Shadow Writer

Shadow Writer

          By Theresa Kennedy

From beneath the shadows of an overhanging ledge a disheveled figure emerged. Ever since the early days of October, she had arrived at 5:00 p.m. at the very time the night crew began their shift at the library. Her haggard face was veiled by dry grass wisps of gray hair jutting out from beneath her knitted cap. The dingy wool coat she wore was besmirched with stains and the frayed hem formed a jagged line below the knee. Behind her she dragged a black plastic garbage bag containing an odd, jumbled assortment of possessions left to her in life. She climbed with some difficulty up the concrete stairs, hunched over, head down, deflecting the stares of library patrons and staff. She trudged the same deliberate path to a far terminal tucked away behind the stacks. The computer was an outdated model seldom used by any other patron since the arrival of the bank of jewel toned flat screen models. A companion dot-matrix printer, equally out of date, kept company with the technological dinosaur.

The old woman approached the terminal as if it were a trusted friend. With great care, she arranged her coat on the back of the chair, removed her raveled cap and stored her bag beneath the table. Hunkered over the keyboard, she typed in a slow irregular rhythm, all the while murmuring to herself. When a librarian whisked by or any person approached, she would lean over the computer screen protectively embracing it as if she feared someone might mean it harm. Every night she murmured and typed for two hours and then retrieved her manuscript from the plastic teeth of the printer, folded it, and carefully deposited it in her coat pocket. She left behind dirty smudges on the keyboard as well as a displeasing aura about which the custodial staff made occasional random complaints. She disappeared into the night as unobtrusively as she had come.

            However, her presence was not as unnoticed as she might have hoped for her nightly vigil aroused interest in the evening crew of the library staff. Library work, being sometimes mundane, repetitive and tedious by nature left the staff members bereft of entertainment. If nothing else but to ease the boredom, they would speculate about the odd assortment of characters who filed past the front desk like a carnival sideshow on parade. During break times, or when things were slow they would laugh about the old man with ears so large they resembled dinner plates jutting from the sides of his head. They called him Mr. Sugar bowl.  Then there was Marijuana Lady, an aging hippie who always returned a boxful of books saturated with an unmistakable herbal scent.

            But the prime target of speculation and ridicule was the old woman referred to as the Night Witch. Myra, the evening supervisor, proposed that the old woman was just another of the ragged homeless population who sought refuge from the weather in public buildings.

            “There ought to be a law to keep those people out,” she muttered. She tapped her red fingernails impatiently on the counter. “ Lazy bums sponging off the efforts of hard working people. She’s probably some old drunk.”

            Cindy, one of the part-timers who attended the local women’s college had her own concerns about the night visitor. She was just as repulsed as the others by her presence, but she wondered what the old lady could be writing.

            “ If you ask me, I’d say the old gal’s writing one of those low budget romance novels with some Fabio looking guy on the cover.  She’ll probably sell the rights to Harlequin and make a fortune.”

             Dave, a full time shelver, overhearing the discussion, remarked in a derisive tone “ Nah, I say crazy lady’s recording instructions for her return to the home planet. That’s why she’s so secretive about what she writes. Have you noticed how she covers the computer screen when anyone passes by? She really doesn’t want anyone to know what’s on that page.”

 Dave had tried more than once to catch a glimpse of the old woman’s writing, but no matter how casual and quiet he was, he couldn’t find the right opportunity for successful surveillance. For some reason he had a nagging desire to discover what was on those pages if nothing else than to impress the others, particularly the college girls. He prided himself on his ability to entertain the night staff with occasional harmless antics. Discovering the hidden agenda of the Night Witch would provide considerable fodder for break time conversation.

            Weeks passed slowly as they are want to do in a library where life moves in slow motion circles, checking out and checking in. The passage of time only sharpened Dave’s determination to get at the mystery of the Night Witch’s literary sojourn.

            On a particularly slow evening in December, Nicky nudged her co-worker to call attention to the arrival of the old woman as she trudged through the sliding door. Her coat, more tattered than before, was splattered with mud and snow, and her red hands trembled as she made her way to the terminal past the circulation desk. Dave, bored with arranging books on the metal cart, approached the desk.

            “Oh, I see Emily Dickinson’s here. I thought maybe the weather would keep her away. I heard on the radio we’re supposed to get six inches before morning,”

            “ Maybe they’ll cancel classes and if it’s bad enough close the library. I could use a day off.” Cindy offered as she rifled through a stack of library cards. “ Hey, Myra, do you suppose they’d ever close this place down?”

