Salt

Stanley Salt scratched his patch of silver hair, combed forward to cover as much cranium as possible, and attempted in vain to drown out the sound of Saturday morning Kid’s Corner. All those runny-nosed ear-picking monsters making sudden noises, leaving the mild scent of diapers lingering in the air. And just as bad as those sticky little bipeds, the volunteer readers. Glossy haired, over-perfumed young women with shining new wedding bands, thinking they are doing something nice for the world.

The children, those scabby-kneed savages, weren’t amused by anything that didn’t have a screen. There was one now, poking at the glowing screen, ignoring the  story told by a real live person in favor of a device that would have him near-sighted by twenty-five and blind by forty.

He was slouching again. Mustn’t slouch. It was his New Year’s resolution. Bracing a hand in the small of his back, just above his brown belt cinched to the tightest notch around his narrow waist, Stanley straightened his brittle spine one vertebrate at a time.

The sliding doors opened with a swish, a gust of cold air ruffling the leaves of the holiday poinsettia on the desk. Stanley looked up quickly, anticipation churning the chamomile tea in his stomach, but it was only a teenager. He bestowed his best calculating stare upon the young woman approaching. Her hair was much too long, reaching in a dark straight pony-tale down to her backside, and her eyelids were covered with a glittering purple substance.

“Hi, I have the wrong book.” The waif slid a book across the counter.

Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Horrifying.

“Turns out I need the version without the zombies,” she said, not bothering to pause for him to ask her how he might be of assistance.  “First time I came in—I don’t think you were here, I bet you’d have helped me find the right one, because the first time I came I got another wrong one.”

“There’s only one.”

“I knew there was a Darcy in it,” she prattled on, speaking so fast her words seemed to blur together, “and at first I didn’t have the book list with me, but I remembered from the movie that at the end Kiera Knightly keeps getting called ‘Mrs. Darcy’ by the dark brooding guy. So I just looked up that and I got something called Mr. Darcy’s Daughters but apparently he’s not supposed to have daughters yet either.”

Stanley sent her the glare he usually reserved for neighbors whose dogs were about to soil his front lawn. “Follow me.” He led her to the Austen section, in Fiction, in the A’s. How difficult could it be, really? He had heard of that new film from several years ago, heard the scenery was beautiful. But who had two hours to sit in a dark theater, can’t hear anything, can’t talk to anyone, and besides, that is valuable reading time.

Miffed by his obligation serve such patrons, he tugged one of the copies of the correct book from its home on the shelf. “Pride and Prejudice. Jane Austen.” He pointed to the cover. “No zombies, no sea monsters, no vampire.” He pointed to the inside cover, following the words with his finger, slowly so she might be able to follow as he read, “‘One of the greatest love stories of all time.’”

The girl grimaced. “It’s gotta be better than that one with the guy on that boat in the jungle.” She snapped her gum. “You know, looking for that other guy who turns out to be dead anyway.”

Stanley winced.“Heart of Darkness.”

“Yea that.” She grinned. “Hey, you know your stuff! It’s like you went to school for this!”

“I did,” he grumbled. He sent up a silent apology to Jane Austen at being forced to hand over her masterpiece to this perfect specimen of why people should need to pass a test to receive a library card. The volume would probably come back dog-eared, maybe a diet coke spilled on the binding, a gum wrapper stuck inside the pages.

At long last, the herd of children was claimed by parents and escorted from the library. Mrs. Interster, the part time librarian, entered in their wake. “Deborah, I’m taking a break,” Stanley said, heading for the back. He fixed himself a cup of chamomile tea; forty-seven seconds in the microwave, one packet of honey, stirred twice. Clockwise. He inhaled the damp, comfortable scent.

He settled into his favorite chair with the New York Times, the Saturday crossword already half finished beneath the point of his pert pencil. Fifteen glorious minutes of tea and words, words and tea. His ham and cheese sandwich was cold and spongy as ever.

When he heard the soft chime of the bell at the front desk, Stanley sprang from his chair; only one person ever bothered to ring that bell. He took a moment to smooth the front of his white shirt and straighten his black tie.

Beverly was there. She smiled at him as he approached, stretching her hand across the counter to press his own. “Stanley. How was your holiday season?”

“Much the same as ever.”

“I’m sure that was lovely. She placed a hefty tome reverently upon the desk. Wuthering Heights.

