Morning Glory

She launched herself toward the magazine rack, imposing breasts carried like heavy artillery, her trunk held erect by the most expensive elastic and coutil girdle the Sears Roebuck catalogue had to offer-the one tactfully recommended for those 'with excess flesh at the diaphragm.' Her jersey dress-white squiggles on a background the color of something already digested-hung straight as a stovepipe from her bulbous hips to her club-shaped calves and made not so much as a rustle when she moved.

She replaced three Saturday Evening Postmagazines, tamped the stack, aligned it with the edge of the shelf and marched along the row of tall fanlight windows, checking the wooden ribbing between the panes to be sure Levander Sprague, the custodian, hadn’t shirked. Levander was getting old. His eyesight wasn’t what it used to be, and lately she’d had to upbraid him for his careless dusting. Satisfied today, however, she returned to her duties at the central desk, located smack in front of double maple doors-closed-that led to wide interior steps at the bottom of which were the main doors of the building.

Overdue notices-bah!-there should be no such thing. Anyone who couldn’t return a book on time should simply be disallowed the privilege of using the library again. That would put an end to the need for overdue notices, but quick. Gladys’s mouth was puckered so tightly it all but disappeared as she penned addresses on the penny postcards.

She heard footfalls mounting the interior steps. A brass knob turned and a stranger stepped in, a tall, spare man dressed like a cowboy. He paused, letting his eyes scan the room, the desk, and her, then silently nodded and tipped his hat.

Gladys’s prim mouth relaxed as she returned the nod. The genteel art of hat doffing had become nearly obsolete-what was the world coming to?

He took a long time perusing the place before moving. When he did, there were no cleats. He went directly, quietly, to the card catalogue, slid out the B’s, flipped through the cards and studied them for some time. He closed the drawer soundlessly, then scanned the sunlit room before moving between the oak tables to nonfiction. There were library patrons who, ill at ease when alone in the vast room with Miss Beasley, found it necessary to whistle softly through their teeth while scanning the shelves. He didn’t. He selected a book from the 600’s-Practical Science-moved on to select another and brought them straight to the checkout desk.

'Good afternoon,' Gladys greeted in a discreet whisper.

'Afternoon, ma’am.' Will touched his hat brim and followed her lead, speaking quietly.

'I see you found what you were looking for.'

'Yes, ma’am. I’d like to check these out.'

'Do you have a card?'

'No, ma’am, but I’d like to get one.'

She moved with military precision, yanking a drawer open, finding a blank card, snapping it on the desktop off the edge of a tidily trimmed fingernail. The nail was virgin, Will was sure, never stained by polish. She closed the drawer with her girded torso, all the while holding her lips as if they were the mounting for a five-karat diamond. When she moved, her head snapped left and right, fanning the air with a smell resembling carnations and cloves. The light from one of the big windows glanced off her rimless glasses and caught the rows of uniform silver-blue ringlets between which the warp and woof of her skull shone pink. She dipped a pen in ink, then held it poised above the card.

'Name?'

'Will Parker.'

'Parker, Will,' she transposed aloud while entering the information on the first blank.

'And you’re a resident of Whitney, are you?'

'Yes, ma’am.'

'Address?'

'Ahh…' He rubbed his nose with a knuckle. 'Rock Creek Road.'

She glanced up with eyes as exacting as calipers, then wrote again while informing him, 'I’ll need some form of identification to verify your residency.' When he neither spoke nor moved, her head snapped up. 'Anything will do. Even a letter with a canceled postmark showing your mailing address.'

'I don’t have anything.'

'Nothing?'

'I haven’t lived there long.'

She set down her pen with a long-suffering air. 'Well, Mr. Parker, I’m sure you understand, I cannot simply loan books to anyone who walks in here unless I can be assured they’re residents. This is a municipal library. By its very meaning, the word municipal dictates who shall use this facility. Of a town, it means, thus this library is maintained by the residents of Whitney, forthe residents of Whitney. I wouldn’t be a very responsible librarian if I didn’t demand some identification now, would I?' She carefully placed the card aside, then crossed her hands on the desktop, giving the distinct impression that she was displeased at having her time and her card wasted.

She expected him to argue, as most did at such an impasse. Instead, he backed up a step, pulled his hat brim low and studied her silently for several seconds. Then, without a word, he nodded, scooped the books against his hip and returned to the nonfiction side where he settled himself on one of the hard oak armchairs in a strong shaft of sunlight, opened a book and began reading.

There were several criteria by which Gladys Beasley judged her library patrons. Cleats, vocal volume, nondisruptiveness and respect for books and furniture. Mr. Parker passed on all counts. She’d rarely seen anyone read more intently, with less fidgeting. He moved only to turn a page and occasionally to follow along with his finger, closing his eyes as if committing a passage to memory. Furthermore, he neither slouched nor abused the opposite chair by using it as a footstool. He sat with his hat brim pulled low, elbows on the table, knees lolling but boots on the floor. The book lay flat on the table where it belonged, instead of torqued against his belly, which was exceedingly hard on spines. Neither did he lick his finger before turning the page-filthy, germ-spreading habit!

Normally, if people came in and asked for a paper and pencil, Miss Beasley gave them a tongue-lashing instead, about responsibility and planning ahead. But Will Parker’s deportment and concentration raised within her regret for having had to deny him a borrower’s card. So she bent her own standard.

'I thought perhaps you might need these,' she whispered, placing a pencil and paper at his elbow.

Will’s head snapped up. His shoulders straightened. 'Much obliged, ma’am.'

She folded her hands over her portly belly. 'Ah, you’re reading about bees.'

'And apples. Yes, ma’am.'

'For what purpose, Mr. Parker?'

'I’d like to raise ’em.'

She cocked one eyebrow and thought a moment. 'I might have some pamphlets in the back from the extension office that would help.'

'Maybe next time, ma’am. I got all I can handle here today.'

She offered a tight smile and left him to his studies, trailing a scent strong enough to eat through concrete.

It was mid-afternoon. The only things moving in town were the flies on the ice cream scoop. Lula Peak was bored to distraction. She sat on the end stool in an empty Vickery’s Cafe, grateful when even her brassiere strap slipped down and she had to reach inside her black and white uniform to pull it up. God, this town was going to turn her into a cadaver before she even kicked the bucket! She could die of boredom right here on the barstool and the supper customers would come in and say, 'Evenin’, Lula, I’ll have the usual,' and not even realize she was a goner until thirty minutes later when their blue plate specials hadn’t arrived.

Lula yawned, leaving her hand inside her uniform, absently rubbing her shoulder. Being a sensual person, Lula liked touching herself. Sure as hell nobody else around this miserable godforsaken town knew how to do it right. Harley, that dumb ass, didn’t know the first thing about finesse when he touched a woman. Finesse. Lula liked the word. She’d just read it in an article on how to better yourself. Yeah, finesse, that’s what Lula needed, a man with a little finesse, a better man in the sack than Harley-Dumb-Ass-Overmire.

Lula suppressed a yawn, stretched her arms wide and thrust her ribs out, swiveling idly toward the window. Suddenly she rocketed from the stool.

Christ, it was him, walking along the street pulling a kid’s wagon. She ran her eyes speculatively over his lanky