The Librarianist

Bob said he thought that was unlikely. If the man wished to kill generally, would he hide himself away in an empty apartment? Ethan accepted this as true-sounding and he wished Bob luck and health, a speedy return. Bob crossed the street and climbed the stairs and knocked on the door of the apartment and the door swung open and there stood a man around forty years of age, his hair a shining, molded pompadour, his eyes glassy, and his face set in the expression of someone amused by his own exclusive sickness. He’d put his shirt on but it was untucked and unbuttoned, exposing a great belly, bald, blotchy-red, rotund but firm, as if filled with air. Bob’s impression of the man was that he was crazy and scary and that he would be hard to hurt. He bid him a good morning and asked if Ethan was at home; the man answered in a high, antic voice: “No, he’s not around right now!”

“Do you know where he is?” said Bob.

“I don’t know, no!”

“Are you expecting him anytime soon?”

The man became solemn. “Well,” he said, “the way I see it, at some point he’ll have to come back, isn’t that right?”

“Yes, I guess it is,” said Bob, peering over the man’s shoulder to survey Ethan’s apartment. He was seeking out any sign of vandalism or defacement when he noticed a stubby, snub-nosed black handgun resting atop Ethan’s coffee table. Bob told himself he mustn’t stare at the gun, but then he found he couldn’t not. The man followed Bob’s sight line and now also was staring at the gun. A look of grim amusement crept across his face and he started nodding, as if at the shared understanding of the weapon’s presence. “I’d invite you in to wait,” he said, “but I don’t think that I should do that!”

“Of course, yes, I understand,” said Bob, backing into the hallway. “Why don’t I try again another day?”

“Why don’t you?” the man said, then shut the door, and Bob went down the stairs and returned to the library. Ethan was back at his table, reading with an intense look on his face. As Bob walked up, Ethan dog-eared his page and looked up questioningly.

“Yeah,” said Bob, “you’re definitely not going to want to go home for a while.”

Ethan winced. “He’s angry?”

“He seems pretty happy, actually. I mean, you know, he’s insane.” Bob lowered his voice. “I think there was a pistol on the coffee table?”

“You think there was one or there was one?”

“It looked like a pistol.”

“Nothing looks like a pistol but a pistol.”

“I guess I meant it could have been a toy.”

“Who brings a toy pistol to the apartment of the man you’re planning on killing?”

“I don’t know. No one, I guess.”

“I don’t think anyone would,” said Ethan, agreeing. “Let’s assume, then, that it was a pistol and it was real and it’s his intention to use it to kill me.”

“Let’s assume that,” said Bob. And then, brightening: “He put his shirt on. Unbuttoned and untucked, but still — moving in the right direction.” This news gave way to a long silence. Bob said, “Maybe it’s time to find a new apartment.”

Ethan shook his head. “Out of the question, Bob. I love that apartment. No, I’ll wait him out; after he’s gone, I’ll just need to keep on my toes for another week or so. Our friend’s bitterness will last forever, but his rage has to pass. He’ll tell himself and his beer buddies he set out to kill me but couldn’t find me. Then he’ll get drunk and screw his wife for the full forty-five seconds — really teach her who’s boss. By lunchtime of that next day he’ll be lost to the cycle of his miserable life and I’ll become one more unhappy memory in his rearview mirror.”

This was said so casually that Bob thought it must surely be a case of false bravado; but in time he learned Ethan almost never felt things like fear, embarrassment, worry, regret. Bob returned to work and Ethan to his book. It was after three o’clock in the afternoon when Ethan saw that the white truck had gone. “And he turned off the lights, how thoughtful.” He stood up stretched and asked, “Can I borrow this book?”

“It’s a library,” said Bob, “so yes, you can.”

But Ethan didn’t have a library card, and so, as with Connie, Bob filled out the paperwork and passed over the temporary card. Ethan thanked Bob for his help and turned to leave. Bob asked, “What if it’s a trick and he’s waiting in there still?”

“I don’t care anymore,” said Ethan. “I’m going home. If I’m slain, tell the world I died for love, or some close cousin of it.”

Bob watched Ethan move the Mercury from the library lot and across the street, parking in the same place the white truck had been. He slipped up the stairwell, and as there was no clap of gunfire, Bob decided Ethan was not murdered. The next afternoon Ethan returned the Dostoyevsky, having finished the book after reading long into the night and through the morning. He said he wanted another book that made him feel just the same way, and did Bob have any recommendations that he would care to share and Bob answered that as a matter of fact and as it happened, he did.