“Sure. But.” I pointed at the clock. “Story time.”
“If you insist.”
“You’re the one doing the piece on him.”
She pulled on her corduroys, which fit as if they’d been tailored particularly for her, and sat down beside me on the bed. “You never did tell me your news about him, by the way.”
“I never got the chance.”
“Sue me. So?”
“No big deal,” I said. “I talked to him the other day. He confirmed some of the stuff I told you about him.”
“He did, OK. So?”
“He asked where you were.”
“Me? That’s weird.”
“He noticed you. You’re kind of noticeable. Plus,” I added, “he’s convinced you’re an Indian.” A peculiar look crossed her face. “What?”
She shook her head. “He’s right. So what?”
“So nothing, I guess,” I said. Actually, I was astonished.
“Am I supposed to wear a star, or something?” She shook her head again, pushed her hair out of her face. We were silent for a long moment. “Wait a minute, why’s he asking you?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know. He saw us together, I guess. Anyway, I told him you were interested in him.”
“Geezum, like I need some Indian on my butt.”
“No,” I said. “I told him you were a journalist and that you might want to write about him.”
“Alexander. You didn’t. Shoot.” She got up and rapidly began to pack things into her purse.
“What?” I said. “It came up.”
“Get dressed if you’re coming.”
WE SAT SIDE by side at one of the big tables. I needed coffee; the cup I’d bought at Gagliardi’s I had surrendered to the librarian who had wordlessly glanced at the sign beside her forbidding food and drinks and then extended her hand for the contraband, eyes still averted as if it was a practiced gesture.
It was ten past eleven, and Salteau hadn’t appeared. I couldn’t remember Salteau ever having been late before. The kids were beginning to get unruly, the unfolding awareness of Salteau’s absence apparently freeing them from the unspoken contract that ordinarily bound them to their good behavior. Adults who had settled into chairs or sat cross-legged on the floor suddenly had to vault themselves back into their roles as umpires and police. One kid pushed another off the bear. Throw pillows that had been piled neatly on the floor in a reading nook began flying. Whatever force held the library together as an idea, as a set of conventions, was coming apart simply because Salteau had failed to show up.
Finally one of the librarians entered the room and began clapping her hands loudly until she’d gotten everyone’s attention.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “John apparently has been seriously delayed. He hasn’t contacted us and we haven’t been able to reach him. I’m afraid that at this time we’re going to have to cancel today’s event. We’re very sorry for any—”
Apology accepted. The adults who hadn’t already bailed on the chaos withdrew with their kids. I heard the librarian mutter, “They think every place is a darn Chuck E. Cheese, now.” She began gathering up the scattered books, straightening and pushing in chairs.
“Damn,” Kat said. “I think you scared him off.”
“Scared? How?”
“I’ll explain later on.”
“Why not now?”
“Just, no. Let me call my friend Becky and see if she can meet us today.” She got up abruptly and headed toward the exit.
I sat for a minute pondering Kat’s evident annoyance with me, then went to the men’s room and took a long look in the mirror. I’d thought I was content, but I considered changing my mind when I saw myself: I looked dissolute and angry, like a prairie spree killer after his apprehension; hair askew, gray stubble glinting like metal filings, eyes dull but glaring. I washed my face to see if I could wash the impression away, and then attempted a smile, which only accentuated the look of derangement. When I returned to the lobby, Kat was entering the building, tucking her phone into her purse.
“Well?”
“She asked if she could call me back.” She frowned. “This is turning out to be the weirdest morning. She says that someone called and told her that she’d won a plasma-screen HDTV. Some radio station promotion. She’s got to stay home and wait for it to be delivered.”
We were conversing in a normal tone of voice, and the librarian who’d confiscated my coffee was glaring at us. Kat took me by the elbow and led me out of the building.
“What did you mean about me scaring him off?”
“Not everybody wants to talk to reporters. As you yourself pointed out at great length.”
“But he told me he wanted to. He said that he had a lot to tell you. Here.” I dug in the pocket of my parka. “He gave me his address.”
“Now he tells me.” She took it from me and looked at it. “No phone, though.”
We returned to the front desk. Kat made a point of whispering. “I’m a reporter for the Chicago Mirror.” She dug in her wallet for her press card, which I was gratified to see looked substantially like what I might have conjured in my most hopeful imaginings, PRESS printed vertically and in enormous letters down its left-hand margin, suitable for inserting in the hatband of a snap-brim fedora. “I had an appointment to interview Mr. Salteau today. I was wondering if you could give me his contact information.”
The librarian looked at us skeptically.
“I have his address,” Kat said, showing her the slip of paper. “But I don’t seem to have his phone number. I guess I didn’t think I’d need it, seeing as I was supposed to meet him here.”
The librarian sighed. She leaned to one side and heaved open a drawer, studied something.
“And can you confirm the address?” asked Kat.
“That’s what we have,” said the librarian. She wrote a number on a Post-it.
“Here,” she said, “we tried him already.” She looked at me. “And who’s this?”
“My photographer,” said Kat.
“I’ve seen him here before,” said the librarian. Clearly I was not going to be included in the exchange.
“He’s local. Not from Chicago.” She added, “He’s the best. Give her your card, Alexander.”
“I forgot to bring any,” I said. “You can look me up, though.”
“What’s your name?”
“Eigengrau.”
“Where’s your equipment?”
“It’s one hundred percent digital,” said Kat.
“OK,” said the librarian. It was a dismissal, but she remembered to add: “Have a nice day.”
WE TRIED THE number, but it rang and rang. We got into my truck and checked a map. Abbottsville was twenty-five miles away.
ORBITAL RESONANCE
SIX DAYS AGO
Wendell Banjo had packed the living room of his mobile home with things he’d had removed from the old house, which sat derelict about twenty yards away. Some of these things, like the enormous desk he sat behind, were in use, others were packed away in neatly stacked boxes, and still others were piled and clustered and leaning against the walls, jamming the dusty space. There were wall clocks and old radios, a console television set, dusty bouquets of artificial flowers, folding chairs, a folded ping-pong table, a box spring, lampshades nested inside each other, a portrait of Jesus praying in the Garden of Gethsemane. A passage had been cleared to the front door. There was a whiteboard hanging from one wall, neatly divided with colored tape into rectangular segments, to keep track of various games, scores, and spreads, its surface wiped clean. Next to it a large flat-screen television was connected to the old satellite dish that perched on the roof. Wendell Banjo was a local bookmaker.