“How was your Christmas re-reading of the Bronte collection?” he asked, not even bothering to check between the pages for refuse and old bookmarks as he slid it onto the shelving cart. Beverly always returned her books in perfect condition.

“Superb as always. My girls never disappoint!” She placed Jane Eyre and The Tenant of Wildfell Hall atop the desk, and Stanley happily returned them and slid them onto the cart, again unchecked.

“What can I help you find?”

“I need a special favor from you today, Stanley.”

He straightened his spine. “Nothing I can’t find.”

“Oh I know, but this may be a challenge even for you! Now, I have taken it into my head to read some Alexandre Dumas.”

“Is that so?”

“Starting with The Three Musketeers and at least as far as The Man in the Iron Mask. But you see, I want the full translation. None of these abridged versions. I want the whole thing, every stroke of the sword, every clandestine plot, every translated syllable!”

“I enjoy the edition Pevear translated. Has an authentic ring to it, lots of vigor in the word choice,” he said, fingers flying over the keys of his computer as he searched for the volume in question.

“Yes, but I’m afraid that’s not all. I also…well, it’s embarrassing, but I need it to be in large print. You see, my grandkids gave me one of those e-readers for Christmas because you can make the font as large as you want by sliding your fingers around on the screen. I just can’t enjoy it, though. There’s no substance to the thing.” She removed the offensive object from her magenta hand-bag and dangled it between her thumb and pointer finger. “Nothing to it, you see? Besides, I want everyone to know what I’m reading. How am I supposed to impress the distinguished gentlemen of the library when they can’t see that I am reading The Count of Monte Cristo? For all they know I could be perusing that awful soap opera magazine or that Shades of Grey business.”

“Of course no one would think…” Stanley faltered at the horrifying concept. He felt his dry cheeks turn crimson. “I will track one down for you,” he concluded, returning to the search.

“Thanks, Stanley. I’ll be in my chair.” She took her usual place in a faded brown chair by the window across from the main desk, the sunlight filtering through her hair, dyed red since her natural color faded two decades ago. She selected the latest National Geographic from the periodical stand.

Ah, Beverley! Such poise, such wit, such appreciation for quality literature! For sixteen years he had quested for her books, sought out unusual authors and special editions, wrestled them away from private collections so that she might smile on him with her pale blue eyes and squeeze his hand across the counter. Sixteen years, Saturday afternoons at one fifteen and Wednesday afternoons at four, their rhythm like a glorious literary clockwork! Requests and returns on Saturday, pick-ups on Wednesday, prompt and reliable. Except, of course, during Samson’s illness. Then she had been more sporadic, sometimes coming in later or earlier than her usual time. The week of his funeral, she had missed Wednesday all together. But that was five years ago now, and she hadn’t missed a trip since. Of course, he wished she wouldn’t venture out in the severe weather or when she wasn’t feeling well. Even with a violent cold, in she came, scarf ensconcing her slender neck, the tip of her gently sloping nose reddened by frequent tissue use.

The thought of her worrying at the opinions of the other men who frequented their sanctuary, their suspicions of her reading romances—unthinkable! Why, they weren’t fit to tie her orthopedic shoes, those bent old fossils. There was Winston McFee with his gnarled yellow teeth and shuffling gait, Dominic Giangilo with almost no teeth at all. They were nothing to look at or speak to for that matter. Gary Hogart, sloped shouldered as he was, was kept on a tight leash by Bertha; they had just celebrated their sixty-fifth anniversary. And then, there was Richard O’Leary.

That philanderer, that shameless braggart, flaunting his cherry-wood cane and brandishing his wallet, real Florentine leather, stuffed to bursting with pictures of his twelve grandchildren. Ever since Meave passed nine years ago he had become insufferable, out to the Country Corner Diner breakfast special every Sunday morning with a different lady friend, picking them up from daily mass or the weekly trip to FoodMart. Shameful. They even sometimes invited him.

Of course, Stanley had been asked on a number of outings by his own lady friends. But he was not about to accept an invitation offered by a lady! Oh no, the others might find it forward thinking, but he knew what it was; plain bad manners. The man, any man worth his salt, did the asking.

