The Youth Centre library has racks for paperbacks and magazines. These are closest to the tables. Most of the paperbacks are romance and horror, lots of Danielle Steele and Stephen King. Mothers sit at the table and send their kids to pick out a quota of books from the children’s section. They browse through the latest Chatelaine and Good Housekeeping while they wait. Some of them use the magazines to hide the steamier novels; Imogene regularly dislodges bodice rippers from Women’s World magazines.
Her job entails a bit of everything. She stamps book cards when Miss Coffey is on break, she organizes the card catalogue, she helps people find what they’re looking for. Charlotte Whalen needs information on the history of the Catholic School Board for a distance course with MUN, Aubrey Murphy is putting in a new septic tank. She re-glues and tapes binding back into books, she arranges things in ABC order. Everything has a place and a designated category and everything is out in the open. She likes being surrounded by answers and history. She likes finding out what people want to know about. She reads during her lunch breaks, mouthfuls of peanut butter and banana sandwiches over Biloxi Blues, The Greenlanders, Less Than Zero, Skeleton Crew.
When Imogene isn’t working, she tends to take long walks. Maggie sleeps on the couch, so the whole living room feels like her space. Nan is always in the kitchen. With Maggie home, there are regular visitors: relatives and old friends from school. They sit around the kitchen table, gabbing and making comments on Imogene if she is present. “My, she’s so tall, Maggie. And the red hair. Who’s that actress, the redhead? Molly Ringwald. But she doesn’t look like her.” Or, “Why don’t you smile for us, Immy? Give us a smile. Oh, you’re right lovely.” Great Aunt Bride comes by with a shoebox of old photos which Maggie and Nan gush over for hours. “Look at this one, Imogene,” Great Aunt Bride says. “This is your mother before you were born. You can really see her in you.” She holds up a picture of Maggie and Kelly Abbott. Kelly wears overalls and has fluffy blond hair. Maggie wears her hair parted in the middle. Her arms are slender in a tank-top—the same one she wears in Kelly’s photo of her and Tony. A silver heart on a chain around her neck points to breasts which look newly large. Less than a year before she was born. Terrifying.
On walks, Imogene usually ends up by French Brook, where she sits and practices her smoking. She doesn’t want to be a smoker, but figures she should know how to smoke and not gag, like she did with Violet. She now can inhale without choking and hold the cigarette casually. Smoking gives people an excuse to stand in a circle and talk. Imogene doesn’t think the smokers at school are cooler than anyone else, but they do seem to be having better conversations.
Imogene walks along French Brook until she reaches The Best Rock, a large grey slab of granite sheltered by an overhanging tree. The rock juts out so she can perch on its edge and look straight down into the current. She sits and smokes and watches the water. The best times to do this are cooler, overcast days. The coldness of the water creeps up through the rock and into her legs and up her back and she lets herself get colder. And being cold is okay, because she can leave any time—be home in minutes, safe and warm. There’s something delicious about it because she can walk away and nothing bad happens. Like letting a dog in a cage sniff your hand against the bars.
One day in early July, she is perched on the rock, trying to blow smoke rings. The trees across the brook rustle and part and there is Liam Lundrigan. They haven’t spoken since the gym class after the infamous floor hockey game and Mr. Percy’s enforced public apology. And now, he stares at her over the water. He is three stepping stones away.
“What are you doing here?” Liam says. His eyes narrow in the sunlight.
“I live here,” Imogene says.
“What, under that rock?”
“No, this is my grandmother’s land.”
“Like fuck.” Liam spits on the ground as some kind of emphasis. “Agnes Tubbs only owns half this brook. Murray Wells has the other half.”
“Yeah, and I’m sitting on my half.”
“Depends if you want to split it right down the middle. Maybe you actually own the top half and Murray owns the bottom half.”
“Don’t be retarded.” This is the longest two-way conversation she has ever had with Liam Lundrigan. “Anyway, what do you care?” she says. “You’re trespassing either way.”
“Not true. I’m working for Murray,” he says. His chest puffs out slightly. “I’m getting paid to be on his property.”
“Well, I guess we’re both in the clear then.”
“Guess so. Give us a smoke.”
She looks down at the pack of Player’s Light beside her. “Here,” she says. “I’ll toss you one.” She scrambles to get the pack open.
“Fuck that, Cecil, you can’t throw for shit. I’ll come over there.”
Imogene takes a quick glance around for weapons: a stick or nice-sized rock. But it is too late, two giant strides and he arrives on the grass next to the tree. He could stretch out towards her. One push, she’d be in the water, hard slimy stones in her back. She jumps to her feet. Liam raises his eyebrows. Smelling fear, he can smell fear.
“If you’re going to call me that I’m not giving you anything,” she says.
She balances herself on the rock and gets ready to bolt. He takes a small step closer:
“Jesus, sorry, Imogene. What are you going to do, go up to your house and get your hockey stick?”
In one movement, he reaches out and plucks the pack of smokes from her hand. He rummages one out and lays the pack gently on top of the rock.
“I didn’t know you smoked, Imogene.” He opens his mouth wide to over-emphasize her name. She doesn’t know what to say. She fishes out a cigarette as well. Smoking: something to fuck around with when you can’t think of anything to say or do. The cool way of twiddling your thumbs—that could be a slogan. She tries to light one of her matches and hears a click. Liam stands with his lighter out. She hesitates for a second (what if he tries to set her on fire? He could light her hair or eyebrows) before leaning in. She keeps her eyes down. His T-shirt is splattered with white paint. He looks down at it.
“I’m painting Murray’s fence,” he says.
“Fun.”
“Heard your mom was home.”
“Yep.”
“Must be nice. She’s up on the mainland, right?”
She examines the tip of her cigarette. When the comments about Maggie come, she’s out of here. Although, it would be interesting to douse her smoke on his arm first.
“I’m only asking,” he says. “My aunt Kelly went to school with her. She said she was nice.” Liam inhales and blows out a line of smoke. “My old man showed up last week. He says he’s going to stick around this time. We’ll see about that.”
“Where was he?”
“All over. He drives rigs.”
She tries to picture Liam’s father. Bill Lundrigan. She has a memory of a blond man in a truck, passing by.
“Anyway. I better get back to work before you decide to pound me.” He tips the cigarette at her and moves back to the stepping stones. Thank Jesus. She drops hers on the ground and starts towards the path.
“Thanks for the smoke.”
She glances back. Liam stands on Murray’s side of the brook. He waves. Seriously? She stares at him. He blinks at her in the sun, and walks off. She itches to give the finger to his back. No, don’t do it. He doesn’t need encouragement to be a fucker again. The fact he thinks he can strut over and be a smoking buddy goes to show he’s a remorseless arsehole. She spits on the ground where he stood, but it comes out stringy. Gross. Good thing he didn’t witness that. Cec Jr, can’t even spit neat. She tramps back to the house, looking for something to kick. But the path is bare. Nothing feels satisfying.