they say the owl was a baker's daughter: four existential noirs

by KUBOA

  What if I hadn’t brought it up and she asked Bertram about it? How would she interpret that?

  That seemed a pointless consideration. I was getting away from myself.

  The trouble really was that her lover could be meeting her at her apartment, could have gone in when I wasn’t paying attention—he could have been there, already, when the possibilities were carefully considered. I could try to verify this, it wouldn’t be too much trouble to get into the building. But it would be oddly indecent of her to have the guy over, not knowing if Bertram might pop in. Bertram certainly had a key. I thought he had a key, at any rate.

  I didn’t know what I thought. Was just agitated with waiting, wondering how she’d be dressed when I saw her, again.

  ***

  My mouth was getting a bit gummy, the saliva in it thick, as though the same little bit was being chewed, sponged into my tongue, squeezed back out, chewed.

  Lecia came out of the building alone, a backpack with her that seemed heavy, cumbersome—I could imagine the soreness when she’d set it down later, it was likely to give her a headache. She looked a little bit sloppy, I supposed, but honestly this registered in an odd way. My first impression when she walked out—and the impression I kept for more than three blocks, walking next to her but separated by the four lanes of the street, obscured by the hiss of traffic and the growing clamber of pedestrians—was that she looked far more attractive than when she’d gone in. The clothes were casual, dumpy, well worn, nothing done up about them, but this is something I generally found attractive, and the combination of it and her way of carrying herself—unselfconscious, lost to her purpose—riveting.

  I realized it was odd to think this is what she put on to meet with some guy. It would turn me on—a woman like her making advances, coming onto me, even getting things started fully clothed in such a way—but it was abnormal, a quirk of mine. She looked like someone going to the library to put in several hours of work, knowing the dry air, the crisp of breathing through her nose, the stale bottled water sipped at, sweating through plastic, warm almost immediately after the machine dispensed it.

  And she went into a library, a large one, a building I’d passed many times but had no idea it was a library—she just walked in, not stopping, not glancing around, a sighing tug to the heavy door, already somewhat winded from the tip tap up the twenty steps.

  I let her go, had a cigarette, felt tense, stupid for doing it, but it seemed that the worst that could happen was I’d be spotted when I went in to look for her. It didn’t really seem to matter anymore, though. It became more playful, a make believe little hunt. I imagined she’d spot me and I’d shyly explain myself, somehow.

  The step I sat on was wet, but other than sighing I didn’t do anything about it, felt the moisture soaking to the fabric of my pants under my knees, wondered if it would get all the way through my coat, wet me through to the skin.

  I laughed at myself, snuffing air out my nose—air and cigarette smoke, just air, air and cigarette smoke, like I was trapped in a little repeat until I could think of a clever name to call myself.

  I discovered she’d given me fifty dollars, not twenty, so chuckled at that, too wondered if she didn’t have a bra on, because she was wearing that thicker, very loose sweatshirt—the thought of closing my hand around fabric and breast getting me very aroused, making me feel embarrassed. I’d gotten turned on around Lecia a few times, my brother in the same room, always later into the night, at home, she in sleep clothes not the least bit tantalizing, in general, ones she’d probably put on specifically because she knew it wasn’t just she and Bertram in the room.

  ***

  There were restrooms immediately inside the library door. I stood at the sink, washing my face with cold water, then with hot water. I’d certainly caught a cold, felt the tension along my sides, the groan to my eyes holding shut. I didn’t really look so bad, didn’t even looking draggy from the drinks I’d had earlier thinning out, leaving me dry.

  I checked my cell phone, saw that Jeremy had left a message, started to call my voicemail but realized he was probably just wondering why I wasn’t on shift with him, was on his smoke break, bored, thinking to use me as a distraction.

