Nan won’t get up. She lies back on to the door, all blankets and head. The bedroom is ripe and wet, wadded tissues flower around the bed. Maggie and Imogene bring in cups of tea, flat bowls of soup. Imogene conducts small busying tasks. Making raisin buns, slicing strips of mild cheddar, folding towels. Maggie makes phone calls, talks to insurance people, police contacts and St. Felix’s neighbours. Uncle Kenneth and Susan come by with lasagna. They stay with Nan while Imogene is in class or at work.
Nan only rises for bedraggled trips to the bathroom. She crumbles back into bed, curling under the comforter. Attempts to get her to talk result in her eyes squeezed shut and shuddering sighs.
On the third day of Nan’s hibernation, Jamie and Winston show up after midnight. “We saw your lights on when we drove by,” Jamie says to Imogene. “Come with us. We’re taking you out.” She practically rips her jacket putting it on.
The car reeks of weed. Winston has the passenger seat. “I’m sorry about your house,” he says. His eyes are pink with pot and emotion. “My parents sold my childhood home a few years ago and I took that pretty hard. But I can’t imagine how it feels, to have it just gone like that.”
“I haven’t been feeling very much about it, honestly,” Imogene says.
“Yeah, you’re still numb,” Winston says.
Jamie catches her eye in the rearview mirror and winks. “We’re going out for dinner,” he says. “Comfort food all around.”
“I can’t wait to have some fucking fries,” Winston says.
Classic Café is one of the only downtown places open twenty-four hours. It’s late enough to be busy and they get the last table. Jamie sits between Imogene and Winston and lets his knee slack against hers. She could hold up his knee forever. They order club sandwiches and perogies to share.
“So this is it, man,” Winston says. “Won’t have too many more nights like this when you’re off on the mainland.” He checks the top of the salt shaker to see if it’s sealed. “Right loose. People are assholes.”
“It’s only Ottawa,” Jamie says. “Not like I’m going to war.”
“Whaddaya think, Genie? I say we start a campaign to keep him here.”
“I agree. What should we do?”
“I’ll pin him down and you sit on him.”
Yeah, she’d be down for that. “Yes. Strong rope and chloroform.”
“See? She’s prepared.” Winston tightens the salt shaker top. “But seriously, I don’t see why you have to go to Ontario to be a photographer. We’re living in a photographer’s paradise.”
“Good point, Wince,” Imogene says.
“It’s a lot more than that,” Jamie says. “I need a change.”
“What, ’cause of your folks? Fuck ’em. Move out.”
“Yeah, fuck ’em,” Imogene says.
“There’s only so much I can pick up on my own,” Jamie says. “And it’s not just moving out of the house. They don’t get me at all.”
“Maybe they just need to get used to the idea,” Imogene says. “I mean, you’ve been taking photos for years. They know it’s what you love.”
“They’ve always seen it as my little hobby. I remember a few years ago, I showed some of my photos to Joseph and Thomas, ones I took of some skaters out in the Goulds. They got all excited. ‘Come take pictures of us playin’ hockey,’ they said. So I went to the arena with them, got some really good shots. Their teammates started posing and stuff for me. It was a laugh. But then I got a bunch of ideas. Like, I wanted to come back the next week and get candid shots of the game. I wanted to photograph the guys looking pissed off in the penalty box. But the twins didn’t like that. ‘What are ya, National Geographic or something?’”
“That’s just them being macho cunts,” Winston says.
“There’s that, but it’s more about how they want to see me. They don’t want to see me as an artist, even though that’s what I am.” Jamie plucks the straw out of his drink so he can sip from the glass. “They have all these stupid ideas and can’t admit to themselves that I’m something they know nothing about and don’t want to know anything about.”
“But still,” Imogene says. “Fuck ’em. Go live on your own and do what you want.”
“Yeah, listen to her,” Winston says. “Be yourself. They’ll get used to it.”
“And be completely unsupported? Sunday supper with stupid comments? No, man, I wanna go to art school. I want to do what I want and be around people who accept that. And I want to go back to school already.”
Winston sighs and nods. “Understandable,” he says. “Gettin’ pigeonholed is bullshit. I know that feeling well.”
Imogene stares at her hands on the table. The fucking Clarks. Why do they have to be such small-minded tools? If her and Jamie were together, she’d tell them all off. Stop driving away your son and brother. Stop driving away the person I love.
“Check out the customer base,” Winston says. “Everyone here is drunk or high.”
“I wouldn’t want to work here,” Jamie says. “Night shifts with loaded customers? No thanks.”
“Tips would be good though,” Imogene says.
“I have a tip for you,” Jamie says.
“Crime Stoppers?”
He leans into her ear. “You’re being sized up.”
“Yeah? That’s a surprise.”
“Someone’s always sizing you up, missus. But this guy looks sketchy. Want me to be your boyfriend? I’ll protect you.”
Fuck yes. “Where is he?” she asks.
“Ten o’clock.”
Imogene sips her drink and draws a casual survey of the other tables. There is a booth of three meaty-looking guys, all in tight shirts with athletic logos. Two wear ball caps and the hatless one has blond hair buzzed short, military style. He stares at her. She holds his gaze. A rush of confused recognition passes through her until she realizes it is Liam Lundrigan. A harder, solid Liam Lundrigan with a harder, solid stare.
