One Degree of Separation Read online

  Marian turned toward Liddy so quickly that Liddy stepped back.

  “Nobody’s asking to get fucked, okay? How many times do I have to say it?”

  “You say it and then you kiss me.”

  “You kissed me! And this is childish. I don’t—I don’t do this. Okay, there’s a lot about me I’d change if I had the chance, and I’d be better off, but this at least I know isn’t me!” Her voice rose. “And I don’t want to be this way. Everyone else can change, but I don’t want to, thank you. I am who I am and—and—damn!” Marian turned quickly away as a group of hikers appeared at the top of the crest.

  Liddy waited for the group to pass them, but all she could think was that she had no idea what was going on inside Marian. No idea at all.

  Marian’s low voice cut into her circular musings. “That wasn’t about you. I apologize for shouting.”

  “Maybe we should go back now.”

  Marian nodded. “It’s for the best.”

  Liddy trailed along behind her, bemused. What was it about this woman? It was those kisses. And that ass. And that voice. And the way she looked deep inside Liddy, like nobody had ever looked at her before.

  Life is twisted, Liddy thought. I finally find a woman who isn’t reduced to Neanderthal tactics by my boobs, but everything else about me makes her cry.

  Was she in a foreign movie with no subtitles? Or was this just the way the dykes dated in Iowa City? Yes, no, yes, no, talk, talk, and more talk?

  8

  Eric eyed Marian as she joined him at the reference desk. “Get lucky?”

  “Oh, yeah.” Marian slid into one of the two vacant chairs at the reference desk. “You know me—women, women, women.”

  “Right.” Eric’s obvious disbelief was a relief, but Marian was oddly peeved by it.

  So what else is new, she thought. So far today you’ve been angry, surrounded by sausage, laughed, kissed, turned on beyond belief, kissed more, cried pathetically and shouted at a stranger.

  Liddy was hardly a stranger any longer, Inner Slut pronounced.

  Not if you wanted her hand down your pants.

  She is a stranger, Inner Prude argued back. Why, we don’t even know if she prefers milk chocolate or dark!

  I’m losing it, Marian thought. Having gotten her period she could hardly blame the mood swings on hormones.

  “Holy cow,” Eric said. “Look who’s here.” Marian watched the similarly dressed young men—neither of whom could be older than she was—walk without invitation or hesitation into Mary Jane’s office. Through the dark glass she saw Mary Jane put down the phone and rise. “Oh, joy. That’s what this day needed. The F.B.I.”

  “I wonder which of our patrons is plotting the overthrow of the government today?”

  “Be nice if it was the blonde with the bad attitude, wouldn’t it?” Bill the Boor emerged from the work area behind their desk.

  “The F.B.I. is here?”

  Marian told herself if she didn’t look at him he wasn’t real. That plan was foiled by the need to speak to him. “Can I sign you out of your e-mail?”

  “I was about to finish up.”

  Marian yielded the chair and gestured at the third terminal. “Can I close the browser you’ve got open on this one?”

  “Oh, I suppose,” Bill said irritably.

  “One per customer.” Eric spoke cheerfully, which Marian knew made Bill even more sullen. Abruptly all business, Eric said, “Heads up.”

  Mary Jane’s managerial mask was firmly in place. “Marian, could you join me in my office?”

  Since Mary Jane hadn’t mentioned the two agents there Marian wondered if they were invoking the Patriot Act. She certainly hoped not. They hadn’t yet had the law enforced in their library system.

  Well, as far as she knew, they hadn’t. Since it imposed a gag order on everyone, there was no way of knowing if it had or hadn’t been applied. Beware of government conducted in secrecy, she reminded herself.

  Mary Jane introduced her, explained that she had looked at their subpoena and checked it with legal, then left them alone.

  Fortunately, the only place to sit was behind Mary Jane’s desk. It was less intimidating than standing while the two men sat.

  She knew her smile was stiff, but she didn’t need the patronizing

  “There’s no reason to be alarmed, Ms. Pardoo. This person is wanted for questioning only.”

  Marian held back a remark about dungeons or thumbscrews.

