Finding My Own Way (13 page)

“He is a nice man,” said Gloria emphatically. “But he's sick.” We continued a ways in silence before she spoke
again. “Well, that's the way it is with my dad. I never have anyone over to the house. I never know if it'll be one of his bad days. I keep hoping he'll go back to work soon. That would help get his mind off things.”

“I'm sorry, Gloria,” I said. “I guess we all think we are the only one with any problems.”

We'd reached the place where the dirt road met the highway into Pinkney Corners, where we'd have to go our separate ways. Gloria's smile was a little sorrowful. “That's just the way it is, since Mom left. She couldn't stand it any more. But he needs me, so I'm not leaving.”

“Promise you'll come out to my place whenever you can,” I urged.

“Thanks, Libby.” But she made no promises. “That was a real good supper, too. Bye, Ernie.” She patted the dog's wide back. “Hey, I just figured it out! He's Ernest Hemingway, isn't he?” And when I nodded, “I knew it, your mother being a writer and everything. He's so loveable.” And giving a little twirl in the dust, she turned to head for home.

Margaret's mother was not a regular at the five-and-ten, so I was surprised to see her breeze through the doors, one of the first customers after we opened one Friday morning. She headed right for me where I stood, pricing men's socks.

“I just wanted to let you know, Libby dear,” Mrs. Pacey announced, “that Margaret is coming home for the weekend.”

It was about time, I thought to myself; summer was half over. “That's the best news!” I exclaimed.

“She's coming by train and will be getting here about seven-thirty this evening.”

“Would you ask her to call me as soon as she's home, please?”

Fern Pacey looked surprised. “You have a telephone?”

“Yes. I do now. I'm not in the book yet.” I wrote the number on the back of a sales ticket and handed it to Mrs. Pacey with a flourish. I could see Bobby out of the corner of my eye, advancing down the aisle towards us, scowling. I slipped back behind the counter.

“Morning, Mrs. Pacey,” he said, recognizing my visitor.

“Good morning, Mr. Baker.” Mrs. Pacey's tone was coldly formal, dismissing the assistant manager. “Well, Libby, I have errands to run. I'm cooking all of Margaret's favourites while she's home. Be sure to come for dinner. Tomorrow night?”

It would be so good to see Margaret again. We had a lot to catch up on. I wondered if Michael would be there for supper and, just in case, decided I would get up extra early and wash my hair before I left for work the next day.

During my break at ten thirty, I went over to the candy counter to say hi to Gloria. She hadn't come my way all morning. I didn't see her at first, and then I found her bent over a box under the counter. “Hi,” I said, coming around behind the glass.

“Hi yourself,” from the depths of the box.

“I'm going for my break now. Have you had yours?”

“Not yet.” Still she didn't look up at me.

“You okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” came the answer. “Just busy.”

That was strange, not like Gloria. She was never too busy to be friendly. I took an apple from my lunch bag and went to eat on the bench out on the sidewalk.

Ten minutes later, I took the long way back to my counter. Gloria was weighing licorice allsorts for a customer, dropping candies onto the scales with the metal scoop. I waited until she was finished, and she looked up to see who was next in line.

She was sporting a black eye.

“What happened?” I gasped.

“It's nothing,” she said, ducking her head.

“It is too something!” I hissed, coming around behind with her. None of the senior staff was in sight. “What did you do to your eye?”

She glanced quickly over her shoulder. “Our beloved assistant manager,” she said, her jaw clenching.

“You mean he did that to you?”

“He didn't mean to. He was at my place, acting like the creep he is. I told him I thought he should leave. He got mad, and he grabbed his jacket off the hook. I was standing right behind him when his hand came back with the jacket, and he caught me under my eye.”

“Oh.” I supposed that was possible. “Well, it looks really painful,” I remarked lamely.

Gingerly, Gloria put her finger to the bruised flesh. “It's okay now. Looks worse than it feels.”

“I hope he apologized.”

“Are you kidding? Look,” she advised, after a moment, “we'd better get back to work.”

Not wanting to cause Gloria any more trouble, I did as she suggested and didn't speak to her again that day. At closing time, I discovered that she had slipped past me and left by the back door.

Had the black eye really been an accident? Because Bobby was involved, I was suspicious. I was barely civil to him when I ducked under his arm while he stood holding the front door open, waiting for the employees to leave so that he could lock up. “Night, Pat. Nighty-night, Doreen. Sweet dreams, Valerie. G'night, Libby.”

How dare he not apologize for hurting Gloria, even if he hadn't meant to. She was such a soft-hearted person, looking after her father and sticking up for poor Mr. Forth. I was still fuming when I arrived home. “Life's not fair, Ernie,” I grumbled as I ripped some bread into little pieces and stirred it into the remains of a can of dog food for him. It didn't take much to keep Ernie happy.

I pondered Gloria's predicament for another hour, then I decided to call my aunt. I needed to talk to someone about it.

“Irene?” I heard the cheery hello on the other end of the line. “Irene, I have this friend.” I unburdened myself of the whole unhappy story, not mentioning any names, of course. Irene listened without speaking until I was through. “You still there?” I asked.

“Libby, this friend,” she choked, “it isn't you, is it? Because, I just knew I shouldn't have . . .”

