Today is the day we were all told, back in early March, that we would return to work.

Three weeks ago, our Executive Director sent out an email, and those few of us who’d come in to work — about fifteen people — gathered in the meeting room, all widely spaced apart of course, and got the news. I’d gone in a little ahead of everyone, washed my hands, put on latex gloves, and set out chocolate cupcakes, juice and water. Only one of the librarians took any, and I suspect that was out of politeness.

Mayor Breed had put the kibosh on large gatherings, the public library had already closed, so we needed to be responsible and shut down for three weeks. “It’s not unprecedented,” our ED said. “Back in 1918 we closed for a whole month, from October to November.”

Almost a month later I still feel a faint tug about the time I usually leave for the office. This homesickness — or work-sickness — manifested itself the other night in a dream. I was at my desk, as usual, and one of our regulars, Paul, a smiling tower of a man, stuck his head around the door, said the title of Friday night’s movie and his name, waved, and withdrew to walk back to the chess club. When he was alive, he’d done that every week.

He died in January. Not, (as far as I know) from Coronavirus, but from a lingering infection he’d started back in May. Losing old friends and members is a reality at the Mechanics’, where our membership skews towards the elderly, but he’d been such a constant, always sitting at the same table during movies, always having at least one comment during the discussion afterwards. I missed his weekly request to be added to Friday’s reservation list.

When I told Michael about the dream, he said he’d had a dream too, just before he woke up, but his was a nightmare. Zombies — or something like them — were knocking at our apartment door, trying to get in.

I blamed the fact that I’ve been watching Kingdom early in the evenings, while Michael is still at his desk. He hates horror films and won’t watch it with me, but he can still hear zombies snarling and people screaming in Korean. He said it wasn’t like that. “Zombies weren’t swarming outside. They were showing up one at a time and asking to come in.”

I’d visited Paul just a week before he died. Ann, the fierce, opinionated woman who always sat next to him at CinemaLit, told me he’d been transferred from a rehab facility in Danville to the hospital on Van Ness, just a few blocks from here. So, I stopped by.

The hospital is a brand new, high end, squeaky clean facility, and I felt a bit reassured for Paul as I checked in as a visitor at the desk downstairs and was handed my badge. Upstairs on his floor, however, I learned he had been quarantined. They would not let me in to see him until I donned a gown and gloves. When I asked why, the nurse said she could only tell me if he gave permission, and she’d go ask. She returned a moment later and said, “you can go in,” but nothing more.

I had not seen him since May. I’d expected to find him changed, and he was. As I’d said, he’d been a tower, well over six feet tall, broad-shouldered, deep voiced. The infection had whittled him down to almost nothing, but his eyes were alert, and he was the same old Paul when I talked to him, intelligent, well read, and reserved. (Paul was a conservative. I suspect he disapproved of my politics.) I didn’t notice during the visit, but later I learned they’d amputated his foot.

We talked about the library. I asked if I could bring him something to read and he complained because so many of his books — and his laptop — were still back in his apartment. “We’re deciding whether or not I can ever go back, or whether I’ll have to move into assisted living” he said. I left after I sensed he was becoming, not tired, but bored by the conversation. He wanted to get back to the Whittaker Chambers book he was reading.

That was when I made a mistake. I bid him farewell, walked out of the room still in the gown and gloves, started towards the nurses station to ask where I could put them, and was intercepted by a visibly alarmed nurse. She told me I should not have left the room without removing the gown and gloves and putting them into the waste bin just inside his door. I went back to do this, more embarrassed than anxious. My assumption had been the gown and gloves were to protect Paul. Apparently they were to protect everyone else.

Learning about his death shortly afterwards shocked me, though perhaps it shouldn’t have.

Yes, by this time we knew about the virus. The first cases had come through SFO, and yes, the word “Coronavirus” did occur to me, but I dismissed that as alarmist. Whatever the reason for it all, I now remember that moment as a quick foretaste of what was to come. Maybe that’s why I dreamed about P.

I dreamed a dream of nostalgia about an old friend and a weekly greeting. At about the same time, Michael dreamed a dream of dread about zombies. Either way, we both dreamt of the dead standing at the door. Make of that what you will.