Tears flowed freely when four librarians gathered in front, not in mourning black but in their cardigans and T-shirts or polo shirts with the Santa Barbara Public Library orange poppy logo. They said nothing, made no announcements, but everyone at once seemed to understand who they were and why they were there.
For Maxine Blake, there would be no elegant men in dark suits to act as pallbearers. Not her style. Librarians in their everyday work clothes and comfortable sneakers and eyeglasses that needed a good cleaning…they would be her pallbearers.
Since she had been cremated, there was only the urn, which was actually just a plain wooden box that a male librarian held somberly in front of him. The three other honorary pallbearers carried other things. One librarian had a photo of Maxine from her younger years, proudly holding a copy of her first published book and kissing the spine. Another librarian had a stack of Maxine’s books. The final librarian carried a composition notebook and a pen.
The four stood by the stage, silently bearing symbols of Maxine Blake’s life’s work.
The crowd was allowed to file past the four librarians. As Rainywalked by, she could see that the objects they held weren’t symbolic but, in fact, very real. The photograph wasn’t a copy but a faded original in a cheap frame, likely the only one Maxine could afford in her early days as a writer. The books weren’t published copies but printed and bound manuscripts covered in editor’s marks, including penciled-in pilcrows, since Maxine had a terrible tendency toward too-long paragraphs.
The notebook too had yellowed pages. They’d laid it open to the middle, displaying Maxine’s own handwriting, and the pen was a simple pink plastic ballpoint from a local bank with the clip broken off.
Someone touched the pages tentatively, as if fearing they’d be scolded, but it was allowed. And then everyone after her touched Maxine’s handwriting.
“Hurry,” Frankie whispered into Rainy’s ear. “Grab your umbrella.”
Rainy did as she was told, though she didn’t understand why. All the gathered filed quickly and quietly out of the atrium and walked swiftly through the library.
“This way,” the woman said. “We’re on the left.”
Again Rainy did as she was told, still not knowing why, but it seemed a procession was being formed. She followed Frankie into an open courtyard alongside the library, where two groups of mourners, one on the left and one on the right, created a center path to the waiting limousine.
A woman who seemed to be the ringleader ran up and down the path, whispering orders. “Wait until the doors open and they all come out,” Rainy heard the woman say. “Go at the whistle.”
Moments later, a couple of wide-eyed library pages opened the double front doors.
The pallbearers came out in a line, followed by the library director, then Jessa Charming, then finally Anthony.
The funeral party started forward.
Someone blew a whistle.
At that signal, hundreds of black umbrellas all opened at once. The whoosh and click were nearly deafening, a crashing ocean wave of sound.
Rainy, caught off-guard, could only watch in silent awe. Frankie nudged her gently. Finally, she opened her own umbrella and raised it over her head.
Anthony stared at the tribute, his hand on his heart.
Then he nodded his gratitude. He and the funeral party walked down the path of the honor guard to the waiting limousine.
As Anthony passed Rainy, she smiled at him. He glanced at her, then started slightly.
As if Maxine had written the right words into her DNA, Rainy whispered to him, “She told me to tell you that you were her favorite story.”
The shock on his face passed quickly.
“Better come with me,” he said.
Rainy whispered a quick goodbye to Frankie, then stepped out of the line and followed him to the limousine.
She closed her umbrella as he opened the door for her.
At the car, he paused and turned to face the crowd. “If you all care to honor Maxine…find someone who needs a story and read it to them.”
Then he got inside, and the driver shut the door behind him.
When they were alone in the back of the limousine, Anthony looked at her. She sat on the bench seat opposite him, her back to the closed partition.
“So…” he said. “It’s you.”
