The Librarianist

She was confused by the suddenness of his departure, and she was unhappy by the way it was achieved. When Ethan came to visit Bob at the library the next day, Bob took him to task for his rudeness. Ethan bowed his head; in his defense he claimed that he’d had a sudden case of ants in the pants, and Bob surely knew what that was like. Bob said that, actually, he’d never had ants in his pants, at least not that he could remember. “Well,” said Ethan, “trust me when I say it makes it so you’ve got to move.” Bob encouraged Ethan to apologize to Connie, and Ethan said that he would, but he didn’t. Connie merely shrugged when Bob recounted the interaction; she said it was a shame, but people would often let you down, and that was all there was to it. Bob felt, for the first time, unimpressed with Ethan; he wondered if he hadn’t finally achieved the full-scope portrait of the man. Later, after the household went to pieces, after the thing with the string, Bob supposed that what had actually happened was Ethan had fallen in love with Connie during his convalescence. This was why he had left in such a rush, and this was why he began to hide himself away from her; to pretend, really, that she didn’t exist in relation to Bob’s life. Perhaps he thought if he ran away fast enough and stayed gone long enough then he might get clean away from the cursed, blessed feeling.

CONNIE DECIDED THAT SHE AND BOB WERE NOT TAKING ADVANTAGE OF their proximity to Oregon’s natural surroundings, and that they should go on hikes, and become hikers, and she bought a book on the subject of hikes and also a pair of hiking boots. Bob didn’t want to give away a Saturday’s worth of couch reading to what he believed was a fleeting desire of Connie’s, but in the name of peace-in-the-home he agreed that they would and should attack a five-mile loop at the base of Mount Hood that coming weekend. The afternoon before the hike, Bob met Ethan for lunch at the Finer Diner. Since Ethan had left Bob’s house he’d taken on a paleness or apartness from the world that on this day was mounting in the direction of the acute. Bob asked Ethan what was the matter, and Ethan made a long inhalation through his nostrils. The impression he had, he said, exhaling, was that the current was directly, unmistakably, and for the first time in his life, against him. Every step he took was wrong; every natural decision and inclination resulted in some manner of snubbing or rejection. Bob still had no true comprehension of the reason for Ethan’s crisis; he told Ethan that slumps were a part of life and that his would soon pass him by. “You don’t get it,” said Ethan simply. “Something is wrong. Even my good news is bad news these days.”

“What’s your good news?”

Ethan hesitated. “Never mind.” He began busily stirring his black coffee.

“Then what’s the bad news?”

“Nothing, Bob.” He put his hand on Bob’s arm, and he looked contrite. “I’m sorry I said anything. I’m fine. Let’s skip it.”

Bob invited Ethan to come on the hike and Ethan demurred, but when Bob pressed him he agreed that it might be helpful to get out of town, out of his apartment, away from the fumes of himself. “Though, Connie probably won’t want me along,” he said.

“Sure she would.”

“You think she would?”

“Why wouldn’t she?” He told Ethan they’d pick him up at nine o’clock the next morning. At eight o’clock, Bob stood lurking at Connie’s elbow while she cooked their breakfast. “You’re emitting that wants-something ozone, Bob,” she said, and he admitted it was true, and explained about his idea that they should bring Ethan along with them to Mount Hood. Connie’s face expressed nothing; finally she said, “Can we not?”

“We don’t have to. But I think it could be good for him.”

“Why, what’s the matter with him?”

“I don’t know what, and he doesn’t know. But he’s very low, lately.”

Connie still wore a blank face, her arm stirring a pot of porridge. “I wanted it to be just us.”

“Just us is not new,” Bob told her. He didn’t mean it as a complaint, didn’t intend it to be anything other than true, but Connie did harden up after he’d said it, and now came the concession: yes, Ethan could tag along, if that was what Bob wanted and thought was best. When the Chevy pulled up outside Ethan’s apartment he was waiting on the curb, standing hatless in the drizzle and staring into the air, ruffled and damp and confused-looking. “Jesus, he’s like a hobo,” Connie said. Ethan climbed into the Chevy as though he were getting into a taxi. He sat in the back, looking out the window, not speaking, not responding to Bob’s good-morning greeting. Connie turned around in her seat and began to tease Ethan, pinching his nose and poking his middle, as if he were a baby. “Stop,” Ethan said in a flat, croaking voice.