“Oh,” she says. “I know him.”
“Looks like a dick.” Winston says.
Good eye, she wants to say. But she should go over to say hello. Otherwise, he might come over here.
“I’ll be back in a sec.”
Liam continues to stare as she walks over. His closed mouth works in a twitch between a smile and a glare, like a loose wire in the wind. What to do with her hands. She shoves her fingers in the tops of her jeans pockets. Nice, like a cowboy. Fuck sakes.
“Hey, Liam.”
“Immy Tubbs,” he says. “How are you?”
“Alright.” Her hand in her jeans pocket is half in a fist. She flattens it against her hip. “You?”
“Decent. Yeah, Rita told me you were living here.”
“Yeah, since last year.”
“Right on.”
“Where are you to now?” Her voice cracks and her face heats up. He stares at her mildly, in that infuriating way before they were going out when she would imagine he could smell her fear. She should have changed before she went out, put on jeans that fit better.
“Living in Edmonton. Working with my buddy’s roofing company.” His eyes drop down to her legs and back up again. The other two guys assess her as well. One has a yellowing bruise on his jaw and his eyes are steady on her chest. Liam does not introduce them.
“So, you’re in town for a visit?”
“Yep. Not moving here, that’s for sure.”
“Only way I’d live in St. John’s is if they put me in the Pen,” Bruised Face says. His eyes don’t move.
“I’m here for my buddy’s stag party,” Liam says.
“Oh, that sounds like fun.” Jesus. Like it’s church camp.
“Gonna be three days of whisky and peelers,” Bruised Face says. Still staring. Liam looks over at him. Something happens under the table, a nudge or kick. Bruised Face’s eyes jerk down to his placemat.
“Right on.” She glances back at her table. If the food was there, she’d have a reason to return. Winston is saying something in Jamie’s ear, but Jamie keeps his face turned to her.
“Was home for a visit, too,” Liam says. “Too bad about your house.”
“Yeah, Nan’s kind of in shock.”
“Ol’ Cec was in hard shape. If I ever start losing it like that, I hope someone throws me over a bridge or something.”
She nods. C’mon, food. The guy next to Bruised Face swigs his beer and belches.
“He was like a child,” Liam says. “I was at his place with Murray and Bryce. He did everything they told him to do. ‘Cec, get me a beer. Cec, sing a song.’ Like a trained monkey.”
Liam’s eyes glitter with an old mischief. He looks rough. Rita said he lost a job for doing acid. How many other drugs does he do? “You were with Murray and Bryce?” she says.
“Bygones,” he says. He shrugs and holds up his hands.
“Must be nice.”
What a prick. Why do Rita and Nick continue to be friends with him? Liam Lundrigan is their ol’ buddy, but Imogene is some kind of pariah because she didn’t move to Corner Brook? She realizes her lip is curling at him.
“Thing is,” he says, “he got sick at a real convenient time.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah. Some people were saying that he was being investigated.”
“For what?”
“A bunch of stuff. Drugs. Things that happened years ago. He had a lot of enemies. Especially out in Codroy.”
“Well, who liked him, really?”
“Exactly. And if he went down for something, he’d bring others with him.”
Liam’s eyes are the same blue with a few creases on their edges. What kind of cryptic bullshit is he on with? She holds his gaze with the best you can’t be fucking serious stare she can muster. Fuck you and your bluff, Liam Lundrigan.
A waitress appears behind her. “S’cuse me.” She lays three orders of fish and chips on the table. Bruised Face points to his beer. “Three more.” His eyes follow her as she walks away.
“You been out home lately?” Liam asks.
“Not since we left. We’re supposed to head out in a couple of days, to deal with what’s left of the house.”
“It’s too bad. I guess you have nothing to go home to now.” Liam shakes vinegar on his fries. “Must be hard, feeling like you can’t go home. I’ve felt like that before.” He lays the bottle on the table and pops a fry in his mouth. The look he gives her is satisfied and defiant.
Imogene leans over and takes a fry. “Mmm, these look good,” she says. Gusto, she should eat the fry with gusto. She chews it, considering, before she speaks. “Could be worse,” she says. “I like it here. If you’re happy, anywhere can feel like a home, you know?”
“Depends, I guess.”
“What does it depend on?”
Liam looks over at her table. “Your food’s ready. Better go back to whichever one’s your man.”
“They look like they’re each other’s man,” Bruised Face says. The other guy laughs. His mouth open, mashed with cod.
“I better go before it gets cold.” She decides to put her hand on his shoulder. If he’s going to be a jackass, she’ll take the smug road. “Have fun with your party,” she says. His shoulder is warm, like it contains sunlight. Molded and fit under her palm. Surprising, since he seems stockier than before. She glances down and he looks to his plate. “Take care,” he says. He shifts the fries around with his fork.
“Where’s the goddamn tartar sauce?” Bruised Face says.
Imogene adjusts her chair so she faces away from their table when she sits down. She removes the toothpick from a club sandwich section.
“Old friend?”
“Guy from home,” she says. “We were talking about the fire.”
Jamie strokes her shoulder. “Hard to get away from it, huh?”
“Yeah, you could say that.”
She takes a big bite. Jamie and Winston tell stories. She pretends not to notice when Liam and his friends pay their tab and leave. When the door opens, she gets a short cold blast of outside air.