Twelve Angry Librarians

“I’ve never heard of it,” I said. “I figured he’d be heading one of the big university libraries. You know, dean of libraries, or vice provost of something-or-other by now.”

“The way I’ve heard it, he started at one of the Ivy League schools as some kind of hotshot right out of library school, but after that he moved down the ladder instead of up. And down, and down.” Lisa giggled. “Which is why he’s at this tiny school in Alabama that nobody’s ever heard of.”

I had to admit my baser nature found great satisfaction in hearing that. “If that’s the best he can do, he must have gotten even more obnoxious than he was when I knew him.”

“Obnoxious doesn’t even begin to describe him,” Lisa said. “I’ll have to show you the list of demands he sent. I swear you’d think he was some opera prima donna. He has to have a certain kind of bottled water, and his room has to be kept at a certain temperature, and he can only eat certain foods, and, well, you get the gist.”

“What a twit.” I laughed. “I’m sorry you’re having to deal with this infantile behavior.”

“It’s only for a few days.” Lisa sighed. “Don’t be surprised if I don’t make it in on Monday, though. I may be under my bed, sucking my thumb and clutching my blankie by the time this is over with.”

“Once he gives his speech, I wouldn’t pay any more attention to his demands. If he isn’t happy, he can go back to Alabama, and good riddance.”

“I like the way you think, Charlie.” Lisa chuckled. “Well, I’d better get on over to the hotel. Thanks for the encouraging words.”

“Good luck.”

Melba ambled back into my office right after I hung up the phone. “What was all that about? Lisa sounded in a tizzy when I answered the phone.”

I explained, and Melba grimaced. “Sounds to me like somebody needs to take that guy out behind the woodshed and give him a good talking-to. With a horsewhip.”

“Are you volunteering?” I asked. Diesel chose that moment to speak up with a loud meow.

“You reckon he’s saying he’ll help me?” Melba laughed. “If this jerk gets in my way, you’d better bet I’ll be telling him what he can do with his bottled water.”

“I’d pay good money to see you give him what for,” I said. “I hope he’s not going to disrupt the whole conference. There’s no telling what he might say when he gets up in front of a captive audience of librarians.”

“I’ll see about having a supply of tar and feathers on hand.”

I laughed. “You do that.”

The phone rang again, and Melba disappeared to answer it.

Diesel tapped my leg with a large paw, and I rubbed his head. I glanced at the clock on my desk. Nearly noon. Time to head home for lunch. The cat could tell time as well as I could.

“Okay, boy, let me finish this e-mail, and we’ll go home.”

Diesel chattered at me, a mixture of chirps and trills, and I knew he understood what I had said. He stared at me the whole time I typed at the keyboard, as if he were afraid I would leave without him.

A few minutes later, with Diesel harnessed and on the leash, we ambled down the sidewalk toward home. The late April sunshine bore down, but thanks to the low humidity, the heat was not uncomfortable. Trees shaded our way for the short trip to the house. As we drew close, I spotted a familiar car in the driveway.

“Laura is here,” I told Diesel, and he tugged against the leash in his eagerness to get into the house. He adored Laura, and she adored him.

We found her in the kitchen, seated at the table, chatting happily with my housekeeper, Azalea Berry. I unhooked the leash, and Diesel trotted over to my daughter. He put his front paws on her leg and rubbed his head against her belly. She scratched his head and laughed.

I bent to kiss her cheek. “How are you feeling? Ready to have that baby?”

Laura rolled her eyes. “Only six weeks to go, and I am so ready not to be pregnant anymore.”

Azalea had her eyes fixed on Diesel as he continued to rub against Laura. “I swear that cat knows you’re going to have a baby, Miss Laura. I’ve never seen the like.”

“He’s a smart boy.” Laura rubbed Diesel’s head. The cat responded with a loud meow. “See, he agrees with me.”

“He’s as anxious to meet the baby as the rest of us.” I went to the sink to wash my hands. “Are you having lunch with us, sweetheart?”

“There’s plenty,” Azalea said.

“I could manage to eat a little.” Laura grinned. “I have to keep up my strength, you know.” Then she sobered. “Before we eat though, Dad, I have something to tell you. I hope it won’t ruin your appetite.”

I laid aside the dish towel I had used to dry my hands and came back to the table. My hands on the back of my usual chair, I stared at my daughter, suddenly apprehensive. “What’s wrong? Is it something to do with the baby?”

Laura shook her head. “No, Dad, it’s not that.” She paused, as if gathering her nerve to continue. “You know Frank’s been out of town for a couple of days?”

I nodded. Frank Salisbury, Laura’s husband, taught in the theater department at Athena College. “He’s home again?”

“Yes,” Laura said. “We didn’t tell you, but he went to Virginia on a job interview.”