THE PROBLEM WITH KEEPING ETHAN AND CONNIE SEPARATED WAS that they both came to the library regularly. First there were the close calls, with Connie leaving just before Ethan’s arrival, or vice versa. Then there was the unhappy instant of the both of them being in the library simultaneously, only each wasn’t aware of the other’s presence, and Bob said nothing about it, and so they somehow avoided commingling. But then one day at the Information desk, early in the evening and to Bob’s ripe horror, Connie and Ethan came into the library together, and Ethan was guiding her by her elbow, and they were laughing. They approached and stood before Bob, presenting themselves; Ethan did not let go of Connie’s arm; Connie’s face was flushed with pleasure. Bob instructed himself to play along, to mimic their mischievous gladness, but the unpleasant surprise he knew was so thorough that the best he could do was offer up a blank look. “What happened?” he asked.
“Do you want to tell him?” Ethan asked Connie.
“I’ll tell him.”
“Tell him if you want to tell him,” Ethan said.
“Let me tell him.” Connie spoke to Bob while looking at Ethan: “Well,” she said. “I was riding the bus and minding nobody’s business but my own when I realized the man across the aisle was staring at me. And everyone likes to be stared at from time to time, but after a while I’d had enough of it and asked him, you know, to please stop. And he did stop — for about three and a half seconds. But then he’s back to staring and I’m starting to get a little worried, because for all I know I’m dealing with an active pervert, and so I’m looking around for another seat to sit in but there aren’t any, and finally I take out my book and start reading, or pretending to read, because this way he can see that I’m busy and not interested, right? So a minute goes by, and now I’m really reading, and I’ve pretty much forgotten about the pervert peeper across the aisle when he reaches over and he taps his finger on the open page of my book. And when I look up he’s all leaned over, his face serious, and he says to me—”
“You’re not telling it right,” said Ethan.
“I’m not? Sure I am.”
Ethan told Bob, “She’s not telling it right.”
“Why don’t you tell it, then,” Connie said.
“Okay, I will.” Ethan took a minute to locate himself. “Well, look Bob,” he said, “I was staring at her. And I’m sorry. But when I got on the bus I noticed her sitting there all upright and prim, and how could I not stare. And I was staring for the normal boy-girl reasons but there was also another reason underneath the normal ones, which was that there was something funny about this person, some sort of question hanging in the air around her. Had I met her before, or seen her somewhere else? There was just this… thing about her, but I couldn’t place it. Then she reaches into her bag and pulls out a book, and I see that it’s a library book. And not just any library book but Crime and Punishment. And not just any copy of Crime and Punishment, but the very same one I had checked out, with the title smudged and the stain on the spine. And the minute I saw that, then the mystery was solved because I knew absolutely who she was.”
“And he leaned over and he said to me—”
“Let me tell it. It’s my punch line. I leaned over and said to her, ‘You’re Connie, and I’m Ethan, and I think we need to have a discussion, because we’re both in love with the same man, and I can’t go on sharing him like this.’”
The pair resumed laughing, and here Bob wished to vanish, or for Ethan to vanish, or Connie, or all three of them. He also wished Ethan and Connie would stop enjoying each other, and he strongly wished Ethan would take his hand off her elbow. Connie’s laughter trailed away, and now she was watching Bob with a crooked, curious expression. “What’s the matter, honey?” she asked, and Bob answered that he was fine, just that it had been a long day.
Ethan and Connie decided they should all three go out to dinner, and they waited together on the sidewalk outside while Bob began the process of shutting the library down. He stole glances out the window as he righted the chairs and turned off the lights; Connie was laughing again, and she and Ethan were standing close to one another. Bob locked the door and walked down the path toward the sidewalk. Connie was facing away from him but Ethan looked up as Bob approached. When he saw Bob, his smile faded and his face softened into a look of concern, or kindness, as if he suddenly understood that Bob was in pain, and why. Bob felt an ache of shame but wished to keep it private.
It was a cold walk on hard concrete. Connie was positioned in between Bob and Ethan, and she did not take Bob’s arm as was usual, but walked alone and independent of him. When he felt he couldn’t stand it, he took her hand in his, but she quickly removed it and put it in her pocket. By the time they arrived at the restaurant, Ethan wasn’t behaving as before. He was quieter, almost formal as he asked about their wedding plans, and whether or not they would honeymoon, and would they have children, and how many? It made for poor conversation, and Connie tried to lead Ethan back to himself by asking teasing questions: How long had he been a masher on buses? And what was his success rate? Was there honor among mashers? If he got on a bus to mash, for example, and found another masher already onboard, did he then exit the bus to give his mashing peer room to work without competition? When this line failed to get a rise, Connie made to engage Ethan in some banter against Bob, but Ethan would only praise Bob’s influence, declarations of admiration that Bob felt were rooted in pity.
Altogether the meal was, for Bob, a spectacle of emotional discomfort. At its conclusion Ethan snatched the bill out of the surprised waiter’s hand and made a play at casual largesse by paying for the dinner, though he was broke, and Bob knew he was broke. After Ethan had hurried off and gone, the silence he left behind was a wretched creature, and Bob couldn’t tell where his insecurity ended and the factual dreadfulness began. He and Connie walked back to the library, and the Chevy; all the way home, they spoke hardly a word to one another. Entering the house, Connie said she was sorry his friend hadn’t liked her. When Bob asked her what she meant she said, “First he’s as friendly as a puppy, right? Then at dinner he hardly says a thing to me other than to grunt, and God forbid he should look me in the eye.”
“He felt shy, maybe.”
“Not before dinner he wasn’t. And on the bus he was the least shy man I’ve ever met in my life. Anyway, why would he become shy around me? Didn’t you say he’s some kind of playboy?”
“What does that have to do with anything?”
“I just mean that I’m plain.”
“No, you’re not. But what does the way you look have to do with Ethan?”
“Nothing. I don’t know. I’m sorry.”