An Imperfect Librarian (16 page)

I stand up for emphasis. “Any idea when he'll be finished?” “Won't be long now,” she says then goes back to her call. “I forgot to say, check the best-before date on the Fleischman's yeast before you buy it.”

The Chief's door finally opens. He walks out with his arm around Francis. They're talking about tee-off times. Francis hurries by without even looking at me.

“Come in, Carl,” the Chief says.

He sits behind his desk. I sit opposite. The office door is still open behind me. He rearranges papers while he speaks to me and to Margaret. “Something came up. I can't talk for long – meeting of deans and directors. Margaret?” he calls out. “Get John on the phone. Tell him to meet me in the lobby before the meeting.” He turns to face me. “We need to talk about this project of yours. The Biblio Project, is it? Catchy name.” The phone rings. “Hello. John? Car's in with a brake problem again. Can I get a lift with you?” He looks at me while he listens to John. “Give me ten minutes. Fine. Five minutes. Right. Bye.”

He moves the phone out of the way, scratches his neck, then his ear. “Sorry about that. Margaret said you want to discuss your project. I have a meeting in a couple of weeks with the People for Privacy. Margaret? When's the privacy group meeting? Twenty-second?”

She pokes her head in his office door to confirm.

“I spoke with Francis just now. They're nearly finished the policy draft. They're a hard-working and committed group. I'll certainly give them credit for that. Where is my copy of that privacy policy?” He goes to the filing cabinet, opens drawers, then returns to his desk. “Come to think of it, I don't have time to look at it now. John's on his way. Be thankful you don't have problems with your rotors. Sometimes they'll sand them down for you. That's a lot cheaper. Cost me nearly a thousand dollars for the last visit. They should have insurance for car–”

“I wanted to run some ideas by you about my project.”

He lays his briefcase on his desk. When he opens it, he blocks my view of his face. All I can see are his hands shuffling papers in and out of the case.

“Forget about the project. We need to talk about other things now. Once that policy is adopted, we'll have to follow through on the recommendations. Digital Systems will have an important role to play there. You'll enjoy working with Francis. He's a sharp tack for sure. We didn't promote him to Head of Special Collections for nothing. He's been nominated by some librarian's council somewhere, did you know that?”

“What do you mean about working with Francis?”

He stands while he stuffs papers into his case. “What did I do with that folder? There it is.” He throws something inside then eyes me over the top of his glasses. “Why don't you see Margaret to set up a time for a long chat?” He fights with his briefcase to make it close.

I stand and rest my hands on his desk. “There are serious problems with how Special Collections operates. I heard what happened with William Myrick. There's a connection with Francis there. I can find the connection if you give me some time.”

He leaves his chair then takes his jacket from the coat rack. “I'm out of town for a few weeks.”

I follow him out into Margaret's office.

“Make an appointment for Dr. Brunet,” he says to her. “Nice seeing you, Carl. You look tired. Are you eating right? Margaret, why don't you give him some of the banana bread you brought in yesterday? Holy! Look at the time. John will be ballistic.”

Margaret stands behind her desk with the receiver in one hand. With the other, she offers me a piece of stale banana bread like an edible apology.

CHAPTER THIRTY

W
HEN THE COOK CALLS IN
early September, I don't remember who he is. “Your pal Kelly put you onto me,” he says. We agree to meet at the coffee shop in a bookstore near campus. When I arrive, he's already there with a mini smorgasbord of cakes and pies regaled before him. Behind me, there's a woman on a loveseat reading a book to a toddler. “I think I can, I think I can,” she says to the child. A group of women laugh and talk in the corner. They're wearing t-shirts that say
The Book Bags
. At another table, two people hold newspapers in front of their faces.

“How are ya?” he says. He has a moustache of whipped cream. “I got some real nice stuff for you.”

I sit opposite him. “I hope you're not referring to the cake.”

He points the fork towards me. “Wanna taste?”

I shake my head. “How about if we get right to business?”

