The Forgetting Machine (2 page)

“I'm not sure where to look,” I said.

Ms. Pfleuger compressed her already compressed lips. “What is your question?”

“How come Flinkwater is called Flinkwater?”

I could barely make out her eyes behind those thick glasses, but I was pretty sure they narrowed slightly.

“I would imagine it has to do with the
flink
in the
water
,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“I'm doing a report for school. And there's no such word as ‘flink.'”

“I see,” she said.

I thought I saw the hint of a smile, but I must have been mistaken. Ms. Pfleuger elevated herself from her chair and descended from her podium. She was a large woman in every dimension other than height, but she moved like a dancer, every step precise. I felt scrawny and awkward next to her.

“Come with me to the stacks,” she said.

“Stacks?” I followed her around the desk into a musty-smelling back room I hadn't even known existed. The “stacks” turned out to be where she kept all the old books that nobody wanted to look at: books of all shapes and sizes, presumably organized according to some arcane librarian logic.

I began to sneeze. I'm kind of allergic. Old books are the worst.

“I believe the information you seek may be in Wilhelm Krause's
A History of Flinkwater, Iowa.
Now, let me see if I can find it. . . .” While Ms. Pfleuger perused the crowded shelves, I noticed what appeared to be a stuffed gray cat sitting on the large central table in front of an open book. I had seen stuffed deer heads and so forth, but never an entire stuffed cat. I was wondering why somebody would do that when the cat licked its right paw and turned the page.

“Ms. Pfleuger?” I said, my voice coming out all creaky and weird. “Do you know you have a live cat in your library?”

“Oh, that's just Mr. Peebles.”

“Did you know your cat is reading a book?”

Mr. Peebles looked at me, emitted a perfunctory
merp
, and went back to his reading.

“Mr. Peebles is only pretending to read, and he is not my cat. He visits from time to time. I don't mind—he is much better behaved than some of my patrons. Ah, here it is!” She pulled an oversize, frighteningly thick volume from the bottom shelf and handed it to me. I almost dropped it—it must have weighed ten pounds.

“This is volume one. If you can't find the answer to your question there, we also have volumes two and three.”

“Can't you just
tell
me?” I said. “I'm kind of in a hurry.”

“Please refrain from sneezing on the books,” she said, then left me to the mercy of the stacks.

I looked at Mr. Peebles. Mr. Peebles looked at me.

“Stupid cat,” I said.

Mr. Peebles hissed.

I sneezed.

Wilhelm Krause's
A History of Flinkwater, Iowa
was twelve hundred pages of small, single-spaced font with very few pictures, no index, and no search function. The first two chapters were about the geology of central Iowa. The next three chapters chronicled the various native tribes that had inhabited the area before the arrival of Europeans. The next six chapters were about the Krause family history back in Germany. Needless to say, I flipped through the first half of the book as quickly as I could turn the pages. Except for the title page, the word “Flinkwater” did not appear until chapter 12, which began:

The town of Flinkwater was founded by Gunter Krause in the year 1887 on the banks of the Raccoona River. . . .

The chapter went on to list the names of Gunter Krause's wife and twelve children, followed by a lengthy description of their original homestead, which included all of what was now downtown Flinkwater. The book mentioned some of the other early settlers: the Johnsons, the Grossmans, and the Funks. I was surprised by that last one. I knew my mom's family had lived in Flinkwater for several generations, but I didn't know they had lived here before the town was even a town.

I skimmed through the rest of the book but could find no clues as to why Gunter Krause had named the town Flinkwater. By the time I got to the end, the only thing keeping me from slipping into a coma was my sneezing.

“This is ridiculous,” I said to Mr. Peebles.

“Merp.”

“I agree.” I closed the book and returned it to its place, more or less—I was sneezing ferociously at the time and may have got it on the wrong shelf. Mr. Peebles followed me back into the main room, where Ms. Pfleuger was being confronted by the infamous Tisks.

Mr. and Mrs. Tisk looked like a set of salt-and-pepper shakers. She, with her fluffy crown of bleach-blond hair, was salt. Mr. Tisk, with a similar bouffant in gray-speckled black, was pepper. They were about the same size and shape, with shiny, hairless faces perched atop rounded shoulders, bodies swelling below to bulbous middles, then tapering down to two smallish pairs of shoes, hers white, his polished black.

Standing behind them, staring at the floor with slumped shoulders, was Dottie Tisk. I hardly recognized her. She was wearing a long dress, almost to her ankles, and a pair of lace-up granny shoes. Her mouse-brown hair was pulled back tight in a short ponytail, and her skin was white as lard.

Back in the sixth grade, Dottie had been the first girl in school to wear makeup. She would slather on lipstick and eyeliner on the way to school, and sometimes pin up her skirt to make it a few inches shorter. Some kids thought she looked glamorous, others considered her kind of trampy. I just thought she was interesting, even though we were never close friends. I remember she was really smart, even by Flinkwater standards.

After school, on her way home, she would wipe off the makeup and lower the hem of her skirt. Her parents must have caught her, because halfway through the year they pulled her out of school, and I never saw her around town after that. I had heard they sent her off to some super-religious boot camp.

Mr. Tisk was the pastor of Glorious Heart Ministries, a hard-core evangelical church located outside of town, just downwind of Elwin Hogg's hog farm. Mr. Tisk's congregation was small but avid, with a tremendous tolerance for hellfire-and-damnation sermons and the smell of pig poop.

“Hey, Dottie,” I said.

She gave me a quick look, then returned her eyes to the floor. I got the sense she was embarrassed. Her parents did not acknowledge me at all. Mr. Tisk was glaring at Ms. Pfleuger, who was glaring back at him. Mrs. Tisk was smiling blankly, gripping her purse with both hands.

