Page 2 of The Good Sister

‘Were you planning to use the shower?’

He turns around, eyebrows raised, but doesn’t respond. I wonder if he might be hearing impaired. We have a large community of hearing-impaired patrons at our library. I repeat myself loudly and slowly, allowing him to lip-read.

‘Yes?’ he says finally, his intonation rising as if he is asking a question rather than answering one.

I start to question my impulse to follow him. I have become more wary of vagrants since a man exposed himself to me a few months back during an evening shift. I had been replacing a copy of Ian McEwan’sAtonementwhen suddenly, at eye level, there was a penis, in the ‘Mc’ section of General Fiction. I alerted Gayle, who called the police, but by the time they arrived, the man had zipped up and shuffled out of the place. ‘You should have snapped it in between the covers of that hardback,’ Gayle had said, which sounded messy, not to mention unwise for the hygiene of the book. When I pointed this out, she suggested I ‘karate-chop’ him, which is neither an actual karate move (I have a black belt) nor something I would be tempted to do, since karate has a pacifist philosophy.

I have been doing karate since I did a trial class in Grade Two and the sensei said I was a ‘natural’ (an odd comment as there was nothing natural about kata – on the contrary, the movements felt very specific and unnatural). Still, I found I enjoyed it immensely – the consistency, the routine, the structure, even the physical contact, which was always firm if not hard. Even the ‘Kiai’ shouts, while loud, are to a count and expected. So, twenty years later, I’m still doing it.

‘Well, here you go then.’

I reach into my handbag and retrieve the small toiletry bag that I keep in there. I hand it to Wally, who holds it away from himself as if it might contain a ticking bomb. ‘What . . .is . . .this?’

‘It contains toothpaste and a toothbrush, a face washer and some soap. Also a razor and some shaving cream.’

I’m not sure how I could be any clearer, and yet Wally still seems confused. I study him closely. He doesn’t smell like alcohol and both his eyes are pointing the same direction. His clothes, while ill-fitting, are all on the correct parts of his body. Still, the jury is out on his sanity.

‘Did you just call me . . . Wally?’

There’s something pleasing about the man’s voice; his words are round somehow, and completely enunciated. It is an unexpected delight in a world where people are forever mumbling.

‘Yes,’ I say. ‘You look like Wally fromWhere’s Wally?Hasn’t anyone told you that before?’

He neither confirms nor denies it, so I decide to provide more information.

‘You knowWhere’s Wally?, don’t you? It’s a book.’ I smile, because Rose says that people should smile while engaging in banter (playful exchanges of friendly remarks), and this, to me, feels very much like banter.

Wally doesn’t smile. ‘You meanWhere’s Waldo?’

Wally is American, I realise suddenly, which explains both his accent and his confusion.

‘Actually, no, I meanWhere’s Wally?The original book wasWhere’s Wally?, published in the United Kingdom in 1987. Since then, the books have been published around the world and Wally’s name is often changed in these different editions. For instance, he’s “Waldo” in the United States and Canada, “Charlie” in France, “Walter” in Germany, “Ali” in Turkey, “Efi” in Israel, and “Willy” in Norway.’

Wally studies me for a few seconds. He seems perplexed. His gaze, I notice, is just to the left of me, as if he is looking over my shoulder.

‘Anyway, in Australia, it’s Wally,’ I say.

‘Oh. Kay.’ He looks back at the toiletry bag. ‘So . . . the library provides these?’

‘No,’ I say, smiling wider. ‘I do.’

Under his glasses, Wally’s mossy green pupils travel right to left slowly. ‘Youdo?’

‘Yes. My sister gives these to me whenever she returns from international travel. Do you know they give them out for free on airplanes?’

‘I did know that,’ he says, which makes me wonder about the accuracy of my assessment that he is homeless. I have, in my lifetime, been known to get things alarmingly wrong. I examine him more closely. His jeans are both too loose and too short and appear to have been cut off by hand, judging by the frayed ends. His buffalo flannelette shirt is in better nick, nicely buttoned right up to the neck. And while he has an overall look of grubbiness, I haven’t detected an odour, even in this small vestibule. I look at his fingernails, which are clean. Spectacularly clean, in fact. Buffed and pink and round, each cuticle a perfect crescent moon. The man could be a hand model.

‘I apologise, I thought you were homeless.’ I don’t smile now, to indicate this isn’t banter, but a serious comment. ‘I’m afraid it was your jeans that gave me that impression. And the hat, obviously.’

He stares at me. Not being one to duck away from a challenge, I stare back. A few years ago, I read a book of tips for people who find eye contact difficult. It suggested staring competitions as a form of exposure therapy. To my great surprise, I excelled at it. As it turned out, staring competitions were nothing like the discomfort of regular eye contact. There is no need to wonder how long you must look at someone, when you should look away or how often to blink. With staring competitions, all you have to do is fix your gaze on the person and let your mind wander. I can do that for hours if I feel so inclined. In fact, I once beat Mr Robertson, a library patron and good contender, at thirty-seven minutes. I expect Wally, younger and wilier by the look of him, to be a better contender, so I’m disappointed when after less than ten seconds, he looks away.

‘Amateur.’

Wally opens his mouth at the same time as the door swings open, forcing me further into the vestibule. The boy in the orange jumper from Toddler Rhyme Time pushes his way inside. On his heels are his grandmother and another woman pushing a double stroller. Clearly, Rhyme Time has finished. Outside, the swell of toddler racket intensifies.

‘What’s wrong with my hat?’ Wally asks, as the door opens again and a small girl and her mother file into the small space. It’s getting quite cramped in here now. The boy in the orange jumper jumps up and down and announces, ‘I’m busting,’ to no-one in particular. Then he notices Wally. ‘It’s Wally!’ he cries, marvelling.

Wally looks at me and I shrug – a non-verbal gesture I’ve seen people use to indicate,Told you.