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When Your Tabula Is Not Rasa

Chapter Eleven
by Kaleigh Way

 

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"Google can bring you back 100,000 answers. A librarian can bring you back the right one." — Neil Gaiman

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The librarian listened with a neutral expression as I told her what I wanted to know. I expected her to react somehow, maybe make an expression of distaste, or ask (in a judgemental tone) *why* I wanted to know about such things.

Instead, she simply said, "There are two avenues you can follow. The first is to do a web search — unless, of course, you've already done that."

"I didn't think of it," I replied. "What would I search for?"

"Type in the key words," she replied. "For starters, I would try Spokane cult, then Spokane cult Benevolence, and Benevolence cult."

"Okay, um, is there a computer I can use?"

"Do you have a library card?"

"No, I'm only visiting."

"You can get a guest library card. It will allow you to use a computer for 30 minutes."

I realize this will make me sound incredibly stupid, but I felt so lost, so out of my element that the most intelligent response I could manage was to scratch my head. I understood every word she said. I even knew how to search the internet... or better, how to try to search the internet... but...

Of course I'd type in what I was searching for! It was obvious when *she* said it. And then what? Pages and pages of rubbish... links to click, and when you do you can't see why you were sent there.

I was out of my element, and my face must have shown exactly how far lost I felt. I've never spent much time in libraries, and never willingly. Right now I was a kid again, looking at stacks of books and drawers full of index cards, without a single clue where to begin so I could write my stupid term paper.

"What's the other avenue you mentioned?" I asked, hoping it would be something easier.

"You could look through the Spokane papers," she said. "Many of them are indexed."

"Oh, no!" I involuntarily cried in dismay. "Are you talking about those big fat books, the periodical indexes?" Back when I was in school if you were writing a paper, you HAD to go through those damn, fat books — each one six inches thick. They indexed all the stories and articles that appeared in magazines and newspapers in a given year. THEN, once you found some *titles* that looked promising, you'd have to go find the articles themselves in bookshelves full of other other bound sets that were (hopefully) less thick. Or, you'd have to spin through miles of microfilm. Or worse, microfiche.

I was not up for that at all.

The librarian laughed. "My goodness! If you could see the look on your face! You're awfully young to remember those big periodical indexes! Where did you ever use them?"

I realized my gaff, so I covered by saying, "I didn't. My father told me about them."

"Mmm," she said with a knowing nod. "Your father is a little out of date. Most periodicals and magazines are indexed in online databases, and searching the databases is a lot like searching the internet."

That news didn't make me feel any better. All I could say was, "Oh!" While I was thinking, Internet... big fat books... po-tay-to, po-tah-to.

The librarian took pity on what looked like a little lost girl. She patted the seat of the chair next to hers. "Come sit here. Maybe we can make this a little less painful. Just watch what I do."

She brought up a web-search page and said, "Let's have a quick look-see, just to get the lay of the land, alright?"

She typed the words Spokane cult and hit the Enter key. Nothing relevant turned up. There was nothing about cults at all.

Next, she tried Spokane cult Benevolence and finally Benevolence cult. Nothing of relevance turned up. Nothing at all.

"Okay," she said and smiled at me. "We've drawn blanks. But now that you've seen that, do you think you can manage the database search by yourself?"

I wanted to say yes, but I must have given her a look of silent desperation. She drew a breath, and for a moment I thought she was going to scold me. Instead, she sighed and rolled her eyes. Then she laughed and showed me how it was done.
 

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The librarian didn't find anything about Benevolence. He didn't show up on the internet. The Spokane papers said nothing about him or any cult activity.

"Well, thanks for trying," I told her, and began to stand up to leave.

"Hold on," she said. "You're giving up already?"

"You tried and you didn't find anything," I pointed out.

"I've only just begun," she replied, "and I'm provoked by the fact that I've found nothing. If you want to quit, go ahead, but I'm intrigued now. I have to keep going."

She searched newspapers and public records in the rest of Washington state, as well as Idaho, Montana, and Oregon. In every case, she drew a blank.

"You don't think he could be Canadian, do you?" she asked.

"No, I'm sure he's not."

She looked at me, saw that I was lying, and took a look in British Columbia. Another dead end.

Then she got up from her desk and asked another librarian for suggestions. He listened in silence. Then, he tilted his head and looked up to the left, as if reading something in the air above him. Then he began typing on his computer and frowning at his screen.

At last he jotted the name of an organization and a phone number on a slip of paper. He told me, "This is a clearing house for information about cults. Give them a call. There are other anti-cult groups, but most of them reference this one. Give them a call. If they can't help you, ask them if they know who could."

I thanked them both and went outside to make the call.
 

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The anti-cult clearinghouse person that I spoke with had never heard of Benevolence and didn't know of any cult activity in Spokane or environs. He added, "If this is a new group, they might not be on anyone's radar yet."

"No, they've been around for at least 18 years," I said.

"One thing you could try," he said, "is to check with the courts out in Spokane. See whether anyone has sued this person or his group."

"Why?"

