IN WHICH LIBBY AND I HAVE COMPANY

As I was preparing for a trip to the library I heard Libby announce that we had company.  I knew it immediately, instinctively, even though she barks at every person who goes past, whether on bike or foot, and occasionally in cars; she sounded more frantic than usual, and I also heard her scrambling toward the door, which is usually a sure sign of visitors.  I winced inwardly.  Something about unexpected company always makes me preemptively nervous.

I came down the stairs and found two representatives of the Jehovah’s Witnesses smiling at Libby through the glass.  This was the second time they’d come by, and I had accidentally ignored their knock of several weeks ago long enough for them to decide no one was home besides the noisy little dog. 

The ladies stood on the porch for a few minutes while the elder of the two passed her Bible to me to read the verses she’d indicated.  I invited them in, mostly because the breeze coming in was chilly, but also because I suspected that I might otherwise have stood propping open our defective storm door with one foot while keeping Libby back with the other for quite some time.  Sitting down was more convenient for all of us.

Once I was on the couch with Libby curled territorially beside me, I returned the Bible to its owner and produced my own, wondering if this would shorten our visit.  (I’m still not sure.)  The grey-haired spokeswoman sent me flipping for passages which she named in a charming German accent.  All the time she kept reminding me of everything that was wrong with the world, every discouraging reality that she could think of.  She asserted that she never heard anything but bad news and was suspicious and dismissive of my suggestion that I had in fact heard anything other than bad news. 

If I had been able to think of a good argument I might have tried to debunk such profound pessimism.  Her cheerful dissertation of the choicer points in Revelation seemed to hinge entirely on the base assumption that the world was quite literally going to hell in a handbasket.  In the entirety of the ten minutes that she sat beside me I could not quite piece together an effective way to tell her that I agreed about the inherent dysfunctionality of our lives on earth and yet that I was able to appreciate a huge bounty of joy in my life.  I felt startlingly guilty to consider how generally happy I am.

The ladies thanked me for my time and prepared to leave sooner than I had expected.  The leave-taking, however, lasted for several minutes; they were both quite taken with Libby and made extensive comment on how well-mannered she was and how friendly she was, and didn’t she look nice?  They promised to return sometime (though they didn’t specify when), and it might be that they are eager to become better acquainted with my living doorbell.

Also on the way out, the woman with the lovely accent said to me, “I see you are looking for a name for your house.”  I was momentarily surprised; the submission box on the mantle must be a more prominent feature than I had realized.  I said yes, and explained briefly that we were taking suggestions from all our guests.

“Serenity,” she said.  “You should name it Serenity.”

“That’s her submission,” said her companion with a laugh.

“Then everyone will want to come here,” my German friend clarified with a meaningful expression that referred me to the problems of the world.

Once they had gone, I wrote it down and dropped it into the box.