Orwell's Librarians

By William Wresch

The cabins on the other end of Kat’s lake are always empty, always for sale. Finally one is bought by a librarian and her mother. They immediately begin building a huge book repository on their land. Purpose? To protect books from being changed as George Orwell predicted in his book 1984. A series of break ins and fires leaves Kat wondering who would want to attack a collection of old books?

• Language: English
• Publisher: William Wresch
• Release date: Nov 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781005081225

William Wresch

I have three sets of books here. The first is an alternative history of the US, envisioning how things might have gone had the French prevailed in the French and Indian War. That series comes from some personal experiences. I have canoed sections of the Fox, and driven along its banks. I have followed the voyageur route from the Sault to Quebec and traveled from Green Bay to New Orleans by car and by boat. My wife and I have spent many happy days on Mackinac Island and in Door County. The Jessica Thorpe series is very different. It takes place in the tiny town of Amberg, Wisconsin, a place where I used to live. I wanted to describe that town and its troubles. Initially the novel involved a militia take over of the town, and it was called "Two Angry Men." But both men were predictable and boring. I had decided to have the story narrated by the town bartender - Jessica - and I soon realized she was the most interesting character in the book. She became the lead in the Jessica Thorpe series. I restarted the series with a fight over a proposed water plant with Jessica balancing environmental rights and business rights. I put Jessica right in the middle of a real problem we are experiencing here in Wisconsin (and most other places). How badly does a tiny town need jobs? How much environmental damage should we accept? The third series changes the lead character. Catherine Johnson solves mysteries. She also travels. It took her to many places I have been. The last several books take place in Russia. I admit I have no idea what is motivating the current madness there. Catherine looks, she tries to help, she struggles. What else can any of us do?

Book preview

Chapter 1

Across the Lake

Kat’s first mystery was why anyone would want to buy one of the cabins on the south end of her lake. There were two of them, built in the 1950s by men with limited time, limited money, and limited skill. Strictly do-it-yourself efforts, the cabins were eighteen by twenty four and featured floors that squeaked, windows that leaked, and roofs that buckled under a snow load.

But they served their purpose. The men who built them needed a place out of the rain when they came up to fish, and if the places weren’t fancy (or even up to code), they had floors. And if there was one thing both men had learned as they crossed France and Germany in Patton’s Third Army it was that they never wanted to sleep on the ground again.

Over the next fifty years, as the men got a few extra dollars and a little extra time, both cabins got insulated, and both got wells and septic systems – indoor plumbing. Linoleum went over the floor boards (which still squeaked), and cheap paneling covered the walls. Propane gave them a little heat, and scattered outlets gave them light. As fishing shacks, the cabins were everything the men wanted. Both had a second home, and lifelong companionship. The fishing was never good, but it was always good enough.

They died within a year of each other. The kids had moved off, as kids from Wisconsin do, so the cabins went on the market. And stayed there. Building code violations aside, the cabins were tiny, old, and unattractive. Tear downs in the real estate ads. They were also located on a shallow, uninteresting lake. Worse, they were at the far end of Wisconsin. The nearest town was Amberg, a place that looked just as tiny, old, and unattractive as the cabins.

Over the next twenty years, if the cabins sold, it was only a season or two before they went back on the market - a brief interlude while the kids complained about how boring the place was, and the head of the house learned that updates to the cabins would take forever and cost unbelievable amounts. Mostly the cabins sat empty. Roofs sagged a bit more each year, and paint peeled off in bigger pieces.

And then one of the cabins sold. Strange in itself. Stranger still, it had been purchased by two women, and stranger still, the women planned to live there year round. Kat had trouble believing any of that. But when a moving van arrived one September morning, she became a believer.

Her next mystery came when she met the two women, but that didn’t happen for a couple days.

Kat had been busy with her weekend workshop. The fall photography workshop had been perfect. Peak color this far north in Wisconsin was late September, and colors had exploded exactly on time. The woods near the lodge were mostly aspen and birch, so the dominant color was yellow, but Kat knew where to find maples so they could mix in a good shading of red. She also knew the best logging roads, old barns, and rural streams, so she had provided nine settings over three day weekend. All twelve women were going home with dozens of landscapes that would be the pride of any living room.

