“Reasonable,” Ernest Not Irish answers reluctantly. The session ends. But before he can shuffle to the outer office to pay the receptionist, Dr. Pirooz Aram asks him a final question: “Tell me Ernest, when you were in Tuttwyler, did you happen to see a very green house?”
Ernest Not Irish heads for home in his white Pontiac with the blue fenders. He feels calm and somewhat happy. That is why he has been coming to Dr. Pirooz Aram for the past seven years. To feel calm and somewhat happy. Yet he knows that within a day or two the spirits of a million ancestors will puncture his calm with slices of flint. Bash away at his happiness with granite axes. And despite the old Persian’s words, or the American pills he prescribes, these spirits will not let him forget about Princess Pogawedka or little Kapusta. Still, Dr. Pirooz Aram is right about one thing: he must remain reasonable.
Dammit, he must remain reasonable.
19
Katherine Hardihood is having a busy February. There already has been the year’s first Squaw Days Committee meeting where, despite D. William Aitchbone’s maniacal smile, plans were made to include Howie Dornick in the parade. And at the the village council meeting, despite D. William Aitchbone’s maniacal smile, his fellow council members, Victoria Bonobo included, graciously gave the Bison-Prickert Paint Company permission to paint the gazebo and on behalf of the volunteer fire department, accepted the keys to the new Serendipity Green® pumper. There already has been her slippery drive to Wooster with Howie Dornick and that box of bones. And there is tonight’s meeting of the Wyssock County Library Board.
Once again folding chairs have been brought over from Barrow Brothers Funeral Home and the Moose Club. The number of EDIT members attending the meetings had dwindled over the months, but now that their leader, the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee, is about to be sworn in as a member of the board, they are back, en masse, to watch him crush with his righteousness the tax-supported purveyors of pornography and pedophilia, like Jesus rid the temple of moneychangers and the sellers of sacrificial doves. Once again Sam Guss of the Gazette finds himself sitting between reporters from the big city papers. Channels 3, 5, 8 and 19 are there to record the promised miracle as well.
Library board president D. William Aitchbone smiles as the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee takes his oath. The Reverend rests his right hand squarely on the tattered King James Bible his father carried in the pocket of his overalls all the years he mined coal in West Virginia.
The first item on the agenda is the contract for lawncare services at the various branches. Announcing that he is all for neatly trimmed grass and healthy shrubs, the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee votes in the affirmative. The second item on the agenda is a new three-year contract for library director Venus Willendorf. Before casting the only dissenting vote, the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee calls her Satan’s sister. Members off EDIT applaud him en masse. Item three is the long-awaited report of the Internet Committee. En mass EDIT applauds the coming debate. En masse the reporters ready their pens. En masse the cameramen from 3, 5, 8 and 19 take aim. Katherine Hardihood, sitting in the last chair in the last row, inserts a peppermint in her mouth and stares serenely at D. William Aitchbone, who is already staring at her like a rabid raccoon.
After making it clear that his presentation of the report should not be construed as an endorsement, D. William Aitchbone reads: “‘After a year of study, it is the recommendation of the Internet Committee that any patron observed using the library’s computer terminals to receive and/or send pornographic texts or images will be asked not to do so, and that if said patron persists, he or she will be asked to leave the library, and if said patron does not leave, he or she will be escorted to the door, and that repeated offenses will result in temporary or permanent revocation of the said patron’s library privileges.’ Comments anyone?”
The Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee rises slowly, Bible in his hands. “Brothers and sisters,” he begins, bouncing on the balls of his feet, Sunday sermon style, “this recommendation is unquestionably the most shameful collection of words ever assembled into a paragraph! It is not a policy! It is a capitulation! For a full year the God-fearing citizens of Wyssock County have waited patiently for this board to mend its sinful ways! To drive the cyber-leviathan’s electronic tentacles back into the filthy depths from which they came! Taking with them all the library’s copies of Lake Toads and Land Frogs and all the other un-American, anti-family trash weighing down the shelves. Instead this policy empowers the branch librarians—atheists and idolaters and liberals all—to stand over the shoulders of our little lambs and show them where the good stuff is!”
