Laramia was born with a virus. The black-haired girl lacked for acceptance at home, at school and, later in life, at work. Her father scorned her, pushing the girl off his knee when she noticed a razor cut on his face, and kissed it to make it better while they were playing patty cake. Laramia fell to the floor, hitting her head on a table, chipping a tooth. The dentist, reluctant to accept a new patient on a government subsidy, refused to see her when he learned about the virus.
Laramia was in treatment and the virus was not easily communicable. Her mother also shunned her, isolating Laramia from the other children by putting her in a crib in the basement’s laundry room, where it was dark and damp, until she was six years old, when she was moved to a corner mattress on the floor. Laramia could hear rodents squeal all night.
At five, Laramia climbed out of the crib on her own. She began to read ingredients on the sides of boxes and bottles of bleach, detergent and fabric softener. She pulled the cord of a single, uncovered lightbulb in the laundry room. She taught herself to read. In the morning, she awakened with the sunrise which beamed through the only window in the basement high above the washer and dryer. Sunbeams cast wide light at a certain point in the morning when they hit a shelf filled with chrome. These were automotive parts in storage for her father’s garage business.
Pedro Sanchez was a mechanic. His wife, Maria, who was dyslexic, was a seamstress who rode the bus to a factory downtown. Laramia’s parents did not study or speak English. Her mother had named her after discovering the child was born with Human Immuno-deficiency Virus after reading a Spanish language pamphlet in the waiting area on malaria.
The error was a bright spot in Laramia’s life. The slim, lanky girl was slow to develop. Her full, thick, soft, long black hair was silken to the touch. Laramia’s mother and six sisters kept cutting her hair to sell for wigs, prompting Laramia to style her hair in various shapes and fashions, which people found interesting. Laramia grew into a voluptuous girl in proportion at the age of 11. She pronounced her name softly when asked, which had the effect of accentuating her beauty.
One day, when she was 15—past the point of young womanhood—she slipped through the crawlspace of the family’s southeast side first-floor apartment and opened the double wooden doors to the alley. Laramia dashed as fast and far as she could from the Sanchez home.
After that, life was easier if a greater expenditure of effort. Laramia found shelter at a private women’s charity on the city’s east side, where she continued her treatment regimen at another clinic. The teen worked at various jobs—quickly hired wherever she applied or inquired, and one employer, a beautician named Cleo, short for Cleopatra, was struck by her deep-set eyes and ample brow and insisted on paying to fix her tooth—and she earned money to rent a room. The corner room with a toilet and bathtub was located above the garage of an eccentric, old librarian who’d been ravaged by terminal cancer. The woman, Manuela Castiron, wore elegant ladies’ hats from a lost, golden era instead of wigs. Manuela, an avid reader of books, swam every morning at a health club and walked three miles a day—and she took care to look after the young teen. At sundown, she often stood at the top of the apartment back staircase when Laramia came up after working at whatever job, ushering Laramia inside. After one job termination, Manuela noted the pattern: Laramia’s jobs ended when employers learned about the virus.
In slow, crisp enunciated speech, her landlord invited the teen to write to her parents and explore options for work. “Go to Heller Library on Rush Street,” she told the girl after serving tamales one night without looking up from under the brim of her hat. “Tell Gregoria I sent you and I want you working in the stacks.” The old woman lifted her chin at that point and added: “I’ll not have my star tenant doing manual labor a day longer than you have to.”
Laramia did as Manuela asked, sitting down to write a letter to Maria and Pedro Sanchez and walking 17 blocks to the private library. Its landscaped gardens and lawns were filled with statues of nude heroes from ancient Greece and lined with stone paths and towering elm and oak trees sheltering an old wooden house, which covered most of the south side of a dead end cobblestone block. This was where the great 20th century industrialist Cameron Heller had lived before he died at the age of 88, bestowing upon the city his library on the condition that the property remain private and the library open only by invitation or application in perpetuity after generations of the city’s finest lawyers had procured an impenetrable contract and property deed. Laramia stepped up long, wooden steps, crossing the sprawling porch and entering an entrance hall with a low, curved reception desk. Laramia stepped forward.