  She’d met a dozen agents during her tenure at the library, and all of them prided themselves for having no sense of humor.

  She spelled her name, gave her home phone number and address, then peered carefully at the photograph they showed her. “I honestly can’t say I recognize which patron this is. When was this taken?” The agent in charge answered, “We’re not at liberty to say.

  Would you remember what books he might have asked about?” Marian gave the dark-haired man a steady look. “I must handle a hundred requests a day. Frankly I try not to remember, as I think I’d go mad.” Plus what I can’t remember I can’t tell you, she failed to add. If a patron struck her as furtive or somehow illicit she might remember for that reason, but otherwise she had plenty of other things to do with her time and memory cells. “Perhaps one of the other staff members?”

  Emotionlessly, the other agent said, “We’re not at liberty to discuss who we’ll be speaking with.”

  Patriot Act maybe, Marian thought, or maybe not. If the matter were somebody sending threatening e-mails from a library terminal, they’d be more forthcoming. They had been in the past, at least.

  “He may never have spoken to me.”

  “He used a terminal near your desk, Ms. Pardoo.”

  “Yes, near the shared reference desk, but I don’t watch the patrons use the computers unless they make some sort of unusual movement. Like masturbating. Though the ones who try that usually sit facing the other way.”

  It was a waste of energy, trying to discomfit the two men. She wasn’t being deliberately unhelpful. She really didn’t remember this guy, not from a blurry, black-and-white photo printed from the security camera.

  She took their card and said of course she would call if she saw that particular patron again, and of course she understood she was not able to tell anyone about this or future conversations.

  They gestured for Mary Jane to come back and asked her for a list of books checked out “for the date in question,” in compliance with their subpoena.

  Great, Marian didn’t want to know when the date in question was anyway.

  Relieved the agents were back in Mary Jane’s care, Marian hid her smile as Mary Jane explained that the Iowa City Public Library purged patron records once texts were returned, therefore the list would be naturally incomplete at this time.

  Eric looked up when she got back to the reference desk. “Have fun with the G-men?”

  “What G-men?” She gave him a significant look.

  “Gotcha. The F.B.I. has not been here today.”

  “And therefore they’re not upset that our checkout records are incomplete,” Marian added.

  “We should be able to tell them every book every single patron has had out,” Bill muttered. “Evildoers don’t have a right to privacy.”

  “But the rest of us do. It’s called the Freedom to Read, remember?” Marian wasn’t going to let Bill go unchallenged. He thought he ran the place as it was. “I’ll bet whoever it is was doing course research on nuclear physics and then hopped over to read the Socialist News or something. And here are our tax dollars at work.

  Today it’s terrorists, but think how helpful system logs would be—if we kept them—to turn in teenagers who look up information about abortion. Or just sex—”

  “I’m not sure that’s a bad idea, either.” Bill raised his voice to cut Marian off. “All this resistance to filters and tracking people’s books makes librarians look like hysterical leftists.”

  “Next you’ll be quoting that mo
ron in the National Review who said it was time to kill all the librarians.”

  “It was a metaphor,” Bill said scathingly.

  Marian began an angry retort, but Eric’s philosophical musings stopped her. “We could help spot budding lesbians by tagging any thirteen-year-old girls who looked up information on Alice from the Brady Bunch.”

  Marian snorted. “Or Martina Navratilova.” She would thank Eric later for stopping her tirade. It did no good to argue with Bill. He was an information fascist at heart, an ideology absolutely contrary to his chosen career, at least in her opinion.

  Bill gave Eric a sour look and pointedly turned to his terminal.

  “Oh, hey,” Eric said. “I forgot to tell you, Marian. National Freedom to Read Week is now National Patriot Week, but we’re not allowed to tell anyone.”

  Marian snickered. “Eric, I simply do not think I could get through the day without you. Okay, I’ll marry you.”

  “Thank goodness. I don’t like starch in my shirts, by the way.”

  “Pig,” she said fondly.

  Saturday evening, June 7:

  Long day. Strange, queer day. Not the good kind of queer.

