it is this: you give up believing you can control your drinking. That idea was a myth you told yourself, and that’s what you give up. The myth. You tell me – is that bravery?’
‘Of course. But it’s sure not foxhole bravery.’
‘Foxhole bravery,’ she said, and laughed. ‘I like that. But you’re right. What I do – what we do – to keep away from the first one … it’s not that kind of bravery. In spite of movies like The Lost Weekend, I think what we do is pretty undramatic.’
Sam was remembering the dreadful apathy which had settled over him after he had been raped in the bushes at the side of the Briggs Avenue Branch of the St Louis Library. Raped by a man who had called himself a policeman. That had been pretty undramatic, too. just a dirty trick, that was all it had been – a dirty, brainless trick played on a little kid by a man with serious mental problems. Sam supposed that, when you counted up the whole score, he ought to call himself lucky; the Library Cop might have killed him.
Ahead of them, the round white globes which marked the Junction City Public Library glimmered in the rain. Naomi said hesitantly, ‘I think the real opposite of fear might be honesty. Honesty and belief. How does that sound?’
‘Honesty and belief,’ he said quietly, tasting the words. He squeezed the sticky ball of red licorice in his right hand. ‘Not bad, I guess. Anyway, they’ll have to do. We’re here.’
6
The glimmering green numbers of the car’s dashboard clock read 7:57. They had made it before eight after all.
‘Maybe we better wait and make sure everybody’s gone before we go around back,’ she said.
‘I think that’s a very good idea.’
They cruised into an empty parking space across the street from the Library’s entrance. The globes shimmered delicately in the rain. The rustle of the trees was a less delicate thing; the wind was still gaining strength. The oaks sounded as if they were dreaming, and all the dreams were bad.
At two minutes past eight, a van with a stuffed Garfield cat and a mom’s TAXI sign in its rear window pulled up across from them. The horn honked, and the Library’s door – looking less grim even in this light than it had on Sam’s first visit to the Library, less like the mouth in the head of a vast granite robot – opened at once. Three kids, junior-high-schoolers by the look of them, came out and hurried down the steps. As they ran down the walk to MOM’S TAXI, two of them pulled their jackets up to shield their heads from the rain. The van’s side door rumbled open on its track, and the kids piled into it. Sam could hear the faint sound of their laughter, and envied the sound. He thought about how good it must be to come out of a library with laughter in your mouth. He had missed that experience, thanks to the man in the round black glasses.
Honesty, he thought. Honesty and belief. And then he thought again: The fine is paid. The fine is paid, goddammit. He ripped open the last two packages of licorice and began kneading their contents into his sticky, nasty-smelling red ball. He glanced at the rear of MOM’S TAXI as he did so. He could see white exhaust drifting up and tattering in the windy air. Suddenly he began to realize what he was up to here.
‘Once, when I was in high school,’ he said, ‘I watched a bunch of kids play a prank on this other kid they didn’t like. In those days, watching was what I did best. They took a wad of modelling clay from the Art Room and stuffed it in the tailpipe of the kid’s Pontiac. You know what happened?’
She glanced at him doubtfully. ‘No – what?’
‘Blew the muffler off in two pieces,’ he said. ‘One on each side of the car. They flew like shrapnel. The muffler was the weak point, you see. I suppose if the gases had backflowed all the way to the engine, they might have blown the cylinders right out of the block.’
‘Sam, what are you talking about?’
‘Hope,’ he said. ‘I’m talking about hope. I guess the honesty and belief have to come a little later.’
Mom’s TAXI pulled away from the curb, its headlights spearing through the silvery lines of rain.
The green numbers on Naomi’s dashboard clock read 8:06 when the Library’s front door opened again. A man and a woman came out. The man, awkwardly buttoning his overcoat with an umbrella tucked under his arm, was unmistakably Richard Price; Sam knew him at once, even though he had only seen a single photo of the man in an old newspaper. The girl was Cynthia Berrigan, the library assistant he had spoken to on Saturday night.
Price said something to the girl. Sam thought she laughed. He was suddenly aware that he was sitting bolt upright in the bucket seat of Naomi’s Datsun, every muscle creaking with tension. He tried to make himself relax and discovered he couldn’t do it.
Now why doesn’t that surprise me? he thought.
Price raised his umbrella. The two of them hurried down the walk beneath it, the Berrigan girl tying a plastic rain-kerchief over her hair as they came. They separated at the foot of the walk, Price going to an old Impala the size of a cabin cruiser, the Berrigan girl to a Yugo parked half a block down. Price U-turned in the street (Naomi ducked down a little, startled, as the headlights shone briefly into her own car) and blipped his horn at the Yugo as he passed it. Cynthia Berrigan blipped hers in return, then drove away in the opposite direction.
Now there was only them, the Library, and possibly Ardelia, waiting for them someplace inside.
Along with Sam’s old friend the Library Policeman.
7
Naomi drove slowly around the block to Wegman Street. About halfway down on the left, a discreet sign marked a small break in the hedge. It read
LIBRARY DELIVERIES ONLY.
A gust of wind strong enough to rock the Datsun on its springs struck them, rattling rain against the windows so hard that it sounded like sand. Somewhere nearby there was a splintering crack as either a large branch or a small tree gave way. This was followed by a thud as whatever it was fell into the street.
‘God!’ Naomi said in a thin, distressed voice. ‘I don’t like this!’
‘I’m not crazy about it myself,’ Sam agreed, but he had barely heard her. He was thinking about how that modelling clay had looked. How it had looked bulging out of the tailpipe of the kid’s car. It had looked like a blister.
Naomi turned in at the sign. They drove up a short lane into a small paved loading/unloading area. A single orange arc-sodium lamp hung over the little square of pavement. It cast a strong, penetrating light, and the moving branches of the oaks which ringed the loading zone danced crazy shadows onto the rear face of the building in its glow. For a moment two of these shadows seemed to coalesce at the foot of the platform, making a shape that was almost manlike: it looked as if someone had been waiting under there, someone who was now crawling out to greet them.
In just a second or two, Sam thought, the orange glare from that overhead light will strike his glasses – his little round black glasses – and he will look through the windshield at me. Not at Naomi; just at me. He’ll look at me and he’ll say, ‘Hello, son; I’ve been waiting for you. All theeth yearth, I’ve been waiting for you.
Come with me now. Come with me, because I’m a poleethman.’
There was another loud, splintering crack, and a tree-branch dropped to the pavement not three feet from the Datsun’s trunk, exploding chunks of bark and rot-infested wood in every direction. If it had landed on top of the car, it would have smashed the roof in like a tomato-soup can.
Naomi screamed.
The wind, still rising, screamed back.
Sam was reaching for her, meaning to put a comforting arm around her, when the door at the rear of the loading platform opened partway and Dave
Duncan stepped into the gap. He was holding onto the door to keep the wind from snatching it out of his grasp. To Sam, the old man’s face looked far too white and almost grotesquely frightened. He made frantic beckoning gestures with his free hand
‘Naomi, there’s Dave.’
‘Where -? Oh yes, I see him.’ Her eyes widened. ‘My God, he looks horrible!’
She began to open her door. The wind gusted, ripped it out of her grasp, and whooshed through the Datsun in a tight little tornado, lifting the licorice wrappers and dancing them around in dizzy circles.