After a brief conversation with Gregoria the receptionist, Laramia waited for her guide. “He’ll be right here,” Gregoria warmly explained, smiling as if everything was ordinary and Laramia was an invited guest into a private home for tea and supper. For the first time in her life, Laramia, now 17, relaxed, letting out a deep breath and admiring the varnished wood around her, closing her eyes to take in the scent of pine and the trace of something sweet. When she opened them, Laramia turned and saw a bouquet of purple flowers she’d never seen in the center of a round table to the left of the reception desk, leading into a parlor filled with shelves stacked with books from the floor to the ceiling in front of a long, wooden table and chairs where patrons sat reading. She smiled to herself feeling at once intoxicated and where she belonged.
Laramia turned and, when she did, her dark brown eyes met the eyes of a bald man with full lips on the most curious and confident face she had ever seen. “Welcome to Heller Library,” he said, extending his hand. “It’s good of you to come,” he said this as if Laramia had been expected. His eyes locked on hers yet she had the feeling that he could see into her soul and she liked it. She lifted her chin and smiled. “Thank you. Manuela adores this place and says I ought to work here if you’ll have me.” “Let’s see if you’re a match,” he said coldly, smiling with his eyes.
“First things first, your name,” he continued. “Everyone here knows Manuela. No one knows you.” Laramia started to say something when he suddenly said: “Second things second, let’s see if you like the place after I give you a tour. Follow me,” he said, moving closer, “my name is Icarus.” “Mine is Laramia,” she answered.
Icarus asked: “May I?” He extended his hand, which Laramia accepted as they walked past the desk through a large room banked on both sides by bookshelves with everything touched by daylight. The pair approached a stairwell as she started to slow down. Icarus continued, turned, paused and said: “May I show you where we need your help in the archives?” Laramia’s expression changed. She stopped, peering into the darkness of the stairwell, where she could see stairs leading into a basement. Laramia looked down at the floor and her eyes fixated on the thin strips of wood reflecting the sun’s rays as she recalled the basement window at the Sanchez house where she’d lived. She stammered: “I—I—I have a disease—”
“Third things third,” Icarus interjected, and his voice was at once steady and strong. “Down here,” he said, his voice a challenge to the essence of her thought. “This is where you’ll work.” He let his words sink in. Her eyes stayed on the floor. For a long time, the two stood silent and still by the stairwell. Finally, Laramia broke her own gaze, looking up. Icarus’s eyes told her everything she wanted to know. “I’m a little frightened,” she admitted. “I have my reasons.”
“Of course you do,” he said in a rhythm, as he took her hand and led Laramia down stairs. “These may be legitimate reasons and they’re yours. Here, you’ll neither be left to fend for yourself nor intruded upon. Heller Library staff tends to our own and you’ll be no exception. If you like it here, come to work. Manuela’s word is like a bond of gold.”
As the couple reached the bottom of the stairs, and Icarus began to lead Laramia toward a climate-controlled room—the archives—she paused to grip his hand, pulling it toward her in a bold and sudden gesture as she said: “Thank you. I—I may need help.” Smiling and loosening her grip, she added: “But not for long.”
“Mr. Heller,” said a young archivist in a lab coat with a pair of eyeglasses on a chain around her neck. “The collection has arrived from the Orient.” Icarus Heller turned to the black-haired young woman by his side. “Laramia, can I interest you in kindly assisting our lead archivist?”
“Yes,” came the reply. With that, Icarus turned to leave, paused, then leaned in to whisper into Laramia’s ear as the archivist stepped into the archives to get to work and give them privacy. “Whatever ails you,” he whispered, “here in Heller house, you’ll be looked after at last.”
