The Librarianist

“And Daddy kicked over the cocktail caddy in protest, then walked across broken glass and there were little bloody footprints all over the veranda. Did I tell you about the cocktail caddy, Ethan? And the little bloody footprints all over the veranda?” Ethan was filling Eileen’s not-empty wineglass. He placed the glass in her hand and she drank without awareness she was drinking. “Mother did admit,” Eileen continued, “that if she were younger it would have been her running through the cane with Ethan. I think that’s sweet, really, don’t you, Ethan? She recognizes your value as a male specimen. Oh, but Daddy can’t hear Ethan’s name without spitting. Mother says he’s after disowning me but it’s too late, because I’m of age, and I’ve already received the bulk of my legacy.”

“And have you mapped out your plans?” said Connie.

“So much as they can be. Marriage first. We want to get that over with right away.”

“Will you have a large wedding?”

“Oh, yes. My extended family is sizable and they all want to get a good look at the cad I’ve given my person to. After the wedding, we’ll get out of that hovel of Ethan’s — which is where we’ve been staying, if you can believe it — and find a house in the area. Decoration and renovation while we honeymoon, and when we come home, then we’ll start our family. I want five children.” Ethan was again topping off her glass. “Yes, it’s quite full, Ethan, thank you.” She held her hair back and bent her head to sip at the wine without lifting the glass, which she could not have done without causing a spill. “We’ll have to find some sort of career for this layabout,” she said, “but so far we can’t name what that might be. Have you thought any more about what that might be, Ethan?”

“I haven’t,” said Ethan.

Eileen asked, “Don’t you think you should think about it?”

“I think I probably should,” Ethan said, sensibly. He turned to Bob. “I’m hungry.”

“You’re early. We’re waiting on the neighbors.”

It was only recently that Bob and Connie had established a rapport with the colorfully named Chance and Chicky Bitsch. They were genus Suburbiana: jolly drinkers and avid bridge players and bowlers; they chain-smoked Pall Malls and entertained nightly or nearly nightly. Chicky was the bartender and ashtray-emptier while Chance posted up at the stove, speaking through a veil of cigarette smoke, one eye clamped shut as he prepared his signature dish, a pepper-heavy boulder stew. Chance was a veteran of the Second World War, and while he rarely discussed his combat experience, Bob and Connie got the impression he’d seen extravagant grisliness there and now was devoted only to his comforts and leisure. Chicky was devoted to Chance and was not displeased by her earthly position, but still and she suffered regrets, a feeling of missed opportunity that comes to so many taking part in the matrimonial custom. When the Bitsches finally arrived they were fifteen minutes late, ice-clinking drinks and cigarettes in hand, apologizing for their tardiness, asking what they had missed, wondering if they should ever be forgiven for their rudeness and furthermore whether or not they deserved forgiveness. They were introduced to Ethan and then Eileen, who instantly asked after the origin of their surname. Chance, sitting, said, “My grandfather’s name was Heinrich Bitschofberger. He immigrated to the States by way of Dresden in advance of the First World War. Arriving in San Francisco, a helpful customs clerk pruned the name down for him. The clerk’s identity has been lost to time, sadly. I know my father would have liked to speak with him. He, the clerk, told my grandfather that Bitsch was a ‘good, strong, American name.’”

“You believe the clerk was being intentionally comical?” Eileen asked.

“I believe he believed he was being, yes.”

“Have you considered changing your name back to the original?”

“I’ve considered it. But when it comes down to actually performing the deed a defiance rises up in me and I elect to stay put.”

“And why?”

Chance sat a while, wondering how to put it. Looking at his wife, he said finally, “We are the Bitsches.”

Chicky explained that their being late was due to her immersion in an article she’d been reading in Time magazine, an exposé of the raucous and scandalizing goings-on at an East Coast liberal arts college that stoked and enflamed her sense of missing out. “These kids have it all sussed out,” she said. “They’re screwing in bushes.”

“Screwing in bushes is not a new thing,” said Chance. “Remember the Garden of Eden?”

“You never screwed me in bushes.”

“I didn’t know you wanted me to.”

“It’s not the sort of thing a lady should have to ask for. Anyway, it was a very interesting article. These art students are some lucky bunch, I’ll say.”

“Do you suffer the artistic impulse?” Eileen asked.

“Not at all. It was more the social aspect of the school I found intriguing. The article made it sound like a perfectly civilized four-year orgy. But here I’ve never been with another man besides Chance.”