A/N: Insert general disclaimer here! :) This chapter delves into the life of our protagonist, and draws on the fond memories I have of my hometown. Most of the minor characters are modeled after people I have encountered, though any exact connection to real people is purely coincidental. Enjoy!
Windy City Morning Routine:
"Storytellers are the keepers - we are the time keepers, the continuity keepers. We are the people who tell us who we are, where we've come from, and maybe even where we're going." - Bryce Courtenay
To say Chicago is a bustling place would be doing the city an injustice. It's like herding cats there. Business men in leather shoes use their briefcases to bat away the homeless and the expectant mothers alike, all while keeping a finger to the Bluetooth earpiece. Teens who skipped school in favor of a Magnificent Mile shopping spree duck away from the police that patrol on bicycles. Dust and dirt rain down from the tracks above as the "L" thunders by, its passengers looking out smudged windows with glazed eyes. The smell of hot dog stands and Giordano's mix together with smog and sweat, making a cheesy, meaty, disgusting and yet lovely aroma.
Charlotte was an unlucky recipient of an elderly businessman's attack. He held his phone to his ear, gesticulating with his other hand holding an Armani briefcase. It thumped across the back of the young woman's shoulder as she tried to skoot past unscathed. She shouldered her thrift shop carpetbag as if to tell it that fine cowhide had nothing on trusty tapestry fabric. The back of her left index finger slid her glass up her small nose as she sent a small wave to Toriano, the Trinidadian saxophone player at the corner of Van Buren and Plymouth. His eyes brightened and Charlotte could have sworn he played a little louder, just for her.
The sky was clearing up, and the sun peaking out from behind newly white clouds now danced off the puddles that were created earlier that morning. Charlotte hopped over one as she moved with the throng of people across West Van Buren Street. She did not need to ruin her good pair of black flats. A few straggling pedestrians nearly had their heels clipped by motorists for walking instead of moving more speedily. Charlotte dug around in her bag for her work I.D., hand bypassing a tube of lipstick, her wallet, and an open pack of tissues. This distraction added to the jostling as she made her way up the steps to the red brick edifice: the Harold Washington Branch of Chicago's Public Library. Opening the door met Charlotte with crisp, cool air. It certainly was a relief from the humidity that was beginning to curl her hair. She quickly smoothed out dirty blonde curls and tucked fly-aways back into her bun.
"Morning, Miss Falk," Charlie Barks the security guard called out as he straightened his tie.
"Morning, Charlie!" Charlotte called back as she scurried to the check-out counter. "How's Mary?" Charlotte worried for Charlie's wife ever since the frail woman fell down a flight of stairs a week after Charlotte became an archivist at the branch two years ago. Charlie replied back with his usual quip about his wife still taking the elevator. Charlotte only let out a short chuckle, her eyes wrinkling. She swiped her I.D. on the pinpad under the desk and punched in her code - 3451 - her parents' home address. Her older brother, Matthew, would nag her about having a more secure number. Perhaps something less sentimental, preferably a set of digits that changed every week. But that is how all bankers think, and Charlotte gave up trying to create and remember a new pin every seven days.
Judy Perkins, an elderly librarian who seemed to have been born with baggy clothes that smelled like mothballs and twelve cats, walked by the Welcome Desk. Charlotte quickly averted her eyes, hoping to avoid conflict with the eternally gritchy woman. It would throw a child patron a curve ball when he or she first arrived for Read-A-Loud, expecting a kind young man studying to be a teacher or a matronly woman capable of creating voices for each character. Ms. Perkins' bland delivery would make even a novice stage performer cry; it certainly had caused seven-year olds to shed a few tears. Charlotte simply shook her head, reminding herself not to offer to help the woman as she drug a high-backed chair across the common room, leaving marks in the aged carpeting one would expect to see at the scene of a kidnapping. On her first morning two years ago, Charlotte had made the mistake of asking Ms. Perkins if she needed someone to help her move the chair to the Children's Reading Room. The humiliation of the encounter and the shock of Ms. Perkins' unrepeatable response still brought a shiver to Charlotte's heart.