Mr. Tisk was holding a book in his right hand. He raised it above his head and slammed it down onto the counter.

“This,” he proclaimed loudly, “is wicked, sacrilegious filth!”

I looked at the book cover. To my surprise, it was
Charlotte's Web
, a book I had been meaning to read. In fact, I had it loaded up on my tab. If I'd known it was all wicked and sacrilegious I'd have read it sooner.

The Pformidable Pfleuger's glare intensified to a degree that
should
have set his eyebrows on fire, but Mr. Tisk had no eyebrows. Perhaps he had lost them in an earlier encounter.

“Talking
pigs
!” he said. “Talking
rats
! Talking
spiders
!” He thumped the Bible he carried in his other hand.
“There are no talking animals in the Bible!”

I said, “What about the serpent in the Garden of Eden?”

Mr. Tisk aimed his glare in my direction.

“The voice of Satan!” he said. I wasn't sure if he was talking about me or the serpent.

“I'm just saying,” I said.

Mr. Tisk's normally fish-belly-white face flared red. He turned back to Ms. Pfleuger and thumped the cover of
Charlotte's Web
with his finger—“
This
is
not
suitable for children!”

“Fine,” said Ms. Pfleuger. “You are free to prevent
your
child from reading whatever you like, but you do not speak for my other patrons.”

“
All
children are children of the Lord!”

Just then Dottie noticed Mr. Peebles winding his way around her feet.

“Mr. Peebles!” she exclaimed, scooping him up. “Where have you been?” She hugged the cat to her chest.

“He's been right here, Dottie,” said Ms. Pfleuger, “reading books of which your father no doubt disapproves.”

“Animals do not read,” said Mr. Tisk.

“Mr. Peebles does,” I said.

“Tsk!” said Mrs. Tisk.

I've noticed that in books, characters often say “tsk” or “tsk-tsk.” But in real life, nobody says “tsk.” Except for Mrs. Tisk, and not just when she is telling people her name.

“Is there anything else I can do for you?” said Ms. Pfleuger. Her tone of voice was more like
Get your book-banning butts out of my library!

“I will be bringing this up at the next town council meeting,” said Mr. Tisk. “We will do whatever is necessary to protect children—
all
children—from this wickedness, and we will not stop until we burn every last copy.”

“You can't set fire to an e-book,” I blurted.

Mr. Tisk's head swiveled toward me.

“And you would be . . . ?” he said.

“I would be Ginger Crump, and I'm just saying that book burning doesn't work so well when there are millions of digital copies everywhere.” I smiled at Ms. Pfleuger, thinking she would approve of my clever rejoinder, but she was scowling at me just as hard as Mr. Tisk.

Mr. Tisk smirked. “Your precious e-books are no match for the forces of righteousness,” he said. “I'll see that every last copy of that book, paper or electronic, will be turned to ashes—starting now!”

He lunged for the book, but Ms. Pfleuger was faster—she snatched up
Charlotte's Web
and held it out of his reach.

“You will do no such thing,” she said, her voice shaking with barely suppressed rage. “Now please leave before I am forced to call the police.”

Mr. Tisk withdrew his clawed hands. “Very well, then. We shall see. There are many paths to righteousness. Come along, Mrs. Tisk. Come, Dottie. It's time for us to do the Lord's work.” Mr. and Mrs. Tisk spun on their heels and marched off. Dottie, still holding Mr. Peebles, turned slowly and followed them out the door.

“Poor Dottie,” Ms. Pfleuger said. “She used to come in here all the time, but since her parents began homeschooling her two years ago, I've hardly seen her. She came in last week and checked out
Charlotte's Web
.” She sighed. “After this, I expect I won't see her again.”

“Dottie's been homeschooled? I thought they sent her away someplace.”

“No, she's been here all along, but she isn't allowed to leave the house without her parents.”

“No wonder she looks so pasty. At least they let her have a cat.”

“Yes, although she isn't very good at keeping him at home. Mr. Peebles has been stopping by quite often lately.” She shrugged. “I don't mind. For a cat, he is quite intelligent.”

“Well, he
does
live in Flinkwater.”

Flinkwater, as I'm sure you know, is home to a large number of very smart people. It's all because of Gilbert Bates, the founder and CEO of ACPOD. Years ago he hired the smartest scientists and engineers he could find and brought them all to Iowa.
Tech Titans
magazine once estimated that the average IQ in Flinkwater is twenty points higher than the national average, which is ridiculous. I'm quite certain it's much higher.

Also, we have at least one very smart cat.

“Did you find out why our town is called Flinkwater?” Ms. Pfleuger asked.

“Not exactly.”

“I have several other books you could look into.”

“That's okay,” I said. There was no way I was going to plow through more sneeze- and sleep-inducing paper history. “I think I'm all booked out for the day.” I looked at the copy of
Charlotte's Web
on her desk. “But that story sounds pretty interesting, with a talking spider and all.”

“You haven't read
Charlotte's Web
?” Ms. Pfleuger looked horrified. “You must! Would you like to check it out?”

“Um . . . no thanks. I have the e-book on my tab; I just haven't got around to reading it yet.”

“
E
-book?” Ms. Pfleuger snorted. “E-books will
never
replace
real
books.” She opened the book to a picture of a pig eating from a trough. “What about these beautiful illustrations?”

“I'm pretty sure the e-book has all the pictures,” I said.

“Pixels on a screen can never replace ink on paper! This electronica you are so enamored of is untrustworthy and unfaithful!
Printed
books are
solid
!” She thumped
Charlotte's Web
with her forefinger. “Printed books are
real
! E. B. White must be spinning in his grave! Do you think he would want his masterpiece reduced to a flickering collection of bits and bytes?”