Page 24 of Where You're Planted

He mimed doffing a hat. “Can’t complain.” Then he cleared his throat and began chanting.

When Tansy left for story time, Jack intercepted her on the sidewalk. “Who the hell is that, and why is he chanting?”

“That’s Pagan Pete. Last I checked, he’s attempting to conjure Satan.”

“You’re not going to stop him?”

She laughed. “From conjuring Satan? I’m pretty sure it’s not even real Latin, so I’m not that worried. Plus, Irma’s horoscope today said a good surprise might come from anunsettling source. She’s got her fingers crossed that he’ll end up chanting winning lottery numbers.”

Jack pulled her to a stop by the elbow. “He’s disturbing the peace.”

She eyed his hand on her arm until he let go. “He’s harmless, Jack.”

“When y’all moved in here, I didn’t realize we were opening the gates to all the freaks and—”

“Hey,” she snapped. “You don’t know what other people are going through. He’s not bothering anybody.”

“He’s botheringme,” Jack said. “You can’t tell me you’re working in there with that noise. When the kids come back to check out books after your story time, they’re not gonna be traumatized by the devil horns?”

Sure, she’d had to ask patrons to repeat themselves over the phone a few times this morning. And he had a point about the kids.

But it was the principle. A library was one of the few public spaces where people could simplyexist, where loitering wasn’t criminalized. People from all walks of life and in all states of wellness turned up. As far as disturbances went, Tansy would take Pagan Pete or the lady who wore a tattered evening gown and conversed with a taxidermy opossum on her shoulder over the brigades of righteous white moms who used to come in, figurative guns blazing, to demand the removal of award-winning LGBTQIA+ novels from the YA shelves.

“I’ll ask him to chant more quietly.”

Jack shook his head in exasperation and walked away, muttering something that sounded likeUnbelievable.

On Wednesday, Tansy and Marianne arrived first thing in the morning to find their three new branch kittens trapped in metal cages, which Jack promptly turned up to collect.

“Where are you taking them?” Tansy demanded.

“Out of the park, where they belong.”

“To a shelter?”

“I’ll take them,” Marianne blurted. But Tansy knew she couldn’t have another pet at her apartment, and when Jack hesitated, considering, Marianne added meekly, “I just need a few days to figure it out.”

He grunted and carried them off.

Story times were still a moderate disaster. Only three families from the first toddler session returned for the second, and the infant and preschool programs were just as chaotic, although at least no one fell into the koi pond. Tansy had to pull Kai and Marianne in to help corral the kids, and a few sneaky runners still made it past them. On Thursday, strong winds nearly ripped the pages of Tansy’s picture book, and she’d had to cut story time short, all the kids’ cheeks and noses chapped and pink and jackets billowing like sails set to lift them away.

On their social media accounts, Irma fielded complaints about all the services they couldn’t offer, including copy and print services, computer access, and assistance with government benefit websites.

Why bother reopening at all if there are hardly any books and no computers?someone had commented under their video showing the path from the front gate all the way to their shed.

There’s literally no place to even sit and read. At a LIBRARY.

I don’t have a car and can’t get to another branch, so I was happy to hear our library was reopening, but…this is such a disappointment.

The wave of negative feedback reminded Tansy of what Jack had said the previous week.Maybe the things you did in the library aren’t gonna work here.She refused to let him be right.

Last night, between disaster check with Briar and watching YouTube tutorials about floating and taping drywall from a retired carpenter’s channel called ImYourDadNow, Tansy had realized that, rather than entirely count on proving the branch’s worth, she needed a backup plan. She began investigating the real deep pockets of Houston—private donors.

Their abandoned library building needed new walls, flooring, electrical, plumbing, HVAC…all the things she needed in her home, but on a larger scale. And she couldn’t argue with the board’s assessment that, given its proximity to the creek and its history of flooding, any renovation would require more extensive—morecostly—flood-resistant upgrades. The most expensive reno at another damaged branch had surpassed a million dollars, mostly funded by FEMA with ten percent falling to the county. If Tansy could secure the county’s portion of a similar budget, how could they not reconsider restoring her branch?

Her search for donors turned up one grant for which her library fit the eligibility requirements and which promised a large-enough payout, awarded by local Houston barbecue-mogul-turned-philanthropist Chet Fullton. The Fullton grant would cover one project, and the application process involved submitting a brief proposal that she immediately began to write on her phone in the dark while Briar slept on her shoulder. In three months, finalists would give a live presentation before the grant was awarded. The timing of it, coinciding with the library board’s decision, felt fortuitous, and the more she thought about her team’s tenacity and heart, the more certain she felt about their chances.

So Tansy was hopeful on Friday afternoon when she went to meet Jack in the covered courtyard for the festival meeting he simply couldn’t make time for before today. He was on his cell phone and coming down the stairs from the upper offices when she arrived, and he held up a finger to stop her from interrupting his call before she’d uttered a word. She magnanimously let that annoying little gesture roll off her back.

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