the thing to attract tourists. It had stood there ever since, looking down on all the rodeo and homecoming parades, observing the changes in automobiles that passed beneath it, mutely taking note of all the comings and goings of the town folk at their shopping. Michael grinned. If that old arch could write a book, what tales it could tell.
Moving on, Michael cast nostalgic sidelong glances at more small buildings standing shoulder to shoulder, businesses that had been passed down from parent to child for generations: a furniture store, a pharmacy, grocery store, a jewelers and, last of all, the newspaper office. He had been in every one of them, knew every item stacked on every shelf. Everyone behind every counter knew his name and he theirs. Leave it behind, the fly buzzed in his ear. Time to go.
At the end of the block he turned left, drove two streets east past the town park, up to a tidy, yellow, gabled house which had been converted into the Lincoln County Library. Here he parked the truck, hopped out, and started up the walk.
The elderly librarian was sitting at her desk, reading, her back to Michael as he entered. She was dressed in a navy blue, cotton-print dress with a doily collar. This would be the way he would always remember her, Michael thought—-twinkly, gingersnap eyes and a doily collar.
As she did not look up when he came in, Michael tiptoed up behind her and put his hands over her eyes.
“Gracious!” she gasped, dropping her book to the floor.
Michael leaned down and whispered menacingly in her ear, “This is a stick up, ma’am! Hand over your rubber stamps and paper clips or I'll be forced to use my voice in a loud and unruly manner.”
The woman laughed then and reached up to grasp his strong young hands with her frail, bent, arthritic fingers. “Michael Johns, you scoundrel! You about gave me a heart attack.”
“Ah, Mrs. Crandall, how'd you know it was me?” Michael asked innocently as he removed his hands, picked up the book for her, and sat himself down atop her desk.
Bright eyes, framed with sagging eyelids and crow's-feet wrinkles, frowned up at him with mock disapproval through a pair of square, rimless glasses. “Who else would it be but my favorite student? I see your behavior has not improved since you graduated.” Her voice was stern, but her whole face suddenly broke into a warm smile. “I am awfully glad to see you, Michael!”
Michael looked deeply into those sweet, wrinkled eyes he knew and trusted so well. He wondered at the strong prompting he felt that morning to come talk to her. Perhaps it was that Mrs. Crandall had been his champion and sounding board ever since he had her for Sophomore English and Literature at Star Valley High. No matter what the subject of conversation, whether it was grades or fishing or Shakespeare or baseball, she always loved to visit with him during lunch or after school. After he graduated and left for Laramie to attend the University of Wyoming, she wrote him letters and often phoned him on holidays. In many ways, Michael looked upon Mrs. Crandall as a surrogate mother. So it made sense that he would want to see her after all that happened the past three weeks.
But the prompting he felt this morning to see her was something more. It wasn’t a casual thing, but a pressing need. From the moment he opened his eyes, her face popped into his head and, along with it, a desire to talk with her. The feeling nagged at him through breakfast and followed him around through chores like a toothache, until at last, he felt he was almost yanked out of the farmhouse by his earlobe and dragged by the seat of his britches out to the truck. He didn’t even know what he was supposed to talk to her about, but talk to her he must. So it was, on this fair morning, Michael Johns found himself standing before her, somewhat confused, but nevertheless anxious to see her.
She smiled at him and said softly, “I heard the funeral was very nice, Michael. I’m sorry I wasn’t able to attend. I was visiting a friend out of town and did not hear of it until I returned just the other day.”
“I felt you there—in spirit,” Michael said, squeezing her hand. “It was a longer time coming than he would have wished. He hated feeling useless or a burden. Of course, he never was a burden.”
“I know it was tough on you to leave college and come home and run the ranch while he was getting treatments in Utah.”
“No’m. It was an honor.” Michael said. “I was glad he agreed to come home at the end and die in his own bed.”
Mrs. Crandall sniffed, reached for a tissue and dabbed her nose and eyes. “I want you to know I admired your father very much, Michael. A kinder, more generous man I’ve never met. He suffered with great patience all those months.”
Michael nodded. “I’m really going to miss him.”
She patted his hand affectionately. “Of course you will. He was a fine, fine man ... and so are you. What are your plans now? Going to stay and work the ranch or go back to school?”
“Pete Grover made me an offer on the ranch and I took it. I intend to go back to the university for fall term.”
She clasped her hands in relief. “Oh good, good. You should. You're such a good student, Michael. You have a wonderful mind. I know you'll go far.”
Michael looked down at the floor, swinging his legs. “I hope so. I want to make Dad proud of me ... and you, too.” He looked up at her and grinned. “You're my favorite teacher, you know.”
She shook a finger at his nose, smiling. “Well, you’d better do well or it reflects on me, then! I have great hopes for you.”
“Thanks. I'll try hard not to disappoint you. I owe you big time for helping me get my scholarship.”
“You deserved it.”
“Maybe. But I couldn't have done it without you.”
The librarian blushed, pulled another tissue from the box on her desk, and dabbed her eyes. There was an awkward silence.
Embarrassed, Michael decided it was time to change the subject. “Say, Mrs. Crandall, I wonder, do you have anything I could read?”
She sniffed and smiled. “I believe I might.” Her hand gestured toward the shelves surrounding them. “This is a library, you know.”
“Thought a good book might take my mind off things while I'm hanging around waiting for school to start. Does the library subscribe to any current scientific journals or magazines?”
“You always did have a thirst for knowledge, Michael. It's one of the things I liked best about you. But I'm afraid we have a very limited number of scientific publications. Probably nothing up to your caliber, anyway. Maybe a National Geographic or two.…”
“That's better than what I've been reading.” Michael hopped off her desk to take her elbow and help her up. “All Dad kept around was Readers Digest.”
“Oh dear, we can surely do better than that.” She tapped the pencil on her desk in thought. “I know! How about a good novel? Science Fiction?”
Michael shook his head. “Don't think that's quite my style. Sorry.”
She peered at him over her glasses. “Something dashing then ... an adventure story. The Three Musketeers?”
“I don't think so.”
“It has some juicy parts....” Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
“Definitely not, then.”
“Why not? Too mushy?”
“No. It's just hard to read about a banquet when you're starving.”
“What?” Mrs. Crandall dropped back down in her chair. “Michael, you don't have a girlfriend? A strong, good-looking, brilliant young man like you?”
“Please!” Michael interrupted her, reddening. “No. I don't. Yet.”
“Why not?”
He shrugged. “Haven't met the right one I suppose. Plus, I haven't had much time for looking. But when I find her, you'll be the first one to get an