The Librarianist

The Chip saga continued into the night and Bob stayed on far later than he ever had before. His presence was not helpful in any real way, but there was a vigil sense to the evening which he couldn’t tear himself away from. The Great Room took on a new set of visual properties after dark; the sconce lights were set on a dimmer, and the woodwork was honey-colored, the center transformed to the stately home it once had been. Bob and Linus played cards, with Jill looking on and commenting on the plays like a cynical television announcer who believed the players couldn’t hear her. “That was foolish. He’s getting greedy.” They were playing for factual peanuts, but something in the raking in and pushing out of these awakened the gambling impulse in Linus, who brought up the idea that Bob should bundle up and make the trek to the market for a stack of scratchers.

“You mean we’ll go together?” Bob asked.

“Well, no.”

“And who’ll foot the bill for the scratchers?”

“I mean,” said Linus.

Actually, Bob didn’t mind going; he put his coat back on and left the center. Outside and the world was quiet; the snow was no longer falling but there was a full foot of it on the ground, and the moon was rising in the sky. A lone car passed in the distance and Bob was at peace as his boots punch-punched through the untouched snow. When he entered the 7-Eleven he recognized the cashier from his last visit, and the young man instantly recognized him, hopping up from his stool and pointing a two-foot meat stick like a cutlass toward the rear of the store, where Chip was standing at the glass doors, clinging to the handle for support and staring in at the refrigerated beverages. The cashier said she had arrived just as he came on shift, a full five hours prior; and whereas her presence had been alarming to him the first time around, now he was rooting for her, in the way one might root for a marathon dancer or flagpole sitter, humbled by her dedication to her arcane medium. Bob borrowed the cashier’s phone and called the center. He volunteered to walk Chip back, but Maria insisted he stay put and wait for the ambulance, and he did this, standing at Chip’s side and making observational comments about the weather, praising her tenacity, trying and failing to get her to drink from a bottle of water. Her legs were trembling from fatigue, and when the paramedics came they had to pry her hands from the glass door handle. She was groaning as they led her away on a gurney, her hands still gripping the air before her. After she’d gone, Bob bought several different kinds of scratchers, twenty in total, five for each of the four waiting together at the center — it didn’t occur to him to get any for Maria. “How’ve you been?” he asked the cashier, who made the half-and-half gesture. Bob admitted he’d forgotten to pay for his coffee all those months earlier, and volunteered to pay now; the cashier raised his meat stick up above Bob’s head, then gently tapped it over his right and left shoulder. “On behalf of the 7-Eleven corporation and all of her subsidies, I absolve you of your debt.” Bob thanked him and returned to the night. By the time he got back to the center the Great Room was dark, save the light bleeding in from Maria’s office, where she sat opposite a man in a worn canvas coat and blue jeans. The man was turned away, so Bob couldn’t see his face, but Maria’s face was drawn, and her body language read of remorse, apology, shame. Linus hissed from the rear of the Great Room and Bob moved to sit beside him.

“What are you doing in the dark?”

“Spying, what does it look like?”

“Where is everybody?”

“Gone to bed.”

“Where’s Chip?”

“They took her to the hospital.”

“Is she okay?”

“As okay as she ever was.”

“And that’s the son?”

“Yeah.”

“Is he mad?”

“He’s mad. Did you get the scratchers?” Linus had laid out two quarters in readiness; he wanted to scratch all the scratchers elbow to elbow with Bob. Bob counted out ten per each of them; Linus tidied his stack and took up his coin. “Ready?” he asked, and Bob said he was, and they began.

There had been evidence of an odd-shaped fate running through the day, and both Linus and Bob were taken by an unspoken potentiality. But neither of them won anything, not a solitary dollar, and they sat for a time in silence, feeling the feeling that was failure. Linus said, “When we gamble, we’re asking the universe what we’re worth, and the universe, terrifyingly, tells us.” He patted his hand on the table, pinched his big beret. “Good night, amigo,” he said.

“Good night,” said Bob.