Richard, though, had no qualms about outings with his women friends, regardless of who did the asking. Richard O’Leary was always eavesdropping on the conversations of the library’s decent patrons, using every bit of filched information for his own unsavory purposes. Like the time Beverley had requested a book on dog breeds. She had been thinking of getting one, she explained. For the companionship. And for the exercise, since the little thing would need to be walked several times a day. “Have to watch my figure,” she had added. Nonsense, of course. Beverley was a solid woman; she had born five children, after all.

Richard had swooped in like a vulture. He brought Bailey, his big slobbering Golden Retriever, to the library the very next Wednesday. Brought it right through the sliding glass doors. Sure, it didn’t bark, but the thing panted so loud that it covered the sound of Richard’s wheezing, and that was no easy feat. It had rubbed its lean, dander-infested body against Beverley, covering her pressed black slacks with clumps of long blond hairs and trailing lines of drool onto her knees. Beverley had only laughed and patted the stupid animal’s nose, stroked its ears.

“Soft as silk!” she had exclaimed as the beast attempted to devour her hand with a thick, wet tongue.

Animals. Disgusting. His parents had frowned upon pets, and for good reason. “If the Good Lord had intended us to live among beasts, He would have kept us all on the ark together,” his mother used to say. Stanley had wanted a rabbit once, found it in the yard one spring morning, shivering, one leg bent oddly out of shape. It had fit in his eight-year-old palm easily. Had sliced through the tender pad of his right thumb with its big rodent teeth easily too.

Richard had sworn the dog was his home security system, but watching the thing with Beverley, Stanley was sure it would sooner lick an intruder to death than sound any sort of alarm.

Beverley had picked a mid-sized model, some kind of poodle and spaniel mix she named Lucy after her favorite television program, I Love Lucy. Richard had given her a tiny key-chain picture frame from the show with a picture of the little creature in it. She had kept it on her key chain ever since.

The computer blinked out its results; one copy of the unabridged, large print version of The Three Musketeers. It was out in Mettersville, on the far side of the township. It would take them one full day to process the request, and at least two days to send it along to his branch. Would it arrive by Wednesday at four? Possibly. He’d go pick it up himself, just to be sure.

He cleared his throat, and Beverley lifted herself to her feet. She moved so naturally, none of the stiffness of synthetic joints or the grimaces of failing battles with arthritis.

“Did you work your magic?”

“It’ll be here by Wednesday,” he assured her.

“Bless your heart!” Beverley exclaimed, but in an appropriate decibel for the library. She squeezed his hand. “I will be counting the minutes! Have to go take Lucy out now. We are heading for the park today; it’s her half birthday you see.”

“Make sure you wrap up, it’s frigid.”

And with a swish of the sliding doors, she was gone.

Monday morning, the Mettersville Public Library parking lot held only a handful of cars when Stanley maneuvered his white ’88 Volvo into a space. He grimaced when he caught sight of a familiar Cadillac in the handicapped space. It was impossible to miss the O’Leary Cadillac with its “I’d Rather Be at the Lodge” bumper sticker and the scent of a fresh wax wafting from it. Perhaps Richard would be busy with his latest companion, allowing Stanley to avoid the exchange of mundane pleasantries.

Mrs. Jana Smith, the thirty-something head librarian of the Mettersville branch, greeted him with a chapped smile. He remembered when she had worked in the system over summer vacations as a high school and college student. She was Miss Jana Mulany then, but she still wore her hair in the same tight blond ponytail which pulled her forehead upwards. “I was just about to put this in the bin,” she said, handing him the thick volume.

“No need, no need,” he said with haste, trying to avoid what was coming next. In vain.

“This for your lady friend?” She lowered her voice. “It is, isn’t it?”

He was half way through a grumbled protest when a strong hand clamped onto his rigid shoulder.“Stan the man!” Richard O’Leary crowed. He was a short, stocky man, and had to reach upwards to clasp Stanley’s shoulder. “When you’re not on the clock in your own little literary prison, you’re checking out the competition, eh?” He burst into a full-throated chuckle, cut short by a rumbling smoker’s cough that filled his green eyes with water.

“And what brings you all the way to this part of town?” Stanley demanded.

“Brought my sister,” he said, motioning to the fragile, blue-haired Olivia O’leary browsing the books-on-tape. “She lives down the street, but the doctor says she can’t be doin any more driving, so I take her over when my schedule allows. What ya got there?” He motioned to the novel clutched to Stanley’s side. “Some light reading? Ha!”

