Stiffs and Swine (4 page)

As Milla searched in the fridge for some Parmesan cheese, Jackson dumped a heaping spoonful of tortellini on his plate and, finally blinking, said, “All things change, son.”

Not knowing what to make of his father’s cryptic statement, James ignored it, relished every bite of Milla’s dinner, and then excused himself. He wanted to call Murphy from the privacy of his room and ask her out for a dinner date. She cheerfully accepted, and James was certain she was pleased that he seemed interested in keeping their relationship on track despite their rocky weekend at the beach. They small-talked about their day for a bit and then James asked Murphy if she would run an ad on behalf of the library in order to raise funds for the bookmobile.

“I don’t think I can, James,” Murphy surprised him by answering. “People know we’re dating. If I give you the ad pro bono, they’ll think you’re getting special treatment.”

“But it’s for the library, not me,” he protested.

Murphy sighed. “I know, but it’s all about perceptions.”

James felt his ire rise. “And who is the
they
that will
perceive
that I’ve been granted favors?”

“Other local governmental agencies, charitable organizations, et cetera. The
Star
has pretty extensive coverage in our county, you know.” Murphy’s voice grew tense. “Don’t get angry. I’m just trying to separate my personal and professional lives.”

“You didn’t seem to care about them blending when you wrote that piece on activities for couples visiting Virginia Beach,” James argued.

“Oh,
please
,” Murphy huffed. “I didn’t mention
us
!”

“That’s true,” James argued unkindly, “because you left out the part about dragging your partner around until his feet bled when all he wanted to do was relax!”

Murphy was silent and James instantly regretted having picked a fight. His intention had been to smooth things over with her, not to dredge up fresh doubts about their relationship.

“I’ve got to go, James. I’ve got a deadline,” Murphy said tersely and hung up.

James flounced back onto his bed and covered his eyes with his hands. As darkness fell outside his window, he thought about what his father had said at dinner. “All things change.”

They sure do,
James thought miserably.
And I hate change
.

A few days
later, James and Murphy spoke to one another with stiff politeness over dinner at Blue’s Barbecue House less than a week before James was meant to leave for Hudsonville. Most of their conversation centered on work, and while James agonized over the broken bookmobile and shared his puzzlement over the presence of the teenagers at the library on Friday evenings, Murphy relayed how pleased she was with the creativity and ambition illustrated by her newest reporter, Lottie Brontë.

“Scott still has a huge crush on her, but he’s afraid to ask her on a date. They seem made for each other, too. I mean, how many people are named after authors?” James said as he cut into his barbecued chicken breast. Without waiting for Murphy to answer, he continued by asking, “Did she ever mention that
Battlestar Galactica
birdhouse he made for her?”

Smiling for the first time since James had picked her up, Murphy laughed. “Are you kidding? That thing’s not doing the world’s sparrows or finches any good. Lottie says it’s a work of art and can’t be exposed to the elements. Instead, it holds a place of honor on her desk next to her computer. You know,” her hazel eyes twinkled, “I think she may even take it on the road with her when she covers stories outside the county.”

Murphy took a bite of her own chicken and grimaced. Lowering her voice, she said, “I’ve never been a big fan of this place. This sauce is way too sweet and the meat isn’t exactly fall-off-the-bone tender. Maybe you can bring back some new recipes from Hudsonville and give them to Blue.”

James glanced at the ancient proprietor of the restaurant, who had his head resting on his fist and was noisily snoozing behind the register. Murphy, James, and a young man waiting for a takeout order were the only other occupants of the small room. Wiping his hands on a paper napkin, James eyed the greasy pool oozing from beneath his chicken breast. The red-tinged grease had infiltrated his pile of cole slaw, so James shoveled the slaw into his mouth to avoid further contamination.

“The slaw’s good,” he said, his mouth stuffed. “But I agree about the sauce.”

“Should you even be eating this kind of food?” Murphy gestured at their meals. “I thought you were on a salt restriction.”

James pulled more napkins loose from the napkin holder on the table. The contraption, whose stainless-steel surfaces were marred with scores of greasy fingerprints, sprung open like a trap and dozens of napkins fluttered across the table and onto the floor. Several fell right onto James’s chicken and were immediately saturated in barbecue sauce. Murphy sniggered, which annoyed the already embarrassed James.

“I just saw Doc Spratt the day before yesterday,” he replied defensively. “My blood pressure’s back to normal levels again. Doc told me to be careful not to eat too much salt, and I’ll watch my intake, but I’m not going to pass up all foods containing sodium forever.” He closed the napkin holder and placed the pile of unused napkins on top. “Besides,” he shrugged, trying to get the last strands of slaw on his plastic fork, “something’s going to kill me one of these days. Might as well be food that tastes good. I’m not going to live my whole life eating lettuce, turkey breast, and multigrain cereal. I want to actually
live
life, instead of living just to avoid dying.”

“Wow.” Murphy mocked him with her wide eyes. “
That
was deep. Have you been checking out books from the self-help section again?”

Despite the fact that James knew Murphy was only teasing, he felt a wave of annoyance wash over him. “We can’t
all
have naturally speedy metabolisms or blood pressure so low that it borders on being categorized as the walking dead.”

Murphy sighed. “I admit, it’s tough to be perfect.” She then poked James playfully with her fork. The tines left four pinpricks of grease on the back of his hand. “Come on,” she said, grinning. “If your blood pressure can get back to normal, then so can we. I liked us the way we were, James. So we had a lousy weekend. It happens to the best of couples. Sometimes, for a lot of different reasons, people just get out of sync. Can we forget it and move on?”

