An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [50]
“It’s your turn,” the man behind me says.
When I reach the lights at the intersection, I have a choice between a left to the office or a right to the coffee shop where the cook is waiting for me. The light changes colour. A horn blares. The cook is onto pie with ice cream by the time I’m back at his table. The envelopes change hands. He sifts through the contents. I lay my envelope on my lap to open it discreetly. Five hundred dollars for five photos, each taken on the one day, in the parking lot, in his car. One shot of him getting in, one of her, one inside of silhouettes, one of each getting out of the car. I put them back into the envelope. “Is that it? Five hundred dollars? Is that all you can give me?”
He wipes his finger across the plate then licks the ice cream off it. “Yup. That’s a good deal! By the way, I can’t work for you no more. I’m on another job.” He stands to leave. “Don’t bother with the cake. Too dry. Pie’s too watery. Good luck to you. See ya later.” The waitress returns. He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a ten-dollar bill, lays it in her hand. “A little tip for you.” He’s gone before she has a chance to thank him. The waitress gives me his bill.
“Are you sure it costs this much?” I ask.
She studies the slip of paper then goes behind the counter. I get up from the table, stroll over to the till and read the posters taped on the wall while I wait.
RALLY FOR READERS’ RIGHTS
Saturday, September 28th, 2000
Churchill Square Soccer Field
www.protectprivacy.blogger.com
The waitress returns. “You’re right,” she says. “He had two pies, not one. It’s actually $5.59 more.”
On my way out the door, I pass a recycling bin then a trash can. I throw the receipt for his food in one and the photos in the other. I pull my collar up around my neck for protection against the sheets of rain blowing sideways across the parking lot. I sit behind the wheel and watch drops splatter onto the windshield. Mercedes and Cyril swear by the Farmer’s Almanac, which predicts a harsh winter ahead. “Summer’s over now,” Cyril said. “Time to pay for it.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
the crimson hexagon
IT’S ONE OF THOSE CLOUDY nights when the star-lights don’t live up to their name. Norah’s been sleeping for hours. I’ll never catch up with her. This is not the first time I’ve gone downstairs when I should normally be asleep. The nightlight on the stairs is kind on the eyes. In the kitchen, there’s more shadow than light. I add a log to the stove then turn the fan on high to take the chill out of the damp fall air. The dogs stir in the porch. Three noses and six eyes appear in the glass. I ignore their scratching and whining. They settle once they realize I won’t open any doors for them.
I browse her bookshelves for something to make me sleepy. There’s Arthur Rackham’s illustrations of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, Peter Pan, The Wind in the Willows and A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I’ve seen them before but they’re more haunting without the bright light of day. It’s an expensive volume with glossy pages and an embossed cover. I flip to the front for information about the edition. That’s when I notice the bookplate.
First place standing for Literature
awarded to:
Francis Hickey
St. Bernard’s School, Trepassey, Newfoundland,1969
To Norah, From Francis, Merry Christmas, 1982
The dogs bark suddenly. I jump. I slide the book into its place on the shelf then go to the porch. A piece of wood falls off the woodpile. Quarto bolts to the side then tips over a bowl of water that spills on the floor. I pull them away from the door so I can open it. Hardened leaves cut against my bare feet. Just as I’m closing the door, the door of the Crimson Hexagon opens. A silhouette appears then disappears.
I throw on my boots and jacket. Outside, the moon