The Librarianist

Bob asked, as casually as he could, whether or not she had designs toward a family. She poked Bob’s side. “Kids?” she said. “I’m not so sure about that.”

“Don’t you like kids?”

“I don’t know any kids.”

“Maybe you don’t like the idea of them.”

“No, to be honest, I don’t. It’s a steep investment for a woman, with unreliable returns.” She glanced down at her watch.

“Am I boring you?”

“Shut up,” said Connie, but kindly.

“You have to go?”

“In a little bit I do. But I want to keep talking. Will you tell me about the library? Now that we’re away from there I want to know more about it.”

Bob said, “It’s a library.”

“But why are you there?”

“I want to be there. I like it there.”

“What do you like about it?”

“I like the way I feel when I’m there. It’s a place that makes sense to me. I like that anyone can come in and get the books they want for free. The people bring the books home and take care of them, then bring them back so that other people can do the same.” Bob explained about his happinesses on the quiet mornings, of his arrival at the library, the dense soundlessness of the carpeted mezzanine, and the occasional empty illuminated bus shushing by over the damp pavement.

She said, “You like being alone.”

“Being alone is normal.”

“Is it?”

“It’s normal for me.”

“Don’t you like people?”

“I don’t know any people.”

“Clever,” she said, pointing.

“I like the idea of people,” Bob said. Then, “Do you like them?”

“I do, actually.” She thought about it. “I like them on the bus, when they look out the window all lonely. I like when they count their change in their palms as the bus is pulling up. I think most people are doing the best that they can.” She shrugged, and said she’d have to leave soon, and she looked at Bob, and Bob wanted to kiss her but he didn’t know how to do it. After a while of waiting, she stood up and went back into the house and he followed her. She walked to the front door and took her coat off the peg and put it on.

“Look,” said Bob, “why don’t you let me drive you home?”

“That’s impossible. But, you can drop me down the street from the house, how about that?”

“I’ll take it,” said Bob, reaching for his coat. Soon Connie stood on the landing, watching Bob’s back while he locked up the front door. “You’re a little bit of a weirdo, aren’t you Bob?” she asked, and Bob, turning, said, “I think the truth is that we’re both weirdos, Connie.”

As with the house, she gave Bob’s vehicle a thorough going-over, opening and closing the glove box, turning the radio off and on, adjusting the volume. She rolled the window down and closed her eyes as the breeze touched her face. “It’s nice, being in a car,” she said. They crossed the river, passed the library, closed up for the day. They were a mile from Connie’s house when she became rigid in her seat. “This is far enough.”

“Why don’t you let me take you all the way?” Bob asked, but Connie grew stern and told him, “Stop this car, Bob Comet.” When he did not immediately slow down, she yanked at the steering wheel so that Bob had to pull over. The car sat idling at the curb; Bob was grinning and Connie could see that he had some mischief coming up in him. But she was unamused, and she said, “You want to see me again, is that right?”

“You bet it’s right.”

“Okay.”

“It’s really right.”

“Okay. That’s good. I like that. But you’ve got to understand about my father. It’s not some small concern and he’s not, you know, grumpy. He’s a delusional fanatic whose relationship with reality has been severed. And if it comes to his attention that I’m in any sort of romantic entanglement he is going to go berserk, okay? Berserk is the word.”

Bob said, “Has it occurred to you that he might like me?”

“He’s not going to like you.”

“Maybe he won’t like me at first but then time will pass and he’ll come to see I’m a good guy and like me against his better judgment.”

“He’s going to loathe you. He’s going to pray for the death of you.”

“Maybe he’ll weaken with time.”

“No. Bob? Listen to me. Listen to the words as I say them. Understand them. Are you listening?”

Bob looked at her mouth. “Yes.”

“He’s not going to change so long as you have any interest in me. He’s going to bar you totally from his and my areas and I wouldn’t put it past him to engage in something extreme, along the lines of violence.”

“Okay,” said Bob. “Well, what are we going to do about that?”

“We’re going to not introduce the two of you, is what we’re going to do.” Connie kissed Bob’s cheek and exited the car. Looking in at him from the sidewalk, she said, “I don’t know what more to say to you. But this is the shape of our problem. There are ways around it but not through it, and I’ll thank you to pay attention to what I tell you, right?”

“Right.”

“Thank you for the ride.”

“You’re welcome. When will I see you again?”

“Just as soon as it’s possible, obviously. I’ll let you know, okay?” Bob watched her walk away. After she was out of sight, he held up his finger and said, as if to a jury, “The young woman herself admits that the entanglement is of a romantic nature.”