The Librarianist

Connie’s mother possessed a modest legacy that had long kept their home intact; once she was gone it was revealed by way of the will that the legacy was not so modest after all, which would have been good news were it not for the sting of betrayal that accompanied it. Connie’s father had no inkling that he was a member of the upper-middle rather than the lower-middle class, and he was scandalized that such a thing should have been kept from him. This bad feeling joined forces with his other bad feelings and became one big bad feeling. Free to do as he wished, now, and with all the money he could need for the upkeep of his lifestyle, Connie’s father gave in to his long-suppressed and stranger inclinations.

His demands of his daughter came one at a time, and almost sheepishly. He would bring up this or that concern as though it were only half a thought: “I’ve been wondering if we shouldn’t make some changes to the clothes you wear, Connie.” Once an individual concern was addressed and the change enacted he behaved as if it had always been so and was the norm — and to stray from the norm was sinful, unthinkable. Over the next eighteen months he became an unbending and tyrannical maniac for whom to leave the house was to enter the field of battle. Which was all fine for him, Bob supposed, but why was Connie made to come along on these campaigns? “Well, that’s a toughy, Bob. I think the short answer is that he believes he’s earning his ticket to Glory, and he’s after my being saved along with him. I don’t doubt it’s hard to read, but my father, in his way, is very devoted to me.” She paused. “You understand he’s never hit me or anything, right?” This was helpful for Bob to hear; because he had not understood this, and the thought had nagged him. Connie, sensing his further curiosity, told him, “And he’s not one of these perverts, either.”

“Good, great,” said Bob.

She was two years out of high school with no plan or desire to continue her education. As it had been with Bob, she’d made no significant friendships in school, but whereas he had been an unknown in his peer group, Connie had had a more involved and confrontational experience. She came under the category of Other, as her language and behaviors were considered obscure by those around her. Certain of the bolder boys made romantic overtures in her direction but they were met with unblinking ambivalence and cryptic dismissals; these same boys came together to discuss Connie Coleman’s spookiness. She was made uncomfortable by the young men, and young men in general. They were so totally without empathetic sensation that Connie thought they should not be granted access to walk among the population, much less given permission to operate automobiles on our streets and highways. Her female peers, she said, explained her away by saying she was a snob and a witch both. “And at the same time,” she told Bob. “Imagine that.” The word snob was not an accurate descriptor, according to Bob’s understanding of her personality; but he was not surprised by its employment. Connie could never be demure, and confidence of her sort, in the era of the mid-to-late 1950s, was unwelcome. He believed her ostracism was borne of a kind of envy summoned by Connie’s self-knowledge. Bob saw no evidence supporting the theory of her being a witch.

Time passed at the Information desk with Bob and Connie coming to learn the details of one another’s lives. Bob felt the burgeoning relationship was going very well, and it was, but the next level felt far-off for him. Connie had offered any number of hints she would like to visit Bob’s house, hints that became declarations: “I’d like to see this famous house sometime.”