There were those occasional daydreams in which she indulged, daydreams about herself and Professor Rory Monahan, even though his preference for the reference section of the library far outweighed his interest in the librarian herself. In fact, the reference section of the library also played a significant role in Miriam’s daydreams, come to think of it. More significantly, the tables in the reference section played into her daydreams. Because it was on one of those tables in the reference section that she and Professor Monahan were invariably engaged in—
Oh, dear. She was doing it again. Or, rather, fantasizing it again. Doing it, after all, didn’t actually show up on her agenda anywhere—more was the pity. Why schedule something that wasn’t going to happen?
“And on top of all that…” she heard Ms. Trent say, clearly concluding what had been a long diatribe against the mass media that Miriam had thankfully missed because she’d been too busy daydreaming about—oh, never mind. “…those women who appear on the cover of Metropolitan are, quite simply—” Instead of voicing a word to illustrate her feelings, the mayor made quite the sour face. “Suffice it to say,” she then continued, “that Metropolitan is completely inappropriate reading material for our library. As are these other magazines that I want you to remove from the periodical section.”
The mayor strode forward, pausing within arm’s length of Miriam, and extended a hand-written list, which Miriam accepted in silence—mainly because she was so surprised by the gesture that she didn’t know what to say. She was even more surprised when she glanced down at the list to find that some of the other journals and magazines that Ms. Trent deemed inappropriate for the library patrons were, like Metropolitan, wildly popular with the library patrons.
Evidently mistaking Miriam’s stunned silence for complete agreement, the mayor hurried on to her next point. “There are some novels in the browsing section that I’d like to see removed, as well,” she said. “Love’s Burning Ecstasy, for instance…” Her voice trailed off, but its tone held enough chilly disapproval to generate a new Ice Age.
“But Love’s Burning Ecstasy…” Miriam began.
“Don’t tell me it’s popular with the library patrons,” Ms. Trent said, clearly incredulous.
“Well, no,” Miriam conceded reluctantly. Not with the library patrons, necessarily, she added silently to herself. But Miriam had enjoyed it immensely. Several times, in fact.
“I want it gone,” Ms. Trent concluded simply. “Along with these others.”
She extended another list toward Miriam, who took it automatically, still having no idea what to say with regard to this blatant attack of censorship.
“And I want to make a more thorough inspection of the British literature section, too,” the mayor continued. “It was purely by chance that I stumbled upon this.” She held up a slender, bound tome as if it were exhibit A and continued, “I’m shocked to find something entitled The Rape of the Lock in our facility. I don’t think it’s at all appropriate. Do you, Miriam?”
For a moment all Miriam was able to manage in response to the mayor’s question was a series of quick, incoherent—and none too polite—expulsions of air. But she quickly recovered enough to say, “The Rape of the Lock is a virtuoso piece of writing, Ms. Trent, arguably Alexander Pope’s crowning achievement.”
The mayor gaped at her. “A man named Pope wrote that piece of trash?” she gasped. “I can hardly believe it.”
This time Miriam was the one to gape. “Piece of trash?” she sputtered. “It’s one of the poet’s most luminous performances!”
She took a giant step forward to snatch the book from the mayor’s hand and to read her a few verses, because clearly Ms. Trent had not taken the time to do that herself. Otherwise she would have realized the work was a social satire of completely inoffensive—and quite riotous—humor. Unfortunately, Miriam never achieved her goal, because she had barely completed her giant step when Ms. Trent’s face went white, and the book slipped right out of her fingers.
“Good heavens, Miriam,” the mayor cried in a hoarse whisper. “What is that?”
Miriam squeezed her eyes shut tight when she remembered what had been displayed on her computer screen when Isabel Trent entered her office. Unable to quite help herself, however—the mayor was such a…such a…such a prude—Miriam pretended not to be affected by the scene herself. Feigning bland indifference to the subject matter of hotwetbods.com, she glanced swiftly, once, over her shoulder, then back at Ms. Trent.
“Actually, seeing as how there are considerably more than one displayed there, I believe the correct phrasing of your question should be, ‘What are those?’ And really I’m rather surprised you have to ask, Ms. Trent. But if you must know, the correct term for them is peni—”
“Shhhh!” the mayor shushed her before Miriam could fully pronounce the word. “Don’t say it.” She narrowed her eyes. “And don’t mock me, either, Miriam. You haven’t been working for the Marigold Free Public Library very long. You are by no means inexpendable.”
Miriam narrowed her eyes right back at the mayor, but said nothing in response. It was true that her job wasn’t exactly secure. She’d only moved to Marigold six months ago, specifically to accept the position. Douglas Amberson was senior librarian, even though Miriam was assigned the most hours and completed the most work. And although there was an unspoken agreement between her and Douglas that when he retired next spring, she would move directly into his position, Douglas and Miriam were, unfortunately, the only two people in Marigold who knew about that agreement. And the mayor of Marigold had the authority to accept or reject Douglas’s recommendation for his replacement, when that time arose.
So, for now, Miriam remained silent and waited to see what Isabel Trent was going to object to next.
“I see our latest attempt at finding an effective Internet filter has failed. Again,” the mayor said.
“This one won’t meet with your approval, no,” Miriam agreed. “But truly, Ms. Trent, I don’t think it’s necessary for us to use filters in the library. It is a form of censorship, you know.”
Ms. Trent gave her an icy glare. “And your point would be?”
“That since the computers in the children’s and young adults’ sections aren’t hooked up to the Internet,” Miriam said, “then a filter isn’t necessary. The people who use the Internet at the library are adults, Ms. Trent. They don’t need policing.”
“Of course they need policing,” the mayor immediately countered.
“Why?”
Ms. Trent waved awkwardly at the sight on Miriam’s computer screen, but at no time did she steer her gaze in that direction. “So that they don’t find themselves looking at something like that.”
Miriam sighed. “Ms. Trent, it’s none of our business if they find themselves looking at something like that,” she said softly.
“It is if they’re using computers purchased with the taxpayers’ dollars.”
Miriam wasn’t sure how to reply to that, mainly because she knew Isabel Trent had already made up her mind that the Marigold Free Public Library would be using a filter system, and there would be no reasoning or arguing with her on that score. And, truth be told, having viewed the contents of hotwetbabes-and-bods.com, Miriam was hard-pressed to launch much of a defense, anyway.
“At any rate,” she finally conceded, “this particular filter isn’t effective in the way you demand that it be effective.”
Isabel Trent lifted her chin a fraction. “Well then, try the next one on the list.”
Miriam inhaled a deep breath and expelled it slowly. “Whatever you say, Ms. Trent.”
In one swift, graceful gesture,