“Mr. Doorman, would you hand me that book, please?” I asked.
“Yes, sah! Happy to!”
It wasThe Chapman Report,which I’d borrowed from the Nokomis Public Library a week or so before deciding it was time to put on my traveling shoes. The sticker in the corner of the transparent protective cover—7 DAYS ONLY, BE KIND TO THE NEXT BORROWER—reproached me.
When I got to my room, I checked my watch and saw it was only 6:00P.M.In the summer, the library didn’t open until noon but stayed open until eight. Long distance is one of the few things more expensive in 1960 than in 2011, but that childish sense of guilt was still on me. I called the hotel operator and gave her the Nokomis Library’s telephone number, reading it off the card-pocket pasted to the back flyleaf of the book. The little message below it,Please Call if You Will Be More Than 3 Days Late in Your Return,made me feel more like a dog than ever.
My operator talked to another operator. Behind them, faint voices babbled. I realized that in the time I came from, most of those distant speakers would be dead. Then the phone began to ring on the other end.
“Hello, Nokomis Public Library.” It was Hattie Wilkerson’s voice, but that sweet old lady sounded like she was stuck in a very large steel barrel.
“Hello, Mrs. Wilkerson—”
“Hello?Hello?Do you hear me?Dratlong distance!”
“Hattie?” I was shouting now. “It’s George Amberson calling!”
“GeorgeAmberson? Oh, my soul! Where are you calling from, George?”
I almost told her the truth, but the hunch-radar gave out a single very loud ping and I bellowed, “Baton Rouge!”
“In Louisiana?”
“Yes! I have one of your books! I just realized! I’m going to send it ba—”
“You don’t need to shout, George, the connection ismuchbetter now. The operator must not have stuck our little plug in the whole way. I amsoglad to hear from you. It’s God’s providence that you weren’t there. We were worried even though the fire chief said the house was empty.”
“What are you talking about, Hattie? My place on the beach?”
But really, what else?
“Yes! Someone threw a flaming bottle of gasoline through the window. The whole thing went up in a matter of minutes. Chief Durand thinks it was kids who were out drinking and carousing. There are so many bad apples now. It’s because they’re afraid of the Bomb, that’s what my husband says.”
So.
“George? Are you still there?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Which book do you have?”
“What?”
“Whichbookdo you have? Don’t make me check the card catalogue.”
“Oh.The Chapman Report.”
“Well, send it back as soon as you can, won’t you? We have quite a few people waiting for that one. Irving Wallace is extremely popular.”
“Yes,” I said. “I’ll be sure to do that.”
“And I’m very sorry about your house. Did you lose your things?”
“I have everything important with me.”
“Thank God for that. Will you be coming back s—”
There was a click loud enough to sting my ear, then the burr of an open line. I replaced the receiver in the cradle. Would I be coming back soon? I saw no need to call back and answer that question. But I would watch out for the past, because it senses change-agents, and it has teeth.
