Singing Boy by Dennis McFarland

Author:Dennis McFarland [McFarland, Dennis]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-1-4804-6506-0
Publisher: Open Road Media
Published: 2013-12-18T15:39:00+00:00

THROUGH THE GLASS PANELS of the library doors, Deckard sees a beautiful young redhead behind the circulation desk. Friday mornings, he doesn’t report to the hospital until noon, and he has come to the library on this Friday morning early in May to confess his truancy regarding the way-overdue book on memory loss—not only has he failed for all these many weeks to return the book but now he can’t find it, though it’s bound to be somewhere in the apartment. He’s cheered to see that he’ll be coming clean to so fine a confessor, and in the few seconds it takes to get through the doors and over to the desk, he imagines himself turning on the charm as he recounts his tale of woe, making her laugh at the irony of his having forgotten where he put the book on memory loss, ha-ha.

He judges her to be about thirty, and he notes the tragic little blue ink mark just above her left eyebrow. She looks up from her computer screen and greets him warmly enough but lets him unload only about half a sentence before interrupting. “Hold on a minute,” she says. “I don’t do lost books. Could you step down there to the end of the counter?”

As Deckard sidles to the spot where she has removed him with such stunning indifference, she goes to a nearby office door, says something to somebody inside, and returns to her previous station, not so much as giving Deckard another glance. There’s something menacing now, and insectlike, about the clicking noise her red-painted fingernails make on her computer keyboard.

Soon a sloppy-looking middle-aged bearded guy appears in a striped shirt that looks as if it was made from a piece of circus tent. “Can I help you, sir?”

Not really, Deckard thinks, but does not say.

It turns out the bearded guy is wildly amused by the irony of the misplaced book on memory loss. He’s interested and attentive, friendly and sympathetic, and even has a nice twinkle in his eyes: everything, in short, the young redhead isn’t.

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you for twelve ninety-five,” the man says apologetically, “but I’m certainly not going to make you pay the overdue fines.”

Deckard pays the bill in cash, and there’s a small slip of paper to sign. When Deckard passes the man the slip with his signature, the man holds it at arm’s length and says, “You have beautiful handwriting.”

“Thanks,” Deckard says, surprised at how this compliment delights him, then folds his hands over his heart prayerfully and says, “Now can I take out another book? Please.”

“Of course,” the man says. “But do you think you can remember where the stacks are?”

“Stacks?” Deckard says, putting one finger to his chin. “Now tell me again. What’s a stack?”

They both laugh, like great bosom buddies, and Deckard moves off toward the oak swinging doors to the reference room. It takes him about three seconds and one quick glance back at the guy—who’s frozen in

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