Forever, Interrupted(31)

“You’re exactly right about that,” Mr. Callahan said. When Mr. Callahan was a child, he was probably raised to believe that women were made to follow men, to stay home and darn their socks. Now, he was an old man who had changed with the times, who wanted to reinforce for his great-granddaughter that she should not stay home and darn socks unless she wanted to. It occurred to me that you could see a lot in a lifetime if you stuck around as long as Mr. Callahan. He had lived through times I’d only read about.

Ben grabbed a bright blue book from the display. “Here you go. Just as popular, ten times more awesome. It’s got love in it, but the love is secondary to actual character development, and you really love these characters. The girl is a hero. I don’t want to spoil anything, but bring tissues.”

Mr. Callahan smiled and nodded. “Thank you,” he said. “You just saved me a tongue-lashing from her mother.”

“It’s a really good book,” Ben said. “I read it in two days.”

“Can I check it out, Elsie? Or . . . how does that work if you’re closed?”

“Just bring it back in three weeks, Mr. Callahan. It will be our secret.”

Mr. Callahan smiled at me and tucked the book into his coat, as if he were a criminal. He shook Ben’s hand and walked away. After he cleared the front door I turned to Ben.

“You read young adult novels?”

“Look, we all have our idiosyncrasies. Don’t think I don’t know that you drink Diet Coke for breakfast.”

“What? How did you even know that?”

“I pay attention.” He tapped his temple with his pointer finger. “Now that you know my deepest, most embarrassing secret, that I read young adult novels written mostly for thirteen-year-old girls, do you still like me? Can we still go out, or have you just about had enough?”

“No, I think I’ll stick with you,” I said, grabbing his hand. The phone rang again, and Ben ran and picked it up.

“Los Angeles Public Library, Fairfax Branch, Reference Desk, how may I help you?” he said arrogantly. “No, I’m sorry. We’re closed today. Thanks. Bye.”

“Ben!” I said after he hung up. “That was unprofessional!”

“Well, you can understand why I didn’t trust you to do it.”





JUNE


What was that all about?” Ana says as she finishes her pancake.

“I . . . I got a little overwhelmed there. I just wasn’t ready for it.” I pick up the phone and dial again.

“Los Angeles Public Library, Fairfax Branch, Reference Desk, how may I help you?” It is still Nancy. Nancy is round and older. She’s not a professional librarian. She just works the desk. I shouldn’t say “just.” She does a lot of work and is kind to everyone. I can’t imagine Nancy saying an unkind thing about a single person. She’s one of those people that can be sincere and neighborly. I’ve always found the two to be at odds, personally.

“Hey, Nancy, it’s Elsie.”

She lets out a blow of air and her voice deepens. “Elsie, I’m so sorry.”

“Thank you.”

“I can’t even imagine—”

“Thank you.” I cut her off. I know that if she keeps talking, I will hang up again. I will roll into a ball and heave tears the size of marbles. “Is Lyle around? I need to talk to him about coming back in.”

“Absolutely. Absolutely,” she says to me. “One second, sweetheart.”

It’s a few minutes before Lyle answers, and when he does, he steamrolls the conversation. I can only assume it’s because he’s more loath to have this conversation than I am. No one wants to be the person telling me of my responsibilities right now.

“Elsie, listen. We get it. You take as much time as you need. You have plenty of vacation days, sick days, personal time saved up,” he says, trying to be helpful.

“How much my-husband-died time do I have?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood, trying to make this okay for everyone. But it’s not okay for everyone, and the joke lands like a belly flop. You could fit a city bus in the length of the awkward pause between us. “Anyway, thank you, Lyle. I think it’s best that I get back into my routine. Life has to go on, right?” I am all talk right now. Life can’t go on. That’s just a thing people say to other people because they heard it on daytime TV. It doesn’t exist for me. It never will. There will be no moving on. But people not living in the valley of a tragedy don’t like to hear this. They like to hear you “buck up.” They want to say to your friends, to your co-workers, to the people you used to ride elevators with, that you’re “handling it well.” That you’re a “trooper.” The more crass of them want to say you’re a “tough bitch” or a “hard as nails motherf*cker.” I’m not, but let them think it. It’s easier on all of us.

“Well, great. You just let me know the day.”

“The funeral is tomorrow morning and I’ll take the rest of the weekend to rest. How about Tuesday?” I say.

“Tuesday sounds fine,” he says. “And Elsie?”

“Yeah?” I say, wanting to get off the phone.

“May he rest in peace. We can never know God’s plan for us.”