Lending a Paw(11)

“He looks really happy right here,” the woman said.

I kept my smile pasted on. “Let me show you those Janet Evanovich books you were asking about.”

The scene replayed itself at every stop, excluding the unscheduled halt at the lone gas station/convenience stop on the route. The closest thing to a Tupperware container in the entire place was a bowl of microwavable chicken soup. I bought it, took it into the bathroom, threw away the soup, washed out the plastic with hot water and soap, filled it with water, and carried it out to the bookmobile, ignoring the puzzled glances of the proprietor.

“No cat food,” I told Eddie. “But they did have this.” Unclipping the end of a loaf of bread, I said, “It’s not the stuff I usually buy, but it’s what they had.” I pulled out the first inside piece of bread—Eddie didn’t like the end slices—and tore it into cat-sized pieces.

He sniffed, then must have decided I’d suffered enough for the day and started eating. One bit went down, two, then parts of a third. He backed away, licking his lips, so I picked up the uneaten pieces and tossed them into a wastebasket. Bread wasn’t part of a healthy cat’s diet, but he liked it and it was better than nothing.

“Four stops down,” I said, “and two to go. Ready, Eddie?”

“Mrr.”

• • •

With food in his stomach, Eddie slept through the next stop, the parking lot of a small fieldstone church. He’d curled up with the paper towels on the floor and not one of the half dozen people who came on the bookmobile even knew he was there.

The last stop was at a township hall. I pushed the button to lower the stairs, unlocked the doors, and put my head out. No SUVs, no motorcycles, no bicycles, no kids. Huh. There was a single car, large and dark, but no one was in it. Probably a neighbor, using the lot for overflow parking.

“Are we early?” I asked Eddie.

He opened his eyes, closed them, and started a deep rumbling purr.

I patted his head as I reached inside my backpack for my cell phone. “Hey, look, there’s reception out here. Go figure.”

According to the phone, we were one full minute past the scheduled bookmobile arrival time. Aunt Frances couldn’t understand how I didn’t want to wear a watch, but I saw no need to strap something around my wrist when I had a cell phone.

I popped up the ceiling fan and went outside. Still nothing, still no one. We were in the bottom of a wide valley that ran between two hilly tree-covered ridges, and the fields between us and the hillsides were dotted with the occasional farmhouse and barn. Some of these farms, I’d been told, had been in the same family for more than a hundred years, handed down through the generations.

No one from any generation, however, seemed to be on their way to the bookmobile.

I climbed back aboard, pulled a file out of the rack I’d had installed above the desk behind the driver’s seat, and found the list of today’s stops. As I punched in the phone number, I mentally added “Phone each stop contact day before” to my ever-expanding prep list.

“Elaine? This is Minnie Hamilton with the bookmobile, and—”

“Oh, Minnie, I’m so glad it’s you!” Elaine Parker said. “I called the library, but they couldn’t find your cell number. I needed to tell you that our women’s softball team is playing a Red Hat tournament series and we made it to the finals, isn’t that great? Everyone is up at the field, so no one’s going to visit the bookmobile.” She paused, then said hesitantly, “You’ll come back, won’t you?”

“Of course we will,” I said. “And congratulations on your softball team. I’ll be back in three weeks.”

Elaine gushed her gratitude, and when I hung up, I looked at my cat.

“Well, Mr. Eddie,” I said, “now what?” Elaine had said no one was going to show up, but the bookmobile’s published schedule clearly stated that we’d be here for thirty minutes. On one hand, there was little point in staying. On the other, our schedule said “Williams Township Hall, 3:00 p.m.–3:30 p.m.”

On the third hand, with a bookmobile full of books, there was plenty to do. The half hour sped by as I straightened and organized and when I looked at my phone, it was past time to go. I closed down the ceiling fan and went to shut the back door I’d left open in hopes of attracting patrons. It had been a dry stop, unless you wanted to count the flies.

I stood on the bottom step and reached around for the door handle. Just as the door was about to click closed, a black-and-white streak bounded over my foot and leapt into the outside air.

“Eddie! You get back here right now!”