Daughter of the Mob (Sample)

18 | Library

New York City, Fifth Avenue, January 1955

THE PUBLIC LIBRARY HAD BEEN Pamela's second home since she had learned how to read.

Lorna had brought her there during the afternoons when it was too cold to go to the park or visit the zoo, dressing her up in like a china doll in prim white blouses and frilly pink skirts, though Pamela squirmed and sulked in revolt.

Annoyance ceded to the warmth of familiarity when the marvellous coliseum-like building rose above their bus. Lorna would clutch Pamela's hand to signal their upcoming descent, moving with a wave of commuters to the front.

Though intimidating marble lions guarded the building and black paper lined many of the library windows during the war, Pamela, a timid child, had always enjoyed the excitement that came with a trip to the library.

While Lorna traded recipes, laughter and stories with the other nannies of the Upper Eastside, the rambunctious children in their care would slide down bannisters and play war, causing general affliction for library patrons and staff.

Pamela, ever-contented to be alone, would steal away to some unoccupied corner chair, and read whatever book leapt out at her from a shelf. Fairytales, poems and myths were at first her favourites, but then she enjoyed Anne of Green Gables, the Hobbit, and Nancy Drew. Fiction became her escape, though with history and language, non-fiction could also satisfy her ever-expanding intellectual appetite.

In her formative years, Pamela came to cherish the librarians and regular patrons. There was Mrs. Boyce, a middle-aged mother of twin boys fighting overseas, who took on extra shifts to support her sickly daughter, Violet. There were Larry and Henry, the kind janitorial staff who would slip her hard candy wrapped in shiny colourful jackets, if she asked nicely. There was expressive Ms. Czerwinski, a Polish Jew who had, fortunately, fled her homeland in the early thirties, but still mourned the disappearance of a sweetheart and countless relatives she left behind.

While her mother had been preoccupied planning dinner parties and her father at work, Pamela had grown up under the care of the library and her beloved Lorna.

The bliss was temporary.

One day, Pamela had returned from an afternoon at the library to find her mother and a meddlesome neighbour called Mrs. Sanders exchanging formalities in the living room.

Lorna had sensed the cold ambience in the room. She had grasped Pamela's hand and brought her to the kitchen, where the two of them mixed cookie batter. While Pamela licked dough straight from the spoon, Lorna dialled up the radio to listen for updates on the invasion of France by the nazis.

After a few moments of tension veiled by light conversation, Mrs. Sanders had cleared her throat, nodding towards the open kitchen door.

"For crying out loud, turn that wretched thing down, Lorna," Caroline commanded more sharply than usual. When she recovered her polite hostess voice, she added jokingly, "Lorna, you are as bad as my husband. Come here, Lorna, and Pamela too. I must speak with you."

The buzz of the British voices on the radio cut to silence and Lorna emerged from the kitchen, her head inclined and her dark lashes casting shadows upon her caramel skin. Pamela followed her guardian obediently, licking the last bits of batter from her fingers before her mother could see.

"Now, Lorna," Caroline Kelly had chimed rather pleasantly, "I want to ask you a question."

"Yes, Ma'am."

"Mrs. Sanders has informed me that my daughter has become a recluse. She spends hours at the library reading while the other children play. Is this true?"