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“The yellow pages?” Librarian Cindy asked.
“That’s right,” I said. “I’d like to send the Morisons a bouquet of flowers.”
“That’s right nice of you. We keep all of our yellow pages right over there.” She pointed. “But since it’s a local address you’re looking for, you might do well to look in the yellow pages under the pay phone, right over there.” She turned and pointed again.
“Thank you,” I said.
I took the small paper out of my purse and took out my pen, and went to the pay phone. The yellow pages under it were worn beyond repair, but the insides were still legible. I rifled through the pages with a gnawing case of arthritis in my knuckles.
And there they were: Mr. and Mrs. Jack Morison. They could be found at 21 Clarendon Drive. I jotted this address down, though it had already singed itself into my memory, and glanced down at my watch, 7:24. I had six minutes before the town bus came by. For all I knew, it could already have been sitting out there waiting. I pushed everything back into my purse, snapped it shut, and waved goodbye to Librarian Cindy.
The wintry darkness must have bitten at my skin, but if it did, I didn’t notice. Too much was happening now. Too much that was long past due.
As I waited for the bus that wasn’t there yet, I thought of what I would tell the Morisons. What would they think about the old lady who had come to their door? But they wouldn’t think much. No one is scared of a little old lady; no one except the little old lady herself.
And as the bus turned round the corner and grumbled its way towards me, I thought of the beach, and I thought of the sand-writing.
About Tony Dvorak
