Chapter Text
The sound of his phone ringing woke Francis Crozier like a hammer blow to the head. He fumbled for the phone, anger burning hot through him until he saw Jopson’s name on the caller ID. Jopson wouldn’t call without good reason.
“Good morning, sir,” said Jopson the instant Francis answered the call. “I’m sorry to disturb you, but I just wanted to make sure you saw, Mr. Franklin sent out an email a few minutes ago scheduling a mandatory management team meeting at 9am.”
Francis groaned. His head was spinning. He wasn’t sober enough to drive himself to work. “Can you give me a ride in?”
“Of course, sir. I’ll be there in half an hour.”
He should probably shower. He’d had a bad night last night after a bad closing shift; he hadn’t gotten home until past eleven and then not gone to sleep for several hours past that. An empty bottle and glass still stood alone on his kitchen table. His pillow smelled sour, his sheets almost stiff with sweat.
Francis splashed some water on his face and brushed his teeth. He put on a polo shirt and combed his hair. By the time Jopson’s car pulled up out front, Francis was waiting for him, still squinting in the morning sunlight.
But when he slid into the front passenger seat of Jopson’s car, there was a travel mug of coffee in the cupholder for him, and Jopson looked put-together, and so Francis supposed the world must be still spinning after all.
“You’re a lifesaver,” said Francis, taking a sip of coffee. Cream, no sugar; just how he liked it.
“Thank you, sir,” said Jopson. He’d started calling Francis sir when Jopson was a sixteen-year-old library page, and fifteen years later hadn’t dropped the habit.
“So John sent out an email about this to all staff?”
“No, sir. Only you and Mr. Fitzjames.”
That Jopson would be reading Francis’s emails was so obvious that it passed without comment from either of them.
“And he suggested that the meeting will be about the holiday volunteer appreciation banquet,” Jopson continued
“What? It’s only September!” Every December, the library hosted a reception to thank the fifteen or so community members who volunteered regularly, and preparations generally only extended to sending someone (usually Jopson) to buy cheese-and-cracker trays from the grocery store. Francis sighed. “Ah, well, whatever it is, I’ll tell you everything afterwards.”
“Thank you, sir.”
Francis sleepwalked into the library, leaving Jopson at the circulation desk, and took a moment to collect himself in Conference Room A before anyone else walked in. He hated the fluorescent light. He hated it even more when James Fitzjames walked in, carrying a mug of coffee with the library’s logo on it and wearing a cream-colored turtleneck sweater.
James was the Director of Technical Services, and spent his life - at least whatever small portion of it he wasn’t shopping for clothes or working out or attending to his personal grooming, presumably - filling out purchase orders, negotiating contracts for software and ebook licensing, and generally trying to make their miniscule budget stretch as far as humanly possible. He looked so well-rested it made Francis want to punch something.
“Late night last night?” said James mildly. He could probably smell the whiskey on Francis’ breath.
Francis just made a noncommittal noise.
John Franklin sailed in after James, looking serene, though he wrinkled his nose when he got close to Francis. “Good morning, gentleman,” said John once he’d settled himself in his chair at the head of the conference table.
“Good morning,” said James.
“Now, as you know, we have traditionally had a rather subdued gathering every year to honor our wonderful volunteers,” said John. He said subdued like it was a bad thing. “But James has been in touch with some of our friends and had an idea that the banquet could be a wonderful opportunity to extend our fundraising.” He was beaming. “Why, even if we only asked $200 a plate, we could potentially earn ten thousand extra dollars!”
It took Francis a moment to process what John was even implying. “We cannot ask our volunteers to pay $200 a plate for a dinner,” said Francis. “We’re supposed to be appreciating their free labor, not wringing them dry!”
“Mr. Barrow indicated that he would be willing to donate the invitations for some of the volunteers,” said James.
Francis stared at him. “And what could we even do that would be worth $200 a person?”
“Well, obviously generosity will factor into it,” said John. “But if we found a prominent speaker for the event, arranged some nice catering… and of course the opportunity to mingle would be valuable…”
James was nodding along like what John was saying made even a modicum of sense.
“I’m sure you two can figure something out,” John finished.
“ What?”
