Infection by Troy Myers

Infection

By Troy Myers

Bob Black steered the brightly painted bus along Nova Scotia’s Highway Eight in the direction of Caledonia. The emerald and blue bookmobile was a rare splash of colour against the wet grey trees standing leafless along Bob’s route. This unusually cruel spring had kept even the buds from coming outside.

He took great pride in his job as the bookmobile driver for South Shore Public Libraries. Since starting over thirty years ago, he has driven it with the highest commitment to safety. Today was no different. He knew every curve, blind driveway, and seasonal pothole without having to see the road. He spotted potential problems and avoided trouble with an abundance of caution.

Earlier, he had loaded six blue bins on the bus. Each were full, mostly with books held in bundles with one, sometimes two, brand new elastic bands. Included in this collection were a few copies of well-worn DVDs – titles which were hard to steal on the Internet because these were stories out of fashion a long time ago, or ones that never gained much interest in the first place. For titles like these, public libraries were their last preserve. Bob was their keeper and he felt it a privilege and an obligation to share these movies with others. He had watched them all. Even the ones which bored him to sleep and made him think he should have stayed in university so he would understand them more and not write them off as a waste of time.

Today, it felt more obligation than privilege. He had gone to bed last night feeling run down. He chalked it up to the long hours he worked the day prior and thought a good night’s sleep would put him back on track. When he woke this morning feeling the same he began to worry it may be more than fatigue that was bothering him. He also had the beginnings of a sore throat which he could not ignore.

He had considered calling his boss and telling him he was not feeling well and should take the day off. He knew if he did call in sick the bookmobile run would likely not go today because drivers were in short supply. This feeling of letting down the isolated people of Caledonia, one of the many rural Nova Scotia communities which had spotty internet connectivity at best troubled him more than not feeling well. In many places in Nova Scotia the information highway was wide and robust, but for some communities like Caledonia information travelled on a real highway and it only got there when someone like Bob, who knew where all the potholes were, brought it to them.

With this in mind, he ignored the mild symptoms which troubled him and hit the road. The blue bins full of books bound in elastics and covered in a sheet of paper with the hand-written names of the people who called for them printed in a neat, careful horizontal line positioned over the book spines sat silent behind Bob. Without thought or purpose, they waited for the next pair of hands to crack their spines or delicately place them in a machine.

In Caledonia, Sara Freeman waited with eager anticipation for the arrival of the book mobile. She was three weeks shy of her fourteenth birthday and, like most young adults, patience was a quality she was still working on. However, unlike most young people her age, she loved having a real book in her hands. She first discovered this joy during story-time before bed held in the safe embrace of one of her parents. Her earliest memories are of these special moments. She also remembers the strong desire to hold the books in her own tiny hands as soon as she was able. When she could, she grabbed them and never wanted to let go until all the pages were turned from cover to cover. With a story finished, she would hunt down new titles with an energy and curiosity far beyond her age. In her mind, books were sacred. If someone put all that effort to create one, then the least she could do was read it.

When it was time for her to go to school she was not afraid, nor did she suffer any separation anxiety from her parents, whom she loved deeply. Any trepidation she felt at that time was completely overtaken by her desire to be part of something bigger and more profound than her happy early life provided. She had a hunger for stories and knowledge and, in her young mind, she had consumed all that was available at Tree Swallow farm where she was born. With only a quick hug and a kiss for both of her parents, she resisted the urge to run up the stairs of the school bus. She lingered long enough so they would not think she was eager to go, but eager she was. A door had opened for her and could not wait to see what was on the other side.

It did not take long for her teachers at school to realize she was not like the other country kids who began school that year. While they agreed she was well beyond her years in reading and writing, they complained she could be impatient and troublesome. Some called her precocious. She considered this label a compliment, a recognition of the imagination and wit she had been gifted with.

Her early school years went by and so did the books. By the time she was fourteen, her current age, she had consumed hundreds. She had maintained a journal since the third grade which listed exactly one thousand nine hundred and sixty-three titles. Prior to this record, she guessed there were several hundred more she could claim. It bothered her she had not started the journal earlier, an oversight she attributed to the folly and immaturity of her early childhood, or a rare moment of neglect from her parents who usually looked out for her.

She always looked forward to bookmobile day but since the start of the pandemic lockdown six weeks ago, her anticipation of its’ visit had grown with each passing week that her school was shuttered and Premier MacNeil had ordered everyone to “stay the blazes home”. With no internet connection, and the little school work which trickled back to her done in thirty minutes, a new stack of books from the public library was a blessing. Something she considered essential food for her restless imagination.

The clock on the kitchen wall told her she had ten minutes to the bookmobile’s arrival at the stop across the street from the store where her Dad bought his beer on Saturday. Her Mom told her to be careful with her bike as Sara carefully shouldered her backpack of returns and went out the back door to get her bike leaning unlocked against the side of the house. She hopped on and pedalled off with purpose.

Bob knew without checking the time he was five minutes away from Caledonia. He would pull into the lot across from the liquor store exactly two minutes before the scheduled stop, park the bus, organize his bins and open the door at 11 am. He may not be feeling his best today but he was not going to let a sore throat make him late for the first time in thirty years. He took great pride from his punctuality.

As he approached the stop he spotted Sara on her bike riding on the shoulder of the road. He tapped the horn and waved to her as he passed. He smiled as she threw a hand up in the air and waved wildly back. What a great kid he thought. If they all read books like she did there would be libraries in every small town.

Bob pulled into the lot ahead of her and carefully placed his bookmobile at the back so he would have all the room the space could offer. With the new physical-distancing rules he needed as much real estate as he could find. He wanted people to feel safe and free from the threat of this virus. Before leaving the bus to set up his table where he would lay the items to be picked up he put a mask over his mouth and nose and disposable gloves on. He sneezed into the mask. Was it the dust from the paper, or something else?

As the bookmobile drove past her, Sara trod on her pedals with enthusiasm. She stopped her bicycle in front of the table Bob had set up one metre in front of the door. He greeted her by name. She could only see the part of his face which wasn’t covered by the mask but she guessed he was smiling. He was always smiling. One of her earliest memories is him treating her like a real grown up as he entrusted her with her very own library card. How proud and important she felt that day! She will never forget his smile then – it was almost as big as her own.

She took her return books from her knapsack and placed them on the table. Bob told her to put them in the empty blue bin as he presented the current collection for her to take. He stepped back from the table. The stack of books was ten high. She could not wait to get her hands on them so she grabbed the pile as soon as he gave her a nod. As she filled her pack she thought she heard a muffled cough behind the mask. Was it a cough or just noise from a passing car?

She quickly forgot about it as she climbed back on her bike. Her back-pack now heavy with the delivery Bob had brought her. She could not wait to get home and tear into one of the new books! She waved to him and smiled with sincere appreciation. He waved back and underneath the mask she had guessed right. He was smiling.

Almost fifty years later, Sara Freeman would share this story. She would include it with her remarks after receiving a prestigious literary prize for her current novel – her twenty-eighth. She would talk fondly about her rural Nova Scotia childhood, growing up close to nature and without much access to the internet. She would tell the large, receptive crowd how a beautiful emerald and blue bus driven by a man named Bob, long since gone, had brought her the world ten books at a time.