I sighed and stretched. I looked for the old man but didn’t see him. The room seemed empty, except for the librarian. She saw me looking around and said, “Can I help you find something?”
“Someone, maybe. The elderly gentleman who was in here a moment ago?”
“Oh, he left.”
“Oh, no. He loaned this magnifier to me. He must have forgotten.”
“Well, perhaps we can page him before he leaves the library. Let’s look on the sign-in sheet.” She reached it before I did and started laughing. “Well, I guess he didn’t want us to know his name. This is a character in a short story.”
I stared at the signature in disbelief.
The name on the sign-in sheet was John Oakhurst. He gave his address as Poker Flat.
“I guess he’s a fan of Bret Harte,” she said. “ ‘The Outcasts of Poker Flat.’ ”
“Call the police!” I said, running to the door.
“For goodness’ sakes, it’s not that serious,” I heard her say behind me.
I stopped and turned back to her. “That man is wanted by the police. Call them!”
As I entered the open area beyond the local history collection, I heard my name paged. I looked back at the librarian, who was watching me as if my next move would help her decide whether I was a harmless lunatic or a dangerous one. No phone in her hand.
I ran to the main information desk. “Please call the police.”
This librarian was studying me, but not as if I were crazy. “Are you Irene Kelly?” she asked.
“Yes!” I said, starting to run out the door without thinking about how she knew my name.
“Stop!” she called out.
I turned back.
“It’s right here, with me,” she said, and to my amazement she held up my purse.
“How…?”
“An old man found it and turned it in. Didn’t you hear me page you just now?”
“An old man… which way did he go?”
“Are you all right? If you’d like to check it to see if anything is missing….”
“Which way did he go?” I shouted.
Her eyes widened, but she pointed toward the front doors.
“Call the police,” I said again, and ran outside.
I looked for any sign of someone pulling out of the parking lot, frantically scanned the area in front of the building for any sign of him. Not a soul. I ran all the way around the building, to P Street and back. It was on the return trip that I saw something red.
It was the old man’s handkerchief, tied to the canal fence. As I walked toward it, I heard a train whistle, saw a freight train on the tracks behind the library. The rumble of the train blocked out all other sound, even the water flowing swift and sure through the narrow channel below. I touched the handkerchief, saw that something was knotted within it. With shaking hands I loosened the handkerchief, then the knot that held the weighty object.
A folded piece of paper and something made of shiny metal fell out into my hand.
Frank’s watch. An old-fashioned watch — his father’s retirement watch — the kind you have to wind. Unable to stand, I sat on the sidewalk next to the fence. I unfolded the piece of paper.
It was a page from a desk calendar. Next Tuesday. In block letters the words “Time is running out.”
The information desk librarian was outside then and walked over to me. “Here’s your purse,” she said gently. “Are you all right?”
“Did you call the police?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“Then I’m all right.” I held the watch to my ear, listened to it tick, and wept.
25
“WHAT’S THIS?” Cassidy asked.
“A tampon holder,” I answered, then snapped out of my state of numbness as if I’d been slapped. “What the hell are you doing going through my purse?”
The officer driving the police cruiser that was taking us back to Bea’s house was smiling. She caught my attention and rolled her eyes in sympathy.
Cassidy set the holder between us, on the seat, and was already pulling out my wallet. But at my question he looked up and said, “Feeling any better?”
I nodded. “While you’re rummaging through my belongings, see if there are any tissues in there. I’ve used up all the ones the librarians gave me.”
Instead he reached into his shirt pocket and handed me his neatly ironed and folded handkerchief.
“I didn’t think anybody carried these anymore,” I managed to say as I took the soft cloth from him. “Christ, it even has your initials on it.”