“You and James will plan the event. You know our volunteers, Francis, and what they’ll like.”
The volunteers. The shy teenagers who came after school to shelve books. The stay-at-home parents who helped the children’s librarian arrange Saturday Storytime. The retirees who organized the yearly book sale. Francis struggled to imagine any of them enjoying an overpriced dinner on white tablecloths orchestrated by James fucking Fitzjames.
“Francis, you know how important the money would be for us,” said James. “We could replace some of our old furniture. Or the old computers.”
“We could buy a 3D printer!” said John excitedly.
“If there’s going to be extra money, really it should go to replacing the roof,” grumbled Francis. It would be a hundred-thousand-dollar project, probably, which of course John should have been budgeting for over the past decade, but hadn’t been.
“The roof, Francis?” said John. “But that’s not exciting.”
“We’ve been having to put buckets in the children’s area whenever it rains for months now. If the roof collapses during a thunderstorm you’ll be wishing it was less exciting.”
The silence stood. Francis’s head hurt.
“We can talk about how to spend the extra money once we’ve got it. But unfortunately I don’t have time to stay and chat right now,” said James as he collected his laptop and stood, “but I already have some ideas, Francis, so just let me know when you’re available to schedule a meeting…”
Francis stood up too. He had no idea why he’d needed to drag himself in to work on his day off to hear that John had assigned him another project, working with James Fitzjames of all people.
John cleared his throat. “Francis, if you could wait a moment… and James, if you’d be so good as to shut the door behind you as you leave.”
James did, leaving John and Francis alone.
“Francis, I think we have all been very understanding of your condition for a long time,” started John, sounding pained. “But I cannot continue to allow you to come to work intoxicated. I have been concerned about this for a very long time, and I’d hate to have to let you go over it.”
“John, I didn’t have a shift scheduled today.” Despite being Director of User Services, Francis worked evenings and weekends, staffing the circulation desk in addition to helping patrons, troubleshooting the software they used for circulation, maintaining the website, finding lost books, training and supervising volunteers and new hires, answering reference questions via email, and organizing special events and programming.
“Be that as it may, I don’t think it should be too much to presume that an adult man would be sober at nine o’clock in the morning on a Thursday.”
Francis was silent.
“Do I make myself understood?” said John.
“Crystal,” said Francis.
John patted his shoulder. “Good man.”
Once he was alone again, Francis went into his dark office and locked the door behind him without turning on the lights. On muscle memory, he took the half-empty bottle of whiskey and crystal glass out of his bottom desk drawer and poured himself a few fingers. He was stuck here until Jopson’s shift ended, unless he felt like paying for an Uber or convincing Jopson to spend his lunch break taking him home.
He could find another job if he needed to. Maybe at a library whose director he respected. Or maybe he could even find a director position himself; he certainly had the experience for it.
But that would probably mean moving, potentially far away, and his only friends on earth were here. He wouldn’t give John the satisfaction of getting rid of him.
In the half-light through the blinds, the whiskey in his glass looked dark as pitch.
Francis’s head ached. He wanted to go home, he wanted to curl up in bed between his unwashed sheets and sleep until he had to go to work again and not think about any of this. Really, deep down, if he admitted the truth to himself, in Francis Rawdon Moira Crozier’s heart of hearts, he wanted to kill himself.
He couldn’t do that. Instead, he picked up the list he’d compiled and printed the previous day of all the books that hadn’t been checked out in the past ten years. Then he went to find Thomas Blanky.
Blanky was ostensibly an Information Technology Specialist but, like Francis, his job had expanded over the years into Fixer of All Things, and Francis found him in the basement examining a dripping pipe.
“Francis,” said Blanky. He looked into Francis’s face. “Are you alright?”
“Fine, fine,” said Francis. “I wasn’t supposed to be here today but John called a last-minute meeting to tell me that we’re turning the volunteer appreciation holiday party into a fucking fundraiser banquet for two hundred dollars a plate. And I’m supposed to work with Fitzjames to plan it.”
“Yeesh,” said Blanky.
“How’s the roof doing?”
“...not great,” Blanky admitted. “The last time I was up there, there were tiles missing, and that was before we had that hailstorm at the beginning of August. It’s a miracle none of the books have been damaged by the leaks, and I’ve been able to rearrange the furniture to cover up the water damage to the carpet.”
