“Well, I assumed he came to get a book, naturally, though I couldn’t get anything from him in reply to my questions except nods and blank stares. When I asked his name, all I got was garbled sounds, like chalk on a blackboard, but I think I figured it out finally. So I filled out a child’s membership card for him.”
“What name?” Dubykky asked, a perfunctory politeness, as though he were simply chipping in to keep the conversation rolling.
“Oh, yes. What a surprise! Matthew Gans. Or so I think. I named people with similar sounds: Matilda Gosse, Mitchell Garrison, Manuel Gonzales, Matthew Gans. He seemed to react to the last, especially when I wrote them all down.
“You know, Will—that Matt Gans who teaches shop at the high. The boy seems to be his kid. Matt Gans, Junior.”
A furrow appeared between Dubykky’s brows at the admiring tone she used when pronouncing the father’s name.
Mildred was poised to continue elaborating the incident, the only noteworthy one of her day, but Dubykky, despite his apparent lack of interest, surprised her, asking, “Did this Matthew Gans, Junior, check out a book?”
“Why, yes.”
“Which book?”
Mildred did not expect such curiosity on the subject of children’s literature and was a little unsettled. Dubykky was staring at her. “Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. It’s brand new, part of a well-thought-of series. Every Child’s Omnibus of Sports, Every Child’s Omnibus of Science—have you heard of those? Anyway, this one’s a very interesting volume, full of rhymes and riddles and fables, all with clear moral lessons. Just what a young boy like him needs.”
While Milton Cledge struggled not to look confused and uninterested at the same time, Dubykky’s stare was positively disturbing. Mildred didn’t know how to describe it, or what to make of it. It compelled her to continue without his evincing any pleasure from what she said. So she explained how the book was a Beginner Book, one meeting the publisher’s policy to introduce new readers to a basic vocabulary of 350 words. She admitted that the contents were quirky and that the book probably did not adhere to that policy strictly, but then she stumbled to a halt.
Dubykky had turned and was looking out the window, which presented a view of Highway 95. Mildred did so, too. A long-haul truck was moving past, but when it was out of the way, a boy was revealed standing in front of Simpson’s Jewelers. He wore the very same kind of checked shirt as had Matthew Gans, Junior. Mildred looked at him more carefully. Tucked under one arm was a thin strip of color. With a start, Mildred realized it was the spine of Every Child’s Omnibus of Wisdom. The series’ book covers had a shade of burnt orange instantly recognizable, even from a distance.
“It’s him!” she exclaimed, practically squeaking.
Dubykky neither said anything in reply nor moved, but Cledge, following their eyes, squinted, then reaching inside his suit jacket took out a pair of glasses with heavy black rims. A small part of Mildred’s mind registered this disapprovingly as Cledge unfolded them and put them on. Even with the glasses on, he squinted.
“Where?” he asked, scanning the street.
“There.” Mildred pointed. “Across Main.”
“I don’t see anybody across the street at all,” he said in a cross tone, because he again suspected that he was being made the dupe for an obscure joke.
Mildred turned to him, impatient. “You don’t see the boy? He’s straight across the street. There.” But when Mildred looked back, the boy was not there. She swung her head, searching. Nobody at all was out on the sidewalks. “Huh,” she admitted after a moment, “how strange. I’m sure I saw him. Now he’s gone and he seemed to be looking right at us. He certainly moves fast! Didn’t he move fast, Will?” Despite herself, she coughed a short, nervous laugh.
Mrs. Rooney arrived with their salads right then, settling them on the table with much clattering. Right behind her was the bartender, dressed immaculately in black and white like Mrs. Rooney, but looking spruce where Mrs. Rooney was dowdy—but also blank-faced while Mrs. Rooney’s eyes darted among her customers, shrewdly assessing the gossip value of Cledge, the newcomer. The bartender set out the drinks. At this Cledge frowned, an indication of restaurant savoir-faire that pleased Mildred. As swanky as the El Cap purported to be, the staff didn’t know to bring the alcohol before the salad course. The three ate in silence, a silence that continued after her lamb chop and their two steaks were served. Though he dug into his food, Cledge seemed vaguely uncomfortable, whether because of the silence or the food quality Mildred could not divine, but it evoked a twinge of sympathy. Poor man, she thought, Will Dubykky and Mildred Warden must seem strange sorts for first acquaintances way out here in lonely Hawthorne.
She smiled reassuringly at him when he glanced up, then uncertain about the boldness of that, studied the level of wine in her glass. It had declined a little too quickly to last through the meal, so when Mrs. Rooney returned to check on their progress, Mildred glanced at the wine glass and then at Dubykky. He shook his head minutely. He himself had not touched his martini, so she felt reproved. Instead, Mildred ordered coffee and no ice cream for dessert. Cledge had ordered ice cream, but she had a figure to maintain.
Conversation resumed with the dessert. By then Cledge had forgotten about the boy and queried Dubykky and Mildred about local politicians. Mildred barely responded, which seemed to distress him. But Mildred did not have a problem with Cledge. It was just that nothing would fix in her mind except the sight of that strange boy across Main Street, his eyes trained right their way. Uncanny.
Cledge left first, shaking her hand and again assuming a stilted style of address to profess great pleasure in meeting her and sharing a meal. Watching him leave, she was interested to find him a sturdy figure and tallish, maybe five eleven, but a little ungainly in gait. Large feet. The soles of his wingtips, canted back at her as he stepped, were clean, hardly scuffed. She approved.
“Well, Milly,” said Dubykky, and Mildred snapped her eyes away from the retreating figure. Dubykky had a little smile, the one with just the very corners of his mouth turned up that he used to tease her sometimes. “What do you think of your future husband?”
Mildred flushed and spluttered protests. He just shook his head once and turned to watch out the window. Mildred was glad of the opportunity to switch the subject. Sometimes Will Dubykky just—she had been going to say to herself “went too far,” but the words didn’t suit her, and she balked. Her frank, inner voice finished the sentence with, acts like a weirdo. She compressed her whole face, which was how she got rid of unpleasantness in her mind. Back to the subject: “You saw him, didn’t you? The odd-looking boy?”
Dubykky nodded, almost imperceptibly.
“Wasn’t it strange, though? I mean, there he was across the street. And looking right at us. Will?”
Dubykky continued to stare out the window. Mildred kept her eyes on his ear while she spoke, because with the approaching dusk she felt a compulsion not to look where he was looking. “Don’t you wonder why he was there? I do. Maybe he wanted something from me. But how would he know I was here in the restaurant? Will? And what could he possibly want from me now that the library is closed? Will? Say something!”
Dubykky sighed, which astonished Mildred. She had not heard such a sound from him before, a sigh that said something like, All right, there it is, I’ll have to attend to it. Or so it seemed to her.
At last he replied and did so in a tone hardly more than a murmur, but a tone nonetheless firm and clear, the tone he used when he told her something that she was absolutely supposed to take to heart. Sometimes, on the infrequent occasions when she heard that particular tone from him, Mildred wondered whether Dubykky regarded himself as a replacement father to her.
“It’s a warning,” he said.
Ridiculous as the remark sounded, a chill swept through Mildred.
“Nonsense,”