Finding My Own Way (17 page)

“I guess something good can come of it then,” I remarked.

“Oh, indeed,” Margaret's father reiterated. “And it's a good thing that Margaret won't be looking for a part-time
job when she gets home. We would never allow her to go back there under those conditions.”

We had reached the front door of the store. “You write very well, Libby,” Mr. Pacey continued. “Fern and I were discussing it at breakfast this morning. Whether that is the kind of talent you inherit, or a skill you develop. Your mother was the best writer William Thomas ever had.”

“Thank you,” I said. I stepped aside to let a woman enter the store.

Mr. Pacey dropped his hands into the pockets of his white coat and rocked back on his heels. “I hope you are considering journalism or something at university?”

“I can't afford to go to university, Mr. Pacey. Not that I wouldn't like to.”

“Then you must work hard at school and keep your marks up,” he said decisively. “You might win a scholarship. But whatever you do, you should keep writing.”

“That's what Mr. Thomas tells me.”

“How is he, by the way?”

“Fine, as far as I know.”

“Fine?” The man's brow furrowed. “I mean, since his heart attack.”

“Heart attack? I didn't know . . .”

“I'll be right with you, Mrs. Lloyd,” he called to the woman waiting at the pharmacy window. “Sorry, Libby,” he said. “I didn't mean to spring that news on you. I just assumed, since your piece was in last night's paper, that you must have been in touch.”

Quickly thanking Mr. Pacey for the free newspaper, I hurried back up the street. Sure enough, the front door
of the
Pinkney Mirror
office was closed and locked, the blinds drawn. A hand-printed sign was taped to the glass on the inside.

Closed indefinitely, due to illness
.

Sorry for the inconvenience
.

Marjory Thomas
.

Was this possible? Wasn't it just last week that I'd sat across the desk from William Thomas? He had looked tired, but I'd never seen him look any other way. He had said then that he had a long night of work ahead of him. But I had spoken to him again when we discussed the publication of my essay.

With the newspaper shut down, my hopes of getting a job with Mr. Thomas were dashed. Immediately, I felt ashamed that I would think of myself at a time like this.

I pulled my bike out of the rack in front of Savaway and avoided looking in that direction. What was I going to do now, with no money coming in? What else, I wondered miserably, could possibly go wrong? It was obvious that Gloria hated me now.

At home, I wanted to crawl into a hole of self-pity and hide, never have to go out into the cruel world again. Unable to eat any supper, I curled up on the couch in the front room and cried tears of frustration. Ernie gave solicitous licks to my face until I turned away from him. My loyal friend collapsed, sighing, onto the floor to await a change in my mood.

This was not the way to deal with trouble, and I knew it. I should be calling Marjory Thomas to inquire about her husband, but she was likely spending every minute at his bedside.

I slept and dreamed that someone was rapping on the door. Finally, the noise shattered my sleep. I lay and listened for a second, then heard Ernie whining at the back door. Looking out of the window into the fading light of evening, I discovered a battered Chevy was pulled up beside the mailbox.

“Who is it?” I called from the kitchen.

“It's Gloria,” replied Gloria.

Now what? Still groggy, I pulled open the back door. “What time is it?” I asked.

“It's after nine,” Gloria admitted. “Sorry to come so late.”

“S'okay,” I yawned, stepping back.

Gloria seemed at a loss for words. “Look, Libby, I . . .” she stammered, “I feel really awful.”

“Come on in,” I invited, curious.

“I can't stay long.” She followed me into the kitchen. “My dad's waiting.”

“Oh, that's your dad out there? Tell him to come in.”

“No, that's okay,” she said. “He wouldn't, anyway.”

“Well, he could at least have pulled into the driveway.”

“He's okay. I wanted to see you, Libby,” Gloria said. “And when I told my dad, he said he'd drive me over.”

We stood in the middle of the room, awkward with each other. “Here,” I offered, pulling out a chair. “Sit down. Please.”

“I owe you an apology,” said Gloria, accepting the chair. “I should have been thanking you this afternoon instead of yelling at you.”

“Well, you thought you'd lost your job.”

“Still, that's not the way friends treat each other.” She
smiled shyly. “And what you did was the bravest thing.” Taking a deep breath, she plunged on. “Anyway, Mr. Forth is keeping me on.”

I nodded, wanting to be happy for her.

“Now, for the best news of all,” said Gloria. “He told me he's getting rid of Bobby Baker.”

“Really?”

Gloria was gleeful. “He's being sent to the Derryville store. Effective immediately! It's really a demotion, because he won't be an assistant manager there.” She became solemn again. “And I asked about you, Libby. Okay? Whether you could come back? Mr. Forth said maybe in September, when the others go back to school. But Bobby's leaving! Isn't that the best?”

“Well, it solves the problem here in Pinkney Corners, I guess,” I admitted. “Though maybe we should warn the staff in Derryville.”

“Ooh, that's a good idea,” Gloria chortled. “But that's not all the news. You know what else happened? Mr. Forth told me this. Karen broke off the engagement with Bobby over the weekend. She finally smartened up.”

“It couldn't have happened to anyone who deserved it more,” I said. “And I'm glad you weren't fired, Gloria.”

Gloria got to her feet, pushing her chair back under the table. “Well, I just wanted to say I'm sorry, Libby.” She screwed up her face. “Can we still be friends?' She extended her hand for me to shake, but all of a sudden we were hugging each other instead.