  The you-know-what was in about I have no idea. They only talked to me and I really hate that now I feel like a suspect or an accomplice. How bothersome.

  I haven’t thought about Robyn seriously for at least six months and now every time I think about Liddy, I remember Robyn. Every time I think about HER, I think about Liddy, and therefore about Robyn. I have lost my grip on something, but I wish to hell I knew what it was.

  Liddy didn’t come in for the book, gee, I wonder why. Was it my scream-ing at her?

  Hill has not chewed my panties, and if Trombone has thrown up, I haven’t found it yet. Everything has to change all at once? A little cold cat puke would have been reassuring.

  I can’t stop thinking about Liddy and how close I was to unzipping her shorts.

  Marian closed her journal when the doorbell rang. It was nearly nine-thirty and her eyeballs felt like someone had played beach vol-leyball with them and put them back unrinsed.

  Amy immediately apologized. “I saw your light and I need to talk to you. Hemma’s on the phone with her mom.” Too tired to be alarmed, Marian walked Amy into the kitchen and got them both cold bottled water. “I was up really early so I’m sorry if I yawn in your face, okay?”

  “I know—you were stacking sausages when we saw you.” Amy scooted into her favored perch on the counter. “Anyway, we talked to a realtor today and it was kind of depressing. We never finished the basement and gardens are apparently only worth it to people who want them. Not like fancy bathrooms and kitchens, which apparently are a better investment.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. The garden is so wonderful.” Amy shrugged, but her eyes were full of hurt. “So we’re going to get twenty-five thousand less than we thought. If we’re lucky. We spent tonight talking about what to do. Hemma is all for renting it out, but we’d need a property manager. Someone who would collect the rent, fix broken stuff—”

  Realizing where Amy was going, Marian said hastily, “I’d be lousy at that, even if I thought I could do it, but I’m not sure—”

  “I know, that’s what I told Hemma. My girl thinks you can do anything.”

  “I’m flattered.” Marian rolled her eyes.

  “That didn’t come out right.” Amy sipped her water. “I think you could do it, but I’m not sure you’d want to. We’d pay you a percent of the rent, of course. But I doubt that would be enough for the mid-night plumbing leaks, you know? Hemma is going to ask you, and I was worried it would come out of the blue and you’d feel trapped into saying yes.”

  “Oh.” Amy was right, she would have said yes if Hemma had asked. She was touched Amy had gone to the bother to tip her off.

  Though Amy was nearly as kind and sensitive as Hemma, she showed it less. “Thanks, then. I’ll think of a good excuse. Besides, renters would just destroy the garden. That’s what I need, fraternity boys for neighbors.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to you.” Amy slid off the counter and drained the last of the water.

  “Amy, what if you got the price the realtor said but you could sell it yourself? Wouldn’t that save you a lot?” Amy paused with her hand on the back door. “Yeah, but the market is really slow. We need the marketing help.” I’m losing my grip, Marian thought. This will never work. “I don’t suppose—you don’t think I could buy it, do you?” Damn Jersey for putting the idea in her head.

  Amy gaped. “I didn’t think you had that kind of resources.”

  “I don’t. It’s a pipe dream. I just—I sunk the settlement from my folks death into this house as a down payment and I must have some equity, though I know the market flattened out. If I could sell for even a decent price, I might be able to qualify for enough of a loan to buy yours. I love the garden.” I’d still have a piece of Hemma this way.

  I’d take care of the place for her. She could visit her tomatoes and tiger lilies and the apricot tree. I’d finish the basement.

  “I don’t know, Marian. I would hate for business to spoil our friendship, and Hemma and I do need every penny we can get for it.

  We’re not sure we can buy now in Hawaii. It’s really expensive. We can’t come down any more, though if we saved the realtor fee it would help cover the moving expenses.”

  “What are you looking for? I’m not going to dicker with you.” Amy told her and Marian closed her eyes to do the math in her head. “Maybe. I don’t know. But tomorrow morning I’ll go online and see what I could qualify for as a mortgage. At least I wouldn’t kick myself forever if I really could swing it.”

  “We were going to list it Monday with this realtor. That is, if we weren’t going to rent it out.”