“I need you to tell that to Fitzjames.”
“Why don’t you tell him yourself?”
“I told them both the roof needed replacing, but John didn’t seem interested. He listens to James, though. Apparently the whole banquet thing was his idea. And I think I might be… indisposed… to fully impress upon him myself.”
“What’s going on, Francis?”
Francis held up the list he’d printed out. “Jopson gave me a ride here, so I’m going to pull books to weed until he’s ready to take me home.”
Blanky clapped Francis on the shoulder. “Have fun.”
Francis pushed a book truck through the stacks, pulling out the books from his list. Some were in mint condition, purchased on a bad bet about what people would enjoy. Others were well-loved: someone had wanted them at some point, many someones, but no longer. Some were old editions of classics, others Francis grimaced at for how out-of-date they were. Most he felt some amount of pity for, irrationally, since of course the books couldn’t feel anything. But they all sparked in him a sort of grim determination. You are leaving this library today. But I am not. Not today, not tomorrow, not until I’m good and fucking ready to.
–
At five o’clock Francis climbed back into Jopson’s car, along with Harry Goodsir, who double-checked purchase orders and bibliographic records, mended damaged books, packed and unpacked every incoming and outgoing interlibrary loan, and who served as the library’s unofficial nurse and keeper of the first-aid kit. Apparently Goodsir’s car was in the shop, and he sat instinctively in the back seat behind Francis.
As they pulled out of the parking lot Francis told Jopson about the meeting, about the banquet planning, and about how John had threatened to fire him.
“Have you thought about asking Silna to speak?” said Goodsir. Silna was the most famous author who lived in their county, and she’d written a variety of fiction and nonfiction inspired by Netsilik folklore. Francis had the vague idea, based on his behavior at the last event she’d done at the library, that Goodsir was a little in love with her.
“That’s not a bad idea,” said Francis. “It would certainly give people a reason to want to come to the event.”
“I’ll ask James if I can reach out to her. She gave me her personal email after her last book talk,” said Goodsir proudly.
“Thank you,” said Francis. “Jopson, I need you to do something for me.”
“Yes, sir?” said Jopson without taking his eyes off the road.
“I need you to get rid of all the alcohol in my house. And my office. And also keep my phone, computer, keys, wallet, and credit cards for the next week, at least.”
“Sir?” said Jopson. “You’re… quitting?”
“Yes,” rasped Francis.
Now that he’d said it out loud, it was real. He wouldn’t go back on a promise to Jopson. Not this promise. He couldn’t.
“Have you talked to a doctor?” said Goodsir awkwardly. “Going cold turkey can be dangerous…”
“Well,” said Francis, “if I die, the problem of my drinking will also have been solved.”
They arrived in front of the apartment complex where Goodsir lived. “Thank you so much for the ride, Thomas!” said Goodsir. With one foot out of the car, he turned to look at Francis. “I, um, I know this is a weird ask, but I noticed Thomas always calls you ‘sir.’ Do you prefer that? Should I do that too?”
“You don’t have to call me sir,” said Francis. “Neither does Jopson, but I have been unable to break him of the habit.”
“Oh! Okay! Well, uh, you both have a good afternoon! And thanks again for the ride!” Goodsir gave a little wave and departed, his messenger bag bumping against his thigh as he hurried up the sidewalk.
Free of Goodsir’s gaze, Francis sunk deeper into the passenger seat and put a hand over his eyes.
–
Forty-eight hours after that last drink in his office, after Jopson had emptied Francis’s house of both whiskey and the means to acquire it, after Francis was so embarrassed by Jopson offering to do his laundry for him that he did it himself, including all his bedding so that at least he could be miserable in comfort, Francis was shivering.
He wanted whiskey more than he’d ever wanted anything in his life. At least he’d stopped feeling like invisible insects were crawling on him. He burrowed deep into the blankets on his bed, squeezed his eyes shut, and found himself back in the library.
