“Wait here,” I say and return four and a half minutes later with a book on decoupage which is the closest thing I have to sewing, an owner’s manual for a 1995 Honda Civic which has sections on both snow tires and hubcaps, and a novel about a woman who finds inspiration in fattening and joy-inducing （and, it can be assumed, non-embarrassing） pies. That is how to be a good librarian.
When I get back to Pastor Jeff in the kitchen, he is at the sink where he fills a glass with water, drinks it down, refills it again, drinks it down again.
Just like books, there is no right way to systematize the categorization of people. But in Bourne, one good way is by water usage. Or, to be more accurate, lack of water usage. Some people use their tap water for laundry but not for cooking. Some people use it for washing their bodies but not their carrots. Some people will flush toilets with it but not wash their hands in it afterward. I do not do sports because there are germs in locker rooms, and when Mrs. Radcliffe said I could shower afterward at home instead, I could not do that either because I only shower for three point seven five minutes at a time, and that is enough to wash off a regular amount of germs but not an athletic amount of germs. Petra and her mother shower for as long as they like but only on Wednesdays and Sundays. They separate their laundry not by lights and darks or delicates and regulars but innies and outies, like belly buttons. If the garment hardly touches their skin like it is a sweatshirt or a cardigan or a skirt they wear with tights underneath, they wash it in their washing machine with Bourne’s own water. If it is underwear or socks or Tshirts or a bra, they wash it in their bathroom sink with bottled water. If it is jeans, they just let them air out and wear them again, even though they only shower twice a week. （Petra’s mother does not leave her house but does not care about germs that might be in there in her jeans with her already.） Our mayor, Omar Radison, has the water tested every year, and he prints out the results and posts them all around downtown so we can all see it is safe now, but even Mayor Omar drinks bottled water.
Not Pastor Jeff, though. Pastor Jeff looks both ways before he crosses a street, wears his seat belt in his car, applies sunscreen in summer, and chooses pretzels instead of chocolate bars from the vending machine. I know. I have seen him do all of these things. I have seen that he jogs on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings which he must do to increase his longevity because that is the only reason a person would jog. All of those things are doctor things. But when you ask him why he drinks tap water, he says he has faith, which is a pastor thing. He says he knows God would not send poisoned water to Bourne. I ask him if he means God would not send poisoned water to Bourne again, since he already did once.
“That wasn’t God, Monday,” says Pastor Jeff.
“Well then how do you know whoever it was will not do it again?”
“Because I believe,” says Pastor Jeff.
“In God?”
“Yes, in God.”
“But what about last time?” I ask.
“The Lord works in mysterious ways,” says Pastor Jeff and all pastors everywhere when presented with completely logical but impossible-to-answer questions like mine.
“But if God will protect you from poisoned water, why will he not protect you from getting run over by a car?”
“I believe he will,” says Pastor Jeff.
“But if God will protect you from getting run over by a car,” I press, “why do you look both ways before you cross the street?”
“Because, Monday”—he winks at me—“that’s just common sense.”
Mab says you cannot argue with people about religion, and this is why.
After his tap water, Pastor Jeff turns, looks at the books I chose for him, and chuckles. “Impressive selections as usual, Madam Librarian.”
“You are welcome,” I say politely. “Is there anything else I can help you with today?”
I meant something having to do with library business, but he replies, “Yes, now that you mention it: I was hoping you could warn your mother about something.”
Warn her? My toes and knees start to buzz. “Why do not you do it?” I ask him. Pastor Jeff works in the room next door to my mother so sees her a lot almost every day.
“I don’t want to tell her at work.”
“Tell her what?”
“Well … word is we’re getting new neighbors.”
“Neighbors?” The buzzing catches fire. I am immediately alarmed, and Pastor Jeff looks worried because he has seen and heard me in all my states including the alarmed ones.