With cheers and applause, the members of EDIT vociferously agree.
“Any more comments?” asks D. William Aitchbone.
The next comment comes from Satan’s sister herself, Venus Willendorf. As she rises and exposes her ostrich-egg breasts and high hips members of EDIT hiss and hold over their heads downloaded photographs of naked children. No one hisses louder or waves his downloaded photographs more enthusiastically than Darren Frost.
Venus Willendorf begins: “I think I speak for all of the branch librarians when I say that we do not mind asking patrons to stop what they’re doing—we’ve been throwing out unruly patrons since day one—but it does concern us what we’re supposed to consider pornographic.”
Members of EDIT boo. Some make airplanes of their dirty pictures and try to deflate her dangerous body.
“For example,” Venus Willendorf continues, “do we nail someone for looking at ancient pictures from India or China or Greece or Rome showing people in sexual congress? What if we see a boy spending a little too much time looking at a picture of Michelangelo’s David? Or that photo of Marilyn Monroe with her dress blown up over her head? What if we catch someone E-mailing their gynecologist? Or reading Chapter 19 of Genesis, verses 30 through 38?”
The Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee rises to defend the book he now presses against his heart. “Lot was drunk when he slept with his daughters. They seduced him on behalf of God.”
Members of EDIT shout Amen!
Venus Willendorf now turns toward the newest board member, the power of her breasts and hips nearly causing him to tumble backwards over his folding chair. “That’s the rub, isn’t it, Reverend Biscobee? Librarians are not gods. It’s hard for us to judge whether a patron’s intentions are prurient or pure.”
“Hogwash,” bellows the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee. “You can see it in their eyes. How they’re breathing. Whether they’re, uh, uh, uh—”
“Aroused?” asks Venus Willendorf. “Instead of checking out books my librarians should spend their day checking crotches?”
“If necessary,” says the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee. his voice suddenly squeaky.
EDIT is embarrassed for him.
Venus Willendorf now pulls her folded arms up under her breasts, making them even more bountiful. “That might work for our male patrons. But what of our female patrons?”
The reverend’s voice is squeakier still. “I don’t think females are a problem.”
“Females don’t get aroused, reverend?”
The creator of heaven and earth abandons the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee’s larynx completely. “Not in public they don’t.”
“Really?” asks Venus Willendorf. “How do you know that I and half of the women in this room are not aroused right now?”
Even some members of EDIT giggle.
Reporters write. Cameras roll. The Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee summons his last whit of masculinity. “This debate is not about who is aroused or who isn’t, Ms Willendorf. This debate is about our children. I move we adopt the recommended policy.”
En masse EDIT applauds in relief. D. William Aitchbone quickly seconds the motion and calls for a vote. The recommendation is unanimously accepted. Member of EDIT applaud and cheer and turn their dirty pictures into confetti. The library board moves on to items four, having the well water at the Hardyville branch tested for coliform bacteria.
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br /> Katherine Hardihood can’t believe what’s just happened here. She wonders how long it will be before EDIT realizes en masse that Satan’s sister has just reached between their leader’s quivering Christian legs and tore away his brains? Realizes she tricked him into demanding passage of the very policy he rose to oppose?
Katherine Hardihood now looks over at Darren Frost and knows from the way he is tearing at his kneecaps that he already realizes these things. She looks up at D. William Aitchbone and knows from his raccoon stare that he, too, realizes these things; that he likely realized them a full year ago when he first proposed putting the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee on the library board. Katherine understands as she has always understood, though never with such clarity, that D. William Aitchbone is the real serpent in this room; that Tuttwyler, Ohio, is his tree; that the egos and the conceits and the boundless biological urges of its hapless denizens are his shiny apples.
