Unlikely Friends

by Sahar Abdulaziz

  “Ewww, ick, disgusting,” he gagged, jostling the dish like a hot potato. “Gross, gross, gross,” he yelped at a fevered pitch, spinning in circles, keeping the container at arm's length, and breathing through his mouth in exaggerated gulps. Without his realizing it, the belt of his bathrobe had come undone from all his vaulting about, and now half of it trailed on the floor. As Irwin bounded towards the garbage, his foot landed on the tip of the belt, which in turn yanked him forward and sent him flying face first onto the floor, covered in toxic food waste.

  “I hate my life.”

  Once he and the kitchen were both cleaned up, and even after his sense of smell finally returned, Irwin no longer felt inclined to do much of anything, so he settled for a simple meal of tea and dry crackers. Occasionally, his next-door neighbor and her feline sidekick would pop over for tea and a chat, but for the most part, Irwin preferred spending his evenings alone. He tried to keep busy. He found falling asleep too soon meant being jarred awake, vacillating between slumber and consciousness. Waking up feeling disorientated from thrashing and moaning or his need to kick off sweat-soaked sheets…the never-ending battle against the flood of recurring nightmares.

  He sat down on a soft, comfortable chair, searching for something to read that would tire his eyes and help him drift off to sleep. After sifting through his growing To-Be-Read pile, Irwin eventually settled on a new book by a local indie author. But as soon as he began to read, his eyes wandered aimlessly about the page, incapable of staying fixed to the story. Sometimes skipping words or whole paragraphs.

  That strange girl from the library and her puerile little note…

  Mind racing and incapable of blocking out his annoyance, Irwin eventually gave up and slammed his book shut. “Gah. This is ridiculous,” he grumbled, returning the book to the top of the heap.

  Who does she think she’s messing with?

  Irwin usually went out of his way to discourage human interaction outside of work. As far as he was concerned, dealing with people only brought problems, and their problems inevitably caused him headaches—all of which he had enough of, thanks anyway. Instead, he used his self-imposed isolation as a ready excuse for his not participating in the world outside, preferring to exist between the pages of his books, exploring new worlds without the threat of heartache, loss, and personal catastrophe.

  His stomach growled. Irwin contemplated having another cup of tea but decided against it. If his nightmares didn't jar him awake, his unruly bladder most assuredly would. Instead, he trekked through the dining room into his chilled office to retrieve his laptop and set himself up at the dining room table to open emails—mostly spam. Once finished, he lifted his finger to push the button to shut the computer down when his eyes fell on the folder labeled “Gilly.”

  He shouldn't, but he did.

  Irwin clicked opened each photo, starting from the top.

  Gilly’s beautiful, smiling face filled the entire screen. Irwin leaned back, shrinking down into his seat, while a rush of memories flashed before him. His tired eyes greedily waltzed over the contours of her exquisite eyes, her cheeks, and her lips. His mind taunted him, demanding him to preserve every last detail they’d spent together.

  He eventually reached the end, but there was still a video, recorded only a day before the accident. Irwin could never forget that day.

  Gilly's soon-to-be ex-husband had finally agreed to the terms of the divorce. Her lawyer had phoned and left a message for Gilly to come to her office to finalize the paperwork.

  Could we meet early next week?

  It was the news they had been waiting and wishing for. Irwin and Gilly had been ecstatic and had chosen to celebrate their new lease on life with a leisurely stroll through the park. Away from prying and suspicious eyes where they could talk and plan their future unimpeded.

  Irwin clicked start. The next round of torture began…the last full day spent together, happy beyond measure and madly in love.

  The musical sound of Gilly's playful voice hung heavy in the air.

  “And here we have the mighty oak tree,” she announced, pretending to be Irwin's tour guide. Giving him a goofy, play-by-play account of their immediate surroundings in a most romantic and lighthearted manner. “The towering oak is a noble tree, favored for its strength and endurance,” she exclaimed.

