The Librarianist

Bob was pleased to see Linus, and it wasn’t just the drugs. They chatted blithely for forty-five minutes, when Linus became agitated at the realization his favorite television show, a soap opera called The Southern Californians, was about to start. “Okay if I watch it here, buddy? I’ll never make it home in time.” Again, Linus did not wait for an answer, but began removing snacks from his canvas satchel and laying these on a small table he’d unfolded from a hollow of his chair’s armrest. The show began, as did Linus’s commentary: “See that guy, Bob? Bob? That’s the Duke. He’s actually a bricklayer from the old country of Italy but he concocted this big story about his royal lineage and everyone believed it at first, but now they’re starting to wonder a little, and his wife’s starting to wonder a lot, and anyway she’s — there she is, see her? Squinty eye? — she’s falling in love with another bricklayer, this real proud bastard who’s working on their pocket villa and who, daringly, is played by the same actor as the Duke, only he’s got a spray tan and a ponytail wig and a truly bad Italian accent. I can’t wait to find out how they tie the two bricklayers together. But yeah, the Duke’s luck is about to go south, for sure, for sure.”

Bob followed the images but was half-submerged in the narcotics. He dozed awhile; when he woke up, the nurse was standing over Linus with her arms crossed. “You are not a patient here, sir. You looked me in the eye and lied right to me.”

“That’s true, I did.”

“Well I’m sorry, but you’ll have to go.”

“Okay but give me fifteen more minutes. Look, Judge Hartman is finally going to admit he murdered his never-gave-a-damn, blackmail-first-ask-questions-later half-brother.”

“Do I need to call security?”

“Lady, look at me. What’s a security guard going to do to me I haven’t already done to myself? I’m asking you for fifteen merciful minutes.”

The nurse relented and allowed Linus to finish out his show. She stood by, watching the final scenes, and each time a new character came on-screen, she asked, “Is that a good guy or a bad guy?” After, Linus folded up his tray and stowed it away and wheeled toward the door. Pinching the brim of his beret, he said, “Read the letter, Bob. Let us know what you think.”

“What I think what?” Bob asked. But Linus had gone.

He opened and read the letter. Maria expressed her sadness in hearing of his injury, but also a relief of happiness that his prognosis was a positive one. He was very much missed, she said, and not just by her but by most everyone at the center.

Actually, Bob, there’s been something on my mind since I heard about your accident. I brought it up to the residents, and their enthusiasm prompts me to say that if you ever wanted to join us here, join us as a full-timer, you’d be most welcome. Will you think on it? I’ve found another living situation for Chip, but her new room won’t be ready for a couple of months, so you’ve got time to consider my proposal. One way or the other, I’ll wait to hear your answer before I let the room get away, okay? I hope this offer can be received in the simple manner in which it’s meant.

Love, Maria

BOB CAME HOME FROM THE HOSPITAL AND SPENT THREE MONTHS IN bed waiting for his hip bone to fuse back together. He was visited daily by a nurse, or more accurately was visited daily by one in a long string of nurses. He found the lot of them to be both cheerful and efficient, but none came around frequently enough to occasion a friendship. Bob felt bored, then very bored, then patently broody. One day Maria called on him, and he wished to jump up at the sight of her. She bore flowers and gossip and made unsubtle inquiries about Bob’s plans. Had he given any more thought to her proposition? He had, actually; and soon after Maria’s visit, once he was freed from his cast, he put his house on the market, sold his car and the bulk of his possessions through an estate liquidation company, and moved into Connie’s old room at the Gambell-Reed Senior Center.