book. You get the three dollars back when you bring the book back.”
Evelyn looked down at the six books she had chosen. In order to take them home, she would have to pay nineteen dollars. She did not have nineteen dollars.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said.
“It’s a policy with transients. We lost forty per cent of our book last year. We can’t afford that.”
“No,” Evelyn said, “no, I don’t suppose you can.” She looked into her wallet. She had a five-dollar bill and some change. But she needed the books, and she could have the money back. “I’ll have to write a check.”
“We don’t accept checks.”
“A traveler’s check,” Evelyn said.
“We don’t accept traveler’s checks.”
Evelyn looked up from her wallet into the indifferent eyes of the woman before her. Evelyn closed her purse, turned, and walked out of the library.
She did not leave the house again that day, nor did she notice with any interest or regret that Ann was not at home for dinner. On Wednesday, the day Evelyn had planned to go to the University, she did not go. Instead, she slept until almost noon and then stayed in her room, reading. The desert island was no longer a game. It was the new condition of her life. That other human beings were marooned with her made little difference. Seeing Ann at Wednesday dinner, Evelyn hardly spoke. And she did not stay with Frances and Virginia for coffee. In her room again, she did not allow herself to brood. She turned from Yeats to a journal.
At first the passage of time, marked clearly by each recorded date, gave her half-conscious pleasure, but time in a book can pass through many days in an hour and still drag at the spirit as heavily and specifically as its own confining skeleton. There is no freedom in a journal. It is an accurate record of the prisoner. Even his greatest fantasies are only fantasies of a man trapped in time. A year had passed when Evelyn set down the book, but it was someone else’s year. She had not turned on the lamp of her own evening.
She closed the book, got up, and lit a cigarette. At the window, beyond the great tree, searchlights made pale crossings against the evening light. They signaled no plane. From somewhere near the center of town, a used car lot perhaps, they swung their aimless way through the empty sky. Evelyn grew conscious of a sound that had been going on for some time. Across the hall, Virginia Ritchie sat alone in her room, crying.
Nothing of real importance takes more than twenty minutes, nothing but the vast unimportance of life itself, which is just this … this terrible waiting. Before, it had always seemed a biding of time, her waiting to marry George, then waiting for the war to be over, then waiting for the child that did not come. Now she was no longer biding but killing time for the single ceremony, the little death of all her waiting. Evelyn turned toward the sound, dryly, almost viciously, whispering, “Don’t weep. Don’t weep. It’s already over.” But the weeping continued.
Evelyn could not go back to her reading, and she would not cross the hall to speak to Virginia. There was nothing she could say. Frantic, she left her room and went downstairs to read in the living room, but Frances was there.
“Cup of tea?”
“Frances, have you got any whiskey?”
“I do. Let’s both have a drink.”
Frances went to the kitchen and returned with a tray. She put it down on a coffee table in front of Evelyn, a bottle of bourbon, an ice bucket, two glasses, and a bottle of soda.
“It wouldn’t do you any harm to have several,” Frances said. “It’s the weather. I’ve never known it to be so muggy. Nobody can sleep. I could have offered you Scotch as well, but I got up at three thirty this morning and finished it off with Ann. She was in a terrible mood, but three drinks later we both went to bed and to sleep happy. It’s just what you need.”
“You’re a dear, Frances. I’ll replenish the supply
Evelyn looked down at the six books she had chosen. In order to take them home, she would have to pay nineteen dollars. She did not have nineteen dollars.
“I don’t quite understand,” she said.
“It’s a policy with transients. We lost forty per cent of our book last year. We can’t afford that.”
“No,” Evelyn said, “no, I don’t suppose you can.” She looked into her wallet. She had a five-dollar bill and some change. But she needed the books, and she could have the money back. “I’ll have to write a check.”
“We don’t accept checks.”
“A traveler’s check,” Evelyn said.
“We don’t accept traveler’s checks.”
Evelyn looked up from her wallet into the indifferent eyes of the woman before her. Evelyn closed her purse, turned, and walked out of the library.
She did not leave the house again that day, nor did she notice with any interest or regret that Ann was not at home for dinner. On Wednesday, the day Evelyn had planned to go to the University, she did not go. Instead, she slept until almost noon and then stayed in her room, reading. The desert island was no longer a game. It was the new condition of her life. That other human beings were marooned with her made little difference. Seeing Ann at Wednesday dinner, Evelyn hardly spoke. And she did not stay with Frances and Virginia for coffee. In her room again, she did not allow herself to brood. She turned from Yeats to a journal.
At first the passage of time, marked clearly by each recorded date, gave her half-conscious pleasure, but time in a book can pass through many days in an hour and still drag at the spirit as heavily and specifically as its own confining skeleton. There is no freedom in a journal. It is an accurate record of the prisoner. Even his greatest fantasies are only fantasies of a man trapped in time. A year had passed when Evelyn set down the book, but it was someone else’s year. She had not turned on the lamp of her own evening.
She closed the book, got up, and lit a cigarette. At the window, beyond the great tree, searchlights made pale crossings against the evening light. They signaled no plane. From somewhere near the center of town, a used car lot perhaps, they swung their aimless way through the empty sky. Evelyn grew conscious of a sound that had been going on for some time. Across the hall, Virginia Ritchie sat alone in her room, crying.
Nothing of real importance takes more than twenty minutes, nothing but the vast unimportance of life itself, which is just this … this terrible waiting. Before, it had always seemed a biding of time, her waiting to marry George, then waiting for the war to be over, then waiting for the child that did not come. Now she was no longer biding but killing time for the single ceremony, the little death of all her waiting. Evelyn turned toward the sound, dryly, almost viciously, whispering, “Don’t weep. Don’t weep. It’s already over.” But the weeping continued.
Evelyn could not go back to her reading, and she would not cross the hall to speak to Virginia. There was nothing she could say. Frantic, she left her room and went downstairs to read in the living room, but Frances was there.
“Cup of tea?”
“Frances, have you got any whiskey?”
“I do. Let’s both have a drink.”
Frances went to the kitchen and returned with a tray. She put it down on a coffee table in front of Evelyn, a bottle of bourbon, an ice bucket, two glasses, and a bottle of soda.
“It wouldn’t do you any harm to have several,” Frances said. “It’s the weather. I’ve never known it to be so muggy. Nobody can sleep. I could have offered you Scotch as well, but I got up at three thirty this morning and finished it off with Ann. She was in a terrible mood, but three drinks later we both went to bed and to sleep happy. It’s just what you need.”
“You’re a dear, Frances. I’ll replenish the supply
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