  It was an even larger library than I’d thought—the map showed all nine floors in miniature, each one massive, spreading out to both sides like it was being pinched in the middle, like it might burst, spill out in a heap. Three floors seemed dedicated to study rooms, but every floor also had large areas set aside—even partitioned off I saw when I started walking—for quiet work.

  I kind of got lost with just taking the place in, it wasn’t the sort of library I’d ever have reason to enter. I liked how I knew nothing about any of the books on the shelf, as though what they were, even conceptually, had nothing at all to do with me, with any life I knew about.

  Lecia turned out to be at a little side table, one that seemed to be set up more for workers to organize books on than for students to use in studying. Her backpack was emptied of its contents and at least another ten large volumes were stacked up, one splayed open, two more on top of it, one open, sort of leaned to the rest—she had her notebooks out and was reading, completely gone from everything, like she was some air she’d swallowed, a thought she’d bit down on. No make-up, her face still had a scrubbed look from when she must’ve washed before leaving her apartment.

  I wondered how close, exactly, I could get to her, if I could actually step into the row of book closest her, even there, leaf through something, she never even casually glancing up. I watched her yawn, unaware of anything, throwing her shoulders back, twisting a bit where she sat, using the butt of her palm to cover her mouth while she rubbed hard at one of her eyes with two fingers bent hard for just that purpose, the motion creaking, a moan pulping and circular.

  There wasn’t much reason to stay, but I felt too ridiculous just leaving, walking out of the library, going about my night. I was being stupid, I knew that—I even started to think this was all something I could bring up to her some time, like it could be a little secret I could let her in on next time I stopped by the store. She wouldn’t care—she’d nod, take it as something curious about me, give it a wry smile.

  She looked like she cared about absolutely nothing, like she belonged right there—a stack of books or scribbled notes or just a pen set down under brown dry light.

  ***

  Lecia stood up and I shrunk down, everything in me tightened—I felt caught, though there was no way she could see me. She coughed, very softly, tucked her chair to place, set a certain book on top of her notebook and moved off.

  I couldn’t decide exactly what I wanted to do. I assumed she was heading to the toilet, but I didn’t know where that was. She also might’ve been going for another book, might’ve been doing anything. I stayed put as I was, half crouched, nose almost touching the side top of the book I was squinting over. I kept my eye on her until she turned a corner, until I heard the clack of a stairwell door opening, the empty of it swinging open, the ache of it’s creaking change in momentum, reclosing with an elongated scrape of the latch hitting.

  I counted to thirty a few times, always starting again when I’d get distracted—though by the third restart I knew I must’ve been well past thirty—then hushed over to where she’d been sitting.

  The print in the book she’d left open was nonsensically small, more footnotes on the page than anything. She’d left her purse, which I peeked into, probed my fingers through, sort of looking for her cell phone, which I then looked for under the flopped covers of various books. I was getting very anxious, but the fact the telephone wasn’t there got me going, again. She’d stepped out to call someone, which could be ordinary—she might even be calling Bertram for all I knew—but why not call from her seat, text message, something more direct?

  Then I saw the phone in the unzipped smaller section of her backpack.

  The ce
ll phone didn’t mean anything, though—didn’t mean anything that it was there, wouldn’t have meant anything if it hadn’t been there.

  I opened it, tapping to see any recent text message activity, braced for something, but the latest thing was incoming was from Bertram, two days ago, the latest thing outgoing was to Bertram, earlier that day, the words Maybe. I’d like that. Let me know. obviously the last of some back-and-forth.

  The sound of the stairwell opening kept me from looking at anything else—I closed the phone, stuck it back in the backpack, slunked back to my hiding place. I heard Lecia coming back, laughing at something the guy she was walking with was saying. She sat right down, taking the guy’s coffee as well as her own when he went to grab a chair to pull over. I pressed my foot hard into the tile to stave off a spasm, not catching anything they were saying, their voices not whispers but not loud, shuffled around by the weight of the books and the empty nothing of the stale flecks of air all around—mashed words, muffled echo, meaningless.

