“Rachel?”
I sagged down on the loveseat at the sound of his voice.
“How did you get my number?”
“Your uncle gave it to me.”
“What do you want, Jake? I really don’t have anything to say to you. I’m going to hang up now.”
“Wait!” His voice was pleading. “Hear me out. I deserve that at least.”
There were two years of photos that to the casual observer would confirm a happy couple: Jake and me at a hockey game, Jake and me skiing, Jake and me at the cottage. We had ticked every item on the list of great Canadian date activities.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s hear it.”
“I screwed up, Rachel. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
“Clearly, you weren’t thinking of me, Jake,” I said, my tone becoming more sarcastic as I warmed up. “Oh, no, wait. That’s not exactly right, is it? You were thinking of me. You were thinking I was too sad all the time, remember?”
There was silence at the other end.
“I mean, God forbid that a girl whose father has just died be sad, right, Jake?”
“I’m sorry, Rach. It was a stupid, crass thing to say. It was my first experience of death. Your father meant a lot to me too.”
“No!” I stood up abruptly. “You do not get to use my father’s death to justify your insensitive and selfish comments. And you sure as hell don’t get to use it to justify cheating on me.”
In slow-motion replay, in my mind’s eye, I saw the girl go down the steps and push Sheila into the pool and all the mouths of the guests forming perfectly round Os.
“It was over before it began.” Jake’s tone was pleading.
I wanted to tell him how much he’d hurt me, but I was afraid that if I kept talking, I’d end up telling him about the abortion. I hung up, and right away, the phone began ringing again. I pulled the jack out of the wall, sat down in the rocking chair and rocked back and forth, back and forth, long into the night.
34
Two days later, I found a sealed envelope in my cubbyhole in the staff room. I opened it to find a typed letter requiring my attendance at a meeting with Patrick after school. My neck prickled. I’d never been summoned this way before.
Patrick’s face was grave when I knocked on the open door to his office.
“You wanted to see me?” I said quietly.
“Shut the door please, Rachel.”
The window in Patrick’s office overlooked the parking lot. I sat down and waited while he stared out of it. I could see nothing going on out there, but Patrick seemed mesmerized. When I could bear it no longer, I broke the silence.
“I went to see Cynthia in the hospital.”
His gaze left the window and settled on me. “It’s Cynthia we needs to talk about. I’m after receiving a formal complaint about you.”
“From Cynthia?”
“No.”
There was another long silence, then he said, “Jaysus, girl, you messed up. I don’t think I can help you with this one.”
“W-what?” I said. “What is it?”
“I’m told you counselled Cynthia to have an abortion. Is that true?”
I began to shake. “I didn’t counsel her to do anything. I mean, I gave her a few options.”
He cut me off. “Abortion is not an option for Catholics, Rachel, as you well know. The Church views it as a mortal sin. Father Frank is adamant that this has to go before the Board. And I’m inclined to agree with him.”
“But how did he . . .”
“How it was found out should be the least of your concerns right now. But Father Frank went to visit Cynthia in the hospital. That poor girl is racked with guilt and I expect she confided in him.”
“But she didn’t have an abortion, Patrick,” I said, my voice rising. “She lost the baby.”
“That’s not the point.” He drummed his fingers on the desk. “It’s not what she did, it’s what you, a teacher in a Catholic school, apparently said. I expect your employment will be terminated. We’ll speak no more of this for now and you are not to discuss it with anyone. That’s all.” He picked up a folder on his desk and began to carefully examine its contents.
I walked out numb, then shut the door and leaned against it, eyes smarting, breath jagged. Phonse was mopping the floor a few feet away and looked up. I couldn’t face him, so I ran the other way, outside to the parking lot.
There was a man, baseball cap pulled low on his face, standing beside my car. When he saw me, he walked quickly away. A parent? I ran to my car and found a note under my windshield wiper. I quickly read it. More of the same.
Infuriated, I started running after the man. I was gaining on him when he looked over his shoulder and saw me. He started running, too. Then he darted across the road, heading towards a field. I started to cross the road after him, but there was a screech of tires and the blaring of a horn, then Eddie Churchill’s brandnew pickup truck stopped inches from me.
He jumped out of the car with the engine still running and grabbed me by the shoulders.
“Jaysus Christ,” he roared. “You trying to get yourself killed?” His fingers were digging into my shoulders and I whimpered. He released me and ran a hand through his grey hair.
“Sorry, girl,” he said. “I’m a bit twitchy after that accident I had. What’s got you all riled up?”
“He put another note on my car,” I said. “I just want to know why.”
“Who?”
I pointed across the road. The man had stopped when the tires screeched, but now he began to run again.
“That’s Ron Drodge. Hard case, that one. What’s the note say?”
Wordless now, I handed it to him. “When are you going to start listening you mainlander bitch? Frig off back home,” it read.
I
