An Imperfect Librarian - Elizabeth Murphy [57]
Elsa plays with the keys. The car feels stuffy. The windows are fogging up from the inside. It’s grey outside. “We can seek help from a marriage counsellor,” she says.
I take the keys from her lap and put them in the ignition “Not unless he specializes in speedy divorces. Let’s go.”
For the rest of the day, I dodge references to “our children.” Elsa’s friends greet us with “so happy to see you two together again.” Her parents tell me “glad you decided to come back,” in the spirit of we forgive you. That night, I call Norah. She tells me about how Folio broke her leg when she came too close to Walter’s horse. I ask her what she’s been doing for the last five weeks. She talks about what a great year it’s been for berries. “Wait till you see all the jars of jam,” she says. She had her roof re-shingled but now there’s a leak in the living room. We talk about what we’ll do under the star-lights besides gazing at the sky.
Day two, Sunday: I spend the morning on the phone trying to contact a lawyer. We stop by the university but the corridors are empty. We stroll downtown. Mercedes asked for a souvenir spoon of Oslo and I want to buy a book for Norah. The streets are almost empty except for tourists. The wind is cold. Elsa twines her arm in mine. She tries to detour me to stores where they sell baby items. We walk down the road where her office is located. I remember how often I paced the sidewalks hoping to run into her. Now, I’m trying to find an excuse to not be with her. I propose the most unromantic meal I can think of.
Elsa would normally never eat in a fast food outlet, but she makes an exception this time. We sit in a booth with red plastic seats under fluorescent lights, eating French fries with ketchup, coleslaw and greasy deep-fried chicken. I’d prefer a fish, chips, dressing and gravy from the Campus Quaff any day. I tell her about St. John’s and how everyone knows everyone. I describe the time I saw a moose and her calf on the road to Cape Spear and about the time when I was wading in the ocean and the capelin washed in over my feet. I explain about the winds and how quickly the temperature can change.
Elsa rolls her eyes and pushes her half-eaten supper away from her. “You complain that I talk too much about babies. What do I care about weather in Newfoundland?”
I lie in bed that night in the dark after an argument with Elsa and a conversation with Norah. I can almost pretend I’m back on Gower Street. Maybe the flat is not so bad after all. If I moved out I wouldn’t see Cyril and Mercedes as much. Although, I wouldn’t mind if it meant living at Cliffhead. I’d invite them to visit. The four of us would sit around in the evening and play trivia or cards. Mercedes would be impressed with Norah’s kitchen and Cyril would love the dogs. Years before I met them, they used to own a Labrador retriever. It darted into the road after a pigeon and was killed by a car. Cyril has a cabin rented in a national park for a weekend in May. Maybe Norah can come with us. She told me she likes fishing. I fall asleep dreaming about a rowboat floating on a pond with the trout jumping out of the water after flies, the white-throated sparrows calling to each other and two people lying in the bottom of the rowboat in each other’s arms.
The following morning, Elsa drives me fifty kilometres to catch my plane. The theme of her conversation hasn’t changed. “I don’t mind giving you some time to think about it,” she says. “I can visit you this spring.”
As far as I can tell, there is no such thing as spring in Newfoundland beyond the lull at the end of winter when all the snow is nearly melted except for piles in the parking lots. There are those rare days when it’s so warm you can lie in a rowboat, dangle your feet over the edge or sit at the top of a cliff and admire the icebergs.
When we arrive at the airport, we take the same route we followed