The Librarianist

“Are you sure?” said June. “We really don’t mind.”

“No, no. You’ve got your work to do, and to tell the truth I’ve entered into a period of my life where I actually enjoy doing the dishes, and by myself. Which is odd when I consider to what degree I always loathed the practice before; but recently it feels like time well spent. What does it mean?” Bob was nearly asleep in his chair; Mr. More gently crushed his foot under the table and said, “Someday, Bob, when you’re an aged specimen like me, and you find yourself suddenly enamored of folding the laundry or edging your lawn, remember your long-gone friend Leslie More telling you to accept whatever happiness passes your way, and in whatever form.”

“Okay,” said Bob.

“Because it’s a fool who argues with happiness, while the wiser man accepts it as it comes, if it comes at all.”

“Okay.”

THE NEXT DAY BOB RETURNED TO THE BEACH TO PRACTICE HIS PRESS rolls. The first performance was scheduled to take place thirty-six hours hence; with this in mind, Bob endeavored to arrive at a place where he could achieve the percussive effect without thinking of it. An hour and a half passed, and he paused, looking out to sea and having looking-out-to-sea thoughts. He imagined he heard his name on the wind and turned to find Ida leaning out the window of the tilted tower; her face was green as spinach puree, and she was waving at him that he should come up. Bob held the drum above his head, and she nodded that he should bring it with him.

He crossed the road and climbed the stairs to the tower. Ida answered the door and Bob now saw that she was wearing a full and realistic witch costume, with pointy hat and flowing rags, a prosthetic nose and chin, and her teeth were blackened and she said, “Good morning, Bob. Come inside, please.” Bob entered to find a room exploded with clothing and costumes and props and banners. The dogs nosed through the wreckage; they too were dressed as witches. June was sitting on an unmade bed, telephone in hand, and she was dressed as half-a-witch: she wore the same green makeup but no nose or chin, a hat but no flowing rags. “How’s life on old planet Earth, Bob?” she asked, but before Bob could answer, she was speaking into the telephone: “Operator? Yes, good morning. May I ask you, what’s the name of the newspaper in this area?” She waited. “There’s two,” she told Ida, who wasn’t listening, busy as she was making evil faces in a mirror on the wall. June asked the operator, “Which of the two is the smarter outfit? Oh, you know, larger, better, stronger. Which is more widely read, I guess is the question. All right, that’s fine. Will you please connect me with their front office? Bless you.” While she waited, she watched Ida, lost in her engagement with her reflection. “Ida has bewitched herself,” she told Bob, before resuming the telephone conversation: “Yes, hello, I should like to speak with whichever reporter is responsible for the coverage of arts in your area. Oh, the moving arts. The talking arts. Singing arts, sort of, sometimes. We also possess dogs who can do any number of clever things. That’s right, we throw it all into a pot and hope for the best.” June was watching Bob standing there with the drum in his hands; covering the phone, she whispered, “Ida, release yourself.” Ida looked away from the mirror and asked, “What?” June pointed at Bob, then uncovered the phone and said, “Either man sounds fine to me. May I ask you a favor, though, woman to woman? Will you put me in touch with the lesser bastard?” June held the phone out; the woman on the line was laughing hard enough that it was audible across the room. Ida led Bob into the bathroom and shut the door behind them.

“You’ve been practicing?”

“Yes.”

“Will you show me?”