The Librarianist

“Still, I don’t like it.” The sheriff was looking at Bob. He said, “I guess I’ll just run the kid back myself, HQ.”

“You’re going to drive to Portland?”

“Well, why not. I’m overdue a visit to my mother-in-law, anyway. There’s two good deeds with the one stone. Can’t hurt my luck and maybe it’ll bolster my self-esteem.”

“When should I say you’re coming up?”

“Soon enough. Just, let’s wait until after these aspirin cast their spell. You’ll want to get our brash young deputy out of bed, give him a shake and send him over here to keep watch in my stead. If he complains, remind him it was his idea to stop for a nightcap.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“Tell him it was my idea to remind him it was his idea.”

“Yes, Sheriff.”

“It might get noisy tonight but I’ll be back by then.”

“All right. What else?”

“Nothing I can think of. I’ll see you, HQ.”

“Good morning, Sheriff.”

The sheriff hung up his radio and asked Bob, “You got a bag somewhere, kid? Long stick with a hanky on the end of it?” Bob pointed at the hotel and the sheriff said, “Okay, you go on, then. I’ll wait here for you. Only don’t dillydally, all right?” Bob said all right and stepped away. “Hey, though,” said the sheriff, and Bob turned back. “I just want to say that if you run away again then you’ll make me look bad and everyone’ll make fun of me and I’ll be sore and I don’t want to feel that way about you because you seem like a nice kid.” Bob said he wouldn’t run, and he was telling the truth, and so the sheriff believed him. He told Bob, “You’re not in any real trouble, by the way. I mean, I’m not sure what your reception at home’ll be like but from the legal standpoint you’re not in trouble hardly at all. You’re in a very mild and manageable amount of trouble, okay?”

“Okay.”

“Okay, go get your things. I’ll be here.”

Bob walked back in the direction of the hotel. The trumpeter had found a fiddler and guitar player and they were trying to come together to make some moment-appropriate war-is-over music, but they couldn’t agree on a song, or there wasn’t one that they all three knew how to play. The lobby was empty; Bob rang the bell but no one answered. He went to his room and packed up his pajamas and toothbrush. The snare drum and sticks sat on the floor; Bob took these up, along with his knapsack, and left his room. He knocked on Mr. Whitsell’s door but no one answered. The door was unlocked and he opened it but the room was empty. Next he climbed the stairs to the tower and knocked on Ida and June’s door. Buddy and Pal whined but no one answered; Bob tried the doorknob but it was locked. He left the drum in the hall and made for the lobby. Again he rang the bell and again there was no response. The auditorium was empty. The conservatory was empty.

Bob stood once more at the top of the blue stairs out front of the hotel. The crowd was growing, and he could see cars parked along the highway for half a mile, with men and women hurrying up and toward the excitement. On the sidewalk across the road, on the far side of the melee and all the way up against the long row of plate glass storefronts, Bob saw Alice and Tommy running off together, running away from the crowd and toward a privacy, and their hands were clasped, and Alice looked so happy, her greasy hair flapping behind her as she and Tommy vanished around a corner. The trio of musicians had landed on an up-tempo number Bob was not familiar with. They played badly but sincerely. Bob could see the sheriff’s patrol car still parked in the distance. The sheriff was lying down along the full length of his front seat, the door open, his boots hanging stilly in the air above the white pea gravel.

Bob walked along the side of the hotel and to the patrol car. He let himself in by the backseat; the sheriff sat up and said, “No, kid, come on up here.” Bob got out and walked around to the front while the sheriff sat collecting or steeling himself. He turned the car on and gave it a little gas. “Okay, now pay attention,” he told Bob, and pointed at a row of switches on the dashboard. “See this one here?” He flipped a switch and the patrol car’s siren rang out, loudly enough that it made Bob jump in his seat. The sheriff flipped the switch back and the siren ceased. “When I give the high sign,” he said, leveling a finger at Bob, “I want you to hit that same switch just like I did, on and off, but quick. Got it?” Bob nodded. The sheriff paused, then pointed at Bob and Bob flipped the switch on and off. “Okay, good — perfect.” The sheriff hit another switch to turn on the PA system, and now he addressed the crowd. “Ladies and gentlemen? Ladies and gentleman.” The crowd quieted, heads turned to look at the patrol car. “You’re all under arrest,” said the sheriff, and the crowd booed. “Okay, you’re not. But do me a favor and let us through. Me and my deputy need to turn this rig around and get to the highway.” He pointed that Bob should hit the switch and Bob did and the patrol car began its slow crossing through the crowd.