Ray Bradbury



                      Exchange

    

    There were too many cards in the file, too many books on the 

shelves, too many children laughing in the children's room, too many 

newspapers to fold and stash on the racks ...

    All in all, too much. Miss Adams pushed her gray hair back over 

her lined brow, adjusted her gold-rimmed pince-nez, and rang the small 

silver bell on the library desk, at the same time switching off and on 

all the lights. The exodus of adults and children was exhausting. Miss 

Ingraham, the assistant librarian, had gone home early because her 

father was sick, so it left the burden of stamping, filing, and 

checking books squarely on Miss Adams' shoulders.

    Finally the last book was stamped, the last child fed through the 

great brass doors, the doors locked, and with immense weariness, Miss 

Adams moved back up through a silence of forty years of books and 

being keeper of the books, stood for a long moment by the main desk.

    She laid her glasses down on the green blotter, and pressed the 

bridge of her small-boned nose between thumb and forefinger and held 

it, eyes shut. What a racket! Children who finger-painted or cartooned 

frontispieces or rattled their roller skates. High school students 

arriving with laughters, departing with mindless songs!

    Taking up her rubber stamp, she probed the files, weeding out 

errors, her fingers whispering between Dante and Darwin.

    A moment later she heard the rapping on the front-door glass and 

saw a man's shadow outside, wanting in. She shook her head. The figure 

pleaded silently, making gestures.

    Sighing, Miss Adams opened the door, saw a young man in uniform, 

and said, "It's late. We're closed." She glanced at his insignia and 

added, "Captain."

    "Hold on!" said the captain. "Remember me?"

    And repeated it, as she hesitated.

    "Remember?"

    She studied his face, trying to bring light out of shadow. "Yes, I 

think I do," she said at last. "You once borrowed books here."

    "Right."

    "Many years ago," she added. "Now I almost have you placed."

    As he stood waiting she tried to see him in those other years, but 

his younger face did not come clear, or a name with it, and his hand 

reached out now to take hers.

    "May I come in?"

    "Well." She hesitated. "Yes."

    She led the way up the steps into the immense twilight of books. 

The young officer looked around and let his breath out slowly, then 

reached to take a book and hold it to his nose, inhaling, then almost 

laughing.

    "Don't mind me, Miss Adams. You ever smell new books? Binding, 

pages, print. Like fresh bread when you're hungry." He glanced around. 

"I'm hungry now, but don't even know what for."

    There was a moment of silence, so she asked him how long he might 

stay.

    "Just a few hours. I'm on the train from New York to L.A., so I 

came up from Chicago to see old places, old friends." His eyes were 

troubled and he fretted his cap, turning it in his long, slender 

fingers.

    She said gently, "Is anything wrong? Anything I can help you 

with?"

    He glanced out the window at the dark town, with just a few lights 

in the windows of the small houses across the way.

    "I was surprised," he said.

    "By what?"

    "I don't know what I expected. Pretty damn dumb," he said, looking 

from her to the windows, "to expect that when I went away, everyone 

froze in place waiting for me to come home. That when I stepped off 

the train, all my old pals would unfreeze, run down, meet me at the 

station. Silly."

    "No," she said, more easily now. "I think we all imagine that. I 

visited Paris as a young girl, went back to France when I was forty, 

and was outraged that no one had waited, buildings had vanished, and 

all the hotel staff where I had once lived had died, retired, or 

traveled."

    He nodded at this, but could not seem to go on.

    "Did anyone know you were coming?" she asked.

    "I wrote a few, but no answers. I figured, hell, they're busy, but 

they'll be there. They weren't."

    She felt the next words come off her lips and was faintly 

surprised. "I'm still here," she said.

    "You are," he said with a quick smile. "And I can't tell you how 

glad I am."

    He was gazing at her now with such intensity that she had to look 

away. "You know," she said, "I must confess you look familiar, but I 

don't quite fit your face with the boy who came here-"

    "Twenty years ago! And as for what he looked like, that other one, 

me, well-"

    He brought out a smallish wallet which held a dozen pictures and 

handed over a photograph of a boy perhaps twelve years old, with an 

impish smile and wild blond hair, looking as if he might catapult out 

of the frame.

    "Ah, yes." Miss Adams adjusted her pince-nez and closed her eyes 

to remember. "That one. Spaulding. William Henry Spaulding?"

