An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [83]
There’s a knock. “Open up. It’s me.”
I ignore it but he keeps knocking so I open finally. He walks in, examines my desk and flicks papers around as if he’s searching for something. “How are you?” Henry says.
“Not well.”
He glances at the coffee pot where there’s nothing brewing. “It didn’t turn out how we expected.”
“I’d say. Not for me, you, Norah...”
“Sure you’re not leaving anyone out?”
I haven’t moved from the door since I opened it for him. “If you’re going to make fun of me, you might as well leave now.”
Henry talks to the coffee pot. “A little humour might be exactly the remedy, under the circumstances.”
“There’s a time and place for everything, Henry.”
“You’re right.”
“I’m surprised to hear you say that.”
“Me too, but it’s easier than admitting I was wrong,” he says.
“Admitting you’re wrong won’t change what happened.”
He walks from there to the window. “Never does.”
I sit in my chair in front of the window. “I’m glad you finally believe I’m not wrong all the time.”
“If you weren’t wrong now and then, you wouldn’t be human.”
“What’s to appreciate about that?”
“If we weren’t human, we wouldn’t need each other.”
“You don’t need me, Henry.”
“If I had a finer accent, a rounder belly, a more sardonic wit, I wouldn’t need to be grateful to Carl Brunet, of all people, for wrangling and dangling behind the scenes to unite me with a woman as divine as Nancy.”
“There was no wrangling and dangling.”
“You did more than anyone else has done for me since I’ve been here. You can’t make a decent pot of coffee, you’re too preoccupied with details and numbers, you don’t read enough, you haven’t got any sense most of the time, but who else at this library tolerates the likes of Henry Kelly with his chronic complaining, brazen manners, filthy tongue and damning advice? Not to mention that he waddles more than a duck.” He laughs then coughs.
“I’m glad you believe I have a stray redeeming quality.”
“At the minimum, one. Maybe one and a half. You did win an award this year, don’t forget that.”
“I’m surprised the cuckolded-husband award could qualify for half of a redeeming quality.”
“We might be able to bend the rules under the circumstances. I’ll see what I can do.”
“The qualities haven’t done me much good.”
“They have for others.”
“I hope you don’t mean Norah.”
He waves a dismissive hand at me. “That wasn’t your fault. If you’d ignored me, she might still be with you.”
“It’s too late now, but I appreciate the apology anyway.”
“It’s not an apology,” he says. “It’s the facts. You’re the one who claims to be Cartesian. You should be able to recognize facts when you see them.”
“Chalk it up as one of my imperfections.” I glance over my shoulder.
He’s sitting at my desk, squinting at the screen, poking at my keyboard.
“I almost forgot why I came by,” he says. “It’s time I started brushing up on my computer skills. You should see Nancy with the Internet. She’s a whiz. Why don’t you show me a few tricks?”
“I thought you despised computers and the Internet.”
“Nancy says it will come in handy to have some computer skills for my bookstore. She’s right. Besides, it’s important to keep up with the times. Libraries are changing. Best to go with the flow. As they say, you can’t hold off the deluge with a finger poked in the dyke. How about a spot of coffee and some biscuits before we begin?”
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
wuthering heights:
the newfoundland version
SOMETIMES, WHEN ONE OF THOSE waves of missing her swells up inside me, I hop in my new hatchback then drive out to Cliffhead. The place feels quiet without her. The windows on the house are covered with sheets of plywood. One side of the garden fence is broken down. There’s no evidence of any recent bonfires on the beach. In the meadow, there’s no sign of the three-legged fox, but over by the pond the beaver is still active. It feels good to revisit the pond and remember how we used to