He was making his familiar rounds, in the dark, quiet moments just after closing, to make sure all the patrons had left and all was well. His usual route took him through Adult Fiction and YA Fiction, through Nonfiction and the computer lab and Periodicals and the children’s area with brightly colored carpet and furniture that always made Francis feel like Gulliver on the island of Lilliput. But today not all was silent. He could hear the drumming of rain on the roof, the drip-drip-drip of the leaking into buckets.
Francis rounded the last tall shelf of Nonfiction and saw Jopson at the circulation desk, backpack on, ready to go home. “Ready to leave, sir?” said Jopson.
And then the roof collapsed.
Francis heard a crack first, and looked up to see the dark gullet of the sky above him, felt rain on his face. For a moment he panicked about the books, and the computer equipment. At least there weren’t any patrons here to be hurt.
And then Francis saw nothing, because the rubble had dashed his head in, because his body was broken under concrete. And Jopson - oh, he hoped Jopson had survived, Jopson who had a life ahead of him, clever, reliable, organized Jopson -
He could hear Jopson’s voice, calling out to him.
“Mr. Crozier. Sir.” Didn’t Jopson know that he was already dead? “Francis.”
Francis blinked. Jopson was sitting next to his bed. “Jopson,” Francis rasped. “What are you doing here?”
“Can you breathe alright?”
“I’m fine,” said Francis. “You should be out enjoying your weekend.” Still, he took the bottle Jopson offered him and drank deeply. Gatorade?
“Respectfully, sir, if I wasn’t here I’d be too worried about you to enjoy myself anyway.” Jopson was touching his wrist, taking his pulse.
Francis groaned. “I’m sorry, Jopson.”
“Can you eat something?”
Francis shook his head.
“If you start having a seizure I’m calling 911.”
“I’m fine.” Francis rolled over to face the wall and closed his eyes again.
Back when Jopson was the most competent library page Francis ever knew, he’d come to work one afternoon looking like he was about to burst into tears, and Francis had sat him down in Study Room C and asked what was wrong. Jopson’s mother was going to rehab, and his little brother was going to stay with their grandparents, but Jopson didn’t want to move away from his school and all his friends.
Francis had offered his own guest room without thinking. Six months later, Francis had bought him the suit he wore to his mother’s funeral. Jopson had stayed with him until he went off to college, and Francis had had such high hopes that he wouldn’t come back.
He hadn’t been drinking so much then. He only started drinking every day after Sophia, when there was no point to staying sober.
But there was, wasn’t there? There was Jopson and Blanky and the other librarians, the patrons, who deserved better than a drunk Francis.
Now Francis found himself in the library again, this time in the event space. The round tables that always wobbled were covered in white tablecloths, and the room was full of people. Francis looked for Jopson but the only face he could discern was that of James Fitzjames, handsome James, wearing a deep magenta blouse and gold earrings. He looked good.
James nodded at Francis, as though expecting something, and Francis looked down at the folded piece of paper in his hand. A speech? Why would he be giving a speech? If anyone was going to be giving a speech it would be John Franklin, he loved that kind of thing.
Francis blinked and saw James again, this time on a bed, this time in a filmy pink robe, falling open over his broad chest. Francis saw his own hand reach out and touch James’s soft hair, and James smiled and leaned into the touch. Like he wanted this.
Maybe Francis should be a Catholic again. If he wasn’t an alcoholic, maybe religion could be his vice. Take a page out of John Franklin’s book. Except John wasn’t Catholic.
It would probably irritate him, if Francis started being Catholic. So that was something.
There was a Catholic church he passed on his way to work. He always noted the Bible verse on the sign, and the Nativity display when it went up. He hadn’t been inside a Catholic church since he was ten.
His head felt like it was splitting open, and his limbs were shaking. His mouth was communion-wafer dry, and the next sip of Gatorade he took tasted of wine.
–
When Francis’ fever broke, the first face he saw was Jopson’s, dozing in the armchair across from his bed.
The room was blue with twilight. Francis got out of bed and stretched. “Jopson,” he said quietly.
Jopson jolted awake. “Sir? How are you feeling?”
“Much better. Ready for a big breakfast.” Bacon and eggs sounded excellent. And strong, hot coffee.
Jopson checked his watch. “It’s seven in the evening, sir.”
“Do you want me to take you to Denny’s or not?”
Jopson cracked a smile. “Let’s go.”