  “Save me some pancakes and I’ll drop by around ten and let you know, okay? It could be an easy answer—no way.”

  “Okay.” Amy gave her a crooked smile. “I am going to miss you. I know Hemma’s the one you’re extra close to, but we’re tight, too.”

  “Yeah.” Marian was surprised that her eyes stayed dry. Maybe she was finally all cried out. “It’s going to be a huge adjustment, but thank goodness for e-mail, huh?”

  She locked the door behind Amy and wearily started up the stairs.

  But the notion wouldn’t let her sleep quite yet. She trod on Hill’s paw when she turned back, but he panted happily after her into the study. She found her last mortgage statement while her computer booted up, and minutes later ran a simple mortgage qualification calculator off the Web.

  “Okay, Hill, if I can get a loan for that much and I sell this house for what Marva sold hers for—comparable, I think. Pay off the mortgage and I’m ... okay. Well, that’s good to know. Twenty-five thousand short. And that kind of money just grows on trees, doesn’t it?” She swallowed hard while she scratched Hill’s ears. Stupid idea.

  “When I finish my degree and get promoted I could probably swing it. But not this year. I’d have to find a Californian with more money than sense to buy this house.”

  California made her think of Liddy. What if it worked out somehow between them? What had she been planning to do? “Hi, come on in. Make love to me in the shrine I’m keeping for the love of my life.”

  Right.

  “Oh, shit, Marian, don’t cry.” She dabbed at her eyes. “Not again.”

  She settled into bed, hardly able to find the energy to pull up the sheet. “Hear that, Trombone? We’re going to have new neighbors.

  Nothing I can do about it. I told Liddy this morning that I don’t like not having control over things, but this one I’ll have to accept, huh?” Unbidden, Inner Slut suggested that if she couldn’t have the one Very Bad Idea of buying Hemma’s house, why not give in to the Very Bad Idea of sleeping with Liddy?

  “I’m bleeding,” she muttered. “I can’t believe she kissed me, I’m a walking oil gland.” What could she possibly see in me, Marian wondered. I’m a wreck.

&
nbsp; But Liddy had kissed her. Just before sleep washed over her, Marian was comforted by the fact that she knew where Liddy lived.

  It’s hard, she thought early the next morning, to think about the future before that first cup of coffee.

  The paper, in a rarity of same-day relevance, predicted a storm front due in by late afternoon. That’s what she needed, a thunder-storm. Maybe it would be a jolly good one. Hill hated them, but Marian liked to sit on the screened porch and listen.

  “You get it, don’t you, Hill? The future matters more than the past, and Hemma’s the past. I’ll always love her. Fuck Robyn anyway.” She’d fooled herself into thinking she was in love with Robyn because she was never going to have Hemma. “It’d be rotten to do that twice in one life, wouldn’t it? Some mistakes are so bad, learning from them is the only way to go on.” Hill laid his head on her feet as she pushed her mug under the coffeemaker drip.

  “It’s not like Liddy wants me. I don’t know what she wants, but she can’t know enough about me for it to be me. I’m just, I don’t know, her type?” Her first thought when she’d woken up hadn’t been a wish to see Hemma next to her, as she had done for years. Instead, she’d abruptly been in Liddy’s arms, standing on that silly nature trail.

  Mug in hand, she plodded up the stairs to pick out clothes for the day. She was tempted to get back in bed, but she needed to be semi-alert at Hemma’s, and she hoped to get in an errand before then.

  Thunderstorm weather. Highs in the nineties. Shorts, socks, the waterproof Jungle Mocs, a tank for the humidity, with an overshirt for the air conditioning. She sighed. Only the socks seemed to vary day-to-day. Still, she knew what she looked good in, and a new wardrobe wasn’t going to change a thing. If she threw out all of her khaki shorts, she’d replace them with khaki shorts. She was actually proud of the fact that her clothes were nowhere near the tweedy baggy sweaters, long skirts and tights that made up the usual librarian chic.

  “You know, Trombone, I’ve never seen one of those makeover shows ever take on a short butch type with—” She poked herself.