The Librarianist

“Obviously and I’m not,” said Ida. “Will you name them now?”

“Oh, Ida,” said June tiredly.

“Name the plans which I’ve upset. I should like to know. And perhaps I could make some reparation to you for all the damage I’ve done your life.”

June told Bob, “I think we’ve gone down the wrong path.”

“Oh, is that what you think?” said Ida. “Is that what you think has happened?” Her cheek was flushed and her breathing had become a little ragged.

June apologized in the sincereish tone of the repeat offender, and Bob had the impression it was not uncommon for Ida to feel insulted or slighted by June; also that June was less sympathetic to Ida’s feelings than she once perhaps had been. But Ida was now succumbing to a proper funk, and June, hoping to avoid any emotional calamities, invented an idea in response to this hope, and she touched Bob’s hand to alert him of its arrival: “I believe we should ask the boys, then, what they think the solution might be.” She turned to the dogs, still curled up on the bench to the side of Bob. “Boys,” she said, and the dogs both opened their eyes. “I come to you for counsel; may I borrow a portion of your time?” The dogs raised up their heads. “Dear Ida and I have come once again to an impasse. We are the both of us very tired, and there is the unreliability of our comforts both current and to come; weariness has taken hold and I do feel it has made the both of us into — peeves. What, do you think, is the best way forward and out of this? What might we do to turn Ida’s mood around, and before it’s too late and we lose a day to it?” As she spoke, June pulled a small hand instrument from the pocket of her coat. It had a chunky wooden base with metal tines attached; she held it steady upon her knee and began to play a plunking, buzzing little waltz. Once June’s song achieved recognizability, the dogs stood up, first on all fours, then rising to their hind legs. Resting their forelegs on one another’s shoulders, they began the approximation of a dance in the ballroom fashion. June played with facility, her fingers nimbly picking out the melody while she hummed a countertune; Ida was ameliorated by the performance, and watched the dogs with a forgiving, or anyway a forgetting, face. For Bob’s part, he could think of no words to say in reply to the occurrence of the waltzing dogs. The train plunged deeper into the still and ancient forest. Bob could not yet see the ocean but there was the sense of an ocean pending.

THE TRAIN TERMINATED IN ASTORIA AND THE WOMEN STOOD TO COLLECT their effects. In watching their departure, Bob discovered a desire in himself, which was to follow them and make an investigation of their movements and behaviors, and he decided he would do this but without alerting them to the fact, if the fact could be avoided. He stood and took up his knapsack, altering his facial expression and physical carriage to represent one not-following. As the women turned to go, June looked back at him with what he took for a question of concern on her face, but there was no question, or else she chose not to give voice to it. “Well, good luck young man” was what she said, and Bob bowed his head, and they all left the compartment, traveling in single file down the narrow passageway and toward the exit, the dogs both looking at Bob from over the shoulders of their masters.

The five of them descended onto the busy platform and Bob hid himself in the crowd, loitering at a distance while the women oversaw the transfer of their baggage from the train to the hold of a Trailways bus idling in the roundabout out front of the depot. After the women boarded the bus, and while the driver was distracted by the closing up and securing of the luggage compartment, Bob snuck onboard and made to find his seat. There were none available except at the rear of the bus, which was where the women and dogs were situated. It was Ida who noticed Bob’s approach, June being distracted by the view out the window. “It’s back,” she said.

“What’s back?”

“Your train project. The foundling.”

June turned to look at Bob, and there again was the face-breaking smile. “Bold life-liver,” she said.

“Hi,” Bob told her.

“Never mind the chitchat,” said Ida. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Bob didn’t answer; Ida asked, “Perhaps you’re thinking to go wherever we go.”

Bob said, “Well.”

“Well, nothing.” Ida turned to June. “I’m going to alert the driver to the particulars of this child’s situation and have him call ahead for a policeman to meet us in Mansfield.”

June said, “Ida, you thorough maniac. The boy can go wherever he wishes to go. He isn’t bothering anyone, my goodness.”

“He’s bothering me.”

“You bother yourself. That’s your Lifetime Problem. Just leave this to me, thank you.” June pointed at the seat to the side of theirs and told Bob, “Become comfortable, please.”