Imogene knows she’s done for when she visits Jamie’s house, although she was already on her way there. When they were playing pool, she asked him if he still took pictures. “You had those two cameras on the go,” she said. “You were pretty serious.”
He looked at her all beamy. “I can’t believe you remember that.” He told her about the darkroom in his basement. He’s sold a couple this year. If Imogene wants, he’ll show her. Imogene wants. At home, she dug out the photo of the two of them and, over the evening, repeatedly went into her bedroom for indulgent stares until Nan said, “What are you doing? Preparing to smuggle smiles over the border?”
But there are already issues. He is Maureen’s cousin and she has complained about other messes, like how Sherrie dated one of her brother’s friends in high school and it ended badly. “He still won’t come out if he knows Sherrie’s around,” Maureen said. “They’re like a couple of fucking youngsters.” She says Jamie is fresh out of a long-term relationship. Him and some girl named Jan broke up over Christmas break. They were together since grade eleven. “She did it on Boxing Day,” Maureen said. “Like she was waiting to see what he’d get her for Christmas. He’s on the rebound something fierce.” According to Maureen, this is the reason she hasn’t seen much of him this year. “He’s on the go all the time, always at a party with new friends. I hope he’s not going to turn into some kind of pussy hound.” Imogene nodded and tried to project mild concern instead of the gagging flood of disappointment wrenching her insides.
Then, one night, Jamie and Imogene talk about movies. He bounces on his heels when she says she’s never seen The Shining. “I own it. You’re coming over.”
The next day, she is in his house in Mount Pearl. They sit on an old green sectional couch, like a giant L in his basement, and watch blood slosh out of an elevator in the Overlook Hotel and Jack Torrence hack his way through the bathroom door.
Jamie’s family’s house is spacious and modern. “Parents did some renovations last year,” Jamie says. “They picked what they wanted from catalogues.” Most of the decorations are family photos and Newfoundland scenery except for a framed black-and-white photo of a girl, standing back on, staring through a window with long, lacy sheers. The light silhouettes her frame, her blond hair in mid-movement. “That’s Jan,” he says. “I got an Arts and Letters award for the photo. Junior Division.”
“It’s beautiful,” she says. She tries not to scrutinize Jan.
Jamie’s mother insists Imogene stay for supper. All of his three older brothers are there: Eric, the oldest, and Joseph and Thomas, the twins. Eric has his wife and family in tow. Joseph has his girlfriend next to him. The other, Thomas, helps set up the kids’ plates. Imogene is taken with how attractive everyone is. The Clark men are the tall, dark, and handsome kind with big smiling personalities. The wives and girlfriends are dainty blonds. Imogene is seated next to Jamie.
“So, Imogene, Jamie says you’re in school,” Jamie’s father says. “What are you studying?”
“I think I’m going to major in folklore.”
“Oh yes. What would you do with that now?”
“Lots of interesting things can come out of that,” Eric says. “We can’t sell fish anymore, might as well get into tourism. Piles of people coming for the culture.”
“It’s hardly tourists,” Joseph says. “Homesick Newfoundlanders on summer visits.”
“Yeah,” Thomas says, “cause they’re the only Newfoundlanders with money.”
“Well, they come and consume the arts,” Jamie says. “They want to bring pieces of home back with them.”
“How sweet,” Joseph says. “The fruity-tooty artists can make a few bucks.” His girlfriend swats him. “Stop.”
“Imogene works at the MUN library too,” Jamie says.
“Yeah?” Jamie’s father says. “Well, that’s good. Avid readers figure things out fast. Jamie’s cousin did an English degree and piled up the huge student loan. But then he got a job as an auditor up in Toronto. ‘If you can edit, you can audit,’ they said to him.”
“No flies on Imogene,” Jamie says. He nudges her. She can’t turn off the blush.
“Good to have a day job at your age,” Jamie’s father says. “None of these late hours, gallivanting around.”
“Spending your tips ’til four in the morning.”
“Doing who knows what with whoever.”
“Mom,” Jamie says. “You need a hand?”
Jamie goes to the kitchen. Imogene watches him leave. When she turns back, everyone seems to be smiling at her. She grins.
“Thanks for inviting me for supper,” she says.
