Somebody Else's Music(29)

She was out on the street before she knew it. The day was very bright. She blinked a few times in the sun. She stayed on her own side of the street, because that’s where the library was. She went around to the side of the library’s new addition and let herself in the back door. It was ten minutes to nine. She had just enough time to put away her things and get her hair brushed before the doors opened. If business was slow, as it always was on Tuesday mornings, she would be able to run across the street to JayMar’s to take out a cup of coffee, or over to Mullaney’s, near the railroad tracks, for a package of crackers and peanut butter to eat.

She put her handbag behind the take out desk. The lights were all on, meaning that Laurel was already here. She took out her brush and ran it vigorously through what hair she had left. She was balding badly, but she didn’t know what to do about it. She thought about trying Rogaine, but that seemed to be for men. She looked at her reflection in the security mirror above the main desk, put her brush back in her bag, and started walking toward the front.

“Laurel?”

“I’m up here.” The sound came from the front foyer of the addition. Nobody went into the front foyer of the main building anymore. Once the addition had been fully up and running, the main building had been turned into a museum of things nobody wanted to see. Who cared how people had lived in Hollman in 1865?

“What are you doing?” Belinda asked. She was coming up between the stacks. Laurel was there, at the very front, pinning something on the cork bulletin board.

“I’m putting up a notice. Did I tell you? I couldn’t have. You haven’t been here. Anyway, she came in late yesterday afternoon, to return some overdue books she found on a shelf somewhere and ask me if her mother had anything else out that I might be looking for. God, she looked great. Do you know if she’s had plastic surgery or not? I mean, no crow’s-feet at all. Of course, her mother doesn’t have them, either, so maybe it’s genetics. Wouldn’t that be lucky genetics to get? I already look like a road map in the top half of my face.”

“So, what did she say? Just that about the overdue books?”

“Oh, no,” Laurel said. “We talked about her coming here and doing a program, and she said yes right away. On Saturday, at our regular meeting of the Friends. I’ve been frantic ever since. I had to call the Home News and put in a notice, and I had to make this sign.” Laurel gestured at the paper she was tacking to the corkboard. “It’s not a very good one, but the letters are big. And I ran off a whole bunch of them to pass out. I mean, of course the Friends will all be there, but I’ll be embarrassed beyond belief if we can’t get a bigger crowd than that. She’s going to talk about covering a political campaign. Did you know she covered the campaign in Connecticut the last time Rosa DeLauro ran for Congress?”

Belinda had never heard of Rosa DeLauro, but she had an instinct not to say so. Obviously, she was somebody Laurel recognized, and that other people would, too. The sign was just an ordinary piece of legal-sized paper printed in red capital letters, boldface and in italics: ELIZABETH TOLIVER IS HERE. Underneath, there was smaller lettering, giving the day and time and location and a brief sentence about the subject of the talk.

“Do you think a lot of people are going to be interested in an election in Connecticut?” she asked, because she couldn’t help herself.

Laurel waved this away. “It’s not an election in Connecticut. It’s campaign finance reform and celebrity perks and the way the media treats women running for Congress. Especially somebody like Rosa DeLauro, who’s so feminist. Oh, and you’ve got to remember. She likes to be called Liz, not Betsy. She’s really adamant about it. It upsets her to be called Betsy.”

“Betsy Wetsy,” Belinda said.

“What?” Laurel blinked.

“Betsy Wetsy,” Belinda said. “That’s why she hates to be called Betsy. It was a doll when we were all children, a baby doll that you fed with a bottle and then the water came out the other side and you had to change its diaper. So we called her Betsy Wetsy.”

“In high school?”

“In kindergarten and all the time after. It was just one of those things.”

“What an awful thing to do to somebody.”

“I don’t see why. It was just a nickname. Lots of people have nicknames when they’re children. I had a nickname.”

“What?”

“Lindy.”

“Not quite the same, is it?” Laurel made a face. “I’ve read things about how awful she was treated here as a child. I never really thought about the particulars. I think it’s a miracle she’s willing to be here at all. She must be incredibly close to her mother. And now doing a program for the library, too. You’re making me think she’s some kind of saint.”