    He nodded and peered at the picture in her hands anxiously.

    "Was I a lot of trouble?"

    "Yes." She nodded and held the picture closer and glanced up at 

him. "A fiend." She handed the picture back. "But I loved you."

    "Did you?" he said and smiled more broadly.

    "In spite of you, yes."

    He waited a moment and then said, "Do you still love me?"

    She looked to left and right as if the dark stacks held the 

answer.

    "It's a little early to know, isn't it?"

    "Forgive."

    "No, no, a good question. Time will tell. Let's not stand like 

your frozen friends who didn't move. Come along. I've just had some 

late-night coffee. There may be some left. Give me your cap. Take off 

that coat. The file index is there. Go look up your old library cards 

for the hell-heck-of it."

    "Are they still there?" In amaze.

    "Librarians save everything. You never know who's coming in on the 

next train. Go."

    When she came back with the coffee, he stood staring down into the 

index file like a bird fixing its gaze on a half-empty nest. He handed 

her one of the old purple-stamped cards.

    "Migawd," he said, "I took out a lot of books."

    "Ten at a time. I said no, but you took them. And," she added, 

"read them! Here." She put his cup on top of the file and waited while 

he drew out canceled card after card and laughed quietly.

    "I can't believe. I must not have lived anywhere else but here. 

May I take this with me, to sit?" He showed the cards. She nodded. 

"Can you show me around? I mean, maybe I've forgotten something."

    She shook her head and took his elbow. "I doubt that. Come on. 

Over here, of course, is the adult section."

    "I begged you to let me cross over when I was thirteen. 'You're 

not ready,' you said. But-"

    "I let you cross over anyway?"

    "You did. And much thanks."

    Another thought came to him as he looked down at her.

    "You used to be taller than me," he said.

    She looked up at him, amused.

    "I've noticed that happens quite often in my life, but I can still 

do this."

    Before he could move, she grabbed his chin in her thumb and 

forefinger and held tight. His eyes rolled.

    He said:

    "I remember. When I was really bad you'd hold on and put your face 

down close and scowl. The scowl did it. After ten seconds of your 

holding my chin very tight, I behaved for days."

    She nodded, released his chin. He rubbed it and as they moved on 

he ducked his head, not looking at her.

    "Forgive, I hope you won't be upset, but when I was a boy I used 

to look up and see you behind your desk, so near but far away, and, 

how can I say this, I used to think that you were Mrs. God, and that 

the library was a whole world, and that no matter what part of the 

world or what people or thing I wanted to see and read, you'd find and 

give it to me." He stopped, his face coloring. "You did, too. You had 

the world ready for me every time I asked. There was always a place I 

hadn't seen, a country I hadn't visited where you took me. I've never 

forgotten."

    She looked around, slowly, at the thousands of books. She felt her 

heart move quietly. "Did you really call me what you just said?"

    "Mrs. God? Oh, yes. Often. Always."

    "Come along," she said at last.

    They walked around the rooms together and then downstairs to the 

newspaper files, and coming back up, he suddenly leaned against the 

banister, holding tight.

    "Miss Adams," he said.

    "What is it, Captain?"

    He exhaled. "I'm scared. I don't want to leave. I'm afraid."

    Her hand, all by itself, took his arm and she finally said, there 

in the shadows, "Sometimes-I'm afraid, too. What frightens you?"

    "I don't want to go away without saying good-bye. If I never 

return, I want to see all my friends, shake hands, slap them on the 

back, I don't know, make jokes." He stopped and waited, then went on. 

"But I walk around town and nobody knows me. Everyone's gone."

    The pendulum on the wall clock slid back and forth, shining, with 

the merest of sounds.

    Hardly knowing where she was going, Miss Adams took his arm and 

guided him up the last steps, away from the marble vaults below, to a 

final, brightly decorated room, where he glanced around and shook his 

head.

    "There's no one here, either."

    "Do you believe that?"

    "Well, where are they? Do any of my old pals ever come visit, 

borrow books, bring them back late?"

    "Not often," she said. "But listen. Do you realize Thomas Wolfe 

was wrong?"

    "Wolfe? The great literary beast? Wrong?"

    "The title of one of his books."

    "You Can't Go Home Again?" he guessed.

