The Librarianist

Bob was squinting at the image. “Yes, this. The house was in a cul-de-sac, and once a year the neighbors and I would haul out our castaways for a rummage sale.” There was a bent shadow creeping up Bob’s leg. “Your mother took that one. See her there?”

“Wow,” Sam said, shaking his head. It made him happy to see these images, and Bob was pleased by this happiness. Now Sam held up a picture taken just after Bob and Connie had been married. Ethan stood a step apart from the newlyweds, his face blurred. Bob looked at the picture, nodded, and looked away.

“Did you ever remarry, Bob?” Sam asked.

“I never did, no. Did your mother ever?”

“No, no. That would have been out of character, to my understanding of what she wanted. I know there were a few friendships which must have had romantic bents to them. Men bringing Mom presents she didn’t really want, men with mustaches and wide ties, tinted Coke bottle glasses. The ’70s, right? The ’80s? But I always got the impression she could take it or leave it.”

They drank their coffee and ate their pie and Sam passed Bob this and that picture and Bob looked at each one and passed each one back, but he was distracted by an uneasiness rising up in him, an impatience to get at something. He was curious about Connie’s life after she’d left him, and after Ethan had died; but when he composed the question in his mind it sounded unfriendly to him. His intentions weren’t unfriendly, and so he wasn’t sure how to proceed. Finally he simply said, “You know someone, and then you don’t know them, and in their absence you wonder what their life was made up of.” Sam shrugged, unsure if it had been a question or statement or what. Bob told him, “I’m trying to get an idea of your and your mother’s life in the daily way. What was it like for her?”

“Well, she was busy,” said Sam. “She had me to deal with, and she had to go to work and keep the house together. That’s a lot for one person, you know? But we had our little universe, our street. We were lucky in that we had nice neighbors, a lot of them with kids, and so there were BBQs and birthday parties and Christmas parties, Easter egg hunts. I knew the insides of every house on the block.”

“And these people were her friends.”

“They were all crazy about her. But they also felt, I think, protective of her, because of Dad’s story, and that she was on her own. But it wasn’t some sad situation or anything. I mean, my mother was wonderful. Life was life, up and down, but we had so much fun together, you know?”

“Yes,” said Bob.

“She was fun.”

“She really was.”

Sam pointed a thumb over his shoulder. “Back then she was?”

“Always.”

Sam stacked the photographs and set them at Bob’s elbow. The top image was of Ethan sitting lowly in his car, mischievous eyes peering over the driver’s-side door. Bob said, “A police detective came to my house after your father passed away. He wanted to know where I’d been at the time of his death. I always wondered if your mother was aware of that.”

“I’m not sure if she was. She didn’t think you had anything to do with it, if that’s what you mean. Actually, she had an idea it was some rich woman who’d done it. Some old flame of his or something.”

“Eileen,” said Bob.

“Yes, right. And she told the police about it, but then the woman wasn’t even in the country at the time Dad was killed. She never did find out who’d done it. The detectives just told her, it was an accident. And maybe it was, but I know it always bothered her, not knowing for sure.” Sam sat thinking. He said, “You know, she didn’t speak so much about my dad. Maybe it was because of the way he died, and she didn’t like to be reminded. And I understand that he was a smoothie, and somewhat of a shit disturber, but I could never really get an idea of what sort of man he was.” He gave a small shrug and sat watching Bob.

“Are you asking me what your father was like?” asked Bob, and Sam said that he guessed so. Bob held up the picture of Ethan and gave himself time to formulate the true words. He said, “Your father had no guile. He wasn’t crass or avaricious. He was never dull. He was physically graceful, and fun to look at. He was funny, and he encouraged and abetted funniness in others. He was a little bit seduced by himself, a little reckless in the wielding of his powers, but maybe that’s understandable, and so we forgive him for it. I don’t know how I should put it to you, Sam, except to say that some people, when they enter a room, the room changes. And your father was a natural-born room-changer.”

Sam was concentrating intently on what Bob was saying, and he sat very still after, as if sculpting the words together to formulate the composite of the man in his mind. He told Bob, “That’s good. Thank you.”

“Yes,” said Bob.