Along Comes Mary: part 2.

Mary Darschak makes her pilgrimage and her courage is rewarded.

This is the second half of Along Comes Mary. The first half was published on March 29th.

I set my alarm clock for 6:00 A.M. on the Friday night before my trip, but that was unnecessary; I was awake at 5:00. The trip money my mother gave me was locked up tight in my plastic change purse, the purse stowed away under my pillow; I had laid out my clothes so I would not wake Delsey. I got dressed and waited until the sun rose, then I slipped out of the house. I would be hours early, I knew that; however, I wanted to just get to Oakland before something happened, such as my father changing his mind about letting me go.

The 61B bus came to Monongahela Avenue at 7:05, just as the schedule posted in the drugstore said it would. The bus rolled heavily around the corner, the sun’s rays glinting on the silver chrome of its sides. It was like some heavenly chariot come to take me away; it almost blinded me, but I kept my wits intact and climbed the high stairs. I looked at the bus driver blankly. I didn’t know what to do next.

“Hey, little lady,” said the bus driver. “You okay? You need to put some money into the box. This ain’t a chauffeur service.”

“How much?” I whispered.

“Where ya goin?”

“Oakland.”

“A dollar for the little lady. You got a dollar?”

“Yes.” I had a dollar bill ready, folded up into a little square, in the pocket of my jacket. I gave it to the bus driver.

He laughed, a snorting kind of laugh. “No, no. You have to straighten it out, make it nice and smooth, so it fits through the censor.” He pointed, and he started the bus again, the jolting movement causing me stagger as if I were drunk. I clung onto a pole with one hand and tried to smooth out the dollar bill with the other. The two passengers on the bus began to smile.

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” the driver said, “Give me that dollar, little lady, and sit down.” I obeyed, but before I sat down, I said, “This is my first time on a bus, other than a school bus, and you don’t have to make me feel stupid.”

The driver gave me a straight look. “You’re right. I’m sorry. Now, please sit down.”

I turned and faced the two passengers who had smiled at my not knowing about buses. They looked at me briefly, then looked away. Just like St. Sebastian who was martyred with arrows, shot into his perfect white body—I had seen a picture of this—I had endured the arrow-like snorts and smiles let loose by the bus driver and the passengers and survived. I had stared them down. I sat down by a window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass while I watched Swissvale and Regent Square, then Squirrel Hill pass by. Two more passengers boarded the bus. Then it stopped at Forbes Avenue and Craig Street.

I got off the bus and looked around. I had just been here three days ago, and Oakland had been jammed with cars and buses and people, all trying to move in and around each other; now it was dead quiet. Only a few cars and people moved about the streets and sidewalks. I wondered whether I liked it more on Wednesday or as it was today, early on a Saturday morning, belonging only to me.

The museum was locked up; the library was as well, and of course I knew that it would be. I had an hour and a half to wait, but I was happy. I stood back from the library entrance and read the words inscribed in stone above the main doors: FREE TO THE PEOPLE. What beautiful, magnificent words, I thought. What else was free to the people? A drink of water at a public water fountain—air for your tires at gas stations? Did this mean that I could, that anybody could, get a library card and take out books and not have to pay anything?

For the next hour and a half I strolled around the library and museum buildings, contemplating the architecture. If I bent my head back, I could see sculptures on top of the museum building, statues of men, some sitting, others standing. I did not know who these people were but I was sure one of them had to be Thomas Dewey, the man who invented the Dewey Decimal system. That’s who I would put up there, I thought, if I were in charge.

Then at 9:00 the heavy glass doors were unlocked and because it was free to the people, I stepped inside.

* * * * * * * *

A uniformed man sat on a stool placed outside the main reading room. I asked him if I could see Mrs. Artemis.

“Mrs. Artemis? What would your business be with her? She’s very busy, you know. Can’t you talk to another librarian?”

“My business, sir,” I answered quietly, “is private. May I please see her?” I knew something about adults. If you were speaking to a man and called him sir, he would immediately let you do anything you wanted. All obstacles would be removed, and that is what happened. The uniformed man smiled at me and told me where I could find Mrs. Artemis. Her office was half down the connecting hallway between the library and museum.

My thoughts that day centered on biblical and religious themes. I found it unavoidable. The 61B bus was a heavenly chariot; I was St. Sebastian on the 61B bus; I had just stood up to the guardian of Mrs. Artemis and gained admission to the inner sanctum. As I walked slowly down the dark hall, I rehearsed what I had to say to the head librarian. I thought I would be nervous, but I was not nervous at all.