  Irwin increased the volume.

  “Because they are so sturdy and strong, they can live for hundreds of years.” Gilly picked up a leaf and waved it under Irwin's nose. “Their leaves and bark protect the oak from insects and fungi, while their dense stems act as a perfect water storage system, especially during dry spells.”

  “A hearty tree indeed,” Irwin said.

  “You are correct. And over six hundred species.”

  Irwin watched himself pick an acorn off the ground and roll it around with his fingers. “These little buggers are all over my lawn. I got pelted with one the other day. Hurt like hell.”

  Gilly picked up an acorn and lobbed it at Irwin. “Don't knock it. Acorns are a rich food source for many animals.”

  Irwin ducked and tossed his acorn at Gilly's behind.

  “Eeeek,” Gilly giggled. “You missed me, you missed me.”

  Irwin laughed. “I didn't miss. You just didn't feel it with all that extra bark you got protecting your trunk,” he teased.

  Gilly stuck her tongue out at Irwin. “Very funny,” she said and turned the camera on him. “Any other illuminating comments from the peanut gallery?”

  Irwin pushed pause. A tear rolled down his craggy cheek. The video froze on him grinning and cheesing it up for the camera, smiling right along with Gilly, who had a way about her that made him drop all his pretense. He wiped his face and pushed start again.

  “Excuse me, um, Miss…” His goofy, happy face filled the screen.

  “Ranger,” corrected Gilly. “I'm a Forest Ranger.”

  “Why, of course. Pardon. My mistake, Miss Forest Ranger. I do have a question.”

  “I'm listening.”

  “What would you call this?” Irwin held up a single, long blade of grass.

  “Is this a trick question?”

  “Not at all.” Irwin twisted the blade into a circle. Then he reached out for Gilly's hand and slipped the knotted greenery onto her ring finger. “And now what would you call it, Miss Forest Ranger?”

  Overcome, Gilly had let the phone camera slip, causing it to bounce. The photo frame moved in and out of focus, but there was no mistaking her answer.

  “This, dear sir, is no simple blade of grass but a dream come true,” she had whispered, her face pressed against his neck.

  “I love you, Gilly Satterfield. Say you will be my wife.”

  The rest of the video's sound continued to fade in and out. And although their voices were muffled from the phone being pressed against the back of Irwin's coat, the camera somehow focused long enough on Gilly’s face when her lips answered, “Yes. I will marry you.”

  How full of promise they both were that day, each immersed in the other. Idyllically unaware of what pain and treachery Life had waiting in store for them.

  Irwin turned off the computer and brought his laptop back into the office. Then he walked around lowering the heat, shut off the downstairs lights, and lumbered up to bed, anticipating another round in the ring, him against his demons.

  ***

  Over the coming week, Irwin kept a close, almost imperceptible eye on his teen antagonist from his post behind the library's reception desk. She had become bolder—a bit cheekier, which only served to fling open the door on his snarkier side.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Grumpy, sir,” said the teen person in possession of more silver rings than fingers. “Where might I find a book on suicide?”

  “Why, bless your heart, aren't you just the sweetest little thing,” Irwin replied with an awful, mock southern drawl. “Check over there,” he said, jutting his chin. “But be forewarned, once they're checked out, they never return.”

  Obv
iously squelching a chuckle, the girl rolled her eyes skyward. “And what about a book on social introverts?”

  “Adult, non-fiction, second aisle, third row to the left.”

  “And lastly, a book on sadomasochism?” Her facial expression remained blank, without the slightest grin.

  Oh, she's good

  Irwin was impressed. “I will assume in the realm of Fifty Shades of Gray? Try upstairs, aisle seven. I believe you'll find it lurking next to a book titled, Angst of an Obnoxious Adolescent.”

  “I need a library card.”

  “Identification?”

  Harper produced her school ID.

  Irwin stared at the ID. “That'll be two dollars and fifty cents, Miss Harper, unless of course you’d rather I bill your reform school.” Irwin slid a form across the desk. “Fill this out and bring it back when you're ready.”

