The Book of Illumination by Mary Ann Winkowski Read Free Book Online Page B

It works out well for everyone. Their son and his family live in San Francisco, and their daughter and her husband and kids are in Chicago, so Ellie’s always delighted to have a messy little guy like mine drinking her root beer floats and bringing her wilting bouquets of dandelions. Max is teaching him chess. Once Henry’s asleep, I can even go out at night; all I have to do is let them know and leave open the second-floor door that separates our apartments. Henry never wakes up once he gets to sleep, though I think they wish he would, so they could rush to the rescue with drinks of water and cuddle him on their couch in a blanket.
    I took the back road over Belmont Hill and down Concord Avenue. There was so little traffic that I decided to go home before picking up Henry at after-school. I could dump the groceries, throw in a load of laundry, and still get to the school in plenty of time.
    Sorting laundry, I thought back to the turn things had taken when we opened the bindery door. Amanda Perkins, Sylvia’s boss, was leading some very well dressed individuals—trustees? potential benefactors?—on what I presumed to be a private backstage tour.
    Chandler, flushed and damp, was holding forth with animation (and a slight British accent that he seemed to have acquired overnight) about a book on British and Irish ferns that had been donated to the library by the architect John Sturgis. He wore weird German glasses, the kind they made fun of on
Saturday Night Live
. These apparently represented a random stab at sartorial edginess, as he was otherwise attired in faded Dockers, a blue oxford shirt that appeared to be no-iron, and sneakers thatdefinitely hailed from the “Comfort Shoe” aisle of the New Balance factory outlet. I know, because I checked it out when I took Henry there for soccer cleats. Not being opposed to comfort, I even tried some on, and they sure did feel great. But I just couldn’t. The day may come, but I’m not there yet.
    Amanda, a slight, trim blonde in a sleek navy suit, eyed me over horn-rimmed half glasses. Her hair, expertly frosted, was cut short in the manner of a chic Parisian. I could tell she wasn’t thrilled by the interruption. I suspected she was buttering up these CEOs for donations.
    I was starting to get a little worried about time, so as soon as I could politely pull Sylvia away from the group, I did. It was obvious that we wouldn’t have the opportunity to sneak the manuscript out of there anytime soon, and Amanda, whom Sylvia had particularly wanted me to meet, was clearly engaged for the time being.
    “I’ll talk to her this afternoon,” she whispered. “I’m sure she won’t have a problem with me bringing you on.”
    “All right,” I said. I was walking kind of slowly, half-hoping that the monks would deign to appear to us as Sylvia escorted me to the elevator. They didn’t.
    “Could I maybe start on Monday? I’ve got some loose ends to tie up, and I have to chaperone my son’s field trip on Friday.”
    She smiled. “Sure. Where are you going?”
    “Apple picking.”
    “Sounds like fun.”
    I nodded. To be honest, I don’t much look forward to these things. I’d put in so much time “parent helping” at Henry’s nursery school—scrubbing toilets, washing out the dozens of yogurt tubs used for painting projects, freezing my tail off on the weekends before Christmas, serving my obligatory shifts at the annual tree sale—that I hoped never again to be asked to sign up for anything. But so many of the parents have “real” jobs, sometimestwo, that the teachers tend to rely on people like me, who apparently don’t have to be anywhere at any special time. And the trips are always nicer than I think they’ll be. There’s often a moment when I unexpectedly find myself on the verge of tears, thinking of Henry going off to college.
    “What time should I come in?” I asked.
    “Ten all right?”

    The rain woke me up in the wee hours of Friday morning and my