The Librarianist

The driver exited and stepped to the rear of the bus, opening the hold to attend to the baggage. There came a thump from outside and Ida, craning her neck to look out the window, said, “He’ll break the guillotine, the fool!” Taken by a panic, Ida and June hurried down the aisle, with the dogs at their heels, and Bob following after the dogs. There had been no discussion about his presence among them but he thought to keep on until he was told in clear language to stay away. He slunk from the bus and stood at a distance, watching the driver unload the baggage while the women pointed out this and that bag’s fragility while also explaining the man’s many mistakes to him. The baggage was stacked in a tall pile and Bob took refuge behind it.

The driver lingered, dabbing at his face with a hanky and looking up at the women expectantly. Perhaps he thought them wealthy eccentrics, and that they might bestow some outsize gratuity upon him. But time passed in silence and the women did not offer the driver any cash bonus or even a kind word, and so he tucked the hanky away and returned to the bus, flopping into his seat in a gesture of petulant defeat. In a moment he sat up straighter, as if inspired; turning the key in the ignition, he started revving the engine and dropping it in and out of first gear while standing on the brake, actions that prompted a backfire, a voluminous black cloud of burned soot that surrounded both women, who coughed and sputtered and waved their hands to chase the smoke away. The bus driver tooted his horn and eased the bus back onto the highway; June, cleaning the grime from her face with her handkerchief, said, “Credit where it’s due, Ida. The man knows his instrument.” Ida stood motionless, seething in place, and she couldn’t speak, or didn’t. Meanwhile, a joyful-looking man with one arm stepped out of the Hotel Elba and crossed the highway to stand before June and Ida. “Good evening, good women!” he said.

“Mr. More,” said June, inspecting her handkerchief. “What is your news?”

“Just that I was minding my business at the front desk when I happened to look up in time to see the pair of you engulfed in a plume of exhaust. Can you imagine my surprise?”

“I can imagine it,” said June. “I should think it was probably quite a lot like our own surprise, only not nearly so unpleasant.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. More. He pointed his chin at the place where the bus had been. “It looked as though he meant for it to happen, was that your impression as well?”

“That’s right.”

“And what transpired, to bring the driver to such a vengeful place? I do hope that your talent for friendshipmaking has not left you?”

“Not totally, no. It has become, I will admit, less reliable. Or perhaps it is that there are fewer we wish to be friends with in the first place. Your own talent for observational clevernesses is still evident.”

“Yes, I’ve hung on to it. I keep thinking it might become suddenly useful someday. It is a weapon against the rest, is it not?” He brandished an invisible sword and made his face warlike, slashing on the air. Now the sword vanished, and his face resumed its kinder attitude, and he asked, “What would you say to a nice bowl of soup?”

“Perhaps not on the highway,” June said.

Mr. More turned to face Ida. “Hello, Ida.” When Ida did not reply, Mr. More observed, “Ida isn’t speaking at all, is she?”

June said, “She has had a long day.”

“We all have had one.”

“Ours was uncommonly long, Mr. More.”

Mr. More said, “Take comfort, strong Ida, the day is near to passed.” But Ida was voiceless still. “Do you think she’ll resume speaking in time for rehearsals?” Mr. More asked.

“She will speak sooner than that or I miss my guess.” June began cleaning Ida’s face with her handkerchief.

“I can’t recall what Ida’s feelings about soup are?”

“Our feelings about soup are that we enjoy it, Mr. More, but not to the degree that we wish to discuss it quite so much. And, that you have brought up the soup twice before we have even entered the hotel does not fill me with optimism at the prospects for our success here.”

“Why ever not?”

“Because I know you, Mr. More. If you are so aggressively pushing an appetizer, then there is likely not so very much behind the appetizer.” She pointed at the hotel. “Why is there no playbill in the front window announcing the coming performances?”

Mr. More began shuffling his feet, and a look of alarm came over his face. “Well, now, I have something to say about that actually, June.”

“Will you admit to us that you have not had the playbills printed?”

“I repeat: I have something to say. Why not let me say it?”