Thursdays at Eight

At the Soroptimist meeting last week, before everything at the hospital went to hell in a handbasket, Ruth Howe, the head librarian, talked about a program at the juvenile detention center. The librarians are taking turns reading the Harry Potter books over the loudspeaker system each night. There are only three librarians, and Ruth came to the meeting hoping to find more volunteers.

It seems she read about such a program in Grand Rapids, Michigan. She spoke of the difference this had made in the young people’s lives. When she first proposed the idea here, the detention center told her there was little they could do to control noise. She was welcome to come in, but the staff couldn’t guarantee that anyone would listen.

Ruth and the other librarians weren’t dissuaded. As expected, their reception was lukewarm in the beginning, but they faithfully showed up every night, despite the hoots and hollers of protest. Apparently the disruptions didn’t last long. According to Ruth, the reading period is the only hour of the day or night when the facility is absolutely quiet. For many of the teenagers, this is the first time in their lives anyone has ever read to them.

I knew right away that it was something I’d like to do. Ruth got a couple of volunteers at the meeting, and I was tempted to sign up right then, but I hesitated…

A while back, I read something smart. The exact wording escapes me now, but I remember the meaning: I need to stop and consider my options before volunteering for something. If I say yes, then I need to think about what I’m saying no to first. In other words, if I were a volunteer reader at the detention center tonight, what wouldn’t I be doing? The answer is obvious—sitting in front of the TV watching reruns, writing in my journal and fighting Tinkerbell for the last of the popcorn.

Where would I rather be?

But after a work week like this, would I feel like trekking all the way to Charleston Street to read a chapter or two aloud? I don’t know how good I’d be. Reading to my grandchildren is vastly different from trying to entertain adolescent felons. Still, it appeals to me and is something I’m going to consider.

I’m afraid this whole year will speed by, and I won’t have achieved anything. I’m determined to make some kind of contribution to society.

When I volunteer for an activity, I’m going to do so wholeheartedly and with absolute commitment. That means I have to pick the right one…

Chapter Seven

CLARE CRAIG

“If you think you can, you can. And if you think you can’t, you’re right.”

—Mary Kay Ash

At noon on Saturday, Clare checked her e-mail messages for the sixth time that day. It hadn’t occurred to her until after her lunch with Liz that she could contact Michael without speaking to him or sending a letter. E-mail. She hardly ever used it herself, since she considered it a time-waster. But she remembered that Michael, who was enthralled with anything high-tech, did much of his correspondence by e-mail.

Her message had been short.

Michael:

Unless you want an

embarrassing scene, I suggest

you stay away from Alex’s

soccer match this afternoon.

Next Tuesday’s game is all

yours.

You will receive a schedule

of which games I’m attending.

You’re free to attend the other half.

It’s up to you.

Hugs and kisses.

Not!

Clare

It’d taken her most of an hour to write those few words. She hoped the small touch of humor would help.

By one o’clock, her stomach was so queasy she couldn’t even manage a cup of tea. She hadn’t asked him to e-mail her back but had assumed he would, if for no other reason than to confirm that he’d read her message. Clare needed his assurance that he’d do nothing to embarrass her in front of her friends. That was all she wanted; she should have known better than to expect cooperation from Michael.

At two, just an hour before she had to leave for the game, Clare found herself so agitated, she actually broke into a cold sweat. Her queasiness had developed into full-blown nausea. When she couldn’t bear it another minute, she reached for the phone.

She hadn’t called the dealership in a very long time, but the telephone number was still on her speed-dial. She punched the button.

“Craig Chevrolet,” the receptionist answered in a light, pleasant voice. “How may I direct your call?”

“I’d like to speak to Hollie Hurst,” Clare said. No reason to talk to Michael when his secretary knew his schedule.

“One minute, please.”

She was put on hold while an easy-listening radio station played in the background. The receptionist was new. Clare hadn’t recognized her voice and wondered briefly what had happened to Janet Harris. She wanted to think the young mother had quit in protest when she learned of the divorce, but that wasn’t likely. Everyone at the dealership had stayed on. Being rational, she had to suppose it wasn’t a question of personal loyalties. Michael, after all, signed the checks.

“Michael Craig.”

“What happened to Hollie?” Clare demanded before she thought to slam down the receiver without identifying herself.

There was a short, shocked pause, followed by, “Clare?”

“I asked to speak to Hollie.”

“She has the weekends off.”

Clare should have remembered that. Recovering quickly, she lowered her voice. She hadn’t expected him to pick up the phone, but she wasn’t about to let him know the effect he’d had on her. “Well, hello, Michael.”

“What’s the matter, did the support check bounce?” He didn’t bother to disguise his sarcasm.

Clare smiled. Thanks to Lillian, Michael was required to send her a hefty check each month. He had to be feeling the pinch.

“I guess you haven’t read your e-mail?” she asked.

“Should I have?” He snorted. “I’ve been busy, you know. Making money I don’t get to keep. You sent me an e-mail? What for?”

“I’d hoped to avoid this,” she muttered.

He sighed as though bored with the conversation. “Instead of exchanging useless banter, get to the point, would you?”

“It’s about Alex—”