The warmth and sincerity in her voice made James feel ashamed of his churlishness. He rubbed at the spots on his hand with a napkin and then took her hand in his own and squeezed it. “Yes, we can move on. That’s what this dinner was supposed to be about. Thanks for reminding me of that.”

“That’s settled, then!” Murphy pushed her plate away with her free hand, her eyes twinkling with delight. “Oh, I wish we could do something fun together this weekend, but I’ve got to go to the historical society’s benefit dinner on Friday and the cat show on Saturday. Feel like hanging out with me at either one of those fun-filled events?”

James shook his head. “I’m giving the twins a day off Friday so I can spy on the high school kids, and on Saturday, I promised to drive Pop to New Market so he can watch one of Milla’s cooking classes. He wants to do a painting of the students making pastry dough, so he’d like to covertly study them while they work.” James slurped the remains of his painfully sweet tea. “This is a big step for him—visiting Milla instead of her coming to our place.”

Draining her unsweetened tea, Murphy sat back in her chair. “What a cute couple. Do you think they’ll get married?”

Having wondered the same thing recently, James nodded. “I think they will. It’s the way folks their age do things. They date for a bit and then they get married. They don’t really dither around.”

“That’s the way things are
supposed
to go for couples of all ages,” Murphy grumbled.

James sensed that they were entering a risky conversation topic, so he steered the discussion back to his father and Milla. “If they decide to wed, I’ll be really happy for them both. They’re both widowers and they seem really comfortable with one another.”

Murphy stood and tossed a wad of soiled napkins on the vinyl tablecloth. James sensed that the subject of marriage had soured Murphy’s mood, but he didn’t feel inclined to find out why. Glancing at Blue, who had a trickle of drool running out the side of his mouth, Murphy shook her head. “You might be happy for them,” she said, “but it’d be a big change for you.”

“Why?” James said, holding open the door for Murphy.

Looking at him as though he were a complete simpleton, Murphy blurted, “Because you’d finally have to move out of your boyhood room!”

On Friday, temperatures soared into the nineties and the humidity pressed down on the Shenandoah Valley like a heavy hand. The library overflowed with patrons all day, but especially during the hours of eleven and two, when the temperature peaked and the sun threatened to scorch the hair right off of people’s scalps.

James was aware that almost half of the patrons reading in upholstered chairs or waiting for an opportunity to use one of the computers for the forty-five minute maximum were at the library because it was air-conditioned. The elderly were especially susceptible to the hot weather and had arrived at the library in droves, blatantly disregarding the
No Food or Drink
sign posted on the front door. Bearing thermoses of sun tea or homemade lemonade and plastic baggies of sandwiches, potato chips, and cookies, they gathered in groups at the wooden tables and played bridge or chatted over stories in the newspaper.

James didn’t have the heart to remonstrate them, even when they scattered crumbs on the carpet or raised their voices above the expected whisper. Besides, all of the older patrons adored the Fitzgerald twins and plied them with baked goods and hard candies until the boys swore that they had more adoptive grandparents than they could keep track of. And even though the twins devoured every morsel of food that crossed their paths, they remained as thin and lanky as ever. In their absence that Friday, James found himself laden with fresh oatmeal cookies, cranberry scones, and cheese biscuits.

“Well, I
am
going to be here until nine,” he said, happily examining the pile of unhealthy goodies on his desk.

The oatmeal cookies proved the perfect accompaniment to James’s afternoon coffee. As soon as he had washed out his
Forget Google, Ask a Librarian
mug and returned to the circulation desk, the high school students began to drift in.

By the time retired middle school teacher Mrs. Waxman arrived at five thirty, there were at least six teenagers seated at computers or leafing through magazines. By six thirty, the number had doubled, and by seven thirty, it had tripled.

James and Mrs. Waxman took turns hushing the boisterous group and asking them if they needed help finding any materials. They all refused, stating that they were meeting friends or waiting to use one of the computers. One teen even pretended that she was a member of a book club and that she was waiting for her group to decide on which novel to read next. When James offered to provide recommendations, she shook her head vehemently and quickly said, “Oh, that’s okay. We only read the
It Girl
books.” She then turned her back on him and began to type a text message on her cell phone.

Deciding to approach the kids on an individual basis, James strolled up to a young girl in a denim miniskirt that barely covered her rump and asked, “Can I help you find something, Miss?”

The girl hastily closed a folder and stuffed it, along with what appeared to be a pen-sized X-Acto knife, into her canvas purse and giggled nervously. “No thanks. I’m waiting for a computer to open up.”

“And what might you be utilizing our fine new computers for?” James asked, his voice betraying his suspicion. “Just out of curiosity.”

A boy sitting too close to the girl with the short skirt sneered. “Dude, she doesn’t have to tell you anything. There’s, like, privacy laws against that. What she does on the computer is her business. You’re a public
servant
,” he said as his lip curled, “so be careful or you could get sued.”

Though James felt like grabbing the surly teenager by the throat and squeezing hard, he smiled patiently instead. He wanted to use this opportunity to guess what had driven the motley assembly of kids into the library, and he felt that he had a pretty clear idea of what their goal was, having glimpsed the small knife.

Forcing his eyes to turn steely, he whispered, “That’s right, son. I am a proud servant of the public. Our town is filled with a host of public servants. Let’s see, we have mail carriers, the folks working at the DMV, and the fine men and women of our sheriff’s department. I have one friend in particular, a Deputy Hanover, who feels
very
strongly about preventing young drivers from driving while under the influence.” The boy turned his eyes away from James and did his best to appear bored.