They went home happy, Kat stayed to do laundry. Twelve beds to strip and an endless pile of towels of wash. But. With just a few days left in September, Kat knew warm, sunny afternoons were vanishing. The laundry wasn’t going anywhere. The sun was. Only a fool stayed in doors on such an afternoon.

Time to walk around the lake. Her lodge was on one of the least interesting lakes in Wisconsin, but there was a road around it, and trees around it, and sun overhead. Kat put a baseball cap on her head, and hit the road.

A complete walk around the lake took about half an hour. It was always a quiet walk, just her, a few deer, a collection of birds, and an occasional bear. That afternoon she had the road to herself. Sun, a light breeze, the lake to her left, the woods to her right. Her tennis shoes set a nice easy pace on the asphalt.

Thoughts as she walked? Some reflections back on the weekend workshop. It might be worth bringing in a professional photographer to provide some expertise. Maybe next year. The wine worked. The evening bonfire had gone well. Maybe Dave’s falls as a backdrop next time. Random thoughts as she covered ground, moving at a pace she had absorbed during twenty years in uniform. Eyes still sometimes looking for turned soil on the edge of the road. Some habits fade slowly.

Kat came around a curve and saw a car. Two women. Both standing on a hillside adjacent to the cabin. New owners. Rumors had been right. Two women. The women saw her coming. They stood motionless and waited for Kat to finish coming around the curve to their place. It was Kat who started the conversation.

Hi. New owners? I am Kat Johnson. I have the place across the lake.

Lois Evens, my mother. I’m Bethany Evans. It was the younger woman who spoke. She pointed to her mother, then raised her hand as she gave her name. Kat guessed the older woman to be around eighty. Tall, thin, standing pretty straight for someone her age. Thinning gray hair pulled back in a ponytail. Black frame glasses on a long face. Somehow she looked patrician. Maybe it was her stature. Head held high, direct eye contact. Not hostile, but no nonsense either. Well, maybe, a bit hostile.

The daughter seemed mid to late forties. Also tall and thin. Brunette with a few gray streaks. Wire rim glasses. Same bearing as the mother. Kat had an image of pioneer women on the prairie. They would handle drought, locusts, and any damn fool who stepped onto their land. But at least the daughter moved through the usual courtesies. Hand out, she stepped toward Kat. Strong handshake. Direct eye contact. Kat wondered if she had been president of her local Rotary Club.

I take it you’re new owners?

Yes. We are moving up here. I am the new librarian in Wausaukee. A pause, a smile, the firm handshake. Maybe something from a sales course she had taken? Kat’s turn.

Welcome. I run a business out of my lodge across the lake. Northwoods Experiences. Weekend workshops for women. You may see a few more cars across the lake weekends. During the week it is just me. Kat paused. Questions? None. But Bethany maintained a pleasant smile. Lois had become interested in the lake. Or was it the woods?

It’s very nice of you to visit. Still a very pleasant smile from Bethany. Direct gaze. Lots of eye contact. I’m sure we’ll be seeing a lot of each other.

I’d like that. More smiles, but there was really nothing more to say. So Kat began backing away. Well, if you need anything, you know where to find me.

She smiled, waved, and went on with her walk. The women stood silently until Kat was farther down the road, then went back to whatever they had been discussing.

Kat was curious. Mom was obviously less social. She seemed to fit the location. Deep woods tend to attract quiet types. It takes a certain type to think an evening staring at trees is a good evening. She understood. Quiet was one of the reasons she had selected her piece of the empty north.

Bethany? Extravert. Outgoing. Practiced smile and handshake. What was she doing in the middle of nowhere? Did she understand she had just bought a piece of emptiness? Very odd.

Back at her lodge, Kat made a dinner from the weekend’s leftovers, including half a bottle of wine. She ate her dinner sitting on her front porch, staring across the lake. She could see lights. That was new and different. She liked it.

Chapter 2

Jim

Kat’s weekly schedule had been set for some time. Monday laundry, Tuesday bathrooms, Wednesday Jim. After three years of Wednesdays with Jim, things had taken a turn in August. Jim had proposed in May, but when he seemed unwilling to set a marriage date, Kat had returned his ring and taken a lover. They were back together in September, but together was still being redefined. It felt like every Wednesday was a first date. What to say, what to do, when to climb into bed together.

