Chapter 23: Story Hour

The first Saturday story hour was set for ten o'clock, and at nine-fifty I had not decided what to wear.

"Cardigan," Sasha said from the doorway of the sitting room. "Plain. Children trust a cardigan."

"I'm so tired of cardigans."

"Then wear the red one. They'll trust that, too."

I put on the red one.

The sitting room did not look like itself.

Gabriel had built the shelves in three days, out of pecan wood from a tree he had taken down in Terrell Hills.

They ran along both long walls, low enough for a six-year-old to reach.

The couch was gone. In its place lay a tan rug and a ring of small cushions.

The hall door stood open all the way, with a brass hook screwed into the wall to keep it there.

"Is that too much?" I asked.

"It's a door," Sasha said. "It's allowed to be open."

At ten o'clock exactly, the first child walked in holding her mother's hand.

She was about five, in a yellow raincoat, although it was not raining.

She stopped in the middle of the rug and turned in a circle.

"Is this a house?" she said.

"It's a house," I said. "And it's a library on Saturdays."

"Do I have to whisper?"

"No. You can be as loud as you want."

She considered this with great seriousness.

Then she shouted, "HELLO," at the ceiling, and it rang in the high old room, and I laughed.

By ten-fifteen there were fourteen children.

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