we’re already at each other. No wonder she left.
“A bookseller gave it to me.” The second I say it, I realize it sounds odd. People don’t give away books like this.
“Of course. Obviously.” She flops down hard onto the gray couch and a dust cloud wafts from the pillows. “You’re going to have to explain. Are you screwing people for books now?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame,” she says.
I tell her about the package and my conversations with Churchwarry. I mention Bess Visser’s name, that Mom knew it also.
She stares at me, suddenly sober. After a long silence she says, “I don’t trust him.” She pulls her knees to her chest, arms around her shins. On her wrist is a small blue tattoo I haven’t seen before. A tiny bird.
“He’s harmless. Actually, he’s pretty entertaining.”
“You’re gullible as hell. What does he want from you?”
I look around. I’ve no money. I have nothing. “He’s just an eccentric. Maybe a little lonely.”
“Are you? Lonely?” she asks. “He got to you about Mom. You’re fixated on her and it makes you an easy mark.” She’s dug her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. They’re working, twisting the fabric and pulling at something inside. “She’s dead, you know, not hiding in a book.”
“It’s hard not to be concerned. That book pointed out something fairly significant: the women in this family have a disturbing way of dying young.”
Her lip twitches with the beginning of a grimace.
I say nothing about the 24th. There are lines I can’t cross with Enola, and I’m edging close to one. “Don’t you want to know why? If there is a why?”
“Not particularly,” she says. “I’d rather just live.”
“In a carnival. And I’m the one obsessed with Mom.”
We glare at each other. She looks away first, picking at her sleeve. It’s difficult seeing her when she’s been gone so long. She could walk away again, right now, and I couldn’t stop her.
“How’ve you been?” I ask.
“Hungry.” She stomps off to the kitchen, a flurry of disjointed movement, feet slapping against chipped linoleum. Slamming drawers. “You’ve got fuck all in here. What do you eat?”
“Left-hand cabinet. Same as before. Third shelf.”
More rummaging. “Ramen? Jesus. What did I even come back here for?”
“I did wonder.”
“And why is all your crap in the living room? Wait, why are you home? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Budget cuts.” Two deadweight words. I haven’t had to say them yet, not to anyone that’s mattered.
“No librarians on a weekday?”
“No more me. I was let go.”
Just like that her arms are around me again, clinging, like when she was little and wanted me to carry her, like she needs me. “They’re idiots.”
“They’re broke.”
“Only you would make excuses for someone firing you.”
Maybe. “Your turn.”
“My turn, what?” She lets go and heads back to the kitchen, returning with a ramen cake.
“You know why I’m home. Why are you?”
“I wanted to see you. It’s been a while.” It has. It’s hard to look at Enola without thinking of her tossing a backpack into the same car, leaving me. “You should come with me,” she says, breaking off a chunk of dried noodles and popping it into her mouth. “You’re out of a job. The carnival I’m with, Rose’s, it’s nice. Thom Rose likes me; he’d find something for you to do.”
“I’m a librarian.”
“Ex-librarian.” That shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. “You’re a swimmer, too. You could do the dunk tank no problem.” But she’s not thinking about dunk tanks. She flops down on the couch again, crunching on the noodles.
“They’ve got a swimmer.”
“Nope. That was your thing with Mom. I read cards.”
As though I didn’t show her everything that Mom showed me. How to empty your air and stretch your ribs, when to let the water weigh you down, when to smile. I remember her being little, in a polka-dot bathing suit,
“A bookseller gave it to me.” The second I say it, I realize it sounds odd. People don’t give away books like this.
“Of course. Obviously.” She flops down hard onto the gray couch and a dust cloud wafts from the pillows. “You’re going to have to explain. Are you screwing people for books now?”
“No.”
“That’s a shame,” she says.
I tell her about the package and my conversations with Churchwarry. I mention Bess Visser’s name, that Mom knew it also.
She stares at me, suddenly sober. After a long silence she says, “I don’t trust him.” She pulls her knees to her chest, arms around her shins. On her wrist is a small blue tattoo I haven’t seen before. A tiny bird.
“He’s harmless. Actually, he’s pretty entertaining.”
“You’re gullible as hell. What does he want from you?”
I look around. I’ve no money. I have nothing. “He’s just an eccentric. Maybe a little lonely.”
“Are you? Lonely?” she asks. “He got to you about Mom. You’re fixated on her and it makes you an easy mark.” She’s dug her hands into the pockets of her hoodie. They’re working, twisting the fabric and pulling at something inside. “She’s dead, you know, not hiding in a book.”
“It’s hard not to be concerned. That book pointed out something fairly significant: the women in this family have a disturbing way of dying young.”
Her lip twitches with the beginning of a grimace.
I say nothing about the 24th. There are lines I can’t cross with Enola, and I’m edging close to one. “Don’t you want to know why? If there is a why?”
“Not particularly,” she says. “I’d rather just live.”
“In a carnival. And I’m the one obsessed with Mom.”
We glare at each other. She looks away first, picking at her sleeve. It’s difficult seeing her when she’s been gone so long. She could walk away again, right now, and I couldn’t stop her.
“How’ve you been?” I ask.
“Hungry.” She stomps off to the kitchen, a flurry of disjointed movement, feet slapping against chipped linoleum. Slamming drawers. “You’ve got fuck all in here. What do you eat?”
“Left-hand cabinet. Same as before. Third shelf.”
More rummaging. “Ramen? Jesus. What did I even come back here for?”
“I did wonder.”
“And why is all your crap in the living room? Wait, why are you home? Shouldn’t you be working?”
“Budget cuts.” Two deadweight words. I haven’t had to say them yet, not to anyone that’s mattered.
“No librarians on a weekday?”
“No more me. I was let go.”
Just like that her arms are around me again, clinging, like when she was little and wanted me to carry her, like she needs me. “They’re idiots.”
“They’re broke.”
“Only you would make excuses for someone firing you.”
Maybe. “Your turn.”
“My turn, what?” She lets go and heads back to the kitchen, returning with a ramen cake.
“You know why I’m home. Why are you?”
“I wanted to see you. It’s been a while.” It has. It’s hard to look at Enola without thinking of her tossing a backpack into the same car, leaving me. “You should come with me,” she says, breaking off a chunk of dried noodles and popping it into her mouth. “You’re out of a job. The carnival I’m with, Rose’s, it’s nice. Thom Rose likes me; he’d find something for you to do.”
“I’m a librarian.”
“Ex-librarian.” That shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. “You’re a swimmer, too. You could do the dunk tank no problem.” But she’s not thinking about dunk tanks. She flops down on the couch again, crunching on the noodles.
“They’ve got a swimmer.”
“Nope. That was your thing with Mom. I read cards.”
As though I didn’t show her everything that Mom showed me. How to empty your air and stretch your ribs, when to let the water weigh you down, when to smile. I remember her being little, in a polka-dot bathing suit,
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