Finding My Own Way (16 page)

I was dawdling over breakfast the next morning, deep in thought, when the phone rang. It was William Thomas, telling me how much he liked my last piece of writing. It took a few moments for me to recall what it was that I'd written.

“It's good, Libby,” he repeated. “Darn good. I want to use it.”

“You mean, put it in your paper?”

“That's right. That's why I'm calling. For your permission. I know you said it really wasn't finished.”

I was laughing, feeling giddy almost. “Of course, you can use it. Thanks very much!”

Hanging up the phone, I slid slowly down the wall to the floor and sat there grinning and hugging a bewildered Ernie. This was wonderful!

Then, after I came to my senses and remembered the subject I had tackled in the essay, I began to think about possible repercussions at the store. The Irene/Irina thing had clouded my mind just now when I said yes to Mr.
Thomas. I looked up the Thomases' number in the phone book and dialled the man back.

“He's already left, Libby,” Marjory informed me. “Give him ten minutes and call him at the office.”

I must have caught him the minute he came through the door. William Thomas was breathing heavily when he picked up the phone.

“I'm a little bit worried about what I said in that article,” I admitted. “I don't want to hurt anyone.”

“I won't publish anyone's name, of course,” said Mr. Thomas. “Nor the name of the store. I'll be careful. I feel strongly about the topic you're addressing here, Libby—the unfair treatment of vulnerable young women. I think the public needs to know about it.”

It gave my ego a boost to be taken so seriously. “Okay. If you're sure there won't be any names.”

“I promise. Would you like to read it before I publish it? I tidied it up a little.”

“That's not necessary,” I assured him. My joy at the prospect of being a published author knew no bounds. “Oh, I forgot to ask how you were,” I remembered, at the last minute. “Marjory said you hadn't been feeling well.”

“Just a little shortness of breath,” he said. “Nothing to worry about.”

No sooner had I hung up than the phone rang again. I said a little prayer before lifting the receiver that it wouldn't be Irene. Armed now with the knowledge that she was not who she thought she was, I needed some time to consider how I was going to break the news to her.

To my surprise, it was Michael Pacey. “I hope I didn't call too early,” he began, tentatively.

“Oh, no,” I assured him. “I'm usually up with the roosters.”

“Don't tell me you've got chickens too! How do you do it?”

“No,” I laughed. “I meant the McIntyres' rooster.”

“Say, Libby,” he said, “I hope those fellas the other night didn't drive you crazy.” I loved the sound of concern in his voice. “They can be such wise guys. Especially around a pretty girl.”

Did he say that? “Oh, no. It was fun,” I said. I didn't tell him I had hoped the evening would never end.

We chatted back and forth for a few minutes, and I began to wonder if he'd just called to make small talk. Then, out of the blue, Michael asked, “If you aren't busy on the weekend, would you like to go to the show?”

“What's on?” I asked. As if it mattered! He was asking me on a date!

“It's some Dean Martin and Jerry Lewis movie. Should be good for a laugh. I have to work late Friday night, but maybe Saturday?”

“Sure,” I said, “that would be nice.” Nice! The most overworked word in the English language.

“Good. D'you mind if I pick you up on the motorcycle?” Michael asked.

“No,” I said, “but I have to tell you I've never ridden on one before.”

“Oh, you'll get the hang of it.” He sounded pretty confident. “I'll show you how to lean to the side when you have to.”

“If you're sure,” I said. I pictured myself sitting close behind him, my hands on his waist, like Anna's. “I'm
working two till six on Saturday. I'll bike home and . . .”

“Oh. I forgot. You'll have your bike.”

“Not if you pick me up here,” I said.

“Listen,” suggested Michael, “why don't we do this? You have to eat after you get home anyway, so why not just stay in town, and we'll grab a bite at the Blue Bonnet. Then, we'll go to the show and afterwards, I'll put your bike in the trunk of Dad's car and drive you home.”

Just before closing time on Saturday I looked up to see Michael, leaning against the lamppost outside the Savaway, his hands in his pockets. He was wearing black slacks and a pale blue shirt, open at the throat. My heart did a little flip-flop at the sight of him. Michael Pacey was waiting to be with me!

I'd managed to keep my skirt and blouse reasonably clean all day, and I'd brought some talcum powder from home to sprinkle into my white, flattie shoes at the last minute. A squirt of Blue Grass cologne from the tester bottle on the cosmetics counter, and I'd be ready.

Gloria kept finding excuses to go past the front door to sneak a look at my date. She obviously approved.

At six o'clock I skipped past the scowling Bobby Baker and sang out for his benefit, “Bye, Gloria. See you Monday. Michael's waiting for me.”

Sitting across from each other in a booth at the Blue Bonnet, Michael and I ate hamburgers and shared a plate of the restaurant's speciality—chips and thick, brown
gravy. I was so full that I had to decline the buttered popcorn at the show. I sat clutching the handle of my little box purse in both hands, feeling very nervous and aware of Michael next to me. I could smell the starch in his clean shirt. I had a sudden vision of Fern Pacey carefully ironing it, hanging it in his closet. Did she know about Michael and me, I wondered?

I tried not to think about Anna Nobles. Michael had probably dated plenty of girls in the last year, and I just wanted to enjoy the fact that tonight he chose to be with me.

Between the cartoon and the feature, Michael gave an exaggerated stretch and let one arm slide across the back of my seat. I held my breath, and when the arm remained there, I shifted over, very slightly, into the shelter it provided. I smiled up at him and Michael gave me a knowing wink. I wished the whole world could see us together.

The show over, Michael and I filed out of the theatre with the rest of the noisy crowd, blinking in the bright lights of the marquee. We collected my bicycle from the rack in front of Savaway and, as night fell around us, we walked very slowly over to the Pacey house, Michael gallantly wheeling the bike.

