Page 9 of Befriending the Bear
I settled on a clean button-down in forest green that brought out my eyes, according to a guy I’d hooked up with, combined with dark jeans and boots that didn’t scream “I used to fight fires for a living.” The cane was nonnegotiable—my leg was already protesting the day’s activities—but I’d polished the handle until the wood gleamed.
The walk to the library took fifteen minutes, each step a small victory against the voice in my head saying this was a mistake. What if Calloway wasn’t there? What if he was, and I’d misread everything? What if the book club was full of pretentious people who took one look at me and made me feel like I didn’t belong?
Jesus, I’d faced down fifty-foot walls of flame. You’d think I could handle a poetry discussion.
The library was one of those Carnegie buildings that were a staple in small towns across America, all red brick and tall windows. I’d been inside a few times to get my library cardand check out books, but I’d never ventured into the back room where Jamie had said they met.
An elderly lady sat behind theAsk a Volunteerdesk, her silver hair catching the light from the old-fashioned banker’s lamp. She looked up as I approached, and her face transformed with delight. “You must be Fraser! Jamie mentioned you might join us tonight.”
She came around the desk with surprising agility for someone who had to be pushing seventy-five. “I’m Eleanor Jones, longtime library volunteer and the unofficial book club tyrant.”
“Fraser Strickland.” I shook her offered hand, noting the firm grip and the way her eyes assessed me. “Thank you for having me.”
“Oh, we’re thrilled for fresh blood. These discussions can get a bit stale with the same five people arguing about the meaning of certain words or literary devices.” She glanced toward the back of the library, and something in her expression shifted. “We have a wonderful group, very welcoming. Though not everyone makes it every week.”
The careful way she said it told me exactly who might not be here tonight. My heart sank a little, but I kept my expression neutral. “Poetry’s not really my area of expertise. I’ve only recently gotten into it, but I’m eager to learn.”
“The best attitude to have.” She patted my arm in a way that reminded me of my grandmother. “We’re in the River Room, which is through those doors and to the left. Help yourself to coffee and cookies. Gladys made snickerdoodles, and they’re actually good for a change.”
The River Room turned out to be a cozy space with windows adorned with dark-blue velvet curtains and furnished with mismatched chairs arranged in a loose circle. Four people werealready there, deep in conversation about someone’s grandson. They looked up as I entered, curiosity plain on their faces.
“You must be Fraser!” A woman with steel-gray curls and rhinestone glasses practically bounced out of her chair. “I’m Gladys. Those are my snickerdoodles. Please tell me if they need more cinnamon. I’ve been experimenting with the recipe.”
Before I could respond, the others introduced themselves in rapid succession. Tom, a retired banker who looked like he’d stepped out of a Norman Rockwell painting. Sarah, mid-forties with paint under her fingernails and an easy smile. And Pascal, the town librarian, whom Jamie had mentioned, quiet and watchful behind wire-rimmed glasses. They all knew my name already, so clearly, the town’s gossip mill was in fine shape.
“Welcome to book club,” Tom said, his voice carrying the kind of warmth that made you feel instantly included. “Fair warning—we take our discussions seriously, but not ourselves.”
I settled into an empty chair, accepting a cookie from Gladys and trying not to be obvious about watching the door. Seven o’clock came and went. The group chatted easily, catching up on town gossip and debating whether to start with Robert Frost, Maya Angelou, or Walt Whitman. Every footstep in the hallway made me turn, but none of them brought Calloway.
“Should we get started?” Eleanor asked at seven-fifteen, her eyes meeting mine with gentle sympathy. How had she figured out so quickly that I was waiting for Calloway? Maybe someone had seen Calloway and me chat at his house, and town gossip had spread even faster than I had imagined. “We can always catch up any latecomers.”
But we all knew there wouldn’t be any latecomers.
I tried to focus on the discussion, contributing when I could, but my mind kept wandering. Had I scared him off? Come on too strong? The invitation to book club had seemed genuine, offered with such visible effort, but maybe he’d reconsidered. Maybe?—
“Fraser, what’s your opinion on the theme of ‘Still I Rise?’” Sarah asked, jerking me back to the present.
“Honestly, I don’t think that as a white man I can even begin to understand the deeper message. I have never experienced racism like Maya Angelou did…and the truth is that I never will. I find that poem incredibly powerful and moving, but I don’t think I’m in a position to interpret it.”
Pascal nodded. “I agree. We need to be very aware of our privilege here and let BIPOC voices speak first.”
The discussion flowed on, and I got drawn in despite my disappointment. These people knew their poetry, but more than that, they knew how to make space for different interpretations. Even Gladys, who seemed more interested in feeding everyone than analyzing verse, had insights that surprised me.
By eight-thirty, we were wrapping up. I’d enjoyed myself more than expected, but the empty chair across from me felt like a presence all its own.
“Same time next week,” Eleanor announced. “We’ll be diving into Walt Whitman, so prepare yourselves. And make sure to bring a poem that speaks to you, okay?”
As the others filtered out, Eleanor caught my arm. “Walk with me?”
We headed out together, Eleanor setting a pace that suggested her age was a number she ignored. The evening had cooled, fall asserting itself with a breeze that carried the scent of woodsmoke.
“He wanted to be here,” she said without preamble. “Calloway. This is his favorite month—poetry. He’s been looking forward to it since August.”
I kept my expression carefully neutral. “It’s fine. I understand if?—”
“No, I don’t think you do.” She stopped walking, turning to face me with those sharp teacher eyes. “His story is not mine toshare, but he’s grieving, and in doing so, he’s built walls so high I’m not sure he remembers what the view looks like from the other side.”
I thought of my own walls, the ones I’d built after the accident, after discovering how quickly people could decide you were too much trouble, too broken to bother with. “I’m not trying to break down any walls.”.