"Because cults misbehave and mistreat people. That sort of thing shows up in criminal charges or civil suits. You can go to the courts yourself to find out, or hire an attorney to find out for you."

I thanked him for his help and hung up. It was a little before noon, and I was already done with my research. At least with what I could do from Seattle. I wasn't interested enough to pursue the legal/criminal aspect, but I'd mention it to Arrow if he pressed me.

For now, I had some time to kill. I could call Arrow, but I didn't want him to know that I was already done. He'd probably find a way to put me back to work.

Besides, I needed a break from being driven and directed by him, and it would be nice to stop and digest all that had happened in the past 24 hours.

It would be even nicer if I could talk through it with someone. Kristy was out of the question. Carla was even more out of the question.

So I called Diane instead.

She answered on the second ring, and right away asked: "Hey, girl! Did you do the dirty deed?"

"Uh, yes, I did," I replied.

"And?"

"It was... pretty exceptional," I confessed.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. But I feel a little stupid about it."

"Okay. Why do you feel stupid?"

"Hey, Diane, listen: I'm in Seattle right now. I'm in front of the library. Do you want to—"

"Lunch? Hell, yeah! I'm starving! Do you know where the Pike Place Market is?"

It turned out that we were about eight blocks away from each other, so I walked down to the market and met her in a place called The Crumpet Shop.

If you live the UK, or other UK-like countries, crumpets are everywhere. They fall from the trees and roll down the streets. In the US, on the other hand, crumpets are wildly exotic and almost completely unknown.

"Have you ever had a crumpet?" Diane asked.

"No, never."

"You'll love them! I love them! I love this place. I used to come here every day when I lived here before. Well, not every day, but a lot."

We ambled up to the counter. While we studied the menu, the woman behind the counter was studying us. When our eyes drifted down from the menu, she asked, "Are you two sisters or cousins?"

"Us?" I asked. In the same moment Diane replied, "Neither. We're just friends."

"Oh!" The woman looked surprised. "Could have fooled me! You've got some kind of family resemblance there... the eyes, the hair, the jaw... but never mind! Sorry! Do you know what you're having?"

Diane had a crumpet with pesto, tomato, and parmesan. I had one with smoked salmon cream cheese and cucumber slices. While we ate I told her about my night and morning with Arrow. She kept asking for details, but as I gave them, she frowned and shook her head.

"Are you sure you're not exaggerating a bit?" she asked me. "I admit I haven't been with that many guys, but I've never had an experience like that."

I hesitated. I couldn't tell her that it wasn't really my first time. Technically I was a virgin until last night, but there was no way I could explain to Diane what that meant. I'd have to pretend that my sexual history as Fred didn't exist, but because of decades of experience, I *had* been around long enough to know that Arrow was in a class of his own, sexually. It was a point I couldn't press, so I put on a sheeplish look and said, "I dunno. It seemed pretty amazing."

That reassured Diane. The woman behind the counter called, "Ready for another crumpet?"

I was tempted to try the Marmite (it sounded challenging), but Diane talked me out of it.

We both had another cup of coffee and a crumpet with cream cheese and maple butter.

"Let's walk," Diane said. "By the way, I have a present for you!" She reached into her bag and pulled out something wrapped in paper. Inside was something that looked like a long, knit sack. "It's a hat!" she explained. "When I saw your big mass of curls, I knew you needed one!"

The hat resembled a bag with a hat brim attached.

"It's a slouchy beanie," Diane enthused, and she helped me tuck all my hair inside. From the front it looked pretty good - like an old hippie hat. From the sides and behind, the bag part hung down like loose appendage.

"You see, with that red hair of yours, people can see you a mile away. With this hat, you can be anonymous."

"What do you call this color?" I asked. "Blue? Gray? Light bluish gray?"

"It's argent," she told me. "A light bluish argent."

I turned my head one way and another, looking at my reflection in a store window. I had seen kids wearing hats like these, and with it, I looked like a kid. It worked. "Cool," I replied. "I like it!"

We walked through the market, watched the fish mongers tossing fish. We wandered in and out of stores, looked at restaurant menus, climbed down and up the market stairs... and talked the whole time.

"No offense," Diane said, "But this Arrow guy sounds VERY bossy. Way too bossy, if you ask me. And he sounds like a card-carrying misogynist. No offense."

"Yeah," I admitted. "He is all of that. He can be an asshole, but..."

"Hey," she interrupted. "Just don't marry him!" And she laughed.

"That's never going to happen."

Diane stopped short and made a cross with her index fingers, as if warding off a vampire.

"What's that for?" I asked.

"I'm superstitious about two things," she replied. "One is, I NEVER say Things can't get any worse and the other is, I NEVER say Never."

"You just said it three times!" I told her, laughing.

"That's just different," she said. "I wasn't declaring, like you did. When you say those things, like I will NEVER marry him, I believe that some cosmic being hears that and takes it as a challenge to his or her ingenuity, and they look for some insane, irresistible way of boxing you into doing the one thing you said you'd never do."