Kat was trying to make things work. For starters, she was helping with Jim’s bar. It was actually Jim’s father’s bar, but after his heart attack, Jim was left to run the business while still teaching biology at Wausaukee High. That made for long days. His cousin had agreed to bartend Mondays and Tuesdays. Kat took Wednesdays and Thursdays, leaving Jim with the weekend.

The bar, small and old as it was, was the most successful business in Amberg. Almost the only business in Amberg. Main Street was one block long. On one side was abandoned railroad tracks. The other? Empty lot, Jim’s bar, tiny restaurant (open for breakfast and lunch), party store, empty lot, abandoned post office. Amberg had taken a century to shrink down to its current size. If the bar ever closed, the town would completely disappear.

Kat had never bartended before, but Amberg was a great place to start. Weekdays the bar was open from three to nine. Retirees arrived promptly at three and ordered beer or brandy or white wine (the women). Guys getting off work ordered beer and or brandy shots. She once had a tourist order a brandy old fashioned sweet (the state drink of Wisconsin). She thought she did okay, but he switched to beer after one.

When you are a town of two hundred (probably fewer in the next census), the one bar in town serves as the local equivalent to FaceBook. Want to know what’s going on? Pay two bucks for a sixteen ounce glass of beer and listen to conversations up and down the bar. The main topic of conversation that Wednesday? Kat’s new neighbor. Not her job – that was happening down the road in Wausaukee and at the library, a place few of them ever used. It was her building that excited the interest.

I just got hired to clear the top off the hill next to her cabin. There’s just the two of them in that cabin on the lake, but apparently they need something huge. The area is easily a hundred by a hundred. Dale Zimpher owned the only bulldozer in town. And mostly it sat parked. In the spring he had cleared land over by the Hilton resort for two town houses, but nothing else had been built all summer. This late in September he and everyone else in town was surprised anything would be built by anybody, much less something big, something by a librarian.

Now the whole town had a new mystery. It was summed up by one of the men down the bar.

Anyone know what they’re building?

That question and a wide range of responses worked their way up and down the bar for the next hour. No one had an answer, which was fortunate, since it left the field open for speculation. Possibilities ranged from a lodge as big as Kat’s, to an antiques store, to a guest cabin for relatives. Finally people ran out of ideas and the conversation moved on to the last Packer game, the next Packer game, and the best Packer games back when Lombardi was coach. About six o’clock most of the men went home to dinner. Kat heated up frozen pizzas for several of the single guys who ate pizza and shot pool until she closed the place at nine. At least she tried. As always, it was closer to nine thirty by the time she got the last guy out the door.

In their new, experimental schedule, Kat drove to Wausaukee to spend Wednesday night at Jim’s apartment. He drove up and spent Thursday night at her lodge. She walked in with a money bag containing the day’s income (less than three hundred dollars), and he counted out her pay (nine dollars per hour – fifty four dollars for the day). Counting the eleven dollars she had made in tips, she had earned sixty five dollars for about eight hours of her time. She hoped he was grateful.

He did have dinner and a glass of wine waiting for her. What do people in an on-again, off-again romance talk about? One night it got so bad they had actually talked about the weather. More recently they talked about the bar – something they had in common. His kitchen counter extended a few feet into his tiny living room (described as a breakfast bar on the rental agreement). They sat next to each other, her eating his spaghetti (prepared pretty well for a bachelor), him keeping her wine glass full as he sat close and paid attention as she talked. She had to give him credit for that. At least he never interrupted.

The big discussion tonight is my new neighbors. They have started building something.

A barn. My father saw the building permit. Jim’s father owned businesses all over the area and sat on the board of the Pembine Wausaukee Bank.

A barn? Are you sure? Kat had a fork full of spaghetti noodles half way to her mouth and stopped. Why would they want a barn?

Don’t know. But it’s forty by eighty. One of those companies that puts up steel pole barns will be up before the end of the month to erect it.

The librarian is in her forties, and her mother is in her seventies. Unless more of the family moves up, I just don’t see them raising cows or something.

I guess we’ll see.

There was a pause, and then they moved to the standard conversation topics – the latest on his boys, then his questions about her last workshop. Standard conversation topics. Weekly topics. Both of them answered with more enthusiasm than they felt. Maybe that was the worst result of their argument in August. Now both of them had to put effort into simple conversations. Both knew that another breakup was possible. After all, they had experienced one – why not two? Egg shells. Tiptoes. Pick a metaphor. They all expressed the same fragility. Two people who had once clung to each other now touched carefully.

