Fathom Five: The Unwritten Books

by James Bow

  “Whatever the case, thank you,” he said. And impulsively, he hugged her.

  She hugged him back. “You’re welcome.”

  Then Peter tilted Rosemary’s chin up, lowered his head, and kissed her, gently, on the lips.

  The scent of her washed over him. He thought it was a wonderful perfume, but then he realized that Rosemary didn’t wear perfume. The feel of her lips against his felt like the most right thing in the world.

  Rosemary’s arms went around him. She pressed up against him and her hands traced his shoulder blades. He held the kiss and breathed her in. He could hear his pulse rush like the ocean …

  Suddenly Rosemary tensed beneath him. She planted her hands on his chest and pushed away. She stared at him in shock.

  Peter felt the colour drain from his cheeks.

  I’ve ruined it, he thought. I’ve ruined it all.

  He let go. “Oh! God! I’m sorry!”

  “It’s okay,” said Rosemary. “It’s okay.”

  “I got … I didn’t … I’d better go home, now.”

  “I’ll see you tomorrow?” There was a nervous edge to Rosemary’s question.

  “Yeah,” said Peter, backing away. “See you tomorrow.” He turned away and walked so fast down the country road, he was almost running.

  ***

  Rosemary stood on her porch, staring down the road where Peter had gone. She touched her lips, wondering why they tingled so. “What just happened?”

  Peter just kissed me, her mind replied. He. Kissed. Me. And I freaked. Why? For seven-eighths of the time it felt so right. And then it felt so …

  After another moment of staring, Rosemary slipped inside. She brushed past her father’s greeting and went directly to her room, where she stood in front of her computer, her hand hesitating on the keyboard. In the window behind, she could see fog rising up the escarpment. Clarksbury was just an orange glow.

  She took her hand off the keyboard. “No. This is too personal for e-mail.” She sat at her drafting table desk and dug out a pad of graph paper. She chewed the cap clean off her pen before she finally began to write.

  Peter,

  This isn’t an easy letter for me to write. You’re one of (she crossed this out and replaced it with) You are the most special friend I’ve got. We’ve been through so much and you mean so much to me. I don’t want to risk that.

  Which is why I freaked out. I guess I’m scared. I don’t want you to change from my friend to my boyfriend, only to have us break up and lose everything.

  She paused for a long time, tapping the nib of her pen on the paper. Then she added:

  I think we should stay like we are. Our friendship is something I cherish more than anything else, and I don’t want to mess it up. I hope you understand.

  Your friend,

  Rosemary

  Rosemary read over the letter and then folded it and slid it into an envelope. She sealed it and wrote “Peter” on the front. Then she sat for a long time, staring out her window and tapping the envelope against her lips.

  The lips that Peter had kissed.

  She closed her eyes. “Rosemary Ella Watson, you are a complete and utter idiot!”

  She tossed the letter in her wastebasket, and left the room.

  The envelope sat on top of crumpled paper. Then it fluttered. As though picked up by a breeze, it lifted, and twisted through the room to Rosemary’s open window. It slipped through the crack beneath the screen. Then it vanished into the night.

  CHAPTER THREE

  THE KNELL

  There was a sickening thump.

  Peter scrambled forward on the icy path, clutching his broken arm, struggling for the gate and the crowd of people surrounding the scene. He cried out for his mom and his dad, prompting some of the crowd to look at him. Arms were around him, holding him back.

  “There’s nothing you can do, Son!”

  “Stay back! The ambulance is on its way!”

  “No!” he squealed. “Mom!”

  In the distance, sirens wailed.

  Fog curled around his waist and blurred the faces of the people around him.

  “Come home, Peter.”

  He turned. Fiona was standing by the gate of the park. Trees and buildings blurred in a sweeping mist until they looked like cliff faces. A lighthouse waved a wand across the sky. A foghorn wailed. A ship bell tolled.

  “Come home.”

  Peter woke with a gasp. His clock radio was already playing. He gaped at the display.

  He had missed the school bus.

  ***

  Caught in the sunlight, Rosemary stood atop the Niagara Escarpment. Clarksbury, beneath, was covered in fog. She felt as though she was atop a mountain, looking down on clouds.

  She waited at the curb, fidgeting as she watched the rolling sea of white. Finally the school bus came. She squared her shoulders and got on. She headed straight for their usual seat, and stopped.

  It was empty.

  Well, that was a waste of a lot of courage. How was she going to talk to Peter now?

  Then the bus lurched forward and she had to sit down or risk falling over.

  She slid over onto Peter’s side of the seat and stared out the window until she couldn’t see the other side of the road. The bus crept into town as though floating into nothingness.

  ***

  Peter was not in the habit of coming to school late, but he did know he could come to school, go directly to the office, and be greeted with, at worst, raised eyebrows and the admonition not to do this again if he could help it. Whether he went to the office at ten or ten-thirty made little difference.

  There was still no milk in the refrigerator. Peter settled on toast (chewed properly this time) and a tall glass of orange juice, drunk without hurry beside the kitchen table.