“We’re very happy to have you, Imogene.”
And then it happens. Like slow motion. Jamie’s niece Emily pulls herself up into a chair. Her blond hair is tied back in a ponytail. As Jamie returns from the kitchen, he reaches out and smoothes Emily’s ponytail from top to end. A little touch, natural, unthinking affection and suddenly Imogene is aware of everything, the time, the date, the position of her legs, the ribbed upholstery on her chair. She imagines him touching her own hair with soundless, instinctual action and the joints in her body vibrate and the muscles in her legs ache and cringe. She is bananas in love with Jamie Clark.
The evening goes well; his family likes her. She basks in their dynamic, the high expectations they have for each other, the way they can pick and razz without seeming afraid of emotional eruption. And each time Jamie meets her eyes, her bones fluctuate in response. Love, she’s in love, it’s everything, it’s all of her, it’s like when French Brook washed out with such force the entire landscape was changed. Everything is wonder and terror. Everything in the world is on fucking fire.
She knows it won’t be enough if they got together for a brief encounter. The last year has been a scattering of insignificant flings. There was Andrew in September, who she met at a pub crawl. He said he planned to do engineering, but hadn’t decided what kind yet. She hated how he wore a ball cap all the time, but he was a good kisser. They talked about sex before they did it, how many partners they’d had (just the one for her, three for him), how scary to be sexually active at university with AIDS and everything else. But then, after the second time they slept together, he said he’d been talking to his ex in Labrador City and they wanted to give the long distance thing a try.
“Good luck with that,” she said. “You don’t have to be sarcastic,” he said.
And there was the flirtation with the bartender at Big Ben’s who let her and Maureen stay after hours. They did shots of tequila and smoked pot. But after she woke up at his place, he rushed her out. And when she showed up at the bar the following Thursday, he had an oh-no shudder in his eyes. “A lesson learned,” Maureen said. “Don’t get dragged off from places you actually like going to. Now we have to find somewhere else that doesn’t I.D.”
And there was Vince, who smelled really good and was fun to dance with. But right after they did it on his bed in his room in residence, he got up, took off the condom, got dressed, and left her alone. She could hear him down the hall, talking about hockey with his buddies like nothing had happened.
And then David for a couple of months. They would drive up to Signal Hill and fuck in his parents’ station wagon. But his friends were horrid and when they ordered Chinese, they called it Slant Food and they asked her if everyone in St. Felix’s was inbred. He took off with them to White Hills over March break and didn’t invite her, so she stopped calling him and he faded away.
For all of them, she got a bit sad. She cried over David for a day. But for some reason, the bartender stung the most: his blanket disdain and impatience when she walked into Big Ben’s. For months, she got a flicker of panic when she went out, the idea she might meet his cold gaze again. One day he was in the cash line-up in Sobeys and she lurked in the frozen-food aisle until he paid and left. If only the sex hadn’t been so hot. It’s still up there as better than anyone else so far. She felt so denied.
If it’s fleeting with Jamie, there will be Major Pain. She already fizzles with jealousy when he’s around other girls. He’ll be teasing the girl who bartends at Christian’s, the waitress at Ches’s and her feelings of misery are so strong, she has to hide her face somehow, sip her drink, stick a smoke in her mouth. Little else she can do since he likes to joke about how he will never get tied down again. “I’m going to sow so many oats, I’ll have shares in Kellogg’s,” he said last week, and they all laughed and her heart fell down a flight of stairs. If she tells him how she feels, will he want to hang out with her? She thinks of Rita and her years of never-fading love for Nick Cleary. There was one time, back when Nick was dating Teresa Loder and Rita was fuming and Cherry MacIssac blew up about the whole thing. “For fucks sakes, Rita, will you just forget about him! Jesus, everybody knows you can do better!”
“How can I?” Rita had said. “How can I get over him when I see him every day? He’s in my class, he’s on my bus. It’s like trying not to pick a scab.”
Imogene would wait out the rebound if she knew he could see her as other than a friend. She could take a chance and tell him how she feels. But if he’s not ready, he might make himself scarce. She sees three choices: all of him, some of him, none of him. Right now she’s at some. Telling him becomes all or none. Damn it to fuck.