Sex? Still pretty good. Kat finished her spaghetti, rinsed off her plate, and then took Jim’s hand and led him into the bedroom. He was a big guy. A basketball player like her. He held her, kissed her, and slowly undressed her. She undressed him, put on a satin nightgown she kept in his dresser, and pulled him into bed. They still rocked the bed pretty well. They slept in each other’s arms, holding each other much as they had in the past. It almost felt like it once had.

Chapter 3

The Librarian

Kat woke facing Jim. He was already awake, watching her. Teachers needed to be at school by seven thirty. Time for him to smile at her, but not much more. He played with her hair a bit, then rolled out of bed. While he was in the shower, she padded into his tiny kitchen. Bare feet on a cold floor. Satin night gown in a cold room. There was a way she wanted to appear to him. She even played with her hair a bit so strands crossed her forehead. Seduction. She was trying.

She had his oatmeal ready and a lunch packed by the time he came out of the bedroom in khakis and a polo shirt. She set two bowls on the breakfast bar and ate with him.

How is the school year shaping up? Kat was lifting her spoon with one hand, the other hand holding her hair out of the way.

I’m not supposed to mention evolution without explaining why the Bible is also right, and I can’t talk about how global warming is moving species around.

And the kids?

Ninth graders. Erections out of nowhere. Giggles at anything. Bullying via the hallways and Facebook. The usual.

And our schedule? Kat was staring at her oatmeal, but her peripheral vision was locked on Jim. Were Wednesday and Thursday nights their destiny? Was this it? Spending two nights a week pouring beer before climbing into his bed? Time for him to say something.

I’m not sure Jamie is going to work out. He is already asking for Mondays off starting next month so he can join a bowling league. I’m thinking of hiring a fulltime bartender. Then you wouldn’t have to work your nights either.

Okay. She took another spoonful of oatmeal and waited. And waited.

We can talk some more about it tonight. I’ve got to run.

Okay.

He put his bowl in the sink, pulled on his shoes, quick kiss and he was gone.

He was gone. The door closed behind him, same as it always did, but somehow, that morning, it seemed final. He was gone. They were done. Kat finished her oatmeal, washed both their dishes, took a shower, and dressed. And then? She stood in the middle of his tiny apartment, standing on industrial grade carpet, looking around at beige walls and second hand furniture. One wall had family pictures. Big ones of his boys in little league uniforms. Another of the whole family – Jim and his former wife standing behind the boys, each with a hand on the shoulder of a boy. And Kat? No picture in the main room. No picture in their bedroom. Her only presence was the clothes she hung in his closet and pushed into his dresser. Her claim to territory. Wednesdays and Thursdays. Her claim to his time.

And. It wasn’t enough. She found a paper bag and cleared her clothes from his dresser and his closet. Routine meals. Routine fucking. Routine conversations. Time to end it. She didn’t want a big fight. She didn’t want a serious discussion. She didn’t want second chances. She wanted more from him. She thought she had earned more from him. Was an extra evening a week too much to expect? Maybe a hug before he left? Maybe some expression on his face that indicated love, longing, regret at leaving her? Maybe some recognition that she was there, wearing satin, cold in his cold apartment, waiting for him to hold her.

She left her apartment key on his breakfast bar and drove away. She had her own business to run. Her own needs.

Her needs Thursday morning always involved the Wausaukee IGA. She had a standard shopping list. Lois or Marie (owners of the tiny restaurant in Amberg) would bring the meals for the weekend. Kat needed to provide the snacks – a bit of food to go with the wine she served each evening. Over the years she had found what worked best – and prepared the easiest – and that is what she bought. Cheese (three kinds), crackers, grapes, apples (served as slices), miniature carrots, and dill dip. She had her groceries bagged, paid for, and in her van in minutes.

And then she stopped. She had time. It was barely nine. She had a few things to do back at her lodge, and she would still open Jim’s bar at three, but she had time. And she was curious. She had stopped at the library once when she first moved to Amberg. She still remembered where it was – in a town the size of Wausaukee, locations were never confusing. Highway 141 was essentially Main Street, with the high school at one end of town and the bowling alley at the other. In between were about a dozen businesses. The library was one block off the main drag, next to the Presbyterian Church.

