Work Song - Ivan Doig [84]
With that, he dismissed my presence in the office and went back to opening the small bundle on his desk that had come in the day’s mail. With practiced fl icks of his jackknife, probably learned from skinning cows, he slit open the brown paper. There the treasure lay, the latest from a rare book dealer, swaddled in cotton wrap. Sandison lifted it out tenderly. I could see it was an exquisitely tanned edition of David Copperfield. “This does it!” Sandison congratulated himself. “The complete Dickens in leather and gold.” Deftly he opened the novel to the sumptuous first page. “ ‘Whether I shall turn out to be the hero of my own life, or whether that station will be held by anybody else, these pages must show.’ Heh heh. The old scribbler knew his business, wouldn’t you say, Morgan?”
He always was in his best mood at such moments, so this was my chance. Hovering at the bulwark of his back, I spoke with forced casualness. “Just so you are apprised, Sandy, there’s a new group that will be meeting in the basement.”
“What is it now,” he drawled without turning around, “some weakkneed bunch that wants to hold seances?”
“These are not spiritualists, although now that you mention it, spirit is of interest to them.”
“Don’t let me die of suspense—what’s the name of this pack?”
“I believe it is the, um, Lyre Club.”
“Liars?” His shoulders shook as he laughed long and loud. “You slay me, Morgan. The majority of Butte is already a liars’ club.”
“No, no, you misconstrue. The meaning in this instance is the stringed instrument that accompanied the words of bards. When Homer smote his lyre, he heard men sing by land and sea, remember?” I drew a breath. “To launch this group, I have been asked to be the guest speaker for a series of sessions.”
“You’re the main attraction? They must be hard up. What are you going to yatter to them about?”
“Versification,” I said, honest enough as far as it went.
“Aren’t there enough bad poets in the world already?”
“You never know where the next bard will derive from, Sandy.”
“If you want to spend your nights making up nursery rhymes, I guess I can’t bring you to your senses.” He looked around at me as though I had lately lost more than my mustache. “If you ask me, you’re going about things all wrong. Why don’t you spend your nights sparking Miss Rellis like a red-blooded human being, instead of preaching verse to some bunch of sissies?”
“Actually, she will be on hand at these meetings.”
“Oho. Maybe there’s hope for you yet, Morgan. Make the most of your Homeric opportunity.” Chortling into his beard, he turned back to fondling his latest bound-and-engraved prize.
Rab was lingering near the office doorway when I came out. “Is he going to let you?”
“We have his blessing,” I said moodily.
“I knew you’d make things click. Jared will get word to the others and we’re in business, presto!”
“I can hardly wait,” I said, my mood not at all improved.
“AHA! THERE YOU ARE.”
Dora Sandison made it sound as if I had been hiding from her, when in point of fact she was the one lurking like a lioness at a watering hole as I emerged from the lavatory later that morning.
“Everyone is somewhere, nature’s way of housekeeping,” I responded, skipping back a bit from her overpowering height. “I expect you’re in search of your husband, and I believe I just saw him disappear into the mezzanine stacks. May I escort you to—”
“Not at all,” she crushed that with a smile. “My evening group has a wee problem that is beneath Sandy’s notice.”
“I see. How wee would that be, Mrs. Sandison?”
“Simply a book we are in desperate need of,” she said airily. Her enunciation of the title lacked only a drum roll: The Gilbert and Sullivan Musical Treasury, Complete and Illustrated.
“You’re in luck!” I exulted, really meaning that I was. “If I am not mistaken, such a volume already exists at the reference desk.”
“That is precisely the point,” she said, that sly note coming into her voice. “The book can’t leave the Reading Room. But our meetings are held not there but in the auditorium.” She fixed me with the look I had come