    "That's it. He was wrong. This is home. Your friends are still 

here. This was your summer place."

    "Yes. Myths. Legends. Mummies. Aztec kings. Wicked sisters who 

spat toads. Where I really lived. But I don't see my people."

    "Well."

    And before he could speak, she switched on a green-shaded lamp 

that shed a private light on a small table.

    "Isn't this nice?" she said. "Most libraries today, too much 

light. There should be shadows, don't you think? Some mystery, yes? So 

that late nights the beasts can prowl out of the stacks and crouch by 

this jungle light to turn the pages with their breath. Am I crazy?"

    "Not that I noticed."

    "Good. Sit. Now that I know who you are, it all comes back."

    "It couldn't possibly."

    "No? You'll see."

    She vanished into the stacks and came out with ten books that she 

placed upright, their pages a trifle spread so they could stand and he 

could read the titles.

    "The summer of 1930, when you were, what? ten, you read all of 

these in one week."

    "Oz? Dorothy? The Wizard? Oh, yes."

    She placed still others nearby. "Alice in Wonderland. Through the 

Looking-Glass. A month later you reborrowed both. 'But,' I said, 

'you've already read them!' 'But,' you said, 'not enough so I can 

speak. I want to be able to tell them out loud.'

    "My God," he said quietly, "did I say that?"

    "You did. Here's more you read a dozen times. Greek myths, Roman, 

Egyptian. Norse myths, Chinese. You were ravenous."

    "King Tut arrived from the tomb when I was three. His picture in 

the Rotogravure started me. What else have you there?"

    "Tarzan of the Apes. You borrowed it . .

    "Three dozen times! John Carter, Warlord of Mars, four dozen. My 

God, dear lady, how come you remember all this?"

    "You never left. Summertimes you were here when I unlocked the 

doors. You went home for lunch but sometimes brought sandwiches and 

sat out by the stone lion at noon. Your father pulled you home by your 

ear some nights when you stayed late. How could I forget a boy like 

that?"

    "But still-"

    "You never played, never ran out in baseball weather, or football, 

I imagine. Why?"

    He glanced toward the front door. "They were waiting for me."

    "They?"

    "You know. The ones who never borrowed books, never read. They. 

Them. Those."

    She looked and remembered. "Ah, yes. The bullies. Why did they 

chase you?"

    "Because they knew I loved books and didn't much care for them."

    "It's a wonder you survived. I used to watch you getting, reading 

hunchbacked, late afternoons. You looked so lonely."

    "No. I had these. Company."

    "Here's more."

    She put down Ivanhoe, Robin Hood, and Treasure Island.

    "Oh," he said, "and dear and strange Mr. Poe. How I loved his Red 

Death."

    "You took it so often I told you to keep it on permanent loan 

unless someone else asked. Someone did, six months later, and when you 

brought it in I could see it was a terrible blow. A few days later I 

let you have Poe for another year. I don't recall, did you ever-?"

    "It's out in California. Shall I-"

    "No, no. Please. Well, here are your books. Let me bring others."

    She came out not carrying many books but one at a time, as if each 

one were, indeed, special.

    She began to make a circle inside the other Stonehenge circle and 

as she placed the books, in lonely splendor, he said their names and 

then the names of the authors who had written them and then the names 

of those who had sat across from him so many years ago and read the 

books quietly or sometimes whispered the finest parts aloud, so 

beautifully that no one said Quiet or Silence or even Shh!

    She placed the first book and there was a wild field of broom and 

a wind blowing a young woman across that field as it began to snow and 

someone, far away, called "Kathy" and as the snows fell he saw a girl 

he had walked to school in the sixth grade seated across the table, 

her eyes fixed to the windblown field and the snow and the lost woman 

in another time of winter.

    A second book was set in place and a black and beauteous horse 

raced across a summer field of green and on that horse was another 

girl, who hid behind the book and dared to pass him notes when he was 

twelve.

    And then there was the far ghost with a snow-maiden face whose 

hair was a long golden harp played by the summer airs; she who was 

always sailing to Byzantium where Emperors were drowsed by golden 

birds that sang in clockwork cages at sunset and dawn. She who always 

skirted the outer rim of school and went to swim in the deep lake ten 

thousand afternoons ago and never came out, so was never found, but 

suddenly now she made landfall here in the green-shaded light and 

opened Yeats to at last sail home from Byzantium.

