Inter-Library Loan

Inter-Library Loan Part 2

Chapter Two

Now let's not pretend that Oliver's and all of our lives never change, they do and we, and Oliver, know that. There was the time Oliver's father died of a heart attack on Oliver's college graduation day. His mother and he were in the kitchen cutting cake, and when Oliver brought his father a slice, he found him, eyes open and jaw slack, dead in his barcalounger in front of the TV. That was a very big change.

When he moved his mother into assisted memory care, because she'd burned the electric teapot by putting it on the gas burner, one too many times when getting distracted by the light filtering through the trees and onto the kitchen table, that was also a big change. But ultimately life had a routine to it.

Oliver worked Monday-Friday, 9-5. He visited his mother every Sunday afternoon. Every other month, on the 2nd Saturday, Dex, Dek and he would play their D&D games. This routine was comforting and unsettling to him at the same time. He didn't want to be one of those people who are "in a rut". So he worked at "shaking it up" as Tanya would say.

When he reached into the freezer to grab a frozen meal to bring for lunch at work, he would put it back and grab another, so that he wouldn't be stuck with the usual. As he ascended from the subway stop on his way home from work he would pull a quarter out of his pocket, pick two streets and flip a coin to see which way he would walk home. Not earth-shattering changes, but changes that Oliver was comfortable with.

The other routine that Oliver was comforted by was the bi-weekly correspondence from C. Paul. So to say he was upset when her letter arrived terminating the need for his help and friendship, would not be giving the situation the gravitas it so deserved.

Tanya noticed right away after she entered his office for her mid-morning Diet Pepsi break, taking a sweating cold can out of the tiny dorm fridge that Oliver had upgraded to, she settled her 6'2' frame into the chair next to his desk and immediately registered the shock on his face. She leaned forward and grabbed his hand.

"Is it your mom?" She asked with a look of serious concern on her face. He shook his head no. "Your heart?" Also a serious concern, because though Oliver ate Lean Cuisines and drank Diet Pepsi at work, he was by no means svelte. Rather more portly than otherwise and on the short side, about 5' 6. A heart attack would not come as a surprise as it felled his father around the same age Oliver was at now.

Again he shook his head. She let go of his hand and settled back in the chair with a long sigh of "Goooood." He stood up and walked around his tight little office nervously shaking his hands out as if to rid them of the feel of that last letter.

"Oliver?" Tanya asked patiently.

He looked at her, nodded, and said "Ok". On the shelf above his desk, amidst the notebooks that he still kept, though everyone did things via computer now, he pulled down a nondescript black one with the letters "CP" written in white marker along the spine. He held it tight for a moment, staring off into space, then sighed even deeper than Tanya had and handed it to her as he sat down. She took it in one hand, without relinquishing her pop, set it into her lap, and started to flip through. It was filled with the 25 years of C. Paul's interlibrary loan requests and the small notes where the author inquired about the weather, books read, or Oliver's health.

"Who is he?" she asked puzzled, looking up at Oliver with surprise and more than a bit of an "oh this is an adventure" look on her face.

"She's a she. The writer of the Dragoon books that we read with the boys."

Tanya let out a good laugh. "You mean you read and I made myself scarce. But yeah, I remember these books. So what's the problem?"

Reluctantly Oliver handed over the last bit of paper. The last note thanking Oliver for his years of research help and friendship. That stated in the last line "That the time has come for other things. Our correspondence will be no longer required." It was signed by C. Paul and that was that. Tanya read through it without emotion then laid it down on the desk, closing up the notebook and laying that down on top, she drained her pop and tossed the can into the recycle bin, then sighed deeply again. She turned to Oliver and waited. They had known one another long enough, she knew he would tell her what he could and she would listen.

It spilled from Oliver in a long-winded stream of consciousness with deep gasps for breath in between run-on sentences that would probably have scared most folks if they heard him ranting. Tanya waited patiently, nodding her head from time to time as he recounted the connection he'd had with the author. How she'd named the series after him. How all these years of contact couldn't just stop like that, could they?

This would be where most folks would comfort a friend, letting them know they understood how frustrated Oliver must feel. Show their empathy or sympathy. Give a hug or a comforting word. That wasn't Tanya's way, which is why they were friends. Action was more her style and she calmly leapt into it right then and there. If you can leap without getting out of your chair, which she did, by sitting up straight grabbing a pen and paper then peppering Oliver with questions, which he answered as quickly as she asked him. The strongest tie these two had was their ability to think along the same lines, hopping from topic to topic, where most other folks would be left bepuzzled and very left behind.

Where does she live? Who drops off the requests? How often? Any clues that Oliver could remember in her papers? He answered "Don't know, grad student, every other week. Nope, she never talked about herself."

She sat back and looked off for a moment. "Hmmmm, this mystery will not be settled today. And you will be of no use for the rest of the afternoon Oliver. Go home."

Resignedly he nodded, shakily stood, and began packing up his things, pulling on his hat, scarf, coat, and gloves, then shuffling out the door. Going home early was not a part of Oliver's routine, ever. This was a special circumstance, there would be no going back from the moment that last letter landed on his desk.

A big change indeed.