No Nest for the Wicket(40)

“I don’t know where it is,” she wailed. “It’s not my fault. I can’t be expected to know what everyone is doing with the computer.”

“I was using the microfiche reader, not the computer,” I said.

“They probably still think it was me!” she wailed.

“Think what was you?” I asked, fishing in my purse for a tissue. “Here, use this.”

I handed her a wad of paper napkins from Luigi’s. The top one wasn’t entirely clean, I noticed, wincing, but perhaps she found the familiar smell of pizza sauce comforting.

“Someone used the library computer to hack into a bunch of places,” she said. “And they accused me of doing it because it always happened on weekends, when I was here.”

“That’s awful,” I said.

“They’d totally have arrested me if my computer-science teacher hadn’t stood up for me and told them there was no way I could possibly have figured out how to do it,” she said, lifting her chin, as if her teacher had vouched for her character rather than her technological shortcomings.

“They never found out who did it?”

“No, but now I have to keep a log of who uses the computer when,” she said. “Or any of the machines. Every time I turn around, there’s something else I have to do.”

“Tough job,” I said, trying to sound sincere.

“Yeah, but you know, it’s been really useful,” she said, interrupting herself to blow her nose with one of the napkins. “I mean, for figuring out what I want to do with my life.”

“You were thinking of becoming a librarian?” I said. I must have sounded dubious.

“Not anymore!”

I breathed a silent sigh of relief.

“Well, I’m not going to accuse you of anything, don’t worry,” I said. “Just tell Ms. Ellie I was here and that I’ll drop by to see her sometime soon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said, sounding sullen. I had a feeling she wanted me to stay and hear all the reasons why she’d given up the idea of a career in library science. She’d still complain about the crazy woman who had insisted on turning the building inside out while looking for some missing papers, but Ms. Ellie would know I wanted to talk to her.

Back at the house, the picnic lunch had turned into one of those sprawling, loosely organized all-day parties that generated spontaneously whenever you put a critical mass of my relatives in close proximity to a good supply of food. The Shiffleys seemed equally at home. The number of enormous pickup trucks parked along the side of the road had doubled in my absence. The buffet tables looked fuller than ever, though the overflowing trash cans (and the half a dozen black plastic trash bags nearby) suggested that we’d already produced legendary quantities of corncobs, chicken bones, potato peelings, watermelon and lemon rinds, well-gnawed ribs, and other picnic debris. A small group of Shiffleys was providing a musical accompaniment—ably assisted, I was pleased to see, by a couple of my relatives.

I strolled through the crowd, looking for one face in particular: Henrietta Pruitt’s. Now that I knew the story—well, not the whole story, but some of the less heroic details—about the Battle of Pruitt’s Ridge, I wanted to talk to her.

I found her in the kitchen, packing up to leave. Actually, Lacie Butler was scurrying around, gathering up Mrs. Pruitt’s wraps and the dishes on which she’d brought her contributions to the feast, while Mrs. Pruitt sipped a cup of tea and looked on with an air of long-suffering patience.

How is that so different from what your own mother does? my contrary side asked.

Mother would at least be polite. And Mother did the occasional bit of work. Right now, she was fixing more tea.

“Going so soon?” I asked Mrs. Pruitt.

“Well, it’s gotten rather … lively for me,” Mrs. Pruitt said with an unconvincing smile. “Too much noise just destroys my nerves.”

Mother was pointedly tapping her toes to the music and ignoring Mrs. Pruitt, other than occasionally refilling her teacup. If I’d been Mrs. Pruitt, I would have had someone else taste the tea first.

Just then the musicians outside reached the end of a set of reels, and loud applause and cheers erupted from the yard. Mrs. Pruitt shuddered delicately.

“On top of yesterday’s shock,” I said. “Seeing a dead body.”

“Yes,” she said, shuddering more dramatically. “Although I didn’t actually see the dead body, of course,” she added quickly. “Just the photo. Still—the very idea …”

She sipped again and closed her eyes as if stoically enduring unspeakable tortures.