    And on her right: John Huff, whose name came clearer than the 

rest, who claimed to have climbed every tree in town and fallen from 

none, who had raced through watermelon patches treading melons, never 

touching earth, to knock down rainfalls of chestnuts with one blow, 

who yodeled at your sun-up window and wrote the same Mark Twain book 

report in four different grades before the teachers caught on, at 

which he said, vanishing, "Just call me Huck."

    And to his right, the pale son of the town hotel owner who looked 

as if he had gone sleepless forever, who swore every empty house was 

haunted and took you there to prove it, with a juicy tongue, 

compressed nose, and throat gargling that sounded the long October 

demise, the terrible and unutterable fall of the House of Usher.

    And next to him was yet another girl.

    And next to her ...

    And just beyond ...

    Miss Adams placed a final book and he recalled the fair creature, 

long ago, when such things were left unsaid, glancing up at him one 

day when he was an unknowing twelve and she was a wise thirteen to 

quietly say: "I am Beauty. And you, are you the Beast?"

    Now, late in time, he wanted to answer that small and wondrous 

ghost: "No. He hides in the stacks and when the clock strikes three, 

will prowl forth to drink."

    And it was finished, all the books were placed, the outer ring of 

his selves and the inner ring of remembered faces, deathless, with 

summer and autumn names.

    He sat for a long moment and then another long moment and then, 

one by one, reached for and took all of the books that had been his, 

and still were, and opened them and read and shut them and took 

another until he reached the end of the outer circle and then went to 

touch and turn and find the raft on the river, the field of broom 

where the storms lived, and the pasture with the black and beauteous 

horse and its lovely rider. Behind him, he heard the lady librarian 

quietly back away to leave him with words .

    A long while later he sat back, rubbed his yes, and looked around 

at the fortress, the encirclement, the Roman encampment of books, and 

nodded, his eyes wet.

    "Yes."

    He heard her move behind him.

    "Yes, what?"

    "What you said, Thomas Wolfe, the title of that book of his. 

Wrong. Everything's here. Nothing's changed."

    "Nothing will as long as I can help it,,, she said.

    "Don't ever go away."

    "I won't if you'll come back more often."

    Just then, from below the town, not so very far off, a train 

whistle blew. She said:

    "Is that yours?"

    "No, but the one soon after," he said and got up and moved around 

the small monuments that stood very tall and one by one, shut the 

covers, his lips moving to sound the old titles and the old, dear 

names.

    "Do we have to put them back on the shelves?" he said. She looked 

at him and at the double circle and after a long moment said, 

"Tomorrow will do. Why?"

    "Maybe," he said, "during the night, because of the color of those 

lamps, green, the jungle, maybe those creatures you mentioned will 

come out and turn the pages with their breath. And maybe-"

    "What else?"

    "Maybe my friends, who've hid in the stacks all these years, will 

come out, too.',

    "They're already here," she said quietly.

    "Yes." He nodded. "They are."

    And still he could not move.

    She backed off across the room without making any sound, and when 

she reached her desk she called back, the last call of the night.

    "Closing time. Closing time, children."

    And turned the lights quickly off and then on and then halfway 

between; a library twilight.

    He moved from the table with the double circle of books and came 

to her and said, "I Can go now."

    "Yes," she said. "William Henry Spaulding. You can." They walked 

together as she turned out the lights, turned out the lights, one by 

one. She helped him into his coat and

    then, hardly thinking to do so, he took her hand and kissed her 

fingers.

    It was so abrupt, she almost laughed, but then she said, "Remember 

what Edith Whanon said when Henry James did what you just did?"

    "What?"

    'The flavor starts at the elbow.'

    They broke into laughter together and he turned and went down the 

marble steps toward the stained-glass entry. At the bottom of the 

stairs he looked up at her and said:

    "Tonight, when you're going to sleep, remember what I called you 

when I was twelve, and say it out loud."

    "I don't remember," she said.

    "Yes, you do."

    Below the town, a train whistle blew again.

    He opened the front door, stepped out, and he was gone. Her hand 

on the last light switch, looking in at the double circle of books on 

the far table, she thought: What was it he called me?

    "Oh, yes," she said a moment later.

    And switched off the light.