Summer Hours at the Robbers Library by Sue Halpern

Author:Sue Halpern
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2018-03-09T05:00:00+00:00

Chapter Seven 7.19.10-7.25.10

Who never lost, are unprepared / A Coronet to find!

—Emily Dickinson

The first time Rusty drove through Riverton, back in June, he was on the lookout for the building that drew him up north in the first place, the Riverton National Bank. His mother’s old passbook didn’t have an address, a feature that Rusty was certain spoke to the bank’s prominence in the city: Why waste ink when everyone knew where it was? And where it was, he figured, was smack in the middle of town. Just as malls had a Sears anchoring one end and a JCPenney anchoring the other, in Rusty’s experience towns were moored by the library, the church, and the bank. All he needed to do was find one and he’d find the others.

And there was the library, straight ahead when he made the turn onto Main Street—so far, so good. And there was the church, a white clapboard rectangle of modest size topped by a stubby bell tower, with a light box sign out front that reminded Rusty of the Wheel of Fortune puzzle: ath_i_t: a pers_n with _o invisible m_ans of sup_ort.

“That’s me!” Rusty said out loud on his second pass when he had solved it: “Atheist: a person with no invisible means of support.”

Rusty parked the Mercedes near the library and began walking counterclockwise along the mostly empty sidewalk, looking for the bank. He passed Carl’s Barbershop, closed and for rent, its red, white, and blue barber pole still intact, and the old diner, also closed and for rent, and a pawnshop that used to be an appliance store, its window displaying a drum kit and a case of mismatched high school class rings. Fine’s Department Store, on the opposite side of the green from the library, was now a Dollar Tree, the newer store’s plastic green sign unable to mask the original, which had been hammered into the limestone facade and looked to Rusty like a grave marker. Someone had won $500 from a scratch ticket purchased here, and American Spirit cigarettes were on sale, and on a lark, Rusty pushed through the heavy beveled glass doors, surprising the cashier, who jumped a little, took a step back, and narrowed her eyes, which were ringed with bright blue eye shadow.

“Hi,” Rusty said brightly, letting her know he was no threat.

The girl—though she might not have been a girl; her age was indeterminate (the extensions in her hair ended in silver tips that reminded Rusty of shoelaces)—nodded.

Rusty surveyed the candy rack, fingered a KitKat and put it back, and took a package of Polo mints and laid it on the counter. “How much?” he asked.

“You know this is the Dollar Tree, right?” she said.

“What about tax?”

“What about it?”

“Is it still a dollar?”

“Like I said,” she said.

Rusty counted out three quarters, two dimes, and a nickel and slid them toward her. “So where’s the bank?” he asked.

“What bank?”

“The Riverton bank. The national bank. Riverton National.”

“The only bank I know is People’s out on Route 5.

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