The Good Sister(3)

I’m listening to Gayle waive the fine for the woman with the coral-coloured fingernails when my eye is drawn to a young man in thick glasses and a red and white-striped beanie entering through the automatic doors. A homeless person, most likely, judging by his too-loose jeans and the towel draped over his shoulder. He makes a beeline for the shower room. The Bayside library boasts two showers (thanks to its former life as a hospital), so it’s not uncommon for the homeless to come in to shower. The first time I saw a homeless person come in, I was affronted, but that was before I worked with Janet, my old supervisor. Janet taught me that the library belongs to everyone. The library, Janet used to say, is one of only a few places in the world that one doesn’t need to believe anything or buy anything to come inside . . . and it is the librarian’s job to look after all those who do. I take this responsibility very seriously, except if they require assistance with the photocopiers and then I give them a very wide berth.

I reach for my handbag and follow the man toward the bathroom. He’s tall – very tall – and lanky-looking. From behind, with his pompom bouncing on his stripy hat, he reminds me a little of Wally of Where’s Wally? fame.

‘Wally!’ I call as he steps into the small vestibule – an airless, windowless tiled room leading to both the men’s and women’s bathrooms. I usually avoid this space at all costs, but seeing the man enter, I feel an unexpected compulsion to face my fears.

‘Were you planning to use the shower?’

He turns around, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t respond. I wonder if he might be hearing impaired. We have a large community of hearing-impaired patrons at our library. I repeat myself loudly and slowly, allowing him to lip-read.

‘Yes?’ he says finally, his intonation rising as if he is asking a question rather than answering one.

I start to question my impulse to follow him. I have become more wary of vagrants since a man exposed himself to me a few months back during an evening shift. I had been replacing a copy of Ian McEwan’s Atonement when suddenly, at eye level, there was a penis, in the ‘Mc’ section of General Fiction. I alerted Gayle, who called the police, but by the time they arrived, the man had zipped up and shuffled out of the place. ‘You should have snapped it in between the covers of that hardback,’ Gayle had said, which sounded messy, not to mention unwise for the hygiene of the book. When I pointed this out, she suggested I ‘karate-chop’ him, which is neither an actual karate move (I have a black belt) nor something I would be tempted to do, since karate has a pacifist philosophy.

I have been doing karate since I did a trial class in Grade Two and the sensei said I was a ‘natural’ (an odd comment as there was nothing natural about kata – on the contrary, the movements felt very specific and unnatural). Still, I found I enjoyed it immensely – the consistency, the routine, the structure, even the physical contact, which was always firm if not hard. Even the ‘Kiai’ shouts, while loud, are to a count and expected. So, twenty years later, I’m still doing it.

‘Well, here you go then.’

I reach into my handbag and retrieve the small toiletry bag that I keep in there. I hand it to Wally, who holds it away from himself as if it might contain a ticking bomb. ‘What . . . is . . . this?’

‘It contains toothpaste and a toothbrush, a face washer and some soap. Also a razor and some shaving cream.’

I’m not sure how I could be any clearer, and yet Wally still seems confused. I study him closely. He doesn’t smell like alcohol and both his eyes are pointing the same direction. His clothes, while ill-fitting, are all on the correct parts of his body. Still, the jury is out on his sanity.

‘Did you just call me . . . Wally?’

There’s something pleasing about the man’s voice; his words are round somehow, and completely enunciated. It is an unexpected delight in a world where people are forever mumbling.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You look like Wally from Where’s Wally? Hasn’t anyone told you that before?’

He neither confirms nor denies it, so I decide to provide more information.

‘You know Where’s Wally?, don’t you? It’s a book.’ I smile, because Rose says that people should smile while engaging in banter (playful exchanges of friendly remarks), and this, to me, feels very much like banter.

Wally doesn’t smile. ‘You mean Where’s Waldo?’

Wally is American, I realise suddenly, which explains both his accent and his confusion.

‘Actually, no, I mean Where’s Wally? The original book was Where’s Wally?, published in the United Kingdom in 1987. Since then, the books have been published around the world and Wally’s name is often changed in these different editions. For instance, he’s “Waldo” in the United States and Canada, “Charlie” in France, “Walter” in Germany, “Ali” in Turkey, “Efi” in Israel, and “Willy” in Norway.’

Wally studies me for a few seconds. He seems perplexed. His gaze, I notice, is just to the left of me, as if he is looking over my shoulder.

‘Anyway, in Australia, it’s Wally,’ I say.

‘Oh. Kay.’ He looks back at the toiletry bag. ‘So . . . the library provides these?’

‘No,’ I say, smiling wider. ‘I do.’

Under his glasses, Wally’s mossy green pupils travel right to left slowly. ‘You do?’