Page 16 of After His Eulogy
“I… yeah. I got it. The other one.”
“Okay.”
“It’s good.”
“Yeah.”
“The argument is good.”
“Yeah.”
We are talking about a Hartman article. We are standing in a library at four-twenty on a Wednesday and we are talking about a Hartman article. I am hearing my own voice and the voice is talking about historiography and the voice is doing a fine job. The rest of me is registering that we’re having the first conversation we have had in two years and twenty-six days that’s not about whether one of us is dead. It’s about a Hartman article. The conversation is in fact going.
“Are you,” he starts. “Are you going to come on Thursday.”
I look at him.
“Yeah.”
“Okay.”
“Why wouldn’t I come.”
“I don’t know. I’m asking.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Okay.”
He nods. He turns back to the stack. He runs his finger along the row of spines. He pulls out a different book than the one in his hand and looks at it. He puts it back. He looks at the stack. He is doing something deliberate with his hands, which is that he is keeping them busy. It’s a thing he does when he doesn’t know what to do. Something I had filed about him six years ago and had not had occasion to use until this minute.
“I should go,” I say.
“Okay.”
I take a step backward. I’m about to turn. I’m about to turn and walk out of the row and go back to my carrel. He says, “Reed.”
I stop.
“What,” I say.
He is still facing the stack. He’s not looking at me. He says, to the books, “Why are you here.”
“I came up to find…“
“Not the library.”
“Oh.”
“In this town. At this school. Why are you here.”
I look at the back of his head. The light is still doing something to his hair. He is still not turning around. He’s asking the question to a row of books because asking it to my face would be a different question. I do not say anything for a minute.
“I didn’t know you were here,” I say.
He doesn’t answer.
“I didn’t know.”
