The Reservation Room
RACHEL HABKOUK
German encyclopedias aren’t supposed to be a weapon.
So why, you may ask, did I have one raised above my head, staring at two old ladies?
The answer was simple: instinct. And an obsession with true crime novels that started when I was way too young.
I never planned on looking like a homicidal maniac. In fact, I had initially thought I was being hunted by one. Dark library, lonely girl and the night shift? It was obviously a recipe for murder.
I blame the clock for my paranoia. Its disjointed ticking had been needling at me the whole night, eerily echoing around the place like windchimes on a windless night. But it was the soft glow of light that really tipped me over the edge. I’d had my key in the door, about to lock up for the night, when I saw it shining under the bookshelves. There was only one place it could be coming from.
The Reservation Room.
The one private area in our tiny library, generally avoided because of rumours of flickering lights and moving shadows. No one I’d spoken to had ever seen anything suspicious there, but age-old superstitions never entirely die.
There had been no reservations today–I’d checked three times.
So that is how I ended up barreling through the doorway with my weapon–ahem, the book–raised high, preparing for the worst.
But the only thing that was attacked was my ears. I was met with a screech so loud the lights actually did flicker.
And now twenty seconds later, I’m still blinking hard, trying to reconcile the fact that I was not, in fact, going to die today. I think.
The two old ladies stare back at me. One has her wrinkled lips pressed tight, as though she’d long outgrown the feeling of surprise. The other one still has her mouth open as if preparing to screech again.
‘Close your damn mouth,’ the Serious One squawks at her, ‘You look ready to catch a fly.’
The Screecher starts cackling, doubling over as much as her stooped frame will allow.
‘My goodness, sugar,’ she gasps between laughs, ‘God already knows I’m halfway to heaven; there’s no need to speed up the process.’
As she contains herself, the Serious One looks at me. ‘You can put the book down now. We’re not gonna hurt you.’
Realising I still have the book raised above my head, I lower it slowly. I had not been expecting this.
Clearing my throat, I open my mouth to ask if they can please leave before I lose my job, but before I can get a word out, the Screecher waves me over. ‘Come now, lovely, sit with us.’
My brain is still struggling to catch up, and her familiar tone isn’t helping. It’s niggling at me like a child with a feather. Do they know me from somewhere?
‘What’s the matter, girl?’ the Serious One enquires. ‘Cat got your tongue?’
Why is she acting like I’m the odd one here? They’re the ones who are here unannounced and after hours.
‘No,’ I finally manage. ‘No, I’m perfectly fine. I’m sorry to do this, but the library is closed and I need to lock up.’
‘Surely you can spare five minutes for some old ladies,’ the Screecher smiles. She’s so sweet, I’m tempted to cave, but–
‘I’m sorry, but I really can’t. My supervisor will–’
‘Pshh, don’t worry about Victoria,’ she says, ‘she loves us.’
The women begin shuffling their seats around without another word, making room for me.
Feeling uncertain, I look back out at the empty library. I could lose my job if people are here after hours. Being a secretary at a library isn’t exactly a career goal, but this job is all I have going for me right now. God help me if I lose it. But… the place had been deserted for a little while. I should do the smart thing and get them to leave, but there’s just something about the comfortable chaos of these women that makes me want to stay.
Making up my mind, I walk further into the room, settling into the vacant seat. The lamp coats the room in a hushed glow, enveloping us in a pocket of time apart from the world.
‘Ok, five minutes and then we leave. And if I get fired, I’m blaming it on you two.’
The Screecher claps giddily, ‘Never mind that. Welcome to our reading circle, dear.’
‘Fair warning, you might regret this,’ the Serious One says wryly.
‘Hush, you know you love it.’
They bicker like old friends unafraid of offending each other.
I look around the table, noticing they both have a book in front of them.
‘What are you reading?’ I ask curiously when there’s a break in conversation.
‘Our journals,’ the Screecher replies matter-of-factly.
Looking closer, I realise that the covers are plain and the spines look like they’ve seen better days.
‘Seriously? You like each other that much?’ I ask incredulously. That gets a chuckle out of both of them.
‘Always was on the sassy side,’ the Screecher murmurs fondly.
‘Wonder where she gets it from.’ The Serious One looks at her pointedly.
That feeling from earlier tingles over me again, like a moment of deja vu played on loop.
Settling back in as if nothing happened, they synchronously open their journals, tilting their heads to the side as they scan the pages. While they’re distracted, I study them as subtly as possible. Their hair is different lengths, and wrinkles etch their skin in different spots, but they look similar. Their eyes are just slightly wide-set, and their lips naturally tip up at the corners.
Curious. Maybe they're sisters.
‘Listen close now, dear. We might accidentally teach you something,’ the Screecher winks. ‘You go first,’ she tells the Serious One.
Nodding, she places a pair of brown horn-rimmed glasses on her nose. I’ve always wanted a pair of those.
‘This one was from when I was a little older than you.’ She begins reading, but falters. It’s the first time that she’s shown a trace of emotion. A blush creeps up her neck, and she keeps her eyes on the journal as she slides it across the table towards me.
‘I… I’ll just let you read it.’
I pick up the journal slowly, worried I might damage it if I’m not careful. The entry is dated some 40 years ago. I raise my brows in surprise.
‘Yes, I know I’m old, no need to point it out,’ she snaps, but it doesn’t have as much sting in it as before.
Smirking slightly, I begin to read.
