Flight (19 page)
“Hmm?” Heather says.
“The wind.”
“Oh.”
“One hundred and forty kilometres by this evening, the weather man said.”
“Jesus,” Heather says.
“Gonna bring some rain too.”
Emily feels a chill pass through her. She's never taken the weather into account before, the possibility of it hindering her escape. She looks up at Pat. “How long's it supposed to last, do you know?”
“Tomorrow morning, they're saying.”
If the weather can turn against her, what else can, she wonders? She imagines a fire in the galley of the ferry, a sleepy driver at the wheel of their taxi, their plane falling from the sky.
Heather pours some cream into her coffee. “You sure keep track of the weather.”
Pat lifts his head, stares across the room at Anique, from Anique's Antiques, his only other customer. She's sitting at a table near the window, a pot of tea and a half-eaten slice of toast in front of her, staring out at the sea, her tremor making it look as if she's stuck saying âNo.'
He looks back at them. “Lots of time on my hands.”
Emily sips her coffee.
Heather rips open three sugar packets and drops them in.
“Worse now with the layoffs,” Pat says. “Who wants to spend ten dollars on Flipper Pie when they can't afford to heat their house?”
Neither woman says anything.
“I give this place 'til Christmas.”
What odds
, Emily thinks. She's been gone for ages anyway. In Lightning Cove physically, but elsewhere in her mind.
No one speaks for a moment.
She wonders if Pat's just going to stand there refilling their cups all afternoon.
“And me and Joan with the young one wanting to go to university too,” Pat says, finally, his eyes once again scanning the empty room. “I should have seen it coming.”
A middle-aged couple that Emily's never seen before walks in front of the window.
Pat zooms in on the out-of-towners as they stop outside the door. The woman holds onto her hat to keep it from blowing away, leaning against the glass to peer inside. The wind blows her partner's trench coat tightly against his longish limbs as he reviews the menu, his own hat in his hand, and not a hair on his head for the gale to blow asunder. He bends over to say something to her; she's much shorter. She nods, then loops her arm through his. They walk away.
Emily takes a sip of her coffee, unable to look Pat in the face.
Heather adds another sugar packet.
“I'd give you those on the house, but⦔
“Wouldn't hear of it, Pat,” Heather says. She reaches inside her leather jacket for some change but doesn't have any. She looks across at Emily.
Emily finds a toonie and some quarters in her pocket and hands them over to Pat.
From the other side of the room Anique raises a shaky hand. “Pat,” she says, her voice weary.
Emily waves to the old woman. “Hello, Anique. How are you today?”
Anique leans forward. Concentrated eyes through thick spectacles. “Who's that then?”
“It's Emily.”
“Who?”
“Emily.”
“Oh.”
“How are you today?”
“What?”
“How are you today?”
“Oh. Very good.”
“Not at the shop?”
Anique just stares at her, then leans back and peers out the window. “Looks like rain.” Then, “Pat!”
“Coming.” He goes to move, but stops himself. “Top up, ladies?”
Emily covers her mug. Shakes her head.
“Not if I got to pay for it,” Heather says.
He laughs. Comes over and fills her cup. “I'm not that far gone, my dear.” He moves toward Anique, then says over his shoulder, “Not yet.”
They watch him and Anique for a while. Then Heather says, “Good thing I'm going, I'd say.”
Emily takes another sip. Puts the cup down but keeps her fingers wrapped around the handle. “I can talk to Terry, you know. Get your job back.”
Heather leans forward. “Don't you dare. I was one shift away from setting fire to the place anyway.”
They both laugh. Then Emily says, “You never said anything about leaving.”
“Not gonna pack groceries all my life.”
“Terry said you were going to St. John's.”
Heather nods. Runs her index finger around the circumference of her mug. “Torontoâ¦eventually.”
“To do what?”
“Music, what else?” She takes a sip of her coffee. “By the way, you missed one hell of a show last night. Standing room only.”
“Sorry.”
“Yeah well, you can catch me on
MuchMusic
one of these days.”
Emily laughs.
“What's funny?”
“
MuchMusic
.”