Not much of a place. About the size of a two car garage, and similar in appearance. Spots for four cars to park out front, two of them occupied this morning. Kat’s huge fourteen passenger van pretty much filled the rest of the lot.

Inside? A children’s corner with cushions on the floor and pastel painting of the walls and shelves. A long wall of shelves for fiction, another row of shelves for non-fiction, a corner with pictures and pamphlets on local history. Just to the right of the door was a desk – and Bethany Evans.

Good morning. Can I help you find something? Evans looked up from her desk, an official smile on her face.

Actually I just came by the see how you are settling in. I am your neighbor.

Yes. Kat Johnson. I haven’t forgotten you. She stood, came around from behind her desk, and extended a hand. The same handshake. Maybe held a little longer. It is nice of you to come by.

I wanted to invite you and your mother to dinner some night when you are free. Actually Kat had come in with no such intention, but, standing opposite Bethany, holding her hand, the invitation had come automatically. And, once it was out of her mouth, Kat was sure it had been the right thing to say.

Thank you. That is very kind. I’ll speak with my mother and get back to you. Steady gaze, big smile. Kat had her complete attention. She wondered what to say next.

Are you finding the library to your liking?

It’s underfunded, but all libraries are. No rancor in the comment. Just stating a fact.

Yes. Now what? Take a book? She didn’t have a library card. Well, it looks like you are doing fine. I guess I’ll go.

It was nice of you to visit. Big smile. And then – Give my regards to the NSA.

What? Kat had already started turning toward the door. Now she froze. NSA? Had she heard right? Did you just mention the NSA?

Yes.

Why?

Tell them my mother and I are doing fine. She was still smiling. Very pleasant. No irritation. No anxiety. Certainly no anger. She was telling Kat to report her actions to the government. What the hell?

What in the world are you talking about?

Major, you have made your visit. You know where we live and where I work. I think that’s enough for your current report.

I think you are confused.

Kat. It’s okay. She stood and smiled as if they were old friends talking about the weather.

Whatever you think you know about me – is wrong.

Of course. Same smile.

I am not your enemy. I hope you come to understand that.

I am hoping we will become good friends. Kat had no idea how to respond. She stood in front of her desk a few more seconds, but could think of nothing else to add. So she left.

The lodge was about fifteen miles from Wausaukee. Time to think. Evans knew about her time at the NSA. Kat was pretty sure no one else in town knew that. Her twenty years in the Army? Her rank? Yes, that they knew. But her assignment to Fort Meade? No. No one asked, and she never said. It was just one more posting. The fact that the National Security Agency was headquartered there? There was no reason for anyone to know that. Evans did. Why?

Kat took the long way home. As she turned off the county road toward her lake, she turned left instead of right, taking the lake road to the opposite end of her lake. The guy with the bulldozer had been right. A huge area had been cleared. It was an ugly scar. Low netting provided a barricade between the open area and the lake, but any serious rain would drive mud down the slope and into her lake. Kat was tempted to call the Department of Natural Resources to have the dirt barricaded better. But she didn’t. She slowly drove past and then returned to her lodge.

And she did call the NSA. She had an old friend still employed there who might tell her who Bethany Evans really was. And maybe she’d even tell Kat what the hell was going on.

Chapter 4

The Mystery Librarian

She said she expected me to report in about her. She called me ‘major’ and knew I had some history with NSA.

What’s her name?

Bethany Evans. She’s the new librarian in Wausaukee.

Give me an hour or so. I’ll call you when I know something.

People moved in and out of NSA and Fort Meade pretty quickly. Christie Witt was one of the few people still there from Kat’s time. Not among Kat’s favorite postings. Exorbitant rents, endless traffic, hot, sticky Maryland climate. And her job? Basic administrivia while she completed her twenty. Three years of scheduling patrols, updating yet another security system, knowing NSA’s own security was doing yet another level of security inside her military system. Trivial, tedious, boring beyond belief.

While she waited for Christie to do her check, Kat did a Google search of her own. Three news articles about Evans. PR piece about her arrival at the main library of a Chicago suburb. PhD in Library and Information Science. Technology expert. Then a piece about some controversy at the Illinois state convention of the American Library Association. She wanted the state association to take a position. On what? Something to do with technology. The reporter didn’t seem too clear about what the position