“It’s The Three Musketeers,” Jana volunteered.

“Is it, now?” Richard peered at the worn cover. “So it is. That wouldn’t be for the lovely Bev, would it?”

Stanley winced. If he couldn’t take the time to pronounce her whole entire name—and a lovely name too—he had no right to call her anything at all. “It may be, Richard. Now if you’ll excuse me. Jana, good to see you.” He was thankful he had made an escape before Richard had time to invite him to the lodge for lunch, as he always did, but the interaction still left him irritated.

The prickle of annoyance pervaded as he drove home and grew larger as the afternoon proceeded. It was a tangible beast by the time he was thawing a ready-made meatloaf. Richard’s eyes raking the volume bound for Beverley kept splaying across his eyelids.

He settled in his large black chair, placed his dinner on the small side table, and opened his Wordsworth anthology to his marker. Exactly six poems later, he brought his cleared plate to the sink, rinsed it, and placed it in the dishwasher. Richard, he imagined, seldom ate at home. He took all his meals at the lodge, the ones he wasn’t sharing with a female companion. Stanley shook his head.

He changed into his grey pajamas, noted the placement of the second hand on his wrist watch, and brushed his  thirty-two teeth—all still his own—for exactly one minute. He set his alarm, and pulled the white comforter all the way up to his chin. He lay staring at the white ceiling, the same ceiling he had stared up at each night since he moved into the one-bedroom apartment in 1978, after his mother passed and he had sold her big old house on the east side of town. Beverly lived on the east side of town now. He knew it would be cozy and snug, walls painted in warm reds and browns, soft thick rugs. She and her Lucy would be there now.

Tuesday afternoon, Stanley’s stomach was cramping and his temples ached with a dull persistence that no Advil could banish. To make matters worse, he was plagued by Richard’s presence again.

In he strutted, cherry wood cane shining in the late winter sunshine as he made his way to the biggest chair. He didn’t so much as glance at the stacks, just reached for Car Culture Magazine. Stanley glared. He was so comfortable, as if he was sitting in his seven-bedroom house on the reservoir, a house only he lived in, mind, and that beast Bailey. He could have imagined it, but it seemed Richard was peeking at him over the top of his glossy magazine. Stanley narrowed his eyes, watching Richard stretching his knobby legs out in front of him, scratching his balding scalp, adjusting his shining false teeth. Three quarters of an hour he sat, flipping through that pathetic excuse for a publication. At last he stood to leave, stretching his arms as though he’d just been lifting weights rather than turning pages, a large dramatic gesture. Some sort of paper debris tumbled unheeded from his pocket, though Stanley was incredulous as to how Richard could have possibly not seen the papers flutter to the ground around him before he strutted out the sliding doors.

In a huff, Stanley went to dispose of the garbage Richard had left behind, but he paused, wrinkled paper in hand, midway to the garbage can.

It was a flyer for a movie viewing and discussion to be held at the local university. “A Night with Dumas: Examining timeless classics through the lens of film.” The date was the coming Saturday.

Of all the low, scheming, manipulative tactics! To use Beverley’s interest in good literature to lure her to such an event, under pretense of intellectual enrichment. Oh, but once he got her there, there was no question of what he intended! A request to see how that nice new dog of hers was doing, and yes, wasn’t that key chain a thoughtful gesture? A suggestion for coffee on Thursday, perhaps broadening to every Thursday. Maybe coffee would eventually move to Saturdays at one fifteen, and then Wednesday afternoons would become dog-walking time together…

This had to be stopped. But how? Stanley fretted, so preoccupied that he accidentally set the microwave to 37 seconds instead of 47, resulting in tepid chamomile. Sipping the disappointing brew, he debated possible ways to thwart Richard’s intentions.

There was only one way to save Beverley from this cane-wielding menace; he would have to ask her himself, before Richard had the chance. Oh, to see the look on Richard’s face when he asked Beverley only to discover he had been overtaken! Yes, that was just the thing.

And yet.

In all their years of comfortable intellectual understanding, of his heroic procurement of hidden volumes, he had never asked her to accompany him to anything at all. Could he risk offsetting the beautiful balance of their relationship, one based on mutual understanding of the greatest art form of all time; literature? What if, in conversation on their evening out, he discovered she never read the books at all, just skimmed the beginning and end? What if he found she wrote notes in the margins? Stanley shook his head; he knew she was incapable of such blasphemous acts.