“Irene! Listen to me. It isn't me. But what if it was? What would you tell me to do?”

“Oh, my. Well, I'd come right down there and bring you back here, of course.”

“Except that this is my friend we're talking about, Irene, and she lives here.”

“She has to stand up to the man,” Irene decided. “Confront him.”

I wondered if that is what had caused the black eye.

“Or she could write him a letter,” Irene suggested. “A letter saying either he stop bothering her or she'll tell his boss. He has to know that she is serious.”

“Okay.” I liked the idea of the letter. “I'll tell her, Irene. Thanks.”

“I think it's a good sign that your friend talked to you about this, Libby,” said Irene, gathering steam. “Sometimes, when this kind of stuff goes on, a girl feels very alone.”

“Well, like I told you, my friend looks after her sick father and her mother's left. So she is pretty much alone.”

“She's lucky to have you as a friend, Libby,” Irene said, softly.

At eight o'clock Margaret called. “Libby! It's me!”

“Hi, you,” I said. “Welcome home!”

“Welcome to the twentieth century. You've got a telephone!”

“Amazing, isn't it.”

“I can't wait to see you,” Margaret bubbled. “When can you come over?”

“Tomorrow, after work,” I said. “I wish I didn't have to go in tomorrow, but I work three Saturdays out of four.”

“Well, it's probably just as well.” Margaret gave an exaggerated sigh. “It sounds like Mother has most of my day planned for me. But you're coming for dinner. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, raspberry sorbet for dessert, and she's made chocolate fudge brownies.”

My mouth was already watering. “I'm off at five,” I promised. “See you then.”

“And bring your p.j.s. You're staying over.”

Poor Ernie, I thought, but only for an instant. I would feed him well in the morning, and I knew that if he got lonely he'd head up the lane to see the McIntyres.

This was Gloria's Saturday off from the store. Bobby seemed to spend an enormous amount of time showing Valerie how he wanted the new rack of 45 r.p.m. records set up, with the top ten songs on the Hit Parade out in front. He kept reaching around in front of her, standing first on one side, then the other. “Look out, Valerie,” I felt like saying, “you could be his next victim.” But of course I didn't.

All that went out of my mind the minute I started up the walk towards the Pacey's verandah. There was Margaret, flying out of the house to meet me. We threw our arms around each other right there on the sidewalk. Then the strangest thing happened. Suddenly, with Margaret's arms around me, I started to sob. I shook from head to foot, choking on tears and clinging to my friend, unable to control myself. It seemed to go on forever.

At last, releasing her and wiping my cheeks, “I'm sorry,” I gulped. “I don't know what that was all about.”

“Well, I do,” declared Margaret, still holding my hand. “Come on up and sit here. We won't go inside yet
to see the others.” She sat me down on the swing and settled beside me. “You still aren't over losing your mom, Libby. I bet you haven't cried about it in a long time. It's understandable.”

“I'm glad you think so,” I whimpered, feeling foolish. “I thought I was over it. The worst of it, anyway. I've had so many other things on my mind. But seeing you, well, it just reminded me of all that has changed.” I gave a weak smile. “Do I sound like I'm feeling sorry for myself? Because I'm not usually like this.”

“I know you're not. And I haven't changed. We're still best friends.” That's what's so wonderful about Margaret. No matter what, she is always the same.

It was like old times, having supper at the Paceys' that evening. Because the two oldest boys were away, there were fewer family members than usual, but Michael was there, and that was all that mattered to me. Each time I sneaked a look across the table at him, I found him watching me. I suddenly became conscious of how I looked when I was eating. I wished I'd practised getting peas to my mouth, in front of a mirror. Did my ears wiggle when I chewed, I wondered?

Margaret and I went up to her bedroom when the meal was over. There was new paper on the walls since my last visit, and a frilly bedspread with matching curtains. “Priscillas,” Margaret explained. “I think they're a little ridiculous myself. But Mother likes them, so I put up with them.”

“It's a beautiful room,” I said.

Impulsively, Margaret flung open her closet and started lifting out hangers. “Want to try some of these clothes on, Libby?” she asked. “I'm getting rid of them.” She hesitated. “You don't mind, do you?”

“Of course not,” I said. “Have I ever minded? I can't afford to say no to hand-me-downs.”

Margaret spread her largess on one of the beds and dropped onto the other to watch my fashion show. “How do you like working at Savaway?” she demanded.

“It's okay,” I said, unbuttoning. “I'm getting used to it.”

“I wonder if they've hired anyone new since I was there.”

“Just me, I think. Was Gloria there when you were?”

“Gloria Hooper?” Margaret made a face, as if she'd smelled something bad. “They hired her at Christmas time. Must have kept her on.”

“She's nice,” I said.

“Actually, Libby,” Margaret glanced quickly over her shoulder, although we were the only ones in the room, “she doesn't have a very good reputation.”

“Oh?”

“You must remember her. She moved here with her dad when we were in Grade Ten. She was only in school a year, and then she quit.”

I wriggled into a pink sundress. “No, I don't remember her in school. But I like her.”

“Well, she wasn't in 10A, of course, like we were. More likely 10D or E.” Margaret stood up to view the dress with a critical eye.

“You'll always be my best friend,” I told her. “But Gloria's funny and sweet.”