The Librarianist

The lobby was outfitted in dark-stained wood and was dimly lit by shaded lamps. There was no sign of Mr. More or Ida or June or the dogs but behind the front desk was a half-size door, which was ajar, and beyond which Bob believed he could hear voices. He ducked underneath the counter and stepped closer; when he heard June’s voice he felt emboldened, and he passed through the little door, following a worn carpeted runner down a thin hallway and toward the growing noise of the ongoing discussion. He stepped into Mr. More’s dining room to find the man and June and Ida seated at a table with bowls of steaming soup set out before them. Ida was eating determinedly while June was listening or pretending to listen to a story Mr. More was sharing or performing for her. When she saw Bob she brightened and pointed at the empty seat beside hers, then at the bowl of soup that had been set out for him. Bob could smell that it was a beef stew, and he was very hungry, and he moved to sit and eat and listen to these talking, talking people.

THE SOUP WAS CONSUMED AND THERE CAME THE TIME OF CONTEMPLATIVE quiet that often occurs at the end of a satisfying meal, and which Mr. More eventually interrupted by asking June, of Bob, “Well, now, what of the fugitive?”

“What of him?” said June.

“What shall we do with him? I suppose you think we should harbor him.”

“My suggestion would be that we do harbor him, yes.”

“You’re vouching for him.”

“I vouch.”

“And what of the sheriff? I should think he’d take an interest.”

“The sheriff can go be ten-gallons sick in his ten-gallon hat.”

“Easy to say without the sheriff here.”

“I’ll say it at high noon on the steps of town hall.”

“Easy to say when there is no town hall.”

“Well,” said June. “You asked what I thought and now you know. I believe Bob is a fine young fellow and I vote we take him on.”

Mr. More thought awhile, then said, “I am on the verge of agreeing to harbor him, but I’ve one condition, which is this: if the boy is caught, and my harboring comes back to haunt me in the form of the sheriff darkening my door, I must be able to say to him I was under the impression he was seventeen years old, and had no knowledge of his being to the side of the law.”

June said, “You may say whatever you wish, Mr. More.”

“Yes, but you and Ida must both back me up as witnesses to my being misled.”

“Fair and fair enough,” said June. “Does that suit you, Bob?”

“Yes,” said Bob.

“Tell Mr. More you’re seventeen, please.”

Bob told Mr. More, “I’m seventeen.”

“See there?” June said to Mr. More. “Now you won’t even have to lie.”

Mr. More said, “And Ida? You are on board with all this?”

Ida did not say yes, but neither did she say no, which for her was much the same as a yes. Mr. More asked June, “Who will pay the cost of the fugitive’s room?”

June asked Bob, “Do you have any money, Bob?”

“Yes.”

“It’s four dollars a night,” Mr. More said warningly.

Bob pulled his roll from deep in his sock and counted out four limp ones. He made to pass them to Mr. More, who asked Bob to leave the money on the table. “Give the bills some time to catch their breath,” Mr. More explained to June. He stood and left the room and returned with two keys. “Bob, you will be on the second floor, across the hall from Mr. Whitsell, who I suspect will be ecstatic for the company and who will likely introduce himself just as soon as he might. My good and durable women, you will be in the tower, in keeping with bygone preference.”

“Yes, thank you Mr. More.” June took the key in her hand, turning it over and scrutinizing it with a wondering look. “May I ask a question about the tower? Or, may I make an observation about it?”

“Yes, what?”

“It’s true that in the past we spent our pleasurable times there. But, and in the years we’ve been away, well — the tower looks as though it might collapse at any moment, Mr. More. And while I know that death comes for all, and that it is the fact of this great equalizer that gives our days such a tragic poetry, I don’t know that I’m ready to pass over just yet, to say nothing of my not wanting to perish in a state of terror.”

Mr. More sat listening with a sympathetic look on his face, but he said nothing to bring comfort to June.

“Will the tower hold us, Mr. More,” she said.

“I believe so, yes.”

“Do you believe it strongly?”

“I would be quite surprised if the tower should collapse this week.”

“Oh, would you be.”

“I would.”

“To be clear, though, you admit that it will at some point collapse.”

“Oh yes, it surely must, as must the entire building. But even still, and with this in mind, I do feel that the tower is best suited to your needs as it is the largest and most elegantly appointed room we have. You are welcome to any space in the hotel not already occupied, but I suspect you could investigate every corner of the property and that you would come to the same conclusion.”

“You think we should push on and cross our fingers, then.”