Imogene’s CDs still live in her bedroom. She needs music, something, a distraction. Maggie says “Come in,” when she knocks. The room looks surprisingly bare. Her few decorations are still up: The Shining poster she bought when Jamie and she went to Imaginus and a few photos. She cleared off the cork bulletin board and it hangs naked on the wall. She doesn’t know why it surprises her to see it bare, that she imagined Maggie would use it somehow.
Maggie stands at the window. The sheer billows out softly around the shadow of her profile. Her hair is pulled up in a messy bun with loose strands snaking around her neck. She blows a thin stream of smoke out the window. She resembles the photo Jamie took of Jan. Imogene can see why he was taken with the image. She turns to Imogene and waves her over.
“There he is.” She points to a man making his way down the street in wide, determined steps. The man’s eyes are deep pits in his face. His grey hair flaps with each pace. He wears a long, stone-washed jean jacket that hangs open and floats out behind him like a cape.
“Who is he?”
“The Ambler. All day, he makes trips to Tim Hortons. He’ll be back in about ten minutes with a cup. Then, in an hour or so, he ambles back.” Maggie taps ash out the window, ignoring the ashtray. Nan would be ticked if she saw.
“And him there, he’s the Gargoyle.”
She gestures with her smoke to a figure, all in black, crouched on the stairs of a house across the street. His hood obscures his face, but what looks like black dreadlocks peek out. He squats outside the door, a smoke in one hand, a bottle of beer in the other. The front window next to him looks like a pink wall from here, but Imogene knows it’s salmon-pink drapes with ruffled edges. Ceramic dolls line the sill inside, staring wide-eyed out into the street.
“The Gargoyle leaves once a day,” Maggie says. “He brings a case of empties—always Molson Canadian—to the store and comes back with a full one. He never puts his hood down.” She wiggles her eyebrows at Imogene.
“Do you think they have a name for you?” Imogene says. Rude. She shouldn’t have said that, she’s letting her mood overtake her. But Maggie considers it.
“Hmmm,” Maggie says. “What do you think it would be? Window Gawker? Nosey Parker? Housecoat Helen?”
“Lady in Plaid.”
“Lay-dee in plaaaad,” Maggie sings, Chris De Burgh style, “is dri-ving me mad.”
“Week after week.”
Maggie stops singing and stares out the window. “I have an interview tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“Some flooring company. Office relief. I’m pretty sure that’s his grandmother he lives with. The Gargoyle, I mean. He doesn’t seem happy.”
“I thought you never saw his face.”
“Doesn’t matter. I can tell.” She flicks the butt out the window. Nan will definitely be ticked if the downstairs tenants complain. But it is Maggie’s house. She can do what she wants.
“The Gargoyle moves like he’s miserable,” she says. “But who knows.”
“Do you want help picking out clothes for the interview?” Maybe they could talk a bit. Although just saying Jamie’s name out loud might be all it takes to break down.
“Oh, I think I know what to wear. I have an outfit just for interviews. Thanks, though.”
“Okay, well, I came in for some CDs.”
Imogene goes to the standing rack by the dresser. For a moment, she thinks about what else is in the room. The shoebox is just there, under the bed. She could take it out right now, pull out the pendant. Look at this, she could say. I know about this. He’s losing his mind now. He’s almost gone. I understand that it’s hard to be around me. It’s okay. It’s all okay.
She pulls two CDs from the rack, Beastie Boys and Sinead O’Connor. “You have good taste in music,” Maggie says. “I love that you have that Kate Bush album, it’s one of my favourites.”
“I hope you do well on your interview tomorrow,” Imogene says. She opens the door, creating a wind tunnel that puffs out the window sheer. Maggie already stands back on, staring out the glass. The edges of her robe billow with the breeze.
Maureen comes over. She’s had a wretched day. They smoke outside while she rants. “I can’t believe I have a job where the main role is just talking to dickheads on the phone all day,” she says. “I can’t believe I’ve been seeing a dickhead like Darrin for this long. I feel like getting really drunk. And getting in a fight. And fucking somebody.”
Imogene nods. Her week has involved waiting for her next scrap of privacy so she can succumb to another crying jag. And Jamie still hasn’t told his folks about Ottawa. When he complains about his family, she wonders if she is supposed to cheer him up with the reminder that he’ll be free of them soon. She’d like to tie him to a fence, she’d like to jump on his back and hang on. He’s not even coming out tonight because he’s picking up extra shifts at West Side’s. “I need to save money for moving,” he says. She needs to not think about him for a few hours. She walks with Maureen downtown. They take shots from Maureen’s hip flask, little sips that burn holes in their moods.
There are a bunch of bands playing a benefit at The Ship. Imogene and Maureen sit on the window sill by the bar and compare random strangers for each other. “Which one would you fuck, the old guy in the windbreaker or the white guy with dreadlocks? The guy with the plumber crack or that underage kid?” This goes on and on. It isn’t until the music starts that they notice Case and the Tickets are playing and Sherrie Duffy is there.
Sherrie dances before her boyfriend. Now that she’s given up the bangs, her hair is full and luscious. It fans out as she spins and arches her back. “Look at her go,” says Maureen. “She’s so happy lately. Let’s say hi.” Imogene shrugs and follows her.
Sherrie dances up to them. She leans into Imogene and points at Casey. “Look at him,” she says. Casey strums and sings, his hair tucked back behind each ear so that it parts in the middle and frames his face, Kurt Cobainesque. He and the rest of the band wear combat jackets. Imogene wonders if they coordinated their outfits or if it was just a sale.