“You calls the shots. You gotta pay for the bill here today though. That's part of my expenses. I runs a tight business.
Money first, pictures after. A hundred bucks.”

I sift through the twenty-dollar bills in my wallet. “I think I have that here.”

He leans forward over the remains of his feast of pies and cakes, glances side to side then whispers. “You carry five hundred bucks with you all the time?”

I close my wallet. “One hundred dollars per photo? You told me when I hired you, pay on delivery of the goods, but, to be honest, I forgot about you. I haven't heard from you in months. I don't know if I want the photos anymore. Things were different then–”

“If you don't want to see no pictures of her with him, fine with me.” He lays a small white envelope on the table near some spilled cream.

“I'll be back in fifteen or twenty minutes,” I tell him. On my drive to the nearest bank machine, I pass a stampeding herd of joggers, a man pushing a shopping cart over-filled with recycling, and a
Caution: potholes ahead
sign. I arrive at the shopping mall, drive round and round until I find a place to park then head inside. I stand fourth in line, thinking I should make Henry pay half given that it was his idea to hire the cook in the first place. I wait third in line, trying not to imagine what could be in the photos. When I'm second in line, I think maybe I should stop before I do something I'll regret later.

“It's your turn,” the man behind me says.

When I reach the lights at the intersection, I have a choice between a left to the office or a right to the coffee shop where the cook is waiting for me. The light changes colour. A horn blares. The cook is onto pie with ice cream by the time I'm back at his table. The envelopes change hands. He sifts through the contents. I lay my envelope on my lap to open it discreetly. Five hundred dollars for five photos, each taken on the one day, in the parking lot, in his car. One shot of him getting in, one of her,
one inside of silhouettes, one of each getting out of the car. I put them back into the envelope. “Is that it? Five hundred dollars? Is that all you can give me?”

He wipes his finger across the plate then licks the ice cream off it. “Yup. That's a good deal! By the way, I can't work for you no more. I'm on another job.” He stands to leave. “Don't bother with the cake. Too dry. Pie's too watery. Good luck to you. See ya later.” The waitress returns. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ten-dollar bill, lays it in her hand. “A little tip for you.” He's gone before she has a chance to thank him. The waitress gives me his bill.

“Are you sure it costs this much?” I ask.

She studies the slip of paper then goes behind the counter. I get up from the table, stroll over to the till and read the posters taped on the wall while I wait.

RALLY FOR READERS' RIGHTS

Saturday, September 28th, 2000

Churchill Square Soccer Field

www.protectprivacy.blogger.com

The waitress returns. “You're right,” she says. “He had two pies, not one. It's actually $5.59 more.”

On my way out the door, I pass a recycling bin then a trash can. I throw the receipt for his food in one and the photos in the other. I pull my collar up around my neck for protection against the sheets of rain blowing sideways across the parking lot. I sit behind the wheel and watch drops splatter onto the windshield. Mercedes and Cyril swear by the
Farmer's Almanac
, which predicts a harsh winter ahead. “Summer's over now,” Cyril said. “Time to pay for it.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

I
T
'
S ONE OF THOSE CLOUDY
nights when the star-lights don't live up to their name. Norah's been sleeping for hours. I'll never catch up with her. This is not the first time I've gone downstairs when I should normally be asleep. The nightlight on the stairs is kind on the eyes. In the kitchen, there's more shadow than light. I add a log to the stove then turn the fan on high to take the chill out of the damp fall air. The dogs stir in the porch. Three noses and six eyes appear in the glass. I ignore their scratching and whining. They settle once they realize I won't open any doors for them.

I browse her bookshelves for something to make me sleepy. There's Arthur Rackham's illustrations of
Grimm's Fairy Tales
,
Peter Pan
,
The Wind in the Willows
and
A Midsummer Night's Dream
. I've seen them before but they're more haunting without the bright light of day. It's an expensive volume with glossy pages and an embossed cover. I flip to the front for information about the edition. That's when I notice the bookplate.

