The Librarianist

“Maybe Bob would like to play basketball with you?” Rory’s mother suggested.

Rory asked Bob, “You want to?”

“Yes,” Bob lied. He left his knapsack on the porch and followed Rory around to the side of the house, to stand beneath the netless hoop attached to the face of the garage. The boys weren’t speaking very much, but both were trying to make a go of the forced interaction; unfortunately, Bob had almost no athletic experience or ability, and couldn’t get the ball to go through the hoop even once. Bob thought his own performance comical, Rory less so — he began groaning at Bob’s ineptitude, shaking his head and muttering little outraged complaints to himself. Soon he announced he’d had enough, and he took the ball and walked into the house without inviting Bob to come with him. Bob wasn’t sure what to do, now. He loitered by the garage awhile, then made an inspection of the pile of wood in the driveway, then sat on the lawn and watched the cars go by. The sun was setting and the soil was damp and soaked through the backside of Bob’s pants. He heard the front door open; Rory’s mother said, “Bob? What are you doing?” “Sitting,” Bob answered, not turning around. “Why don’t you come in and eat some dinner?” Rory’s mother asked. “I’ve got you and Rory set up in the den. Rory’s listening to Fibber McGee and Molly.” Bob stood and followed Rory’s mother. Rory was sitting on a green couch in the wood-paneled den eating from a plate on his lap, and a plate had been set out on a tray for Bob. Rory’s mother asked Bob what he wanted to drink. “Milk, please,” Bob said, and Rory’s mother touched his head and said she’d be right back. Bob sat and examined his plate and began eating the mashed potatoes. Fibber McGee and Molly went to commercial, a boisterous encouragement to purchase war bonds; Rory turned to look at Bob and told him, “My dad’s too old to fight in the war.” He said this as if it were something that had been bothering him, something he needed to get off his chest.

“Okay,” Bob said.

“He’d have gone if he was younger. He wanted to go.”

Bob ate a forkful of potatoes.

Rory said, “I guess your dad went over there, huh?”

“No. I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

“What do you mean you don’t know? Did he or didn’t he?”

“I don’t know,” said Bob.

Rory’s mother had reappeared, glass of milk in her hand. She set this down on Bob’s tray and said, in a calm voice, “Rory, would you come away with me for a minute, please?”

“We’re listening to the radio, Ma.”

“Just a minute, Rory.”

Rory went away with his mother and came back alone. Now he was behaving differently toward Bob; not friendlier, but curiouser, stealing sneaking glances at him whenever he looked away. Bob understood that Rory’s mother had explained about Bob’s not having a father. It wasn’t Rory’s knowing that bothered Bob, it was Rory’s gruesome awe, and that he didn’t have the tact to know he should hide his awe away. Rory knew, at least, that he shouldn’t verbalize the thoughts occurring in his mind; from this point on he said hardly a word to Bob.

After Fibber McGee and Molly they listened to Bob Hope’s strained entertainment of the troops, and then to the news: German forces in Denmark have surrendered to the Allies. Rory’s mother came in holding Bob’s knapsack and said chirpily, “Time for you boys to get ready for bed, all right?” As Bob passed her by she again set her hand on his head and he inwardly winced at the contact, which he now knew was inspired by pity. The boys made for Rory’s room, taking turns in the bathroom, brushing their teeth and putting on their pajamas. Bob lay in a sleeping bag on the floor in the dark; he wasn’t tired, and in a little while, when he heard Rory’s even breathing, he pulled his street clothes on over his pajamas, took up his knapsack, and left the room. He came down the stairs, stepping quietly along the hall toward the front door; in passing the kitchen he turned to find Rory’s father bent at the waist, squinting into the fridge. He wore a white undershirt tucked into a pair of high-worn pajama bottoms, and he was lumpy and pale. When he noticed Bob, he stood up straight and said, “You must be the sleeping-over kid I’ve been hearing about.” Bob said that he was and Rory’s father asked, “Well, what are you up to?”

“I’m going to go home now.”

The man looked at his watch and back at Bob.

Bob said, “It’s okay. I’m okay. Goodbye. Thank you.”

“Don’t thank me,” said Rory’s father, returning to bow and squint before the refrigerator. “I didn’t do anything.”