Katherine Hardihood drives home to Oak Street, scrubs down the curio cabinet and crawls into bed. On Cleveland’s only big band radio station Dean Martin is singing a song she first heard when she went to live with her aunt and uncle and her world stopped being a safe and beautiful place: “When the moon hits your eye like a big pizza pie, that’s amore.…”
In the morning she walks to the library and Scotchtapes a copy of the new Internet policy on wall. She does not like the new policy. She did not become a librarian to keep facts from people, but to help them find facts, even if they were dirty and worthless facts. She did not become a librarian to judge, but to help people judge for themselves, even if their judgments were irrational and dangerous. She is not, however, the atheist nor the idolater nor the liberal the Reverend Raymond R. Biscobee thinks she is. In fact she is angered by pornography, sickened by pornography, frightened by pornography. Her uncle kept a box of pornography in his garage. Yet she knows to the roots of her librarian’s soul that the great global flow of facts must not be dammed or diverted by that which angers or sickens or frightens. And that is why she is willing to Scotchtape this new policy to the wall, and if necessary enforce it, to compromise a little, in order to keep the facts flowing.
She goes about her day’s work, helping people find the facts they want and need. Howie Dornick calls during lunch. The Bittinger boy wants to see them.
At six she drives to South Mill and picks up her man. Before heading south they circle through the drive-thru at McDonald’s and buy a quick sack of fish sandwiches and fries. They both get a small coffee. The road to Wooster seems clear enough, but Katherine drives slowly, knowing as all Ohioans know, that in February icy spots are as abundant and as sudden as land mines in the demilitarized zone separating North and South Korea.
“You’re taking the new Internet policy well,” Howie says, tartar sauce oozing from the corner of his mouth. “I figured you’d scream about Bill Aitchbone all the way to Wooster.”
“Sometimes you have to compromise.”
Howie laughs through his mouthful of fish. “Right.”
Katherine hands him a napkin. “Compromise is a noble result, Howard.”
“Even if it’s engineered by Bill Aitchbone?”
“Don’t mistake my serenity for surrender. I know why Bill Aitchbone put Ray Biscobee on the library board.”
“Because Bill Aitchbone’s a bastard?”
“Because he’s a brilliant bastard, Howard. This month a compromise on Internet policy. Next month a compromise on Lake Toads and Land Frogs. Month after that Catcher In the Rye and Judy Blume and Donald Duck. Compromises that will get unanimous votes no matter how far Venus Willendorf sticks out her tits or how many times Ray Biscobee thumps his Bible. Little compromises that will let the air out of EDIT’s tires and drive the branch librarians nuts. Little compromises the public will think reasonable. Little compromises that will get Bill Aitchbone elected mayor, that will punish me for the color you painted your house.”
Howie Dornick, appetite gone, sinks into his scarf. “I’ve ruined your life.”
Katherine Hardihood pounds his leg, sending a spurt of near-boiling coffee into his lap. “Don’t ever say that, Howard. You’ve un-ruined my life.”
They show each other their watery eyes.
“And you’ve un-ruined mine,” Howie says.
Katherine’s serenity metamorphoses into wickedness. “And together with the Bittinger boy and the facts in that box of bones, you and I are going to ruin Bill Aitchbone’s life.”
Howie Dornick’s appetite is back. Fish and fries fill his mouth. “If anybody deserves to have his life ruined it’s Bill Aitchbone. I just wish we didn’t have to be the ones to do it.”
“I’m glad we’re the ones.”
“Maybe with all this money I’m getting from Hugh, we should just move to Florida and spend the next thirty years collecting shells and eating oranges, and maybe—”
It is the first time her man has ever spoken of a future together. Before he can complete the and maybe, she angrily pushes his sandwich into his mouth. “We are not running away from this, Howard.”
“All I’m saying is that we have options.”
“No we don’t. No options at all.”
With no major snowstorm imminent, Bittinger’s Hardware is empty. They find the Bittinger boy hunkered over the counter. There’s a stack of unruly blueprints in front of him. “Hey!” he calls out when the bell on the door dingles. “Serendipity man!”
