The Silence Of The Library

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” Eagleton drew himself up, very much on his dignity. “Only buy fine scotch. Connoisseur, you know.” He swayed a couple of times.

“Whatever.” Ms. Duffy rolled her eyes at me. “I’ll get something to nosh on while you fix my drink. Excuse me.” She brushed past me, nearly jostling my plate-holding arm. I muttered, “Excuse me,” but she didn’t slow down on her way to the food.

I followed Eagleton to the bar, concerned that in his current state he might stumble and hurt himself. He made it fine, though, and while he fumbled with the bottle of scotch, I apologized for my mishap with the wine.

He blinked at me. “My dear chap, these things happen. Not to worry, not to worry.” He splashed three fingers of scotch in a glass, squirted soda into it, then toddled off to present the drink to Della Duffy.

Could the evening possibly go uphill from here?

When Eagleton went to the door in response to loud knocking and admitted Gordon Betts, I knew uphill was a far distant prospect.

Betts pushed past our host, evidently having spotted the bar. “I need a drink,” I heard him mutter as he breezed past me without bothering to acknowledge my presence.

Eagleton remained by the door, his head stuck out into the hallway. I wondered whether he was about to be sick, but then he stepped back and admitted Teresa Farmer. Finally, someone with some couth that I could talk to.

“So lovely to see you, my dear.” Eagleton swayed. “Oh, my, the room does appear to be moving rather quickly, doesn’t it?” He stumbled past Teresa and plopped down on the sofa. He pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and mopped at his perspiring face. “Rather warm in here, don’t you think?”

He must have had another nip or three of the scotch without my noticing, I reckoned. I set my plate on the coffee table as Teresa hurried over to me. “Is he drunk?” she whispered.

I nodded. I stepped closer to our afflicted host. “Mr. Eagleton, could I get you something? Water, perhaps?”

Blearily the man focused on my face. “That would be extraordinarily kind of you, sir.”

Marveling at his ability to enunciate clearly while under the influence, I fetched a bottle of water from the bar and brought it back to him. Teresa stood by, watching Eagleton intently for signs of further distress.

I twisted the cap off. “Sip this.” I held the water to Eagleton’s lips, and his right hand grasped the bottle. He tilted it up and chugged down two-thirds of the contents.

“Thank you.” Eagleton grimaced. “I must apologize for my disgraceful behavior. One does tend to fret over these social occasions, and sometimes one forgets to eat before indulging in a wee dram or two of scotch.” He started to rise, but I indicated he should remain where he was.

“Let me fix you a plate,” I said. “You’ll feel better once you’ve eaten a bit.”

“Of course you will.” Teresa sat beside Eagleton and patted his arm. “And if there’s anything else you need, let us know.”

Leaving our host in Teresa’s capable hands, I went over to the table. Betts was still at the bar, I noticed, and the scotch bottle appeared empty now. Della Duffy stood at the window, plate in hand, seemingly unaware of the rest of us. She and Betts probably knew each other, given their devotion to their collections, but I guessed they weren’t all that chummy. Frankly, it was hard to imagine Betts having friends of any kind—except, perhaps, imaginary ones.

I took a full plate back to Eagleton, and he tucked into the chips and dip with great enthusiasm. How long had it been since the man had eaten? I wondered. I had seen swine at the trough take longer to chew their food.

I motioned for Teresa to join me, and we ambled over to the bar. I warned her, sotto voce, to avoid the wine at all costs. Betts was rooting around in the cabinets, no doubt in search of more hard booze. Teresa and I grabbed water bottles.

“Gotcha.” Betts faced us triumphantly, a bottle of Laphroaig in hand. “I knew he had to have the good stuff hidden somewhere. Never goes anywhere without it.” He opened the whiskey, smiling gleefully. “You want some?” he asked after he filled his own glass, sans soda as befit a true connoisseur.

“No, thank you,” Teresa and I responded in unison.

“Suit yourselves.” Betts shrugged and sipped his whiskey. “What’s up with Winnie? He toasted already?”

Teresa frowned. “I think he was suffering from low blood sugar. He simply needed something to eat.” Diplomatic of her, I thought approvingly, but sadly, patently false.

Betts snickered. “Yeah, and Nancy Drew was really Frank Hardy in drag. Tell me another one.”

I’d bet even his imaginary friends thought he was a jerk.

Teresa and I turned away and walked back over to Eagleton. He had emptied his plate and finished the rest of the water. He smiled and got to his feet. “Thank you both again for your kind ministrations.”

“You’re most welcome,” Teresa said and patted his arm.