  Harper shot Irwin a not-so-subtle glare and shuffled back to her seat. He noticed her agitation as she counted and recounted her money, apparently coming up short. After stuffing the coins back in her pocket, he watched her dig in her hobo bag for a pen. She leaned over and began filling out the form, her eyes darting intermittently in Irwin's direction.

  Irwin continued to monitor her from afar, pretending not to notice when, in a fit of frustration, she crumpled the paper into a ball and tossed it angrily into the nearby waste can.

  Temper, temper young one.

  What made this strange, sharp-witted, but most annoying teen person tick?

  Irwin pondered. One moment her nose would be buried within the pages of a book, while at other times he’d catch her leaning in the chair grinning, entirely content to sit back and people watch. And for whatever reason, Irwin seemed to fascinate her.

  In the Poconos, the temperatures could turn from hot to cool to freezing almost overnight, sometimes fluctuating by the hour. Although the sun had shone brightly throughout most of this day, by early evening the air had grown frigid and rather blustery. Fierce autumn winds tossed torrents of leaves across parking lots and onto roads. People already weighed down by bulky sweaters or hooded sweatshirts dashed into the library. By evening, folks added wool hats and coats to the many existing layers. At the slightest dip in temperatures, they'd rush to don a hat or scarf.

  Irwin despised the cold. But then again, he also hated the heat, the sun, the rain, snow, and ice. And hail. Especially hail. Not this girl, who Irwin couldn't help but notice often showed up at the library underdressed, wearing nothing but an extra baggy sweater or a thin jacket no matter what the temperatures were outside. And while he never heard her complain, she wasn't fooling him. He noticed the way she braced against the evening chill each night, scrunching her shoulders and tucking her chin into her jacket before stepping outside. At least tonight, she had the good sense to wrap that bony neck of hers with a scarf, a much too long and flamboyant contraption equipped with entangled fringes that had seen better days and a host of colorful, mismatched beads.

  Each evening the girl selected a different book to place on the side table next to her chair, evidently left for him to find. Tucked inside he’d find an insufferable message, penned in chicken scratch on bright yellow sticky notepaper. The first one read, “It wouldn't kill you to smile more.” The second, “I heard somebody call you ‘Irwin.’ Please help me sleep at night—tell me that's not your real name.”

  On the third night, she left him a joke—an oldie but goodie:

  Q: How many librarians does it take to change a light bulb?

  A: Only one, but first you have to have a committee meeting.

  PS: The light is out in the woman's bathroom on the second floor.

  On the fourth night, the millennial urchin enclosed a single packet of chamomile tea with a note.

  You look like you could use this more than me. Enjoy! PS: Total bummer about that little kid barfing near your desk. What a stench! I could smell it from my seat, so it must have been pure hell for you.

  Tonight's message took the form of a quote:

  “Libraries will get you through times of no money better than money will get you through times of no libraries.” -Anne Herbert.

  While he had to agree with the sentiments of Anne Herbert, Irwin debated whether or not it was time to confront the teenager about these little missives. But by the time he built up the nerve to face her, she had already hiked her backpack strap over her shoulder, ready to leave.

  “See ya later, Mr. Grumpy,” she teased, coasting straight past him. Her thick, chestnut brown braid bounced and swayed as if keeping time with each determined step. Without looking back, she strolled through the metal detectors and out the sliding doors before vanishing into the dark hole of night.

  “What's that?” asked Roger, peering over Irwin's shoulder.

  Irwin crumpled the paper and shoved it in his pocket. “It's called none of your business.”

  “Wait, is that a love letter?”

  “Hardly.”

  “Then let me see it.”

  “Go away.”

  “A secret admirer then.”

  Irwin nudged him away with an elbow. “And therein lies the crux of your issue.”

  “I have a crux?”

  “You are a crux. And you read too many romances.”

