The Librarianist

“All the wives are suddenly shaking their heads,” said the sheriff, to modest applause and laughter. “Wise women. No, thank you but I won’t be needing your help tonight. How about you mind your place and I’ll take care of the rest, all right? Just, let me do the job you pay me to do. There ought to be some good coverage on the radio, and if they riot like they mean it you’ll likely be able to see some sign of it from your windows.” The crowd raised up a friendly note of approval for the sheriff and he waved a hand before jumping back on the microphone: “Oh, one more thing: stop calling my house! You’re driving Mrs. the Sheriff to drink.”

The sheriff was getting into his car to leave but was waylaid by a number of men who wished to further discuss the Bay City situation. All the rest in the crowd stood about dissecting their theories and concerns with one another; Bob took advantage of the throng to pass out his handbills. Pal and Buddy caused a small stir, and Bob couldn’t give the handbills away fast enough. After, with the crowd trickling away, he and the dogs looped the little town. He saw that the diner was open for business, the waitress chatting away with a line of men at the bar. When Bob returned to the hotel he found June and Ida in the auditorium, setting up for another rehearsal. Ida was onstage with the cauldron; June was standing at the middle aisle amid the bank of seats. They both were back in their traditional daytime outfits. “Left,” June said; and Ida moved the cauldron to her left. “My left,” said June, and Ida sighed and corrected the position of the cauldron. “More,” said June, and Ida moved the cauldron farther to June’s left. “That’s good. Mark it.” Now Ida knelt down to outline the cauldron in chalk while June turned to face Bob as he made his approach. “Here comes our man on the street. Hey, where are the handbills?”

“I gave them away.”

“Not all of them?” she asked, and Bob explained about the crowd, and what the sheriff had said about Bay City. Mr. More came in with his carafe of coffee and triangulated sandwiches on a tray. “Chow bell, chow bell,” he said.

“Did you know about this violence downcoast?” asked June.

“Yes.”

“Well, what do you think of it?”

“I think that it’s a good thing I don’t live downcoast.”

“My God, what next?” June said.

Ida stepped up to meet the group. “What’s the matter?”

“They’re set to riot in the neighboring town,” Mr. More explained.

“Just now?”

“Tonight.”

Ida took up a sandwich. “Look on the bright side,” she said. “If they riot tonight then they’ll be freed up tomorrow, and likely quite placid to boot, having already satisfied their lust for carnage.”

June touched Bob at the elbow. “We’ve been met with violence on numerous occasions. In a mining camp in Ohio they threw stones at us. Ida still believes they were trying to kill us.”

“They were trying to kill us,” said Ida, biting into the sandwich and chewing slowly, suspiciously.

“Because they hadn’t liked the play?” Mr. More ventured.

“That was our impression,” said June.

Mr. More moved to set the tray on the edge of the stage. “I’ll just leave this here for you to work through at your leisure.” After he exited the auditorium, Ida tossed her sandwich over her shoulder and into the darkness. “Meat paste,” she told June.

“He shouldn’t have.”

“Really, he shouldn’t.”

“The diner’s open again,” Bob said, and June and Ida looked to one another. “But it’s too soon to break,” June said.

“But I’m hungry,” said Ida.

“But it’s too soon.”

“But: I’m hungry.”

“Well, I am too, if you want to know the truth. What about you, Bob? Where do you sit on the hunger scale?”

“Hungry,” Bob answered.

“That tears it,” said June. “Get your coat, Ida, and mine, and let us dine.”

Soon they entered the diner, greeting their waitress friend.

“Oh, hello,” she said.

June said, “I understand you’ve found the missing cook?”

“Anyway, he’s back.”

“And where was he?”

“Honestly, I’m so mad I don’t think I can talk about it. Better you go ask him yourself.” She pointed at the square cutaway cubbyhole where the cook received his orders and set down his plates of food and dinged his silver bell. June approached and called out, “Excuse me?” and the cook’s face appeared. He looked puffy and red-eyed but not unhappy; June asked, “Where were you, sir, that everyone was so up in arms?”

“Well, I went off and served myself a couple of beverages, didn’t I?”

“You had a high time?”

“Yes, quite high.”

“And how did you feel after?”

“Oh, disgusted,” he said. “But I had fun too, which counts for something, after all.”

“Are you glad to be back?”

The cook made the half-and-half gesture.

“Are you very tired?”

“Lady, I’m as tired as a dead dog.” He looked at Pal, resting in June’s arms. “No offense, partner. Hey, look at your little hat.”

June said, “Perhaps once you begin your daily frizzling, then you’ll find some obscure reserve of energy.”