            “ Not likely.” Myra said. “ I’ve never heard of that happening before. Besides, where would the old bums go if we shut down?"

            “Yeh, what would the Night Witch do if she couldn’t type up her book of spells?”  Speaking of the Night Witch, where do you suppose she goes after she leaves here?  You made any progress on your spy mission, huh, Dave?” Cindy inquired.

            “ Well, not really, but I bet I could find out where she goes if I just left a little early. Hey, Myra, what do you say?”

            “ Go for it. You’ve shelved more than your share today. Besides I’m kind of curious. I have my suspicions the old gal is stealing.  See what you can find out.”

            “ You could be right,” Dave replied and turned to his cart.

            “ What a hoot, Dave. Maybe if she gets nailed, we won’t have to put up with the Night Witch any more. Every time she walks past, I just want to spray everything around here with Lysol. Ooh” Cindy pinched her nose and crinkled her face in an expression of disgust.

When the old woman performed her nightly ritual of depositing her writing in the deep recesses of her coat, she trudged down the stairs but this time with Dave following at her heels. In a gallant gesture not unnoticed by the girls at the desk, he opened the door to usher the old woman out into the storm. She inched slowly down the staircase all the while muttering to herself. Dave watched her place one uncertain foot after another on the snow-covered stairs, and then followed to observe her at a safe distance. As a gust of wind arose, she pulled a ragged scarf around her neck and plodded through the deep snow of the parking lot, trailing her plastic bag behind. Urged on by the giggling coeds, Dave stepped outside just as the Night Witch slowly rounded the corner of the building. The snow was beginning to pick up and the night air was bitter cold. He thought to himself, “Surely, she has some sort of home. Imagine living outdoors in some makeshift shack in this weather. How would anyone survive?”

            Following at a safe distance, he caught sight of the old woman crossing the lot and disappearing around the far corner. He was amazed to see her approach the l staircase of the fire escape and begin a slow ascent to the high metal platform at the top of the stairs. From her perch, the old woman stared out into the stark winter sky. She muttered continually as she struggled to keep her bearings. Dave stared up at the figure from a hidden recess below the staircase, wondering if he should intervene, call the authorities. Then the old woman lifted her arms up and out to the side and began to wave them wildly like some dark demented angel preparing to take flight. Dave shuddered at the possibility that she might give such an idea consideration. Just then, she reached into her pockets and withdrew the sheets of paper. She smoothed out the edges carefully and began to read very quietly from the manuscript as if she were addressing a populace of the stars. Dave struggled to make out what she was saying but the wind and the traffic obscured her voice. When she had finished reading, she took the pages in her trembling hands and ripped them into shreds flinging them into the wind. The scattered remnants hung in the air, and then mingled with the snowflakes floating to the ground in a spiraling descent. Then suddenly the old woman collapsed to her knees and covered her haggard face with her hands. From the clear vantage point below as Dave observed without understanding the strange occurrences, he found himself paralyzed, unable to think, or speak, or take action. Just then the old woman rose slowly, gathered her coat around her and began to descend the staircase. Dave shrunk out of view beneath the overhanging ledge. He watched as the Night Witch disappeared into the winter storm trailing the plastic bag behind her. After she had disappeared into the night, Dave reached into the snow to collect some fallen fragments. The writing on the damp shreds of manuscript was a blur of black smudges. Though he was unable to decipher even one word, he put the fragments into the deep recesses of the pockets of his coat.

            When he returned to the parking lot, he saw his co-workers scraping windshields and brushing snow from their cars. One of the college girls addressed Dave as she caught sight of him.

            “ So Dave, what did ya find out? What’s up with the snow witch? Did she fly off on her broom?"

            “ No,” Dave muttered. Then after a brief silence he added in a low tone “I guess she just went home.”

            “What? To her cardboard condo?” Myra conjectured as she struggled to free the ice-covered wipers from her car windows. “Well, let’s hope she put in some central heating. It’s gonna be a cold night.”

            Dave heard the college girls laughing as he approached his car. He watched them bundle themselves into their cars and drive off into the night. The snowfall had become much heavier. “Maybe they will close this place down tomorrow,” he thought. He looked off into the distant white landscape, and then raised his head to gaze into the winter sky. He felt the cold sting of the icy wind on his face. Then he pulled his collar up around his neck, and climbed into his car. He gave one parting glance in the direction in which the Night Witch had disappeared before driving slowly away into the winter storm.