The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
completely mask the look of shock and fear on her face. “I don’t know who
he is. I don’t think I’ve seen him before. I think we should go,” she said
quickly, with an obviously false smile stretched thin across her mouth. “Plus,
I’m tired,” she added, laying a hand across mine.
“What’s wrong? Who is that guy?”
“I just told you, I don’t know. Please, can we just go now? Please?”
“You still have half your beer left. Are you sure you don’t ...”
As I spoke, she was getting money out of her purse, preparing to pay the
bill. At that, I relented. “Okay, don’t do that. Let’s get out of here. But if
you’re worried, maybe you should talk to the police, or maybe . . .”
She forced a look of fatigued, beery calm across her face, but her expression
seemed to hover just above her features like an imperfectly attached
mask. “That man just reminds me a little of my father, the way he looks in old
pictures.” If this were true, then her father must have been pushing sixty
when she was born, which was strange, if not completely unheard of. But I
couldn’t see this Old Mariner type in a golf-course bungalow in Florida.
Despite her casual smile and the affected jaunty walk toward the door, her
hands shook as she fastened her cape.
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