But what if she said no? Because he was just the man with the power to find her what she needed, like Dorothy’s wizard, and she didn’t want anything to do with the man behind the curtain? He looked at his distorted reflection in the microwave door. Scrawny, stooped, old. None of Richard’s zip, no sir, not here. She would say no. Of course she would.

On Wednesday morning, Stanley set his alarm thirteen minutes earlier than usual. He spent extra time after his shower rubbing the q-tip around his ears and ran his razor over his chin twice, to be sure not to miss a single whisker. He put on his best shirt, the blue one, and checked his hair in the rear view mirror an extra time before stepping out of the car.

Each time the sliding door whispered of someone’s entrance, he snapped to attention behind his computer. Deborah eyed him with suspicion but withheld her inquiries, for which he was grateful. He could only finish half of his chamomile tea and passed up his break alltogether. At last, four o’clock arrived. There she was, hair a vibrant color of recent dye, pale blue eyes sparkling beneath blue-shadowed lids.

“Good afternoon, Stanley. Do you have something for me?”

He produced the volume from beneath the desk, just as the Cadillac pulled into the handicapped space outside.

He cleared his throat. “Yes. Beverley…” Out in the parking lot, the Cadillac door opened, cherry wood cane protruding from the front seat. Stanley stuttered on. “I was wondering if…” Richard was heaving himself to a standing position now. Not much time left.

Beverley looked at him, a question in her eyes. “Yes, Stanley?”

Richard was approaching, stepping up the curb, the doors about to hiss opened. “If you wouldn’t be inconvenienced,” Stanley managed.

A grin broke out on Richard’s face as he spotted Beverley at the counter. He even tipped his hat to Stanley.

Stanley pressed on, determination steeling his voice. “Would you like to attend this lecture with me at the University on Saturday evening? It’s about the film versions of Dumas’ works. Parking will probably be atrocious and it will be hard to hear a thing, the way those guest lecturers mumble—”

“Oh, Stanley I couldn’t do that!”

Stanley’s heart was beating at a rate much faster than its prescribed approximation of fifty-two beats per minute. Richard, standing just behind Beverley, paused. He raised a singly, unruly eyebrow at Stanley.

“Ah. I see,” Stanley pressed onwards, ignoring Richard’s blatant gloating. “Yes well, it would probably have been terrible in any case—”

“No, no, you misunderstand!” Beverly said. “I couldn’t possibly see the film before I finish the book. Can’t go giving away the ending. But once I am finished the book, perhaps you could find us a copy of the film? To watch together, I mean?”

Stanley straightened his spine. His quandary now was of a different nature. Did this still count as his invitation? Technically, his own invitation had initiated this second one. And as he would be responsible for procuring the film through the library, he would have to set the date and time of their viewing. Perfectly acceptable.

Richard was pretending to look at the books for sale by the door, but Stanley knew he was listening.

“I could arrange for that, I believe,” he said, allowing a small smile.

Beverley pressed his hand. “What a perfect motivator! Now I will be doubly inspired to get through this in a reasonable amount of time. I can only renew once, after all. I will look forward to it, Stanley,” she said, and headed for her chair.

Such poise, such dedication to the role of the reader, such attention to library renewal policy! His fingers itched to begin the search for the film, but he did have to wait until she had read the novel. And there stood Richard, mouth slightly opened, staring for just a moment before his customary grin broke over his craggy face.

“Well done, Stan!” said Richard as Stanley shushed his inappropriate volume. “I meant to tell you about that lecture myself; saw it in the paper yesterday and thought you might like to take our lovely Bev to it. Forgot to mention it, ya see. Glad you stumbled across it yourself. I should have known you’d have already thought of it.” He winked. “We’ve all been waitin for ya to ask her to something for chrissake.”

Stanley Salt watched Richard as he settled into the biggest chair. Who did that cane-wielding, Cadillac driving ruffian think he was fooling? He went to the back and made a fresh cup of chamomile, indulging in extra honey, and was even tempted to hum while ringing in the returned items. He resisted, of course. Humming was quite disruptive the library.

***

Image: Adapted from Flickr, “Loughborough University Library” by username: Loughborough University (loughboroughuniversitylibrary), under the Attribution 2.0 Generic license.