“You bet we can,” I vowed.

I walked her back down the driveway and waved at the car where her father waited in the dark.

“Dad's had some good news of his own today.” The pride in Gloria's voice was evident. “He's been called back to work. He does maintenance at the nursing home. And you know what? He thinks I might be able to get work there sometime, as a nurse's aide.”

“Oh, you'd be so good at that, Gloria,” I enthused.

“That's what Dad said too. I guess I am pretty good at looking after people. Anyway, he's going to keep his ears open, and if something comes up, he'll let me know. He thinks they'll even pay for some training.”

“I'll keep my fingers crossed,” I told her.

“What are you going to do about a job, Libby, till Mr. Forth takes you back on?” Gloria asked, concern for me in her voice.

“Oh, don't you worry. I'll find something. I'm not going to sit around here and feel sorry for myself any more,” I decided. I'd done enough of that. “I'll go check at the employment office tomorrow. Let them know I'm available again.”

The woman at the employment office flipped busily through her file folders. “There really isn't anything now,” she said. “The berries are done, and apple picking doesn't start till Labour Day.” She tried to put on an encouraging smile. “But we still have your name, dear, so you never know.”

I gave her my new telephone number, and she promised to call if anything turned up.

I stepped out onto the baking street. It was noon hour.
Michael had likely gone home for lunch. I considered strolling past the Paceys' house in hopes of seeing him, but I didn't want to have to explain myself if Fern Pacey saw me first. I decided I might have a better chance of running into him if I just hung around on the main street.

Shooing off hungry pigeons, I found a seat on the bench in front of the war memorial where the surrounding trees offered some shade, and I studied the contents of my purse while the minutes ticked away. I wondered if Bobby Baker had already left town. He was someone I definitely did not want to bump into. I could only imagine his frame of mind today.

A burly man, using a pole with a spike on the end of it, was making his way towards me, spearing papers and wrappers from under the benches and depositing them in a sack that he dragged along behind him.

I had just about made up my mind to go home when I spied Michael taking a short cut through the park. I stepped out onto the path to meet him.

“Oh, hiya, Libby.” His infectious smile told me that he was pleased to see me. “What are you up to today?”

“Job hunting,” I said casually. “I've been to the employment office. They said they'd call me if any work came up.”

Michael tossed a blonde forelock off his face. “Gee, I'm really sorry you lost your job, Libby. Dad was telling us about it last night. That Baker is a real jerk! Makes you wonder how anyone puts up with him.” He glanced quickly up the street. “I've got to get back to the store now, Libby. Which way are you headed?”

“Just over to get my bike,” I said, falling into step
beside him. “Then I'm going home.”

“Oh, hang on a sec, will you?” Michael suddenly stopped. “I know this fella.” To my surprise, he turned back to speak to the man who was picking up garbage in the park.

“How's it going, Jonas?” Michael asked cheerfully.

“Can't complain, sir,” the man replied, with a gap-tooth smile. “Can't complain.”

I recognized him then. It was the same big man who had appeared at my place with the bedroll on his back.

“You should come up to the store when you can, Jonas,” Michael went on. “Dad was saying he needs some shelving moved, and you and I together could do it.”

“I will do that, then. Thank you, sir.” The man bobbed his head at me. “Ma'am,” he acknowledged.

“Did you ever find a good place to fish?” I asked boldly.

“Ma'am?” Jonas looked perplexed.

“You were at my place out by the river a while ago,” I reminded him. “I have a big, black dog.”

“Oh, that's right.” He nodded. “I haven't had much time to fish, lately. But the best place to catch 'em, I've found, is right off the bridge.” Jonas speared a piece of paper from underneath the bench I had vacated and moved off.

“So, you know that man?” I asked Michael as we left the park together and headed up the street.

“Sure,” said Michael, “that's Jonas. Don't know his last name. He sweeps sidewalks, does odd jobs. Why?”

“Because I found him standing in my backyard one day, just after I got back. Scared me to death. He looked
as though he planned on setting up camp there.”

Michael threw back his head and laughed. “He might have too, if you hadn't scared him off. He's harmless, though.”

“Well, how was I to know that?” I demanded. “I'd never seen him around before.”

“He's got a place, a sort of shack, down where the roundhouse was. He turned up here last fall, looking for work. Had kind of a rough winter, I guess. We think he may have camped out in abandoned houses to stay warm.” Houses like mine, I thought.

We crossed the street together, and Michael continued, “Things should be better for Jonas this year. Some of the shopkeepers who get him to crank their awnings and clean up the sidewalks, put together enough money that he was able to insulate his place this spring.” He cast a glance back over his shoulder. “I have to admit that he looks pretty rough. But he's honest, and he'll do any work there is to do.”

Just as we passed the fire hall, the place suddenly sprang to life. The fire truck roared out of the station, sirens wailing, and sped away up the street. By the time we could hear ourselves think again, we had reached Pacey's Drugstore.

“I have to go in, Libby,” Michael said, sounding regretful. “Dad has some deliveries he wants me to make.” Still, he hesitated. “I'll be in Kingston this weekend, but maybe we could go out again? Maybe next Saturday?”

“Sure,” I smiled. “I mean, I'd really like that, Michael.”