Four twenty-three a.m. and Maggie is at the kitchen table. Scares the crap out of Imogene when she walks in.
“Jesus.”
“Sorry.”
“Just need some water.”
Imogene focuses on walking straight to the sink. Chugging a glass of water is pretty tell-tale. She’s slurry and needs to go to bed out of it.
“Joyce MacIssac called,” Maggie says. “Bad news out home.”
“Everything okay?”
“The house is gone. There was a fire.”
“What?”
“And Cecil Jesso is dead.”
Imogene stares at the tap. The reflection of Maggie’s brown hair is squished in the faucet. “How?” she says.
“It seems he’s been going into people’s houses lately and not realizing it. He developed some kind of dementia. He went into our house. It looks like he passed out with a lit cigarette.”
She turns. Maggie’s hands are clasped calmly.
“Holy fuck.”
“Yes.”
“And the house is gone? Completely?”
“Yes.”
“From a lit cigarette?”
“He was drinking moonshine too. And the place was old. It was past midnight. Malcolm Whalen was driving by and spotted the flames. He ran into the Abbotts’ and called the fire department. But it was too late.”
Imogene fills her glass of water and drinks half of it. Fills it again. Maggie’s reflection in the tap is a smushed blur. She flicks on the kettle. The water’s been boiled recently and it starts right up.
“And what’s really disturbing is that they didn’t know anyone was inside until they started putting out the fire. They saw his body through the window.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“He was dead when they got him out. Smoke inhalation it looks like.”
“He was probably too loaded to be aware.”
“Maybe.”
“But not too loaded to break in?”
“Couldn’t have been hard to get in the house,” Maggie says. “Eli hasn’t boarded the place up since it’s been on the market. Trudy said there was nothing of value inside, so they hadn’t bothered to put on a lock. Said it would be better if someone went in and poked around rather than break a window. I guess Cecil managed to kick or push in the door.”
“So he’s gone.”
“Yes.”
Imogene gets the teabags. She drops one in her mug. Does she feel a drop? Does she feel anything? “How’s Nan taking it?” she says.
“Not good. I gave her an Ambien. She fell asleep about an hour ago. She kept repeating, ‘We’ve lost our home. We’ve all lost our home.’”
The water is boiled. Imogene fills her mug. This will be good for her hangover. She fills up Maggie’s mug too, and passes it to her. Maggie’s face is posed and neutral. She stirs the bag in the water, making brown swirls. “Frankly,” she says, her voice low, “and I don’t mean to sound dark, but she’ll get more in insurance than the house was worth. With the repairs it needed, she’s better off selling the land.”
“So he did us a favour,” Imogene says.
“Shhh now.”
“Probably the first time he’s done anybody any favours.”
“Dementia does strange things. From what Joyce says, he was very ill.”
Maggie sugars her tea. Imogene imagines shaking her. First soft, by the shoulders, building into a hard rattle. C’mon, Maggie, get angry. Curse him at least. Or pop the cork on the champagne. Ding, dong, Cec is dead. Fucking talk about it already.
Maggie stands up, taking her mug. Their eyes meet and Imogene realizes her face is set on skewed, lips pursed and ready to swear. She lowers her eyes and blows ripples across her hot tea.
“You should get some sleep,” Maggie says. “Mom’s going to need our help tomorrow. We have to plan a trip home.”
Imogene nods. Maggie pats her shoulder. “I’m sure you feel pretty numb about all this,” she says. “It’s difficult to process.”
“Yeah.”
Imogene sets up the sofa bed and gets in. Going home. A ten-hour car ride in a depression sauna with Nan and Maggie. Sleeping on the floor at Trudy and Eli’s. Or sharing Rita’s bed with her, their feet accidently touching under the covers. Nick’s sour stares. And all the “Oh, my what a tragedy” from the same arseholes who laughed when she was called Cec and Cecil and Baby Cec. The ones who whispered about Maggie and rolled their eyes. She balls her pillow in her fists and squeezes. That prick. She thinks of Cecil’s slurpy voice. Did he swear and search the house? He didn’t find his money or the little trophy heart. He didn’t find anyone to hurt. He is gone now. She never has to think about him again. She closes her eyes and falls asleep.