At the house, I remained like a visitor in the front hallway while Michael went to speak to his parents. From the living room on the right I heard the gentle murmur of voices, the rattle of a newspaper. Should I poke my head around the corner and say hi? I decided against it. The last thing I wanted to do was embarrass Michael.

“I'm taking the car keys, Dad,” I heard Michael say. “I won't be long.”

“Hello, Libby dear,” Fern Pacey called out in a singsong voice. So, they did know!

I stepped across to the living room, my cheeks flaming. Mr. Pacey lowered his paper and smiled at me. “Libby,” he acknowledged.

When we reached my house, Michael went in with me and waited while I turned on the lights. “I had a really nice time,” I said, playing with Ernie's ears. “Thanks, Michael.”

“I did too,” he smiled. Michael took both my hands in his for a moment, gave them a little squeeze, and then released them. “Night, Lib,” he said, softly. The next thing I knew, he was gone.

I dawdled dreamily for over an hour, getting ready for bed. Michael hadn't tried to kiss me. Was I too much of an old friend for that? I hoped instead that it was a case of Michael being a real gentleman. I had an unwritten rule that I didn't kiss on the first date anyway, although I hadn't had many opportunities to test it. Michael didn't need to know that I was ready to break that rule for him.

On the Wednesday of what I hoped would be my last week of shortened hours at work, just as I was putting my bike into the rack in front of the store at five minutes to five, I met Gloria coming out. “How was it today?” I greeted my friend.

“Listen, you,” she sizzled. “I don't know how you did it, but you got me fired!”

“What?” I took a backward step. I could almost feel the heat of her rage. “What are you talking about?”

“He fired me tonight! Said not to bother coming back.” Gloria was livid. “He said I should ask you about it. So here you are. Now talk!”

My stomach lurched. “I'm sure you're mistaken, Gloria.” But something told me that she wasn't.

“Just because of you and your big mouth,” she stormed. “You had no right to involve me!”

“Involve you in what?” This was going to be worse than I'd imagined. “Come back inside with me, Gloria. Please,” I begged, feeling sick. “We've got to get to the bottom of this.”

I took hold of her sleeve and practically dragged her through the door. In the distance, I saw Mr. Forth scurry
back up to his office and shut himself in.

His second-in-command was leaning against the wall, just inside the staff cloakroom, examining his fingernails. Waiting for us, I felt sure. Gloria suddenly broke away from me and bolted from the store.

I confronted Bobby alone. “Gloria said you fired her.”

Bobby used the nails on one hand to clean those of the other. “Correct.”

“She said it was my fault.”

“Correct again.”

“How is it my fault?”

He pushed himself away from the wall. His face was ugly with contempt, his pale eyes narrowed. “You took it upon yourself to do a write-up for the paper, holding this store up for ridicule. Who do you think you are? Princess Margaret?”

“What does that have to do with Gloria?” I demanded. “And I did not hold this store up for ridicule.”

“Oh, you didn't?”

“No, that article was about you, and the way you treat the women who work here. I'm not surprised you recognized yourself.”

“Everyone will know it's about this store. Isn't this where Elizabeth Eaton works?” He had me there. “And for your information, the black eye was an accident.”

“Was it?”

“I've never hit a woman in my life. Not that they haven't deserved it.”

This man was a Neanderthal! “Well, maybe it
was
an accident.” I allowed him that much. “Gloria told me that it was. She stuck up for you. All I am asking is that you
don't fire her.”

He smirked, enjoying this. “You're fired too, in case you didn't know it.”

“I knew it,” I said, with a sinking heart. “But please don't fire Gloria. She had nothing to do with my story. She's very upset with me.”

The door to the office above us swung open. “Mr. Baker?” Mr. Forth's voice came from inside.

“Yes, sir?”

“Get the other girl back.”

Bobby Baker turned his eyes skyward in an expression of exasperation. “And meet me in my office in a half-hour,” Mr. Forth ordered. The door slammed shut.

The walk back down the centre aisle to the front entrance was the longest walk I'd ever taken. A stillness had fallen over the store. None of the women acknowledged me. In fact, they all dropped their eyes as I passed. No one even said goodbye.

I had stood up for them, and I knew I was right, even if they weren't ready to admit it. No one should have to put up with that kind of treatment.

Before going home, I stopped at Pacey's drugstore to buy a copy of the
Mirror
for myself. I had taken one out of the rack and was heading for the cash register when a familiar voice hailed me.

“Libby! Libby Eaton! Hold on a minute!” Mr. Pacey in his white lab coat hurried from the pharmacy at the back of the store.

“Hi, Mr. Pacey,” I said, feeling trapped. I wanted to be alone in my misery.

“Let me shake your hand.” Margaret's father gripped
my hand firmly.

“I beg your pardon?”

“That was a wonderful piece of writing you did in last night's paper.”

“Oh, thank you,” I said. “I haven't seen it myself yet, so I came in here to buy a copy.”

“Take it,” he urged, folding the newspaper back into my arms. “It's on the house. I wanted to congratulate you on a courageous piece of writing.”

“Well, I managed to lose my job over it,” I admitted ruefully.

“Really? Well, in that case, you need to do a follow-up piece.”

“I don't really think . . .”

“I mean it, Libby. If the result of revealing an injustice where you work was that the manager fired you, then the people need to know about it.”

I'd have to think about that idea.

Mr. Pacey came with me towards the door. Although I scanned each aisle that we passed, there was no sign of Michael. He must have left already.

“What you said in your essay, Libby,” Mr. Pacey continued, “about asking ourselves if we'd want our sisters, our daughters, our wives or our mothers to be treated that way, made me stop and think. I imagine your piece made a whole lot of people take a look at how they treat women.”