*
I’ve always found comfort in routine. The predictable pattern of each day.
I sit here in the same cafe as always, 18 minutes before work. I have my coffee, with a quarter teaspoon of sugar, sitting in my chair by the window.
But there are times when I hear people's stories, and they unsettle me.
Just yesterday, a girl came into the library telling me how she met the love of her life at a train station she wasn’t supposed to be at. She had missed her alarm one morning, so she had to catch a later train, and she stumbled into him. It was funny and wonderful and completely unexpected.
I never miss my alarm.
Sometimes, though, when the beats of life slow their tempo enough to let the thoughts in, I think, what if…
Would it be so bad to be spontaneous? To leave the library and do something new for the first time in years? It would put me on the edge of… something. A precipice, maybe. It could be freeing, being the one with stories to envy. But what if I fall? My life is quiet and disconnected. Even the secretary at my apartment building barely manages to return my good mornings. There’d be no one to catch me at the bottom. I’d fall into an echo of all the fears I’ve ever had.
So, it’s better if I don’t dream. I have a stable job and a few friends who remember my birthday. I have my coffee shop on the corner. I don’t need more than that. Right?
*
When I finish, I raise my eyes to meet hers across the table. She’s watching me, the weary sort of wisdom in her eyes making a lump rise in my throat. I’ve seen the same thing in my own reflection. That uncanny ability to see the infinite possibilities but know which one you should pick.
‘Thank you for letting me read it,’ I say quietly.
She nods once, solemnly, and just like that, the shutters close over her emotions again.
‘Ok, enough with the doom and gloom,’ the Screecher says, waving her hands around as if to clear the air. ‘It’s my turn next.’
She slides her journal to me so fast that it nearly falls off the table before I stop it.
‘Read it out loud,’ she urges, ‘it’s funnier that way.’
This one is dated around the same time as the one I just read.
‘Getting fired is the best thing that ever happened to me,’ I start. ‘I never had the time to write after it happened because–’
The book is snatched from my hands before I can continue.
‘Oh stars above, that was horrible,’ she scoffs, ‘You’re making it sound like a dull newspaper. It needs to be read with life. Here, let me do it.’
So she continues where I left off, ‘because life feels like a kite blowing unpredictably in the wind. It’s thrilling. And terrifying. Sometimes I still think I’m living in a dream where I can’t tell what’s real and what’s imagined. Getting yelled at by your employer and kicked out on the street for “mouthing off” isn’t exactly an awe-inspiring moment. I’m not likely to get a job again, at least not in that county. Sometimes when I think about it too long, my chest starts to burn; I had always loved that little library.
‘But if that didn’t happen, I wouldn’t have tripped and fallen into the bar where Benny was. He’s a wonderful man with the oddest accent who told me all about his mission to visit every castle in the country and smoke a cigar there. And naturally, after drowning my embarrassment in a few too many drinks, I decided I must do the same.’
‘Wait,’ I interrupt in disbelief. ‘You did not just follow a random man across the country.’
‘Oh, but I did,’ she answers proudly. ‘Now, where was I? Oh yes. This was obviously not my smartest move, but without it, I never would’ve learnt to line dance under the stars, or discovered that you can indeed get food poisoning from black pudding in old Irish pubs. I hadn’t even known black pudding existed.
‘So, do I only have $9 to my name? Yes. Am I even the slightest bit worried? Well, maybe a little, but that’s besides the point. Suffice it to say, I’ve come to realise that the old adage is right. A door closing is almost always a good thing; it allows you to notice the other doors that were open all along.’
She finishes with a flourish, bowing a little as she sets down the journal. The Serious One claps slowly, looking half impressed, half horrified.
The feeling is mutual. The thought of being nearly as impulsive is paralysing, but the excitement splashed across the pages tugs at some restlessness inside of me.
Silence envelops the room, each lost in our own thoughts. I look at both of them, that elusive feeling of familiarity still bothering me. Maybe it's the oddness of our meeting, or that existential feeling you get when talking to older people, but it feels as though some deep part of me knows some part of them.
I jump when the Serious One slams her journal closed. ‘That’s enough soul-bearing for one night, don’t you think?’
The Screecher nods. ‘I’m partial to soul-bearing most days, but I have to agree. We’ve long overstayed our welcome.’
‘No, you haven’t,’ I say earnestly, unexpectedly reluctant to let this meeting end. ‘It’s only been… Oh,’ I trail off, looking at my watch in disbelief. That was a lot more than five minutes.
Chuckling, the Screecher rummages in her bag. ‘Before we go, we have something we want to give you.’
A second later, she presses a book into my hand. The cover is plain, and the spine is unmarred by lines.
A journal.
‘Fill it up for us, will you?’ she says.
‘We’d hate to sound like the only foolish ones,’ the Serious One says, smirking slightly.
Apparently, I’ve grown on her. Well, she’s grown on me, too. They both have.
‘Thank you for this. It was lovely to meet you both,’ I say, flicking through the blank pages of the notebook and loving the feel of the parchment.
‘Yes, it’s lovely to know you too, dear.’
I look back up to say goodbye, but both chairs are empty.
All that’s left is the ticking of the clock–now steady and constant, as if nothing had happened here at all.
Rachel Habkouk is an aspiring educator based in Sydney, Australia. When she’s not reading or watching romcoms, she loves writing stories that blend humour, bittersweetness and a touch of magic to explore the beauty of everyday life. She is currently working on her first novel.