  The guy set down his own backpack, leaned in his chair, then let out a slapping sigh, a chuckle, stood up, Lecia’s face perked, her nose a quizzical wrinkle, and he said he’d be right back. I listened to the chop of his footsteps, then to the clatter of the door opening and his squawking shuffles hurrying down the stairs as it closed.

  ***

  Downward three flights, then slowly through a door out to the milling snips of muted conversations, I took a seat at an empty study table surrounded by little clumps of students, pockets of older people who were leafing through magazines, seemed in the wrong place but also seemed ignored by the people who should be there.

  I felt exposed when I saw there was a restroom door right down the way from me, thought I’d snuck away only to stop at the surest place Lecia would turn up, but was quickly able to dismiss this, doubting there was only one set of toilets for four floors of library. But the uneasiness got right back on me, so I walked to the end of the floor, stood by a sooty window and the hack of a poorly running floor heater.

  I wanted to leave—take Lecia’s money, get drunk, forget the whole thing—but I hadn’t even gotten a proper look at the guy, only taken away the slithering impression that he was just as casually done up as her, a days growth of beard, lounge clothes under which he seemed trim, on the rowing team or something. Honestly, though, everyone seemed like that to me. I couldn’t even remember if he’d been as tall as me, as Lecia, as Bertram.

  A classmate. He was someone she studies with. He was not her lover.

  I tried to grind this into my mind, make it reasonable, but the thought that this all served as a liaison just slipped out from under any reason, resettled on top.

  Were they meeting there, going at it, right there, in the rows of quiet books? Maybe he was inside of her, the kink of it to keep almost still, almost silent—his hand over her mouth, his both hands over her whole face, her fingers at his throat?

  Christ. No. This was not likely. I repeated the phrase This was not likely this was not likely this was not likely.

  I went over to the bathroom, sat in a stall, lowered my pants, and though I hadn’t thought I needed to, found I was having a bowel movement.

  I was far too agitated. It was unnerving.

  What was I even doing?

  Yes, Lecia was going to have interactions with human beings other than my older brother. I reminded myself she’d had an odd meeting with me, only earlier that night. From Bertram’s point-of-view, for example, she and I chatting about how I was charming when intoxicated would be stranger than her studying—like she’d said she would be—and someone else studying with her.

  I was the one following her—my head full of ideas one minute, empty of ideas the next—feeling like I had a fever, jittery from the fact I was doing something unnecessary and unexplainable, from letting every single thing I saw prove everything and then disprove it right back in its face.

  -You need to leave, I said. I held up my index finger and said Leave, my middle finger and said Find a bar, my ring finger and said Get drunk, pinkie finger and said Vomit somewhere or something.

  Then I paused.

  Then I tensed out my thumb.

  -I said you need to leave, I said.

  I shut my fingers around themselves, limp, said You need to leave, Aldous.

  Then my fingers were tight, knuckles rubbing like dogs into the side of my neck.

  ***

  I left the library, crossed the street to a convenience store, purchased cigarettes, bought a magazine and some nonsense paperback, then walked back to a ledge with some dead bushes in the soil around it, across from the library entrance. I’d sit and wait, not paying the strictest attention. If they’d already left, there was nothing I could do. I doubted they’d left, as I’d only been away from them half-an-hour at the longest, so I felt it was more a matter of whether they’d slip past while I was reading or leave out a different exit, both perfectly plausible.

  I didn’t approach the library to check it’s hours of operations, didn’t know if it was the sort of place one could go into at all hours, provided arrangements had been made.

  It was coming up on nine o’clock. I leafed through the magazine, reading nothing, blowing cigarette smoke down on photographs and pointless text, tried to read even the Prologue of the paperback, but found it god-awful, worse than I’d expected.

  It was twenty-minutes past ten when they came out—she carrying her bag, he carrying his, she discarding a coffee cup, he getting a cigarette lit.

