The Librarianist

It was a cold walk on hard concrete. Connie was positioned in between Bob and Ethan, and she did not take Bob’s arm as was usual, but walked alone and independent of him. When he felt he couldn’t stand it, he took her hand in his, but she quickly removed it and put it in her pocket. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Ethan wasn’t behaving as before. He was quieter, almost formal as he asked about their wedding plans, and whether or not they would honeymoon, and would they have children, and how many? It made for poor conversation, and Connie tried to lead Ethan back to himself by asking teasing questions: How long had he been a masher on buses? And what was his success rate? Was there honor among mashers? If he got on a bus to mash, for example, and found another masher already onboard, did he then exit the bus to give his mashing peer room to work without competition? When this line failed to get a rise, Connie made to engage Ethan in some banter against Bob, but Ethan would only praise Bob’s influence, declarations of admiration that Bob felt were rooted in pity.

Altogether the meal was, for Bob, a spectacle of emotional discomfort. At its conclusion Ethan snatched the bill out of the surprised waiter’s hand and made a play at casual largesse by paying for the dinner, though he was broke, and Bob knew he was broke. After Ethan had hurried off and gone, the silence he left behind was a wretched creature, and Bob couldn’t tell where his insecurity ended and the factual dreadfulness began. He and Connie walked back to the library, and the Chevy; all the way home, they spoke hardly a word to one another. Entering the house, Connie said she was sorry his friend hadn’t liked her. When Bob asked her what she meant she said, “First he’s as friendly as a puppy, right? Then at dinner he hardly says a thing to me other than to grunt, and God forbid he should look me in the eye.”

“He felt shy, maybe.”

“Not before dinner he wasn’t. And on the bus he was the least shy man I’ve ever met in my life. Anyway, why would he become shy around me? Didn’t you say he’s some kind of playboy?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“I just mean that I’m plain.”

“No, you’re not. But what does the way you look have to do with Ethan?”

“Nothing. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

“Why are you sorry?”

“Bob, stop.” She busied herself taking off her coat and hanging it on the peg in the hall. She stood watching the wall. “I want your friend to like me, okay? It’s important to me that he and I get along.” Bob didn’t take his coat off. He walked upstairs and lay down on top of the comforter, listening to Connie making the usual house-at-night noises downstairs: water on and off, back door open and shut, lights clicking off. Bob hadn’t named his concern, but by the way he was behaving it must have been obvious he had again been overtaken by a jealousy. He felt he was making himself unattractive, but no matter how he approached it he couldn’t think of a way to force the jealousy to cease. As he lay there squirming in his unhappiness, he became aware that Connie’s house-at-night noises were growing more pronounced — she was banging and clattering things around in the kitchen with more force than was necessary. Bob listened with care and interest — yes, she was definitely expressing an anger. Bob thought she had considered the source of his concern, translated it, and now knew a sense of insult, which rather than bringing Bob to a place of remorse or sorrow made him soothed and hopeful. Was it not likely, after all, that Connie’s anger meant she didn’t recognize Bob’s fear as plausible, or even possible? As the banging and clattering grew louder, so did Bob’s relief grow. When Connie came upstairs she was stomping her feet and cursing under her breath and Bob was more or less thrilled. She took an angry shower and got into her pajamas angrily, punching her feet through the leg holes; she sat down hard on the edge of the bed and glared at Bob, who calmly explained that he loved her so much it had made him a little bit crazy that night, and that he was very sorry if he had insulted her, or insulted their life. It was a process for them to arrive at a place where Connie forgave him, but after, late in the night, Bob took her hand in his, and she didn’t pull away from him. In the morning Bob issued a warning to himself. He hadn’t understood the fallibility of their pact; now he saw that it was not a permanent structure but something that had to be cared for and tended to. He was afraid of what he’d done and by the way he’d behaved and he told himself that the only way forward was to believe in what he and Connie had made and to protect it.