The Librarianist

“I think we’re all about the same, though, no?” said Chance.

“I feel doubt about that,” Chicky admitted.

“Has it ever occurred to you that I’m the best there is?”

“That hadn’t occurred to me, no.” Chicky turned to Connie. “Understand, please, my fondness for the man. I adore him, yes?”

“Of course,” said Connie. They were nodding at each other and Bob became uneasy because it seemed that they were drawing unflattering parallels.

Chance asked Connie, “Bob ever screw you in bushes, honey?”

“He never did, no.”

“Some men, these men of ours,” Chicky said.

Eileen said, “Ethan screwed me in bushes in Acapulco.”

“Okay, wow,” said Chicky, rolling up imaginary sleeves. “Now we’re getting somewhere.”

Connie said, “I thought you’d said it was in the cane.”

“It was in the cane as well as in bushes.”

Chicky slowly raised her glass in salute. “Best of goddamned luck to the both of you, and a long life to boot.” Now she saw her glass was empty, and reached for Chance’s, which also was empty. “I guess we should switch to wine, Chancey, what do you think?”

Chance was frowning; he told Bob, “She wants me to screw her in bushes, all she’s got to do is ask. But I’m not a mind reader.”

Dinner arrived and was consumed. Everyone praised the meal other than Eileen, who had made a long and thorough investigation of her plate before eating only half of what she’d been served. Chance and Chicky volunteered to clear the table, stacking and shuttling the dishes from the dining room and into the kitchen. Bob heard the soft squeak of the screen door opening and closing. Connie, meanwhile, sat watching Eileen. “I hope you were satisfied with your supper?” she asked. Eileen said, “It was very interesting, thank you. I’ve heard of meat loaf’s existence, but this was my first experience with it in person.” Connie took the blow, rallied, and announced that the dessert course would come next. She made for the kitchen to plate it and Ethan jumped up to help, leaving Bob alone with Eileen, who held her wineglass to her cheek, looking vaguely away. As though replying to something Bob had said, she told him, “It is a shame, that he’s not wealthy into the bargain.”

“Oh?” said Bob.

“Yes. If he was rich he would be, absolutely, the perfect man.” She took a long drink of wine. “I keep telling my mother ‘But Mother, once he’s married, he will be rich.’ ‘Not like we are,’ she says. ‘Exactly like we are,’ I say. ‘And by the same money.’ But no, she insists it isn’t the same.”

“No, I suppose it’s not.” In looking at Eileen, Bob felt he could say anything in the world to her, that he could admit to some enormous sin and that it would have no effect whatever. “It must be nice, wealthiness,” he said.

“Oh, I like it very much. Of course it has its own problems, like anything.”

“Yes,” said Bob. “And what are the problems?”

“Well, to fight for something, if and when you win it, it becomes more yours than if you’re simply given it. This ranges from little things to much larger.”

“And so,” Bob said, “when one doesn’t have to fight, then what?”

“To not have to fight may lead to — complacency.” She spoke the word as if it represented a state of depravity.

“Have you ever succumbed to complacency?”

“I’ve not known it in the first hand,” she said. “But it would be a bald lie to claim never to’ve seen it in others.”

Connie and Ethan returned and distributed the dessert portions, cherry pie with a thick wedge of Neapolitan ice cream.

“Oh, I love cherry pie,” said Eileen. “Is it homemade?”

Connie performed a small collapse. “It was homemade by the woman in the supermarket, and God bless her crampy little hands.” Ethan laughed hard at this; Eileen made a face of not seeing what was funny.