Free The Last of the Wise Lovers by Amnon Jackont

an apple out of the kitchen and quietly tried
to make myself scarce.
       On the way I again saw the brochure
from The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body, this time in the
garbage can in the garage.  I took it out, folded it over twice, and
stuffed it in my pocket. I wondered whether Mom had shown Dad the riddle, or
had just told him about her winning the cruise.  I turned over in my head
the idea of suggesting that he buy an additional ticket and go with her.
 The possibility that the Caribbean cruise had been plotted especially to
get back at her went from being a nocturnal
musing to a daylight threat that plagued me all the way in on the bus.
       She was already waiting for me at the
library.  No, not the monstrous Ms. Yardley, but the woman with the
patched jeans, Miss Doherty, this time wearing a flared skirt and flashing me a
smile of the whitest, prettiest, healthiest teeth I had ever seen.
      "What now?" I asked, a
little impolitely.  
      She bent toward me from within a cloud of
the fresh scent of morning and said in this special voice, as if we were
already good friends, "Listen, there's a book I must, simply must get hold of, and they want me to fill out forms and wait three days until
somebody finds it and gives permission for it to be brought up from the
basement, and meantime I'll be wasting several days sitting and waiting when I
could be photocopying what I need and going home...”
       "Where is your home?"
       "Hackensack," she said,
throwing me a straight glance behind which there was a trace of hesitation.
       That was a surprise.  For one,
that kind of address didn't fit with the job she'd found for herself.  And
besides, there must have been at least five libraries between here and where
she lived, no less good or accessible.
       But I agreed to help, anyway.
 It turned out she hadn't filled out the forms.  We stood there for
fifteen minutes and answered a questionnaire about the purpose of the request,
and the identity and education of the person making the request.  She said
she had a masters' degree in chemistry from Stanford, but that since it was
tough to find work in her field, she was working for a company that assisted
institutions and scientists who needed academic material but didn't have time
to comb the libraries.
       It's amazing how complicated things
become simple when somebody personally takes care of them.  I went to Ms.
Yardley, who signed in the space that said "Recommendation of Catalog
Librarian" without looking, so as not to miss a word of the new
Publisher's Weekly that had arrived not fifteen minutes before.  Then I
went to the Security Department, where they checked the list of nutcases and
didn't find any Dohertys, just one Duarte who in 1982 had eaten half a pound of
leaflets off a shelf of brochures and had been immediately hospitalized.
 I photocopied the signed form on the second floor and went off to see Mr.
K.
       He sat alone, his collar open and his
tie loosened.  He was reading something, his brow furrowed.  Behind
his thick, round glasses were dark islands of fatigue.  I thrust out my
hand to knock on the open door, then stopped.  Suddenly I realized that
what looked like a careless pose was really the posture of pain, that the furrowed
brow expressed concern.  I felt out of place and, as usual, like I was
beginning to stick too much.  I tiptoed quietly away.
       Miss Doherty was waiting in the
Catalog Room.  I gave her the form.  She thanked me so sweetly that I
felt badly for not having completed the task.
     "There's still one signature
missing," I was forced to explain.  "Mr. K.'s.  He sits
upstairs, on the third floor.  Wait a few minutes before you go up
there...”
       Worry
seemed to cloud her face for an instant - or perhaps it was my imagination.
 She said hesitantly, "... and I can go up to him, just like
that?"
       "Yes," I said, and I guess
I got a little carried away, "he'll be glad to