Read The Incident Report Online
Authors: Martha Baillie
Though I tried, I could not convince him to select a particular period or country. At his request I turned the terminal as far in his direction as possible, so that he could watch the hundreds of titles glide down the screen. As I scrolled from page to page, his breathing deepened.
“That's good, ah, yes, good, good, a little more, scroll down a little further, yes, ah, that's it.” His breathing became shallow, more rapid, as his eyes moved from title to title. “History,” he sighed. “Yes, yes, just a little more, a little further.”
“Slow day? Busy day?”
“Slow.”
“Slower than yesterday?”
“Slower. It was beautiful out. People walked. They weren't in the mood to ride in a taxi.”
“Anyone memorable?”
“They were all memorable.”
“What did they say?”
“Nothing. They told me where they wanted me to take them and I drove them there.”
“None of them said anything else?”
“Nothing. But I listened to them breathing and moving about on the seat. I heard one of them taking things out of her purse. I heard another scratching behind his ear.”
“You could hear him scratching behind his ear?”
“Oh, yes. I watch them with the eyes in the back of my head. It is a trick I learned from my father. His students thought that since his eyes were on the blackboard he couldn't see their pranks, but he had very good ears, my father. Suddenly he would turn. When he threw a piece of chalk, he could hit a boy in the forehead, or in the side of the head above the
ear, from across the room. He never missed. Because of his perfect aim and excellent hearing his students respected him. He could be kind to them now and then, even joke a bit, and they wouldn't forget to fear him and to obey his orders. They never forgot to be frightened of him.”
“But Janko.”
“Yes.”
“I thought your father was a postman?”
“Later a postman, first a teacher. He became a postman when I was eight years old.”
“Ah, I see. You never said.”
“Didn't I?”
“No. And when he was still a teacher, and throwing chalk and scaring everyone, were you frightened of him?”
“Once in a while. Yes.”
“Not more often?”
“Yes, quite often.”
“You always seem so calm. When I'm with you, I feel as if I'm standing in a field of tall grass under a huge sky, and it doesn't matter which way I go, whichever way I'll be surrounded by grass. It's not scary but disorienting.”
“Have you ever gotten lost, Miriam, my Darkest Miriam, so lost you couldn't find your way home?”
“I've already told you. I told you about the time my parents pulled into a gas station, and while the tank
was filling I opened the back door and climbed out and walked away.”
“In ten years, Darkest One, I'll beg you to stop telling me the same stories of your life, but for now I want to know, again, how you got lost.”
“Will you still be here in ten years?”
“Of course. Where would I go? Whatever direction I'd go, all I would find is tall grass.”
“You're never serious, Janko. Will you really be here?”
“I am not serious?”
“You never get angry with me, not really angry.”
“I do.”
“But you don't show it.”
“I'm not allowed to hide what I want to hide? What if I don't like anger?”
At 6:05 this evening, a female patron came to the Reference Desk to report that several hours earlier her elderly mother had gone missing. Because the patron was deaf she was unable to notify the police by telephone. As she did not know the location of the police station nearest her home, she'd walked to the library. She appeared to be quite upset by her mother's disappearance. I called the police for her, and explained her situation. Next I telephoned, upon her request, several of her relatives, to inform them of her plight. The deaf female patron, who lived alone with her elderly mother, thanked me and went home to wait for her mother to return.
An elderly patron identified himself as Ovid Mallory. He came to the Reference Desk to say he had “lost his ideas.” As he could not recall his phone number or address, the police were called. The time was 5:30
PM
.
“Janko.”
“Yes?”
“Why did your father stop teaching and become a postman?”
“He became a postman when they told him he could no longer teach because of his good aim. This was his good aim: he told funny stories, in which certain characters suffered ridicule and humiliation, and these characters happened to share mannerisms, ticks and gestures with a number of politicians. This was his good aim. It was decided that children should not be exposed to my father.”
“But they trusted him to deliver people's mail?”
“They'd already read everyone's mail. They knew what he was delivering. If he added messages of his own, they'd find out soon enough and give him a worse job.”
At 3:45
PM
, a patron reported that a man was standing outside the library's largest window, beckoning to the young girls seated at the study tables in adult nonfiction. The man appeared determined, said the patron, to convince the girls to join him outside on the grass.
I went straight to nonfiction and spoke with the girls, who confirmed that the man on the other side of the window was a stranger. Despite my presence the man in question continued his gesturing. The police soon arrived, in answer to my call, and charged the man with trespassing.
At 4:45
PM
, two girls reported that a teenaged boy, standing outside, had flashed a red laser light through the library's largest window and straight into their eyes, as they sat doing their homework at the study tables in nonfiction.
At the very moment the girls were reporting this misbehaviour, the teenaged boy entered the library and aimed the red laser light, this time at the faces of three staff members, who covered their eyes and shouted at him to desist. He left the premises hastily, before I, or any other staff, could detain him and
demand an explanation. Should he return, he will be given a letter of exclusion. The library's largest window has not, until today, been put to such dubious uses. The purchase of diaphanous curtains will be considered.