“What?”
“You told Terry to watch for you on
Much
.”
“Yeah. So?”
“He had no idea what you were talking about.”
Heather laughs herself now. “Someone should tell him that there's more to watch on TV besides
Land and Sea
.”
In the silence, Emily looks beyond the younger woman, through the window. Sees a boat in the harbour, crest-tipped waves sending its bow crashing downwards and then up again. Waves are hammering the dock, some of the water coming over the sides. The boats tied to the wharf undulate like modern dancers.
She looks back at Heather. “What about your mom?”
“Why do you think I'm leaving in the first place? Can't make it âbig' in Lightning Cove now, can I?”
For a while it's quiet. Then Emily says, “When?”
“Week from tomorrow.”
“Friday?”
Heather nods.
Across the room, Pat pulls out Anique's chair and then helps the old woman to her feet. Hands over her walking stick. They walk slowly to the cash.
“Take care,” Emily says as they pass by.
“Who's that then?” Anique asks.
“It's Emily.”
“Oh.”
“Take care.”
“You too.”
Pat guides Anique to the entrance and then holds the door open as she passes through. He slams it shut after she's gone and disappears into the kitchen.
Emily finishes what's in her cup, then starts buttoning up her sweater.
“That's five minutes already?” Heather says.
She grabs her handbag hanging on the back of the chair. “It's been longer.”
Anique passes by the window, her pink shawl fluttering, and her walking stick fighting to free itself from her hand. She's able to hang onto it though, able too to keep her methodic pace through the wind. When she's gone, Heather says, “Eighty-two her next birthday.”
Emily pauses for a second, then says, “Always by herself. Must get lonely.”
Heather turns back to the window. “I think she's happy just to wake up.”
Emily thinks about that. Waking up happy. Had there ever been a time? The closest she'd come, she thinks, was just after Lynette was born. Kent â or so she'd thought back then â had gone through a reformation of sorts. Hadn't so much as raised his voice in anger, let alone his fist in months. She'd slept soundly, and woke full of energy. Managed a laugh from time to time too. Perhaps her mother had been right after all about marriages needing time to work. Time for the rough edges to smooth themselves out. How surprising it was then when he'd leaned across the supper table one evening and smacked her across the mouth with the back of his hand. Blood trickled from the cut on her lip. Her happiness too. Drip, drip, drip, down her chin and onto her slacks.
“Emily?”
She snaps back into the moment. “Hmm?”
“Here, I said.”
She looks down and sees a slip of paper by her hands. Her eyes go back to Heather's. “What's this?”
“It's a phone number of a social worker in Grand Falls.”
She picks the paper up, bringing it close to her face. “Evelyn Sharpe.”
“She specializes in cases like yours.”
For a moment longer Emily stares at the name, then she folds the paper and puts it into her pocket. “Thanks.”
“If Mom had only listened to a quarter of what she said⦔ Heather looks away, then, after a moment, turns again to Emily. “Promise me you'll call.”
Before she can, Pat comes back out with a full pot of coffee. He raises it in the air. “More, ladies? She's fresh.”
“None for me, Pat,” Emily says. “Gotta get back to work.”
Heather raises her empty cup like a beggar. “To the rim, Pat.”
Pat goes over and refills Heather's mug, then goes back to the kitchen.
Emily gets to her feet. “Terry'll have my head.”
Heather smiles. “I wouldn't worry too much about Terry. You can do no wrong in his eyes.”
Emily picks up her handbag.
“The way that man looks at you.”
“What? How does he look at me?”
“Like a heartsick schoolboy, that's how.”
Emily feels the heat in her face. “Don't be foolish.”
“You'd have to be blind not to notice. Always with his hands in his pockets whenever you're around. More than loose change he's playing with, I bet.”
“Heather!” She can't help but laugh.
Heather does too.
After they stop, Emily says, “Well, if I don't see you, good luck with your music.”
Heather stands up too. “Sure I'm not going 'til next week. I'll see you again.”
Emily nods and walks around the table and gives her ex-co-worker a hug. “Thanks for everything.”