"Hmmph," I said. "Well, I'm glad I'm not superstitious."

"It doesn't matter," she said. "Things happen whether we believe in them or not."

I scratched my head. "I... uh... can't deny that!"

She laughed and playfully tugged my hat down over my eyes.

We got some ice-cream cones and walked along the bay as we ate them.

"Diane, I want to ask you something. Why is everyone so interested in whether I meet my birth mother? I don't mean just interested. It seems like everybody who hears about it, immediately gets heavily invested emotionally. Honestly, it's a much bigger deal to you and Arrow than it is to me."

"Mmmm," she assented. "I can't speak for your friend Arrow, but I know why it's a big deal for me. I don't like talking about it, but I was adopted. A very unkind person told me in a very unkind way right on my twelfth birthday. A woman I thought of as my aunt had too much to drink and said to me, This is the day your mother gave you up. After that, it all came out. On that day I was wounded, and that wound has never healed. I've never seen my real birth certificate. I have no idea who my birth parents are. I don't know anything about them. I've tried to find out, but whoever gave me up just closed that door.

"That's one of the reasons I came back to Seattle. I'm pretty sure this is where I was born. At least, this is where I was given up for adoption. I need to save up some money, and once I do, I'm going to hire a detective, and I am going to find out EVERYTHING. That's why it means something to me. I have to admit, when you were talking about meeting your birth mother, it hooked into all my feelings about... you know, MY wish to meet MY birth mother."

She dropped the rest of her ice-cream into a trash bin. "So yeah. It's an ENORMOUS big deal for me. It's something at the core of who I am. Honestly, I don't understand how you can be so... I mean, how you can just shrug it off." She stopped and pulled out some hand wipes. She gave one to me and we stood there, near the Seattle Aquarium, with a stupendous view of the bay. We cleaned the ice-cream stickiness off our hands and faces, and a light breeze brushed across us like a wake up! nudge.

"Who am I?" she asked. "Who am I?"

"You're Diane," I replied. "You're a nurse. You're a person who loves Seattle and has good friends and good values. You're a nice person and a good listener."

"I know all that," she said, "And thanks. But where did I come from? I could have dropped here from outer space for all I know. I could be the Princess of Bratislava. I could be anybody."

"You could be anyone that *you* want to be," I pointed out. "You're not limited by your past, by your family, like most people are."

"No," she said. "It's all back there, in the dark, unknown, and it pulls me down. I need to bring it to the light. I have to find out who my family is. The history that's written in my genes. I need to know.

"I have to know why I was given up. Probably my mother was poor and alone and couldn't afford a child. But now I'm an adult, I could meet her." She paused, and her eyes teared up. "I could *forgive* her. She might need that. I know that I do. I have to look her in the face and tell her that I understand."
 

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At five o'clock I was standing on the sidewalk outside the ferry terminal. One thing I'd learned today was that I had to go to Spokane and meet Dexie's mother. Not for reasons of my own, though: not all. I didn't want to go, and I was sure that I didn't need to go.

The problem was: if I didn't go, everyone would pester me about it and think I was a unfeeling jerk. I didn't feel like a jerk. The woman was not my mother. Still, I could see that no one would ever be able to understand that. Even Arrow, who knew about the body-swap, didn't understand.

I needed to go to Spokane so everyone would quit bothering me about it. It was a small thing to check off my to-do list. Obviously, now was the best time to go.

As I stood there, I also realized that Arrow hadn't told me exactly where he wanted to meet. For all I knew, he'd gotten there ahead of me and was sitting inside. Just as I had that thought, I saw Arrow walking from the Aquarium, along the bay. He looked uncharacteristically happy. His mood seemed so buoyant, I wouldn't have been surprised if he started skipping.

I'm not saying that Arrow is a sad man. But he is a quite serious man. Even when he's joking, you feel like he's leaning out of a high window and calling down to you. He's distant; that's what he is.

To see him smile one of those smiles that emanate from joy inside... that was new; that was rare.

He was wearing a tiny little black leather backpack, slung over one shoulder. It was so incongruous that it made me smile. I nearly burst out laughing at the absurd contrast between the big muscular man and the tiny little backpack.

"Cute backpack!" I called out in a teasing tone. He simply smiled back. I was trying to embarrass him, so I added with a shout, "Isn't that a girl's backpack?"

He bounded toward me, laughing, and scooped me with one arm so he could kiss me. "Yes, it's a girl's backpack. You're a girl, aren't you?"

"Is that for me?" I squeaked. God, when and how did I become so girly?

"Yes," he said, but when I reached for it, he held it up, so high that I couldn't touch it.

"Hey!" I protested with (what I hoped was) a cute pout.

"There are surprises inside," he confided. "For later. One is for your trip, and one is for your future."

Then he bent toward me, looking at my head in profile, tilting his head this way and that. He was looking at my new beanie with a critical eye. "Nice hat!" he said. "I like it! I was looking for something like that, but this style would never have occurred to me. Excellent choice! You're going to need that, too!"

"What the hell are you talking about?" I asked him.