  He was taller than her, than me, quite a striking guy, but he couldn’t have been older than I was, even seemed a bit younger. I followed, glaring, one eye half closed from some smoke squirming into it. He was thin, but had a lithe, athletic look to him—not like he was excessively athletic, but like he ran, did something, there was a clean inward arc to him, his shoulders clearly the top of him and a flat line, stiff, precise, into his groin. He wore his coat—which was lightweight to begin with—unbuttoned, had a green wool cap, some of his hair tufting out of it here and there.

  They stopped in to a fast-food restaurant, sat in a booth near the toilets, both washed mint by the stale of florescent light in the place.

  Lecia seemed rather fatigued, a looseness of sleep around her eyes, but seemed to pay close attention to whatever he was going on about—talking while holding up a salt shaker, holding up his napkin, making some example. Suddenly she laughed, and he made a flicking gesture in her direction, she made a grimace, laughed again, looked around and then went to refill her drink.

  They hadn’t touched.

  When they walked, they stood close, like people familiar with each other walking, but there were no bumps, no little jabs, no casual caressing against even the furthest outside of each others clothes.

  I supposed his fitness could make him look younger than he was, maybe if I could see his face I’d see some hint of age. He looked like I’d look if I did any sort of regular exercise, if I ever managed something more than pretend pushups standing angled against a wall.

  Lecia sat back down, pointing in the direction she’d come from, saying something and shrugging. He took a more relaxed posture, bunched himself into the booth corner, sort of looked out the window next to him while she had a few more bites.

  ***

  It was another ten minutes in the direction of one of the busier areas of downtown that a grim sense of disgust licked all over me. They weren’t heading back to Lecia’s and they weren’t parting company. So how was it to work? What could she have to say for herself?

  It was twenty past eleven. Even with the concert plans canceled, there was no reason we couldn’t have met up to do something.

  I imagined they were going back to his place, so all of her little illusions fell away. She’d not dressed up because she was telling the truth about her change in work schedule. She’d be with him all night, but then needed to have her usual thin
gs at hand, probably go back to the library thighs wet with him, jaw sore with him. It was a practical decision—I saw that, and it got me infuriated. This guy was so casual about being worked in, but the way she was being with him wasn’t wanton—this wasn’t a little escapade, wasn’t her having a romp, needing to feel a sharp polished object, doted on and flaunted—she was completely herself, unconscious, dressed in her favorite comforts, not putting on faces. And he wasn’t excited about simply the look of her, the thrill that some woman was going out of her way for him—he knew she wasn’t even going out of her way for him, was just giving herself to him.

  How had they met? As casual as they’d nodded, she’d suggested it, it’d happened? Was he some younger student she’d met at that library? How long had it been going on?

  This wasn’t the way someone strolled to an affair when it was fresh, when it was daring, inappropriate, this was just an ordinary meeting between people who could care less.

  I almost walked right into the hotel lobby behind them, but choked to a halt, back peddled, stopped, squinted to see what my options were.

  -A hotel. A hotel a hotel a hotel, I whispered, letting my cigarette stay smoldering where it fell from the bounce of my lips, only stepped it out when I pushed through the door.

  I kept my head down, looking in the direction of the pictures on the wall by the elevator, rounded the corner and walked down the corridor a bit.

  I didn’t know what I was doing.

  I’d seen they were in line behind someone else, crept back along toward the lobby until I heard the clerk chime Hi there at them, Lecia doing the talking. This was spontaneous, it seemed. No reservation. She was handing her credit card and identification across, naming the sort of room they wanted—saying Smoking is fine, just for the night—and the guy was offhand looking at some one of the brochures on the counter. Then he leaned in, saying something to her quietly, making a little motion with two of his fingers like a little man walking, and she perked up, drummed her hands on the counter, apologized to the clerk and said Is the top floor, alright? I’m sorry, if not it’s fine, but if there is we’d like the top floor.