  “Hey, don't put down romance. It happens to be an incredibly versatile genre. One which has successfully warmed many hearts while expounding upon a myriad of societal ills and values.”

  “Enlightening.” Irwin huffed, jostling to get past him. “Don't you have someplace else to be other than in my business?”

  Roger chuckled but stood his ground. “You know, Irwin, one of these days, this tough outer exterior you've worked so hard to hide behind all these years will crumble. And when it does, we will all be waiting. Ready to see the real you for the softy you truly are.”

  “Charming. But until such a never-going-to-happen-in-this-lifetime event occurs, perhaps you could redirect your sage vivacities upon some other unsuspecting patron of the community. I'm sure your wit and talent to foretell the future will have them swooning in awe. However, I must take my leave.” Irwin tugged his hat on his head and darted past Roger.

  “Suit yourself,” chuckled Roger, “but I've got my eye on you.”

  “Which one?”

  ***

  Irwin stayed only until four on Friday afternoons. Before heading out, he cornered the children’s librarian by the children's reading nook with a request.

  “Regan.”

  “Ir—Winnie.” Regan, a big lifetime fan of Winnie The Pooh, prided herself in quoting the books and coming up with wretched names to torture him with.

  “You know the bohemian rhapsody girl who comes to the library every day? Dresses like she's stuck in Woodstock,” he asked, virtually in a whisper.

  Regan squinted and blinked before cutting her eyes to both sides of the almost empty children's room. Nobody but a mother and her toddler were remotely in earshot, and neither was paying them any attention, as she had her nose buried in her phone and her son had his finger buried in his nose.

  “Why are you mumbling?”

  Irwin snapped his fingers in Regan's face. “Stay with me,” he snarled. Regan blinked and juddered her neck. “She comes in around four-thirty.”

  “Oh! Yeah. I know who you mean now.” Regan's too-large purple eyeglasses began to slip down her straight nose, causing her to peer at Irwin from over the rim.

  Losing patience, Irwin's fingers twitched, itching to shove the purple obscenity back up her beak.

  “The one with all the cool rings and wild hair?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Always sits in the chair over there?” Regan pointed to some vague place presumably outside of the children's room.

  “Good. You know who I mean. I need you to…”

  “I love her rings…”

  Irwin growled, pumping his hand in the air. “I need you to…”

  “What about her?”

  Irwin palmed his forehead.
“She left her book here last night.”

  “Okay, so?”

  “Would you make sure she gets it back?”

  “Why can't you give it to her?”

  “Because I'm running late,” Irwin lied. He just didn't want to be around when Harper got handed the book.

  Regan pushed her glasses back up her nose and blinked like a lost owl. “Yeah. I guess I could do that, Ir—Winnie.”

  “Would you please stop calling me that?” he grumbled, already headed to the back room to grab his keys and coat.

  CHAPTER 3

  Harper

  By taking side roads and various shortcuts, Harper Crane made it from the library to home in less than fifteen minutes. The old dilapidated house she called home, with its sagging porch and peeled paint, could have easily been mistaken for abandoned, except for a hazy glow coming from the front kitchen window. The faint flickering light sent shadows dancing against the curtain from inside.

  Harper fumbled with her key, dropping it twice. The porch bulb had blown out months before, but neither she nor her mother had bothered to replace it, figuring its absence would help save money on the electric bill. In the moonless night, she felt for the lock’s cylinder with the tips of her finger until eventually jiggling it correctly into the lock.

  “I’m home,” hollered Harper.

  “In the kitchen. Just getting dinner started,” answered her mother, Olivia Crane, which at the end of the month meant a sandwich of either peanut butter and jelly, tuna, or two slices of cheese, sometimes accompanied by soup or pasta.

  “Hey, Ma.”

  “Don’t you ‘hey Ma’ me. It’s pitch-black outside, and you should have been home sooner. How many times have I said to you that I don’t want you out at night?” her mother reprimanded. “It’s dangerous.”