not be writing you a monthly check for two thousand dollars. Look around the apartment. She’s barely hanging on as it is.”
Well, Bernice was a little taken aback by that. The apartment wasn’t that bad, was it?
“She has a job!” Eden shot back.
“It’s part-time, Eden,” Bernice said gently. “I’m afraid I can’t help you.”
“But you’re my mother!” Eden exclaimed.
Eden’s anger hurt much more than Jerry’s death.
Only a week later did her son Frank drive over from Hartford to tell her about the insurance policy and how he would help her claim it. “And nothing is to go to that spoiled brat,” her son warned her. “She’d sell your kidneys if you let her.”
“I don’t think she’d go that far,” Bernice said with a smile.
“Don’t tempt her.”
Money. Sometimes she got annoyed at the library and thought she should look for something else. The library kept all part-time workers’ hours to just under where they would have to provide benefits, like health insurance. Bernice couldn’t wait for Medicare, but she’d have to. Meanwhile, she was paying a fortune for health insurance, a big bite out of her budget, because she was still keeping to her budget, despite the insurance windfall. She now knew how fast money could disappear.
Susan came into the back office. It was Bernice’s turn to be out front, handling the desk, where she would be checking patrons out and dealing with fines, printing receipts. She couldn’t blame them for not wanting to use the automatic payer. She wouldn’t trust it either.
“Bernice!”
She looked up from a check list she was going over. “Howie,” she responded with a smile. Howie was the urologist who dealt with Jerry’s kidney stones. He came to the funeral, even though she thought of them as passing acquaintances and not friends. But then she obviously knew less than she thought she did about dear Dr. Frank. “I haven’t seen you in the library before.”
“Kindle,” he explained. “When I have time to read, and that’s rarely. I’ve actually come in here to get a library card. Finally. My daughter’s kid is six months old, and she wants to sign him up for Mommy and Me classes, but she’s too busy to come in. Since you’re on my way home, I called; and the library said I could get a card and place authorized users on it. For my daughter and the nanny.”
“Of course. The library is always grateful for new members. And starting a child young with books is a great idea.” She withdrew the paperwork necessary to apply. It was one page.
“I don’t know if I have time for this now,” Howie said doubtfully.
“It takes about two minutes, name, address, email, phone, and then you show me proof residency like a driver’s license and tell me whom you want on the card and you’re good to go. There’s a desk free right over there.”
Taking the paper and patting his shirt pocket, Howie asked, “Do you have a pen?”
“We’re full service,” she said brightly.
It took Howie five minutes to fill out the form and one minute to wait impatiently while she dealt with someone else. Bernice checked the form over, noted his New York driver’s license and home address, then asked the names of those who had permission to use his account. He gave his daughter’s and confessed he didn’t know the name of the nanny. “Can you just put down ‘Nanny?’”
“Hmm. Why don’t you have your daughter call that name in?” She handed over the bright blue card and said, “Congratulations.”
He took it from her and hesitated. “How are you, Bernice?”
She shrugged her shoulders and looked around her. “Absolutely fine.”
“It was terrible, what happened to Jerry,” he said rather mournfully, as if giving a patient bad news.
“But what a way to go,” Bernice joked. “He died with his boots on. Or off, but somewhere nearby.” She chuckled, and saw Howie was a bit uneasy. “Life goes on. Until it doesn’t. You should know that, Howie. I look forward to seeing that grandchild of yours enjoying story time.”
And that was it. Shades of her old life. At least he didn’t shun her the way wives did. Looking over, she saw an old man with a DVD in his hands, coming over to complain it didn’t play from the look on his face. The man was already holding out the DVD, which he had just broken in half. He threw the detritus onto the counter and said, “If you can’t lend a DVD that works, you should get a new one.” He turned and left.
There was a better way to handle a situation like this, she thought. Just turn it in and receive a civil apology. Now that she still had the case with the checkout number, he would receive a bill for the breakage. She sighed. Men. At some point they have to get their comeuppance.