An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [71]
I call her name. In reply, I hear the monotone hum of a disconnected line.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
timbit fairies
I’LL SOON NEED A SPREADSHEET to manage my list of should haves: SH told Norah about Elsa; SH divorced Elsa ages ago; SneverH married Elsa. Henry arrives for a visit and I’m in a SH mood. He sits on the edge of the bed even though there’s a chair for visitors. He brings me a double espresso and a box of Tim Hortons Timbits. One by one, he pops the small round donuts into his mouth and sucks on them like they were sugarplums.
“Listen, about Norah. I know you advised me to stay away from her but I think she’s good for me.”
“Drink Guinness if you want something good for you. The woman is mixed up with Francis,” he says.
“It’s more complicated.”
“No kidding.”
Mr. Mercer isn’t wearing headphones. Nor is the nurse who comes by to update my chart. Henry follows her around the room like he was tied to her with a string. She checks my blood pressure and temperature then leaves. Henry sits on the bed again. “They’re saying kinder things about you now: ‘We worked him too hard.’ I laughed at that one. ‘Nobody made him feel welcome.’ Josephine from binding said that. She must have forgotten about my efforts, right, Mr. Brunet?”
“Surely, yes, Mr. Kelly.”
He hops off the bed, pops another Timbit in his mouth then looks in the drawer of my bed table. “If you change your mind about going after Francis, you’ve only to say the word.’’ He walks over to Mr. Mercer’s bed. “How are you today? Heart still beating? How’s that storm progressing?” He helps him with his pillows then adjusts the arm of the suspended television set.
“Where’s it gonna end?” Mr. Mercer says. “One good thing: it’s keepin’ the weather forecasters busy, that’s for sure. The Weather Channel’d have nothin’ to report if it wasn’t for Newfoundland. They’d have poor ratings without us.”
“Well, you and Carl have plenty to keep your mind off the weather with those healthy, young nurses dancing around your bedside like sugarplum fairies. By the way, Carl, Mercedes offered to introduce me to her friend Nancy. We’re going to dinner on Saturday. Nancy’s another woman you’ve been hiding from me. Mr. Mercer, you’re sharing a hospital room with a real Casanova. Did you not hear him reciting: Elsa, Edith, Norah or Nancy. I’ve so many, I’ll pick my fancy.”
“Thanks, Henry. The only thing Casanova and I have in common is that he was a librarian.”
He plops another Timbit in his mouth, sits on my bed again and bounces. “What’s she like?”
I move to the side in my bed to give him more room. “Norah?”
He bounces again. “Nancy,” he says. “Any cleavage?”
“I’ve only met her two or three times.”
He gazes out through the window. “Cleavage or no cleavage, I can’t wait. We’re heading to the steakhouse. I love a thick, juicy steak, medium rare, mashed potatoes on the side, gravy. I wonder if I could lose a few pounds by then.”
“In three days? Not unless you sever a few limbs.”
“Not what I had in mind,” he says.
“If you wore a longer shirt, you might look slimmer.”
He lifts his shirt then leans over to look for his navel.
“It’s there. Big, round, visible every time you wear that shirt,” I reassure him.
“It drives the women wild,” he says.
I nod to confirm then raise my eyebrows for added effect. “I bet.”
“My cardiologist said it was the cutest one she’s ever seen.”
“I didn’t know you had a heart problem.”
“I don’t. What I have is a beauty for a cardiologist. I call her every so often: ‘Dr. Hogan, I can feel my heart skipping. I think this is it.’ ‘Come over right away,’ she says. I take off my shirt and lie down. She bends over me with her stethoscope and my heart pounds at the rate of a jackhammer gone berserk because I’m gazing straight down that long, narrow crease between her melons.”
“Buy a shirt if you don’t own one.”
He squints at me. “Right you are. Easier than dieting. You are getting better. Giving me advice for a change. Whoever would have thought?” Henry cuts short his visit to take