The Geographer's Library

The Geographer’ s Library
“I’m sure Mrs. Rowe must be relieved that somebody’s keeping such a
close eye on her daughter.”
“Well, I just thought I’d remind you of our little talk the other night. You
see, it’s my belief that—”
“Mrs. DeSouza, give it a rest. Hannah’s over thirty, and she’s not your
daughter.”
At first her face reddened and tightened, like she had just been slapped;
then it deflated, and tears welled up in her eyes.
I pawed the ground with the tip of my shoe, muttered a quick and almost
heartfelt apology, and hurried toward my car. When I looked back over my
shoulder, Mrs. DeSouza was still standing there, shoulders sagging and shaking,
one hand to her face. Not even eight in the morning, and I had already
made an old lady cry.
before heading to Wickenden, I stopped by my apartment to shower,
change, and put the tooth in my pocket. No messages on my answering
machine, no letters in my mailbox, nothing nailed to my door. Gone for two
days, and nobody had tried to reach me, which wasn’t unusual. But for
the first time since moving here, I didn’t feel as though I had been absent
from my life. I felt that my life had moved and the details just hadn’t caught
up yet.
parking spaces in downtown Wickenden are rare, and I was early anyway,
so I left the car on Shelden Street, in front of a light blue clapboard
house flying a huge Portuguese flag above the garage. At street level a purple
door stood wide open, revealing a long, narrow room with a checkered
linoleum floor, a bar with a few stools, a pool table, couches, and a television
showing dog racing. A blue Bud Light clock hung above the bar. Next to it
was a plastic letterboard—the type that shows the specials in diners—that
read sannich, no hams fra tue. I used to live two blocks from here but had
never noticed this little dive, and I liked the look of it. I poked my head in.
“Membership car’,” said a fat man behind the bar. He wore a yellow-and-
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