Page 63 of The River Is Waiting

“Heretics of Dune,” he says.

“Frank Herbert? We have a few of them in that series, but I’m not sureabout that one. You see those big hardcover books on the floor beneath the back window—the law books? Our science fiction and fantasy collections are stacked just to the left of them. You can go look there if you’d like or if you’d rather—”

Without waiting for her to finish, he makes a beeline toward where she’s directed him. “Friend of yours, Corby? How old is he, anyway?” Mrs. M asks.

“Eighteen, but he looks and acts a lot younger. And he’s my assignment, not my friend.”

“Oh?”

“We’re both on the grounds crew and I’m supposed to watch out for him. Make sure he does his work and that nobody antagonizes him. His name’s Solomon.”

She repeats the name and her eyes widen as it dawns on her. “Is he the one who… the dogs?” When I nod, she winces. Mrs. M and her husband foster greyhounds that travel up here from Florida. “Well, no matter what he did, he’s still a kid,” she says. “Why in the world would they put him at Yates?” She shakes her head. Says he’s lucky he has me looking out for him.

“Only on the work crew,” I tell her.

“And at the library, apparently.”

“Yeah, well, this visit is a one-off.”

“Uh-huh.” Why’s she smiling?

When Solomon returns to the desk with a couple of books, Mrs. M asks him whether he found what he was looking for. “Nah. You’ve only gotDune, Dune Messiah, andChildren of Dune. You should orderHeretics of Dune.”

She hands him paper and pencil and says he should write down the title—that her budget for the year’s been spent, but sometimes she sees things at yard sales or buys them used at the Book Barn. “Looks like you’ve found a few things to check out, though. What have you got there? Ah, a George R. R. Martin andEragon. Did you know that the author started writingEragonwhen he was only—”

“Fifteen. Yeah, I know. I already read it. They made a movie of it, but it sucked. The book’s better.” When she asks him whether he’s already read the George Martin book, too, he says yes.

Turning to me, Mrs. M says she heard some good news yesterday: DOC has finally okayed the library’s request for a computer. “It’s a repurposed IBM Aptiva, they told me, and it comes with a keyboard, a mouse, and one of those old dot-matrix printers. Javier says that, technology-wise, it’s an antique from the 1990s. But at least it will have word processing, so you fellas won’t have to submit your court letters in longhand.”

I tell her I already know the answer to this question, but any chance there will be internet access? She laughs and says I’m right, I already know the answer.

“Does it have games?” Solomon asks. I’m pretty sure he has no idea how primitive computer games were back in the day. Mrs. M tells him she might be able to install a few games—“the old standbys like solitaire and… what’s the one my sons always used to play on our first computer? The object was to aim a bouncing ball at a brick wall and destroy the rows of bricks until—”

I blurt it out. “Breakout!”

“Oh, yes.Breakout. I played it myself a few times, but I was terrible at it.”

Solomon says, “Yeah, but I meangoodgames likeSniper EliteorMortal Kombat: Deadly AllianceorMortal Kombat: Armageddon.”

“I don’t think those would pass inspection around here, my friend,” she says.

“And the amount of storage space those games would need would probably make that poor old IBM Aptiva explode,” I joke. Solomon doesn’t seem to think this is funny.

Mrs. M puts Solomon in the system, checks out his books, and places a Milky Way mini on the top one. I tell her I’m going to say hello to Lester before we take off. But when I go over there, his book’s fallen to the floor and he’s asleep. His breath is whistling in and out.

Back at the desk, Mrs. M says, “He’s sleeping, right? He does a lot of that now. He’s really slipped lately.” Leaning in, she whispers, “Some of us are working on getting him a compassionate release. Not me, officially, because employees can’t get involved with such things. But when has that ever stopped me?” I give her a thumbs-up and ask her whether Lester’s son, Cornell, ever visits him here. “Oh yes. They’re in different buildings, so that’s not supposed to happen, but the officers look the other way. They mostly just sit together, hold hands, and pray or sing hymns. Cornell does most of the praying and singing and Lester joins in here and there.” She tears up telling me about it.

Shifting gears, she says, “Oh, Corby, I almost forgot. I saw Beena Patel the other day. She said to say hello and wonders how you’re doing.” I nod. Smile. NowI’mgetting a little teary-eyed.

“Well, come on,” I tell Solomon. “Let’s not wear out our welcome.”

“Okay, don’t be strangers, you two,” Mrs. Millman says. “Hopefully, the next time you come in, this place will be put back together again.” She tells Solomon he’s always welcome.

Javier’s off the stepladder now, using a roller on the middle of the wall. “See you later, Javi,” I say.

“Later, brah,” he says. “See you tomorrow at the meeting.”

Just inside the doorway, I stop before a big pile of discarded books. A sign made from a manila folder says,Help yourself.Mrs. Millman said she was weeding the collection, so I guess these are the weeds. Solomon’s already out the door, but I call to him to wait up. Two of the books near the top of the pile grab my attention. The first is a Collier’s yearbook covering the events of my birth year. The second is a damaged but beautifully illustrated volume about Greek mythology. Several of its pages are loose and the binding’s broken, but the color plates depict scenes from the ancient stories by several of the artists I’ve studied and admired: Botticelli, Rubens, Bruegel, Caravaggio. No matter the condition of the book, these plates are a real find!

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