“He’s the best thing that’s ever happened to me,” Sherrie says. “He’s a genius and he fucks me all night like a jet engine. Case and the Tickets! Whoooo!” She jumps and claps. “Where’s Jamie?” she says. “I thought you guys were Siamese twins.”
“He’s working.”
“A little bird told me he was moving away.”
“You shouldn’t worry about what little birds say.”
“I don’t have to worry about a little bird with Case, I tell you. Whooo-hooo!”
The band plays a fast one and Imogene is grateful for the distraction. Every time Sherrie turns to say something, she closes her eyes and pretends to be into the music. Sherrie tries to dance with her, wadding the back of Imogene’s shirt in her hand and bouncing up and down, but Imogene refuses to jump. Finally, Sherrie moves up and writhes in front of Casey until she sees someone she knows by the bar. She throws both hands up in exclamation and dances over.
A slower song starts. Imogene’s eyes dart to the entrance. Stop looking at the door, Jamie is not showing up. She’s too used to looking for him, it’s like some kind of nervous tic. When she turns to the stage, Casey is staring at her while he sings. His voice is pretty good, but forced at times, like he’s trying to sound older, like Tom Waits or something. Which is okay, but does it work? She watches and wonders this.
And Casey does not look away. He is so bold and obvious. What a cocky fucker. But shit, it feels good to be seen. It’s been a while since she felt noticed and Casey has a look like he wants to fill his face with her. She realizes that she is standing still, gawking back at him. Jesus. She does an about turn. Go to the bar, get a drink. She fights the urge to glance back to see if he’s watching her leave.
After the show, Maureen wants to go to a party. “Darrin might be there,” she says. They say goodbye to Sherrie, who dangles off Casey’s frame. She makes a fuss over Maureen and Imogene by pulling them into her and kissing their cheeks. When she pulls Imogene in for a kiss, Casey sneaks a peck as well. “Isn’t he the freshest thing,” Sherrie says. “Yeah, he’s pretty ripe,” Imogene says. “Watch out for her, Case, she’s a saucy one,” Sherrie says and Casey says, “I can see that.”
Maureen and Imogene trudge up Bates Hill to a house with people smoking pot on the steps. Darrin is there. He and Maureen give each other shrugging hellos and speak in aloof tones. Well now. Maybe Imogene will find someone she knows inside.
At the top of the staircase is a small kitchen where beer is being sold out of garbage buckets of ice. The Tragically Hip blares from the stereo and she sees Winston standing with a couple of guys. He calls her over and says he wants to talk to her about whether redheads have hotter tempers than non-redheads. Imogene picks up a frying pan and pretends to hit him with it, which makes the guys laugh.
In twenty minutes, Maureen still hasn’t come inside, but Casey and his band show up. Casey’s face juices up slightly when he sees her and he lifts his bottle in greeting. “Jesus,” Winston says in her ear. “I can smell that guy’s cock stand up from here.”
“Shut up, Winston,” she says. Casey’s gaze is unnerving, but everyone here is happy to have his cool cred at their party. So that’s kind of flattering.
Ten more minutes and Maureen still doesn’t appear. Fucking Maureen and Darrin. Imogene doesn’t know anyone else besides Winston and he’s getting loud and sloppy. She looks for the bathroom to take a break. It’s tucked away in a hallway by the bedrooms and it’s quiet and makes her want to go home where she can think and not feel like an arsehole at a party because Jamie isn’t with her. She fixes her lipstick and hair. She’ll make an exit, say goodbye to Winston. Maybe a cool farewell to Casey as well. She’ll go home out of it.
She opens the door and there is Casey Cahill.
“It’s all yours,” she says.
He steps towards her. He brushes his lips against hers. “I wanted to give you a real kiss before,” he says. And he really is very hot and he takes up the whole doorway. She tips her face up. He kisses her soft and then hard, his tongue slides into her mouth and explores and Jesus, it’s so good to be kissed. She runs her palms over his shoulders and they are molded slabs. He stops and looks down at her from under his eyelids. “If you leave, I’ll follow you,” he says.
“Where’s Sherrie?”
“She went home.”
“I can’t be seen leaving with you.”
“Meet me at the corner of George and Water in five minutes. We’ll go to your place.”
“I can’t take you home.”
“Why not?”
“No privacy.”
“Shit. I can’t take you home, either.”
“Why not?”
“That’s where Sherrie is.”
“Lovely. I’m leaving.”
“Come on. I really want to be with you. I’ve wanted you since I saw you in the park that day. You’re like a strawberry dessert.”
“I really gotta go.”
He takes her hand and presses it to the front of his pants. “See how much I want you,” he says. He kisses her again and she wants to move her hand up and down. He cups her breast over her shirt. “Damn, your tits are nice.”
“We’re going to get caught.”
He straightens up. “Okay. You go out first. Fucking hell.”
She walks a straight line out and towards the exit. No eye contact with anyone.
“See ya, Genie.”
Winston. She waves back at him as she clops down the stairs.
Outside, Maureen and Darrin are gone. Maybe she could go back up. There are bedrooms. They must have locks. No, half of St. John’s would know. And Winston would tell Jamie and Maureen. Jesus Christ. Dodge a bullet, go home, rub one out, go to sleep. She walks home, making sure to take the well-lit streets. If Jamie saw her, he’d bawl her out for not getting a cab.