He reaches for a perfectly ordinary nickel. “Daddy gave me this when we were at the county fair. He bought me a snowcone and let me keep the change. ”
“And that blue button?”
It’s a moment before Bobby answers, and when he does speak, his voice is soft. “That’s from Daddy’s work shirt. It came off when we were playin’ helicopter. I . . . ” He throws the nickel in the jar, then scoops everything back in. The arrowheads and rocks rattle and clang against the glass.
I smooth the hair from his forehead, but he is so intent on the nickel that he seems not to have noticed my touch. He looks as bruised on the inside right now as he is on the outside, and the sight of this poor kid, looking so lost, tears at my heart.
“How about if I read you a story?”
A smile breaks across his face. “Really?”
“Really. I don’t suppose you have Professor Wormbog and the Search for the Zipperumpa-Zoo?”
“No, but I got one my mom always read to me. ”
I hear the tiny upward lilt in his voice, the single note of hope, and it makes me smile. “Go get it. And if you have a Dr. Seuss, get that, too. ”
Bobby runs upstairs. I hear his hurried footsteps overhead, the banging of doors.
In moments he is back, clattering down the stairs, clutching a pair of books. “I found ’em,” he yells triumphantly, as if they were big game animals he’d bagged.
I sit down on the sofa and he curls up next to me, handing me a lovely blue book that is the Disney movie version of Beauty and the Beast.
I take it gently, open it between us, and begin to read aloud. “Once upon a time, in a faraway land, there was a magical kingdom where just about everything was perfect . . . ”
The words take us to a place where plates and candelabras can be a boy’s best friend and a beast can become a prince. I lose myself in the words, and find myself. In the past years, as my job became more and more about computers and technology and Internet searches, I’d forgotten why I started. The love of books, of reading. There’s nothing a librarian likes better than sharing her love of words with a child. When I close the book, Bobby is beaming up at me. “Again!” he says, bouncing in his seat.
I put down Beauty and the Beast and pick up the bright orange Dr. Seuss. “Now it’s your turn. ”
His face closes tighter than a submarine hatch. “I don’t read. ”
“Come on. ” I open the book, point to the first sentence, and read: “I am Sam. ” Then I wait.
When the quiet stretches out too long, Bobby looks up at me. “What?”
“I’m waiting. It’s your turn to read. ”
“Are you deaf? I can’t read. ”
I frown. “How about just the first word?”
He glares at me, his chin jutted out. “No. ”
“Try. Just the first word. ”
“No. ”
“Please?”
I can feel his surrender. He goes limp beside me and sighs.
He stares down at the book, frowning, then says, “I. But that’s just a letter. Big deal. ”
“It’s also a word. ”
This time when he turns to me he looks scared. “I can’t. ” His voice is a whisper. “Arnie says I’m stupid. ”
“You can. Don’t be afraid. I’ll help. ” I smile gently. “And you know what I think of Arnie. ”