Mary Russel - Dreamers of the Day

By then the full dimension of the Crash was apparent. A quarter of the workforce was unemployed. All of us were faced with unpalatable choices. I, for example, could starve in genteel comfort surrounded by elegant possessions that nobody had cash to buy, or eat Rosie. “You’re lucky you’re a stringy old dog,” I told her. “It would take too long to stew you. I can’t afford the gas bill.”

Like so many others, I started each day circling want ads in the newspapers. Then I’d buff up my least run-down shoes, put on my best dress, and hop a streetcar to look for work. Finally one September morning, it looked like my luck had turned. Remember Mrs. Motta, my landlady? Well, she had used the money she made renting rooms to send her eldest son to college, and I read in the Plain Dealer that he’d just been promoted to principal at Murray Hill School!

At first, Mr. Motta thought I was there to congratulate him, and indeed I was delighted for his success. We spoke about his late mother and swapped stories for a while, but the moment came to swallow my pride and inform him of my situation. I was over fifty and nearly penniless.

Seeing the look on his face, I stopped before I asked about a job, but he knew why I was there. There were no openings for teachers, he said, and I understood, of course. There were men in breadlines, fathers with whole families to support, he added. He didn’t have to say the rest: single women were the last to be considered for any job. As I rose to go, he promised he would keep me in mind, but I supposed he was only being nice.

Two weeks later, I was wondering if I could hire out as a tutor or a nanny to some family too rich to go broke when a letter arrived in the morning mail. There was a possibility of a part-time position at Murray Hill as the school librarian. The salary was pitiable, but it was the best Mr. Motta could do. Was I interested? Yes. Oh, yes. I was very interested indeed.

And it was wonderful to be among young people again. Officially, I got off at lunchtime, but I enjoyed the work so much that I returned with Rosie most afternoons. Even in old age, she was a charmer and liked to snuggle with the children who began to hang around the library after school.

“You know what?” I’d say. “Rosie just loves stories, but I’m awfully busy.” I’d hold out a simple book and look very serious. “I hate to ask, because I know you’re busy, too, but I’d take it as a personal favor if you would read her a story while I catch up on some paperwork.”

This was patently absurd, but doing favors for adults makes children feel very grown-up and magnanimous. The good readers liked showing off, but even the more backward ones were willing to mutter and look at the pictures with Rosie at their side.

One day it occurred to me to bring in “treats for Rosie.” I would spend the afternoon in a breadline and bring a loaf in after school. Then I’d watch to see which child gave the bread to Rosie willingly and which looked horrified. To the latter, I would confide, “I think Rosie’s getting fat. She really shouldn’t have all that bread. Why don’t you eat most of it and just give her a little bit?”

Well! Food, books, and a dog to pet—that’s a winning combination for any library. I would sit at my desk, shuffling paper but listening as the children read, slyly giving help when they needed to sound out a hard word.

In my experience, most children—even backward ones—can do well in school. They just need one person who will cheer them on, one person who can say with serene confidence, “I know that you can do this.” When a child struggles, you can say, “That’s the best you’ve done so far!” Phrasing it that way makes each effort sound like a necessary step along the path to success, you see. “That’s better” can sound more grudging, as though everything that came before was failure and it’s about time they got it right.

The opportunity to encourage those children was worth more than any salary, no matter how desperately I needed the money. When at last a squiggly jumble of letters began to form words, and sentences, and paragraphs of meaning— Well, it was like witnessing a miracle, and I was amply rewarded with a gap-toothed, face-splitting, ear-to-ear grin.

As the Depression deepened, parents needed every nickel. Once again, sons and daughters were pulled out of school and sent out to sell newspapers or shine shoes, or even—in America!—to beg. Sometimes children would come to say good-bye to me and Rosie. I would dry their tears, open a desk drawer, and help them fill out a card request for the Cleveland Public Library.

“The public library is like a giant bookstore where everything is free,” I would say. “Nobody will ever tell you to stop learning at the library. Rosie and I go there every Saturday morning. When it’s nice weather, we read stories out under the big tree. Come and visit us.”

So you see, in the end, the sorrow borne in my middle years spared me much grief in my old age, for with my own family now long dead, my whole world was little children. To them, I had always been the nice old lady at the library. To me, they would be young forever, full of hope and possibility.

ROSIE DIED IN fullness of her years, and so eventually did I. Mumma was right about one thing: I did regret smoking. That’s what killed me in the end. And Karl was right about that legend. Remember? He told me that to drink from the Nile was to ensure a return to Egypt.

Of course, you’ve had some time to get used to the idea that I’ve been speaking to you from beyond the grave, but it took me completely by surprise when Rosie and I were reunited in a place of water and lotuses and palms. This is certainly not the afterlife I anticipated. I thought there’d be … well, nothing. Even now I don’t know if I am closer to heaven or to hell, but Rosie likes it here. There are beautiful ghostly salukis for her to romp with and an extraordinary number of lovely phantom cats to chase, so she is quite content.

I wandered quite a bit at first, probably because I wasn’t buried with the Book of the Dead, which would have guided me away from the world of men. Then I began to encounter others like me—people who found themselves in this place without the vaguest idea how or why. Drinking from the Nile seems to be the only thing we have in common, so Karl’s explanation is as good as any.

Most souls are here for a short time and gradually disappear, which is often a pity. Once, a gentleman wearing hardly anything in the way of clothing made friends with me. We didn’t talk much but enjoyed our quiet companionship. Then he stood, knit his brows, and looked out into the fog that surrounds us. “When Pagans strive to rule the world, Yahweh defeats them,” he declared in a firm voice. “When Jews strive to repair the world, Jesus breaks them. When Christians strive to save the world, Allah humiliates them. When Muslims strive to purify the world, Mammon corrupts them. Therefore, the Buddha advises, Cease to strive. Endure the world.”

I thought about that and said, “I’m not sure I agree with your analysis—” but before I could continue, the gentleman faded away just like the Cheshire Cat.

There are lots of Egyptians here, but the Nile divides the frangi from the beledi even in the afterlife, and we foreigners still tend to congregate on the west bank. In life, we usually paid attention only to people who could speak our own languages when we visited Egypt. You might say it was as though we were starring in our own private movies. Egyptians became “extras.” They served coffee at the edge of the frame or filled the screen with untranslated rage, while we imagined ourselves the “main characters.” We didn’t even notice we were thinking that way, and now I guess we’re stuck with it, though we don’t seem to have a language problem anymore.