Mrs. Artemis’ door had her name on it, in gold. The door was three quarters closed; I knocked, and I was told to come in. Mrs. Artemis sat behind a large mahogany desk which was covered with papers. She smiled, big and wide, and took off her glasses.

“I know you,” she said delightedly. “You were in that group of eighth graders who came here on Wednesday. You were the quiet one who stared at everything. What can I do for you?”

“I want to introduce myself. I’m Mary Darschak. Now, first of all,” I said, “I want to apologize for my classmates’ behavior. They were awful, weren’t they? I wish they hadn’t been so disrespectful.”

(Part of me stood aside and marveled at this well-spoken little Mary. I had never used so many multi-syllable words in such a short speech.)

“Think nothing of it,” she said expansively. “They’re just kids. But you aren’t just a kid, are you?”

“Not like them, ma’am, no. (Ma’am produced identical results to sir.) I’ve come here for a reason though, not just to apologize for my classmates. I’ve come here because I have fallen in love with the Carnegie Library. I know this is where I belong.”

(Again, I marveled. Mary, who never looked at another person when she talked—coming straight to the head librarian and stating such a strange thing?)

Mrs. Artemis’ wide smile disappeared. She pointed to one of the leather chairs and I sat down.

“Would you mind,” she said in a deliberate, respectful voice, “elaborating on what you just said? What do you mean by saying that you have fallen in love with a—a building? Take your time, now.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Artemis, but I don’t need to take my time. I have barely slept since Wednesday due to the excitement of it all, and I know exactly what’s happened to me. You see, I live in a place where there are no books except school textbooks and bibles and prayer books. Nobody I know has books on shelves in their houses. Even the school library at my school, Swissvale High School, has only books that the teachers tell us to read for book reports and stuff. So I had never seen anything like this place. Then added to that, when you told us about the Dewey Decimal system, well, that was it. I knew.”

“You knew you belonged here, or that you just wanted to read a lot of books?”

“I don’t know if I’m smart enough to read a lot of books and understand them. But in answer to the first part of your question, yes, I know absolutely that I belong here.”

Mrs. Artemis made a tent of her fingers and gazed at me. I continued.

“I’ve already asked, so I know that you have to go to college and then go to another school to learn to be a librarian. Our school librarian said that it takes six or seven years. I’m not smart enough to go to college and there’s not enough money, anyway. I came here to ask you if I there is another way that I can find a place here.”

“Do you know how to do anything?”

“Oh, yes, I’m good at some things. I can sew really good. I have little hands, you see, and I can thread a needle and sew a straight seam, better than my mother and my sister, and almost anyone. I’ll bet I can clean things well, too.”

“Can you type?”

At this point I began to loose my courage and my nerve, but I held on.

“No. I don’t know how to do that, but I could learn. I know I could! Probably—“

Mrs. Artemis interrupted me.

“Mary Darschak,” she said, “I know when the gods have dropped a great big fat prize right in my lap, or in this case, right in my office. I am sure, without a doubt, that you are a one who could learn to type if you made up your mind to do it. How old are you?”

“I’m thirteen, Mrs. Artemis.”

“Well then. You have about four years to graduation. That’s plenty of time to learn everything you have to know to work here.”

They, people, say things like “my heart is in my mouth;” “my heart stood still;” “you could have knocked me over with a feather.”(I never could understand that one.) All of these happened when I realized what Mrs. Artemis was saying. I grasped my last shred of poise and dignity.

“Do you mean…” I began carefully.

“Yes, I do mean that. Of course you will come here and work for me. We must lay out a plan, though. There’s so much to do, so many things to know. Next Saturday…”

I interrupted. “There’s not going to be a next Saturday for me, Mrs. Artemis. Not while I’m still in school and under my parents’ thumb.”

She frowned. “And why won’t there be one?”

“My parents won’t let me come here again. My mother said so.”

“If I offer you a job, I’ll bet they will. They will if you’ll be making money every Saturday. I—hmm, let’s see—yes. I shall call them myself and explain how important this is. Don’t you worry, Mary. I have the ability to make people see things my way.”

“ ‘Great minds are at work here, ladies and gentlemen, and for that I require absolute silence.’ Is that what you mean?” I laughed shyly, but I didn’t turn red. Dry little Mary never blushes.