First place standing for Literature

awarded to:

Francis Hickey

St. Bernard's School, Trepassey, Newfoundland,1969

To Norah, From Francis, Merry Christmas, 1982

The dogs bark suddenly. I jump. I slide the book into its place on the shelf then go to the porch. A piece of wood falls off the woodpile. Quarto bolts to the side then tips over a bowl of water that spills on the floor. I pull them away from the door so I can open it. Hardened leaves cut against my bare feet. Just as I'm closing the door, the door of the Crimson Hexagon opens. A silhouette appears then disappears.

I throw on my boots and jacket. Outside, the moon slides from behind a patch of cloud. I follow the path. The dogs sniff at the entrance. I press down on the handle but it's locked. No one answers when I knock. I blow into my hands then bury them in my pocket. Before I head back to her house, I check the barn. His Jaguar is parked next to my lemon. The trees make a whooshing sound. The waves respond with a crash. I remember the images from Rackham's book: trees with outstretched arms, tiny men with long thin hands larger than their heads, translucent skin over bones without flesh, “spotted snakes with double tongue,” and drowned bodies floating into the outstretched arms of water nymphs.

The dogs think I'm playing with them when they see me running to the house. The four of us crowd into the porch. They shake as if they're getting rid of water on their coats. I open the porch door then close it quickly behind me to keep the heat in. Octavo yelps. I go down on my hands and knees. “Sorry, Octavo. Poor dog. I didn't mean to trap your paw.” The other two poke their wets noses in my face. A tongue licks my ear. Octavo wags his tail. I give him a final pat then close the
door carefully. The nightlight guides my way up the stairs to the peak until I'm under the covers next to her warm body. “Francis is here,” I whisper. She doesn't stir.

It's quiet in the peak by her side. I fall asleep thinking about Rackham's goblins, gremlins and trees with eyes and ears. They don't haunt my dreams. The dogs do. They're barking, herding me into the waves. Norah appears in the window in the peak. She puts her tongue in Francis' mouth. An explosion frightens the dogs away. I turn to face a giant wave with the face of a monster. Pots clang in the kitchen, dogs bark and I'm saved. It's morning. Outside, the sky and water are a colour of blue that denies there'd ever been darkness. No wind is blowing, no waves are crashing but the dogs are still barking.

I sit at the kitchen table and put on my socks. “Aren't you going to do something about them? They were barking in my dream. They're always barking.”

She unloads a fistful of utensils from the dishwasher. “Good morning to you too.”

“Sorry. I'd call the dogs myself but they don't listen to me.”

She hands me a glass of juice then goes back to her kitchen chores. “Did they listen to you when they were barking in your dream?”

I'd nearly forgotten about that dream. “I saw Francis go into the Crimson Hexagon in the middle of the night.”

She doesn't say anything. She goes to the bathroom. I get my breakfast. The toilet flushes then the door opens. She takes a broom from the closet and sweeps the floor.

“Don't you think it's a bit odd to have him around here at two or three in the morning?”

She doesn't look at me while she sweeps. “I don't bother to think about it.”

I cut some bread and put it in the toaster. “Why do you have to be evasive about it?”

She goes to the closet for the dustpan. “You see it as evasive,” she says. “I see it as answering your question the best I can.”

I move out of her way and sit at the table again. “Why don't you come out and say what your relationship is with him?”

This time she stops what she's doing and looks directly at me. “Not so early in the day, please.”

How can the day be early if the night was so long? Every time I woke, it seemed like another night. “You could be more–”

“I don't expect you to be more of anything.” The toast pops. She puts it on a plate and lays it in front of me.

“Why can't you trust me, Norah? How can we be together if you're hiding things?”

She goes to the porch. “Why can't you trust me? How can we be together if you have to satisfy every ounce of curiosity–”

“Are you saying you don't want to be together?”

She pulls her jacket on over her sweater. “I'm saying I enjoyed our summer together but for now I have more important things to do than satisfy your idle curiosity. My application for tenure is due next week, I'm teaching three large classes. I'm already under enough stress without you pressuring me.”