The Last of the Stanfields(20)
“If you want to keep this up and be pigheaded about it on your own, go ahead, but don’t even think about dragging Michel into this.”
“I don’t take orders from anyone, least of all you! You know what? Screw it. I’m going to see him right now. He may be your brother but he’s my twin!”
“Yeah, well . . . it’s not like you’re identical!” Maggie spluttered as I stormed right out of the apartment. She came rushing after me, and the two of us raced down the stairs and out of the front door.
The pavements outside were blanketed in crimson, the fallen leaves remnants of an October with especially bitter winds. I love the feeling of dry leaves crunching underfoot, and the scent of autumn mixed with rain. I slipped behind the wheel of the car I had borrowed from one of my coworkers, and turned on the engine before Maggie had even made it inside.
We didn’t exchange a word throughout the entire drive, save one small exchange in which I told Maggie I was glad she was starting to take the anonymous letter seriously. After all, why else had she come along? Maggie insisted she was only trying to protect Michel from his evil twin sister’s wanton lunacy.
I found a parking spot and headed towards the library. The lobby was empty, and the varnished cherrywood counter that looked like it was pulled from some forgotten century was unattended. There were only two full-time employees at the library: the manager, Vera Morton, and Michel. Aside from a cleaning woman who came to dust the shelves twice a week, that was it.
As we entered the lobby, Vera came out to greet us, her face lighting up as soon as she recognized Maggie. Vera was a lot more complex than a first glance might suggest. She could have been an absolute knockout if she didn’t go to such lengths to disappear into the crowd. The sparkle of her blue lapis eyes was dulled by a pair of round glasses, complete with greasy fingerprint smudges on the lenses, and her hair was pulled back with a simple elastic band. Her choice of attire was equally unappealing. She looked sober as a judge in a mud-colored jumper two sizes too large, with matching moccasins and socks to complete a kind of variations-on-beige ensemble.
“I trust everything is all right?” Vera asked.
“Oh, right as rain,” I replied.
“Well, that is quite a relief. I was worried that you had some sort of bad news to relay. After all, it’s only once in a blue moon we’re lucky enough to be graced by your presence.”
I couldn’t think of another person I knew who talked like that these days. Maggie made up a story about us being nearby and deciding to stop by to pay our brother a visit. Watching Vera, I couldn’t help but notice a slight flush rising in her cheeks every time she heard Michel’s name. Maybe Vera’s heart was beating faster beneath that mud-colored jumper . . .
You couldn’t blame her, after all. You throw two fish into the same bowl for eight hours a day, with sporadic visits from schoolchildren serving as the only other form of interaction? It’s no big surprise that they might begin to consider each other the best possible specimens humanity had available. That said, it did seem that Vera could be harboring some real feelings for my brother, begging the question: Was the feeling mutual?
The young manager of the crumbling establishment was overjoyed to lead us across the library towards the reading room, where we found Michel alone at a table with his nose buried in a book. Despite Michel being the only soul in the room, Vera still whispered to him as though the place were full of visitors. Libraries must be like churches, I thought to myself, where believer and nonbeliever alike must employ the same hushed tones.
My brother looked up in shock to find his two sisters staring back at him. He promptly closed the book he had been reading and returned it to its proper place before coming back to join us.
“We were just in the area and thought we’d stop by to give you a hug,” Maggie declared.
“Ah, that’s odd. You always tend to avoid our hugs. But, by all means.” With that, Michel extended two stiff arms and stood awkwardly awaiting a hug from his sister.
“I meant that . . . figuratively,” Maggie explained. “Come join us for a cup of tea. If you’re able to get away, that is.”
Vera cut in to answer on his behalf. “Of course he can. It’s a particularly slow day. Go on, Michel,” she said, her cheeks once more suffering a mini roseola attack. “I can close the library on my own.”
“Ah. But I do still have a few books to put away.”
“Oh, I’m sure those old books would be delighted to spend the night on top of each other . . . I mean, you know, in piles,” she said, the reddish hue intensifying by the second.
With that, Michel reached out and shook Vera’s hand, jostling it awkwardly like an old bike pump. “In that case, thank you very much,” he said. “I’ll be sure to work a bit extra to make up for it tomorrow.”
“Thank you. That won’t be necessary. Have a lovely evening, Michel,” she added, her cheeks full-on scarlet now.
Since hushed tones seemed to be official library policy, I bent over to Maggie and whispered in her ear, pointing out Vera’s behavior. Maggie rolled her eyes and led Michel out.
The three of us ducked into a tearoom. It was on the ground floor of a modest yellow-brick building dating back to the seventies, its bay window covered in posters and fliers. In a neighborhood that seemed especially slow to change with the times, the establishment was a vestige of the suburb’s industrial past. With no table service, Maggie went up to the counter and ordered Earl Grey with a heap of scones, generously leaving me the opportunity to pay the bill. The three of us sat down on plastic chairs around a Formica table.