Free Death of an English Muffin by Victoria Hamilton

personality,” Hannah said as Isadore pulled out a chair and sat.
    “That’s one way of putting it,” I said. “I haven’t forgotten what she said to you at my tea, Hannah. I’ll
never
forgive her for that.”
    Her narrow chin quivered. “I feel . . . sorry for her.”
    Isadore snorted and folded her bony arms across her narrow chest, shaking her head.
    “No, I
do
!” Hannah insisted, glancing at Isadore then back at me. “She hurt my feelings, but I recovered. I’mtougher than people think. It made me curious, though, like I told you; what went wrong in
her
life that made her so very bitter and angry? I don’t understand.”
    “So what happened
this
time?” Virgil said, his voice gentle.
    I noticed that Isadore was watching him carefully, her expression still holding fear, but less than before. It was hard to tell how old Isadore was. I would guess mid- to late fifties, though she was lined, purse-string wrinkles around her lips, deep grooves from her nose down to her mouth.
    “Miss Sanson came in and looked around,” Hannah said. “Isadore had just gotten here after having an early lunch at the Vale. She’s cleaning up some of the books, erasing pencil marks, turning up dog ears. It’s a lot of tedious work and I appreciate the help. It’s a civic service, you know.”
    Virgil was about to speak when Isadore straightened and said, “Books are better than people; even when they’re lying, they’re telling the truth.”
    “What is that a quote from?” I asked.
    She shook her head.
    “I think it’s her own, you know,” Hannah said, softly, glancing at her helper and then at me. “Isadore is very wise. Isn’t that what the best fiction is? Lies that tell the truth?”
    Perhaps my friend was right about Isadore’s wisdom.
    “As I said, Miss Sanson came into the library and looked around,” Hannah said. She lifted her head until a stream of light glinted in the soft gray depths of her eyes. “I think she saw Isadore, though she made no mention of her. But she said, in a very loud voice,
This is just the library for the dreary, prosaic, bumbling sort of dullard who would enjoy living in a town like Autumn Vale
.”
    I clamped my lips into a tight line, trying not to let a snicker escape, not at Cleta’s words but Hannah’s impersonation. Hannah had caught Cleta’s malicious, accented, snobbish tone so well, and I wondered if the girl knew how muchjudicious spite was in her perfect rendering. I realized, though, that Cleta’s words came on the heels of her confrontation with Isadore at the coffee shop.
    “I asked what was wrong with the library and she said it was dull, in lighting and in patrons.” Hannah had stiffened, and those soft gray eyes were as hard as granite. “I told her if she was counting herself—she did donate, so she is a patron—then perhaps she was correct.”
    I grinned and when I glanced over at Virgil I could see he was smothering a smile, too. “Good for you,” I said. “Forgiveness is fine, but it doesn’t hurt to let someone like her know where she stands.”
    Isadore’s lips had a slight upturn. Was that a smile or was I imagining it?
    “All I really did was give her fuel,” Hannah said, playing with the joystick of her wheelchair. “She said, perhaps since I was helpless and had never been anywhere nor seen anything, I wouldn’t know a truly great library, like the New York Public Library. She said she felt sorry for me.”
    “What happened then, Hannah?” Virgil said.
    “
I
told her she was a wicked old woman,” Isadore said, her voice cracking as something seldom used will. “Mean and cantankerous. I said if she wanted to get on her bicycle, maybe a tornado would come along and take her away.”
    Eyes wide, I stared at Isadore. “Did she get the reference?” I asked.
    “She certainly did,” Hannah said. “She turned as red as my mother’s pickled beets!” Her grin was full of mischief, but then died. “That’s when she started yelling.