“You're welcome.” Heather sits back down. “I'll just relax here for a bit, work on this new song I've been writing.”
“Oh. What's it about?”
“Nothing much. Smokin' up and eating Crunchets and telling your boss to stick it up his arse.”
Emily smiles.
Heather smiles too.
Emily turns and heads for the door. Yells, “Thank you, Pat,” towards the kitchen.
“You're welcome, love,” Pat shouts back.
She struggles against the wind in order to pull open the door. The air's moist now, almost raining but not, like a cold sweat. She leans into the wind, wrapping her arms around herself, her purse underneath. Waves to Heather as she walks past the window.
Heather waves back.
7:00 a.m. â WAKE
7:05 â Wake kids.
7:07 â Get suitcases from downstairs.
7:10 â Fruit Loops for Jeremy, Honeycombs for Lynette.
7:20 â No showers. Just wash faces. Everyone gets dressed.
7:30 â Pack. Basics. Don't forget Lynette's
GIRAFFE
!!!
7:50 â Get coats and bo â
“Where did you say the leak was?”
She straightens up with a start, drops her pen. “Jesus!”
“Didn't mean to frighten you,” Terry says.
She balls the paper up and puts it in her pocket. Looks at him. “Your feet touch the floor when you walk?”
“Didn't realize you were in the middle of something. Sorry.” He's holding a yellow bucket and a mop.
She bends over and picks up the pen. Less than two thousand people in Lightning Cove, she thinks, yet there's hardly a moment when someone isn't looking over her shoulder or standing right behind her.
She steps out from behind her cash, slips past him. “Follow me.”
She takes a left and then a right towards the produce: a few bundles of spotted bananas, four or five bags of apples, some spoiled tomatoes, and several mutant cabbages.
So much for the rain that Pat had said would not be starting until after midnight, she thinks. All afternoon she's had to listen to it hammering the windows and roof.
She looks at her watch: twenty minutes until the end of her shift, until the end of the grocery store for good. No more uniform with the logo of a grocery cart on the breast pocket, and no more name tag with EMILY in block letters.
“It's right here,” she says finally, pointing to a huge puddle on the floor.
Terry looks up towards the ceiling. “Gonna cost a fortune to get that fixed.”
For the first time she thinks she sees worry on his face, in the corners of his eyes. The town's been falling apart for months, layoffs every week, the few young ones moving away with their young families, and the whole time Terry's never said a word. Not a thing about his business needing the plant as much as the plant's workers do. Who do you pack groceries for when no one's left?
Terry lays down the bucket. Begins moping up the water.
Emily starts to head back to her cash.
“Wait,” Terry says.
She stops. Turns around.
He lays the mop aside and slides the bucket underneath the leak and then goes over to where she is, stopping right in front of her. Jams his hands into his pockets.
Heather's words from earlier come back to her:
More than loose
change he's playing with, I bet
. She lifts her gaze from his belt buckle. “What is it?”
The sound of coins between his fingers then, and keys too, mixing with the raindrops. He clears his throat and says, “The other day⦔
She goes to speak, but he lifts his palm as if to silence her, as if to say:
Please let me finish
.
She doesn't say what she was going to.
“If you tell me it was nothingâ¦what I saw, then I have to believe you,” Terry says.
She keeps still. Her eyes on him.
“It's just that⦔ He stops fumbling about in his pockets and looks at her. “â¦wellâ¦
I
didn't know that, did I?” He looks up at the ceiling, as if his next words, like the leak, might materialize through the hole in the roof. At last, he focuses on her. “I mean, as far as I was concerned, he
was
hurting you.” He breathes deep and lets it out. Shakes his head. “And what did I do?”
For a moment, because of his silence, she thinks he's expecting her to answer, but before she can come up with something, he says, “I walked away, is what.” He looks towards the front window, then back at her again. “During the whole drive back to the store I'm telling myself to turn back around, you know, go right up to that son of a bitch and tell him to take his Jesus hands off you. Or, at the very least, I could have called Roy Driscol. Had him take the police cruiser on over. But I didn't do anything. Not a goddamned thing.”