His hand jumps, and for a moment I think he’s going to turn the tape recorder on again. But no, he’s reaching into his pocket and now he’s releasing two coins onto the table. The tip. They lie there, moist from his hand. Two dimes. I focus on them with what I hope is a cool, censorious gaze.
But he’s not looking at me. He’s looking across the room where a silver-haired man is seating himself gracefully at a table.“I’m not sure, but I think that’s Gore Vidal,” my interviewer whispers in a hungry voice. “He’s here for the writers’ festival, you know.”
I rise and exit, as though led by a brass quintet.
The charming Mrs. Winters slips on her comfortable beige raincoat…
IT IS LATE AFTERNOON, early October, the sky darkening, and the lights in the old Orangetown Library already on. The smell of waxed floors is particularly sharp at this hour; it must be the heating system that triggers it.
Today, as always, the librarians, Tessa Sands and Cheryl Patterson, are helpful. I’ve dropped by to pick up Dennis Ford-Helpern’s The Goodness Gap. I’m not, by the way, unaware of the absurdity of believing one can learn goodness through the medium of print. Bookish people, who are often maladroit people, persist in thinking they can master any subtlety so long as it’s been shaped into acceptable expository prose.
I could easily have bought the Ford-Helpern book last week when I was in Toronto. But no, if I am sincere about achieving genuine goodness in my life and thereby finding a way to reconnect with Norah, this means dealing with issues large and small, or else shifting my finite dispersal of goodness to goodish places such as the public library. At the moment I am attempting to be a good citizen who supports her local library, which is dramatically underused by the community and in danger of closing.
Aside from a part-time custodian, these two librarians, Tessa and Cheryl, are the only full-time employees of the Orangetown Library; everyone else got the boot a year ago when the town council announced the library cutbacks.
Tessa and Cheryl have known our family for years. I’ve been a member of the Library Board forever, and Tessa remembers Norah from when she was four years old, attending Saturday-morning story hour, able to sit cross-legged and absolutely still, wearing only a nametag, not a sign saying GOODNESS. She was capable at that age of an exquisite shiver when listening to the adventures of Bluebeard and ready to shed tears over the fate of the twelve dancing princesses, a story that Tessa always reshapes for her young audiences. Happy endings are her specialty.
Tessa, in her fifties—married to a classical guitarist, mother to one adolescent child—is big, starchy, and pedagogic and getting more so every year. She possesses several lolloping chins, which shift as she talks, each one a millisecond out of sync with the movement of her surprisingly small mouth. She was a biologist before she decided to get her librarian’s qualifications. Her voice is clear and elocutionary.
Cheryl, divorced, in her late thirties, leans toward me today with both elbows on the desk, her chin cupped in her hands; her look is hunched and quizzical and surprisingly chic. Today she has a stick-on bindi in the middle of her forehead; I find it hard to avoid staring at this little colourful spot, which is in honour, I can only suppose, of the man she is currently seeing, a dentist trained in Bombay who has hung up his shingle at the Orangetown Mall, a shy young bespectacled man whose Indian wife couldn’t deal with small-town Ontario and went back to her parents after six months.
They are great friends, Tessa and Cheryl—colleagues—and they have the good sense to be proud of the generation-stretching bond they’ve devised. Snobbishness of a particular kind attends them, a case of old-style womanhood kissing up with the new—they’ve actually done it. It’s almost like love. They’re each so proud of the other, and like to express this reciprocal pride aloud. She knows exactly where to find things. Well, she’s the best there is when it comes to following up on the Internet. What they share is their dominion over this granite building, whose brown stones hint at the colour of the earth beneath, that good rich agricultural land so wisely set aside for the public good. Another serious budget cut, though, and this place will be a tea room-slash-gifte shoppe.
Tessa and Cheryl are united in their passion for books, books like Ford-Helpern’s, which they are happy enough to provide, but especially novels, novels that describe the unwrittenness of unremarkable men and women. Their instinct is to keep these books flowing toward those who have lost touch with the “real world.” I’m their number-one project these days. “Here’s the new Atwood,” Tessa tells me today, patting the book’s cover. “It came in yesterday, and I moved your name to the top of the waiting list.”
“It’s been nominated for the Booker, you know.”
“Thanks,” I say in an immaculate tone, “both of you.”
They beam. And wait for more.
“How’s Norah? Any news? Is she coming home soon?”
No, she will not be home soon. That is perfectly clear. “I’m not sure when she’ll be home. Nothing much has happened.”
The fact is, Tom and I don’t use the library nearly as much as we used to. Tom orders his books—mostly about trilobites—through Amazon.com, and I tend to pick up what I need in Toronto.
“How’s she doing?” From Cheryl.
“Reasonably well. As far as we know.”
Ah! They exchange glances. Tessa, who has some of the rough, shaggy manners of our own Pet, reaches awkwardly over the counter and embraces me. “She’ll get through this nonsense.” She fixes me with a snagging look of determination and strength, that “carry on” look that brings tears to my throat.
It was Tessa who alerted us to Norah’s whereabouts last April. We hadn’t heard from her for over a week. Tom thought Norah had quarrelled with her boyfriend, but I knew better. When we tried to phone we could never get through. Her last visit home at the end of March had been deeply disturbing. I thought several times of getting in touch with the university, but the idea seemed ridiculous, parents checking up on a grown daughter. We were worried, worried sick. Springtime depression. The thought of suicide. Only recently a Muslim woman had set herself on fire in Toronto. I read something about it in the paper. Then Tessa happened to go into the city to visit her elderly mother, and there she caught a glimpse of Norah when she came up out of the subway. Norah, sitting on the sidewalk, begging.
“Norah?” Tessa said.
Norah looked up. Of course she recognized Tessa at once, but she said nothing. She firmed her grip on the little square of cardboard and thrust it at Tessa. It must have been a cool day, Tessa remembers, because Norah was wearing a pair of old gardening gloves, far too big for her small hands.
“Norah,” softly, “do your parents know you’re here?”
Norah shook her head.
Around the corner, Tessa opened her bag, fished out her cell phone, and reached me in Orangetown. Luckily, Tom was home. We got straight into the car and drove to Toronto. All the way, my chest was convulsed with pain. The air we breathed was shaking like a great sail.
I’m supposed to be Reta Winters, that sunny woman,