Instead, the young archivist made her way to the third floor, weaving between bookshelves to the Genealogy and Local History Room. It was a quaint little office that doubled as her work space, with a joining door that led to the rows of filing cabinets, work tables, and slide viewers that were open to the public. It smelled musty, with the dry air coming through the vents in torrents. They created a white noise that caused most patrons to complain. Charlotte found it surprisingly comforting, bringing back memories of open windows and a roaring fireplace in her grandfather's modest study.
Charlotte let her bag drop to the floor at her desk with a soft thump and let herself collapse into the wheeled chair. Her slightly pounding head almost made her forget to switch on her clearanced electric kettle at her feet.
The commute from her studio apartment on Fullerton Avenue to Harold Washington Branch on State Street was not one that she would consider boring. It offered plenty of opportunities to people-watch and read the previous day's Wall Street Journal, more than likely left behind by a businessman, that almost always found itself wedged between the seat and the grimy metal wall. This morning's route had left Charlotte a little frazzled, what with her alarm clock not ringing; the lightning must have hit the local transformer, leaving the digital lights forever stuck on 3:47. The baby at the other end of the car that squealed for a solid ten minutes certainly hadn't helped matters.
But now, with the silence of her office and the comfort of the electric kettle whistling, Charlotte let out a long and ragged breath. She would pour herself a nice cup of tea, check her work email on the ancient desktop computer, and then finish the work she had leftover from yesterday.
And she did just that. It's surprising, the simple things a person can do that seem to fix all the world's problems. "But it is Friday!" She tried adding a cheerful tone, hoping that would lighten her mood.
Her little email inbox sported only one new message since she had left yesterday.
HELP WITH ANCESTRY. Charlotte wondered what could warrant the need for capitalization, and scanned the email. Only a local civil rights lawyer, asking for family history now that his father was dying. Charlotte replied back quickly, pulling up her draft email containing her request for any information already known so that she could refine her search. She shook her head with a rueful smile. She didn't begrudge people who emailed without information; it wasn't common knowledge what she did let alone how she did it and what she would need to achieve the finished product. After sending her response, she pulled her ceramic cup out of its home in the drawer of her desk. "Best Aunt Ever!" it screamed with childish scrawl, and plenty of pink and yellow tulips were stenciled around it. Charlotte would have prefered forget-me-nots, but knew that her brother's daughter, a fairy-like five-year old, made it for this past Christmas. Charlotte remembered Jessica's giggle as she watched her aunt fumble with the overly wrapped gift, pulling off more than two rolls of Scotch tape and only a layer or two of paper decorated with little dancing Frosty the Snowmans.
Wiping the cup out with her bare hand, Charlotte dropped an oolong bag into the bottom, figuring she needed the hint of caffeine rather than the calming effects of chamomile. She rubbed her eyes as she drank, thinking of what she had in her apartment's fridge that could be thrown together for dinner tonight. She shuddered to think what nonna and poppa would say, sure of her mother's parents' scorn at the haphazard leftovers and rudimentary meals. "Need to feed mia principessa," nonna would grumble while whipping up penne a la carbonara and knowing Charlotte's resistance would be futile. Poppa would mention something about putting more meat on her bones. Charlotte rubbed her thighs thoughtfully, thinking she needed to lose a little meat rather than gain it.
Her ruminations were interrupted by the ping of her email, signaling the lawyer's reply. He and both sides of his family were from the area, which would make her search a bit easier. Printing out the information, she finished her tea and headed into the joint Research and Archival Room.
A smile split her face as she stepped inside, taking in a deep breath to capture the old and musty aroma. She may have taken in one more inhalation, ensuring her lungs drank greedily from that unfinished basement smell that somehow always found its way up three floors before she settled down at the clunky research desktop.
Opening up the program, she began plugging in the information given and jamming down on the "W" space that had been missing the key for almost four months. Submitting the digital form, she quickly moved on with confidence that the algorithms and codes would do their work. Charlotte riffled through crackling books and decades-old census records. She muttered to herself, trying to keep both sides of the lawyer's family in mind while she searched. Wilson and Booth were on opposite ends of any collection, and that surely would have given her carpal tunnel if she had kept at it. She marked no fewer than ten pages before the computer's ascending ring alerted the cavernous room of the search results.