“Bone Head!” Howie Dornick answers as he and his woman make their way up the garden tool aisle. “Blueprints? You expanding?”
“Diversifying,” says the Bittinger boy. “Two national home improvements chains are going in north of town. Opening just in time to steal half of our spring business. In the hardware game spring is like Christmas. Hence, diversification.”
“To what?” asks Katherine Hardihood.
“Anything but hardware,” the Bittinger boy says. He shows them the plans. “We’re going to divide the building into three separate stores. Put walls in here and here. The hardware business will be here on the left—luckily there are still a few old-timers left who wouldn’t be caught dead in one of those chain stores—and this space in the middle is going to be a gift shop.”
“The world sure needs another one of those,” Howie Dornick says.
“Not just any gift shop,” the Bittinger boy says. “A year-round Christmas shop with all handmade imported ornaments. Imported chocolates, too.”
Katherine Hardihood lowers her librarian’s finger to the blueprint. “And this shop on the end?”
“Espresso bar,” says the Bittinger boy. “Muffins. Bagels. The markup on that stuff is incredible. I figure we can draw students and professors from the college.” He pulls another blueprint from the bottom of the stack. “I took dad’s life insurance and bought the old A&P store next door. Been empty for about ten years. If I can swing a loan from the bank—which is unlikely given that two home improvement chains are opening—I’m going to open a gourmet grocery. All organically grown fruits and vegetables. Range-fed beef. Imported beers. Herbal medicines. A grocery is a big risk, though. One of the Bittinger family rules is never stock perishables. Nails and screws have one helluva lot longer shelf life than tangerines imported from Spain. But we’ll see what the bank says.”
“Well, good luck on the diversification,” Howie Dornick says. “Now, what about our bones?”
The Bittinger boy puts his blueprints away and lifts the box of bones to the countertop. “This is going to knock your socks off,” he says. In a few minutes of silent work he has the two skeletons laid out, every bone in its proper place. He begins his analysis, exuding the confidence of a real forensic anthropologist, of a real hardware man: “First, it’s a shame I couldn’t have examined the skeletons in situ—at the grave site. The environment around a skeleton often tells you as much as the bones themselves. But not to worry, the bones tell us plenty. First, we can say with certainty that the larger skeleton is that of an adult woman. See the skull here? And t
he jaw? Adult female bones remain smooth after puberty. Males skulls are much rougher where the muscles insert. And look at the chin. A pointed chin like this usually implies a female, too But that’s not all. See the pubis bone down here? Male pubis bones are triangular. Female pubis bones are more rectangular, like this one, to accommodate a larger pelvic inlet—see here—for childbearing. And see this scarring on the pubis? Evidence she gave birth. As to her age, I’d guess late teens, early twenties. No signs of wear or disease. Healthy teeth, too. All in all, what we’ve got here is a young adult woman, five foot-two, hundred and ten pounds, gave birth to at least one child.”
Katherine Hardihood loves all these facts. She is also anxious. “But is it our Pogawedka?”
The Bittinger boy ignores her: “Now the little skeleton. Given the development of the skull—see how these frontal bones are still separated and how these teeth haven’t erupted yet—it’s safe to say we’ve got an infant here. Not a newborn, mind you, but a child of, say, twenty-eight, thirty months.”
“Boy?” asks Katherine Hardihood.
“No way to tell. Simply too young for gender identification. Or racial identification.”
“Coulda been a girl then,” says Howie Dornick.
“And half white,” says Katherine Hardihood.
The Bittinger boy ignores them. “So what we have is a young adult woman and an infant who both died of severe head trauma.”
“A clubbing?” asks Katherine Hardihood.
The Bittinger boy runs his fingers over the skulls. “Certainly something big and blunt and swung with great force. Not just once but several times. Look at all these fractures. Lots of missing pieces. These weren’t pretty murders.” He now runs his finger along the adult female’s arm bones. “And look at these fractures. She fought like hell. For a long time. Not pretty murders at all.”
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