She used to call on Friday evenings. As soon as I’d get settled at the reference desk after cataloging books all day, the phone would ring. If Rich were there, he’d smirk and walk away, knowing who was on the other end of the line.
“Hello, who’s this?” she’d brusquely ask.
“Hi, Vera, it’s Sean,” I’d say.
Over time she’d come to recognize my voice and would even start asking for me if I was not the one who answered. She was suspicious of new people, but it didn’t faze her for long. The first time I talked to her, I was bewildered. She began listing off seemingly random phrases. Slowly I realized they were crossword clues. She was not unfriendly, although neither would I characterize her as friendly.
She’d often argue about the correctness of the answers I provided. Over time, though, we developed a hesitant rapport. I was surprised when my irritation at her long-winded calls suddenly gave way to comfort in how she helped pass the time on slow Friday nights. I began spending my Friday lunch hour working my way through the newspaper’s daily crossword puzzle so I would be prepared for her calls.
The first time she stopped calling, I wondered where she’d gone. From talking with some of my colleagues, I found out that she was periodically institutionalized at the state hospital. She’d disappear from the phone lines for several months, and one day she’d start calling again like normal. No one seemed to know the details. Well, probably someone did, but I never heard them. I kind of didn’t want to know.
Some of the staff had even met her before. At one time she was well enough to come to the library. I discovered other bits and pieces from talking to my colleagues. For instance, they told me she owned one of those hand-held computers used for helping solve crosswords, which begged the question of why she called at all. Behind her disengaged and often hostile manner, was she really just lonely?
Sometimes while on the phone with her, I’d hear a male voice in the background. She’d occasionally refer to him or say something to him, but never explained who he was. I think his name was Harold, but I may be confusing my memory of these phone calls with the movie Harold and Maude. In my head now, Vera sounds like Maude, but in reality I think her voice was harsher. The years have softened over that roughness in my recollections, like they’ve done with other jagged edges of the past.
I wonder sometimes if Vera still calls the library. I wonder if she ever asked about me after I left. There were so many people I never said goodbye to before I ran from that town. Of course I could find out easily enough if she’s still around. But I don’t really want to know, in the same way that I didn’t want to see her in person. For me, she was a disembodied voice on the other end of the line, someone I could count on to be the same every single time, someone who wanted something from me that I could actually provide. She was an odd piece of the absurd puzzle that comprised a not altogether pleasant period of my life. Somehow she fit in there, though, just like all the other odd pieces did.
s. d. stewart 