Dear Stranger

The air is heavy, and the sidewalks slick with the evidence of last night’s rain. Oil on the road makes rainbow swirls, and multicolored leaves litter the sidewalks and spilling out into the street, creating a kaleidoscopic effect against the inky background.

Esmée pulls her shawl tighter across her shoulders, as if that could make it less vulnerable to the sea breeze. She adjusts the defective strap of her book bag as she walks through the historic district which sits three blocks from the bay. A fact made plain by the eroded stone and wood signs that show decades of weathering, and brass doorknobs that are green from the constant onslaught of marine air.

She stops in front of her favorite building. It’s in desperate need of love; the plaque by the door is nearing illegibility, but she can see, “Whatcom County Library,” still clinging to life. She climbs the crumbling brick stairs to push open the thick double doors. It takes effort for them to swing open, Esmée uses all her strength to shift them, and then some. She is assaulted by the stale smell of dust and mildew that has made its home for years within the confines of countless nooks and crannies.

The librarian sits at the front desk, jabbing away at her keyboard like she’s still on her Remington Rand. The deliberate tick-tick-ticks reverberate around the foyer and masks the sound of Esmée’s boots on the flattened carpet. The doors clunk together behind her, wafting the wind inside and scattering papers across the chaotically organized surface. The woman glances over her shoulder and jumps in her seat.

“Esmée, you startled me.” She pats her chest and lets her gold-rimmed spectacles dangle from the chain around her neck. “You shouldn’t sneak up on an old lady like that.”

“You, old?” Esmée grins and moves around the desk. “Judith, never. You can’t be a day over thirty.”

“Bless your heart.” Judith smiles, cementing more laugh lines into her kind face. “Anything I can help you with, dear?”

“A friend recommended me a book.” Esmée fiddles with the faulty zipper on the front of her book bag and pulls out a crumpled piece of paper with her friend’s chicken-scratch handwriting on it. “I figured I would see if you have it first.”

“Would you like help?” Judith runs her fingers down the gold chain around her neck before putting her glasses on.

Esmée waves her off. “Oh no, please. I’ll find it myself; you know I could walk this place blindfolded.”

Judith nods, pulling herself back to her keyboard. The dual stacks of bookshelves stretching into the distance make the interior feel far bigger than it is. From the outside it is a small library squeezed between a café and a flower shop, but from the inside it is reminiscent of the library at Trinity College, but on a tight budget.

Its quiet this morning, even for a library. Outdated lamps sit abandoned, their halogen bulbs casting sad pools of yellow light on empty desks and chairs. Esmée veers toward the black spiral staircase tucked in a corner. The old metal creaks in protest as she climbs, always making her wonder which step will be the one to bring it crashing down.

The mystery section is to the right of the stairs, and although she hasn’t heard of the title or author, if she is reading the name correctly at all, that’s her first stop; Alfred loves mysteries. He had crumpled the note up and lobbed it at her head during their last creative writing seminar, and it wasn’t the first time.

“Alright, now what do we have here?” She sighs, smoothing out the note with her thumbs. “Is that a C, or a G?” She inches down the aisles, checking left and right for any name matching the scribbles. Maybe Judith could decipher it better than her, she should have accepted the help.

She piles books into her arms, Capote, Collins, Chandler, Gardner, and Gores. One of them had to be the right name. The reading room is to the left through the back of the young adult section. Although the fireplace hasn’t held a flame since she was a child, Esmée feels a familiar warmth every time she enters the sitting area. She drags the puffier of the two armchairs closer to the brightest floor lamp and plops down. Something crackles beneath her, and the ridges of something poke into her backside.

She scoots forward and twists around to look. The top of a notebook is sticking out from the deceptively deep crevice of the cushion. With her fingertips she un-wedges a little black book. The edges of the pages are dirty, torn, and bent. Tucked inside is an envelope, which drops into her lap as she opens the cover.

She flips through the pages, admiring the flowery, curly script. A folded piece of paper slips out. She picks it up to put it back before she notices the word "stranger," scrawled on the front in a different handwriting than the one in the notebook. She runs her thumb over the edge of the paper, checking to see if anyone is around. She shouldn’t open it – shouldn’t pry – this can’t be for her, that would be crazy.

If it were open, well then, she would have to read it. Her thumb slips in between the folded pieces of paper and it falls open around her palm. She steals a glance down, seeing the same slanted print.

Dear Stranger,

I am sure you are wondering what is happening. Where do I begin? There is so much to tell. My name is Leonard Boggs, but I hope you can come to think of me as Lenny, that’s what all my friends called me.

I have a favor to ask of you.

Let me explain. My wife, Ellie, loved lists. Shopping lists, to-do lists, when-did-I-last lists, the list goes on. However, her favorite was her bucket list. Things were added, withdrawn, underlined, crossed out, rewritten, and completed, but some things stayed the same. Then she fell ill. I made it my mission to finish her list. I brought her everywhere I went, in a fashion. I found myself adding my own items to the list, just to prolong our last big adventure.

Please, help me keep her alive; finish what I couldn’t, and add your own to it. Enclosed in the envelope is a cheque that should help you undertake this. I must ask one thing more – please keep this notebook with you always.

Thank you, in advance, for everything.

- Lenny & Ellie

Esmée reads the note twice. The notebook feels heavier in her lap. Not a bad heavy, but a weight, nonetheless. She found the ribbon and pulled it open.

Bucket List

Horseback riding in Iceland

Hanging Gardens in Singapore

Visit Amsterdam in the Netherlands

Tulip fields in the Netherlands

Graves of the 47 Ronin in Japan

Bua Tong in Thailand

Highland Camping in Scotland

Hot Springs in Iceland

The list goes on and on. Lenny’s handwriting took over after a page and a half of what Esmée assumes is Ellie’s script. Little scribbles wrap through the entries, before taking over completely. She smiles as she scans the list. It ends with the final entry: Give a gift to a stranger.

She stares at the envelope, trying to make up her mind. With shaking hands, she fumbles with the lid of the envelope. If she could whistle, she would, even in a library. Twenty thousand dollars. She shoves the cheque delicately back into the envelope and tucks it into the little black book. She stares at the book for a few minutes, her mind racing.

She slides it into her book bag and stands, checking the room for people. For some reason she feels guilty. She makes it halfway out of the young adult section before she jogs back to return the stack of books. The stair’s creaks are louder on the way down, like they want to announce her departure to the whole city.

“That was quick.” Judith’s voice is a roadblock in Esmée’s tunnel vision on the doors. “Did you find the book you were looking for?”

“Uh, no, I did not.” Esmée admits, slowing her stride. She stops her hand from fiddling with the zipper of her bag.

“Would you like me to request a copy from a nearby branch? Usually comes within a couple weeks.”

“No but thank you. I’ll be out of town for a bit, I owe someone a favor.”

END