“Darkest Miriam, you're always so angry when your plans don't work out.”
“I have no plans.”
“Yesterday you planned to meet me in Allan Gardens.”
“We both planned.”
“True, but then I didn't come on time. I couldn't. I arrived an hour late.”
“You apologized.”
“Your eyes became wild, Darkest Miriam; you slammed down your book on the bench.”
“I thought I would never see you again.”
“I was late because of my dispatcher. It was my dispatcher's fault.”
“I thought I would never see you again.”
“When I was a child and wanted to think, I would lock myself in the bathroom. Even when they pounded on the door I pretended I was not inside and refused to open. But you seeâI am here.”
“Yes.”
The time was 4:15
PM
. My mother entered the garage to look for my father, and found him hanging by his neck. He'd climbed a stepladder and tied a rope to the rafter. Stacks of books surrounded him on all sides. After his body was brought down and taken away to be examined, it was determined that 2:05
PM
had been the exact time of his death.
My father had spent the morning whistling. He'd mowed the front lawn and trimmed the hedge. He'd kissed my mother on the cheek and told her she looked “pretty as a picture.” After lunch he'd gone out back, to do a bit of spring-cleaning in the garage.
I was twenty-two years old, my brother nineteen and my sister seventeen. My father left no message of farewell for my mother and no note of any kind for his progeny.
Shortly before closing time, a male patron approached the desk and asked if he might stay past closing time, 8:30
PM
, should his brother fail to arrive before then to take him home. I explained that he could not.
“The library closes at exactly 8:30, and everyone must leave,” I stated.
He begged me to take pity on him.
“I am in big trouble,” he pleaded. “You can't imagine what will happen to me, if you force me to go out there before my brother arrives.”
“The library closes at 8:30,” I repeated.
“If you won't let me stay, then will you take me to the nearest police station when the library closes?”
“I can't take you anywhere. I am sorry. I ride a bicycle. But I will call the police, if you like, and you may ask them to come and collect you,” I offered.
The man agreed, and I dialed the appropriate number. The police responded positively. They promised to arrive soon and assist the patron in question. Everyone was in agreement. Some ten minutes later, at 8:35
PM
, the man's brother appeared and offered to take him home. The police, who pulled up within
seconds of the man's brother, deemed the brother's suggestion satisfactory and left in the direction from which they'd come.
The patron thanked me for saving his life. He got into his brother's car and was driven away.
I sat on the narrow, winged sofa. The time was 10:00
PM
. I pulled Janko's blanket up to my chin. The rain struck at the windows and slid down the glass. I got up from the sofa and made a pot of ginger tea.
The time was 10:15
PM
. Janko unlocked the door and let himself in.
“I've made ginger tea.”
He dried his head with a towel.
“My father called me this morning,” he said. His nose against the side of my nose felt cold as he kissed me.
“What news?” I asked.
His chilly fingers brushed against my breastbone as he unbuttoned my blouse.
“My mother has been taken to the hospital. She tripped on a loose piece of pavement and broke her hip.”
His mouth was a small animal, warm and wet. It explored the length of my collarbone.
“Will your father manage?”
“My sister will help.”
As I pulled his shirt up over his head, his nipples stared at me.
“How long will they keep your mother?”
“They haven't said.”
As I undid his pants, the button at the waist came off in my hand.
“I'll sew it back on.”
“Yes, Darkest Miriam.”
His hands, having hidden in my hair, were now warm.
“Will your sister mind looking after him?”
“She's fond of my father, but busy. She has three children.”
His breath entered my ear, hot and damp.
“Three children, yes, you told me. And is her husband a good father?”
“Yes, a good father.”
My small breast became heavy as he lifted it carefully in his hand.
“Is your sister calm, like you?”
“Am I calm?” he asked.
I did not answer.
At 1:00 this afternoon, returning from my lunch break, I found three posters affixed to the front wall of the library. One was taped to the brick, and the other two were glued on. They appeared to have been created by means of a fairly sophisticated computer programme. Printed in colour on high quality paper, they looked convincingly professional. They announced that Jim Davis, the renowned cartoonist, author of Garfield the cat, would be making an appearance at the Allan Gardens Library, on Saturday, July 25th, at 2
PM
. All ages welcome.
I checked the workroom calendar and looked through the Room Bookings Binder, but could find no indication. I asked my coworkers, and showed them the posters. Nothing. The programme, according to the poster, was sponsored by Paul & Paul, excellent caterers whose shop was located in the immediate neighbourhood. I telephoned. They knew nothing of the event. I removed the posters. The promised event, being fictitious, would not take place.
When her time expired at 2:30
PM
, a female patron loudly refused to log off public computer #506. She'd not yet finished sending her e-mail, she explained. The man who'd booked computer #506 for the following half hour demanded she log off immediately. The woman in question accused the man of having hit her in the head a moment earlier. He'd struck her on the back of her neck, she claimed.