  The radio reported fog in low-lying areas. Peter looked out his window and saw a clear blue sky.

  Gathering his stuff together, he stepped out the front door, walking purposefully but without haste down his walk. He cast a quick glance at his mailbox, and stopped when he saw something inside it.

  The envelope just said “Peter.” He recognized Rosemary’s handwriting. He ripped it open and started to read.

  Moments later, he closed his eyes.

  “Well. At least now I know.”

  ***

  Rosemary hugged her windbreaker against the chill as she walked across the school’s back field. She could hardly see the building in front of her. She could hear the sounds of the harbour. A foghorn wailed. The nearest was off of Cape Croker, ten miles away. She could hear a ship bell tolling — from the Clarksbury marina, she guessed.

  The ship bell tolled again. Then Rosemary heard a sound that made her stop and turn. There was a smash of wood against stone, a snap of ropes, and a plosh of objects falling into water. She heard the distant screams of men.

  The other students stopped in their tracks.

  “That wasn’t a car crash!”

  “That came from the harbour!”

  “A shipwreck?”

  The next sound made Rosemary imagine a tree falling. The ripping of wood and the tearing of cloth faded gradually to silence. Cape Croker’s foghorn wailed again.

  “What do you think we should do?” said someone.

  “Go for help?”

  “What can we do? We’re a mile from the marina.”

  A teacher stared in the direction of the harbour. “Students!” he said at last. “Come inside and go to your classes. When we find out what happened, we’ll tell you. Come on, everybody inside.”

  ***

  The fog seemed to follow Rosemary into the school, greying her mood. She gave her history presentation, droning on Laura Secord and her heroic trek through the swamps, but her eyes were on Peter’s empty desk. She thought she’d covered her unease well — everyone else was muttering about the shipwreck — but at the end of the period, Mr. Hunter pulled her aside.

  “Nice presentation, Miss Watson,” he said. “Could have
used a bit more ‘umph.’”

  “Oh,” she said. “Sorry.”

  “Something on your mind?”

  She shrugged.

  “About Peter?”

  She felt herself blush. The feeling made her blush even more.

  His frown deepened. “Want to talk about it?”

  “Um … thanks,” she said. Silence stretched. She swallowed. Then the bell saved her. “Gotta go!” She pulled herself from Hunter’s look and walked out into the hall faster than she’d walked all day.

  It was bright in the hallway. For a minute, she blinked, and wondered if lights had flickered on, but the cloud on her mind returned and everything dimmed again.

  Rosemary slogged through French, then fled into the girls’ washroom. She splashed her face and cleaned her glasses. It didn’t help. Her reflection looked unfocussed, her brown hair frizzy, her skin tinged grey. She rubbed her eyes and wondered why she was so tired. Last night she’d been restless, but she’d slept. This morning she’d been so keyed up about talking to Peter about their — she swallowed — relationship, that she could hardly sit still. It wasn’t until she’d come in from the fog that the fog surrounded her.

  Where was he? How dare he not be here when she so needed to talk to him?

  Rosemary felt the hairs prickle at the back of her neck, and she whirled around. Nobody stood behind her. Still, the feeling of being watched didn’t go away.

  She strained her ears to listen over the hum of the fluorescent lights, and she scanned the floor beneath the stall doors. “Is somebody there?” Silence.

  She picked up her knapsack and made to go, but something brushed against the back of her neck and she whirled around again.

  She found herself staring at the mirror. She was sure something had been there, behind her, reaching for her throat. But looking hard, all she saw was her reflection.

  The washroom door burst open. “I’m going to kill Peter McAllister!” Brittney snapped, stomping past Rosemary as if she wasn’t there. “I’m going to murder him! They’re going to find his body in the bay!”

  Veronica strode in behind. The two girls began touching up their makeup in front of the mirror. “I thought Mr. Simmons would pop a vein when Peter didn’t show.”

  “What about me?” Brittney yelled, looking up from her lipstick. “I had to give the presentation on my own!”

  Rosemary’s brow furrowed. Peter wouldn’t miss a deadline like this. Not without calling in sick.

  Her heart lurched. Maybe he was sick.

  “Hey, Rosemary,” Veronica called. “You didn’t do anything to distract Peter, did y—” She turned from the mirror, but Rosemary was already gone, the door swinging shut behind her.

  In the office, the administrative assistant looked up from her computer manual. “Rosemary? Is something wrong?”

  Rosemary shifted on her feet in front of Miss Stevens’ desk, feeling foolish and paranoid. She took a deep breath. “Could I use the phone? I’ve got to make a call.”

  “You sick or something? You need to call your folks?”

  “No, not sick,” said Rosemary. She touched her stomach. “I’ve just got to call … home. Yeah. To arrange … things. Okay?”

  Miss Stevens shrugged and nodded at the phone on the wall. “Hit nine to get an outside line.” Then she returned to her manual and tapped tentatively at her keyboard.

  The phone was on the wall beside the door to Principal Jenkins’ office, and she had to reach to pull the receiver off the hook. She started to key in Peter’s number, then stopped. She heard Peter’s name through the principal’s door.

  “I’m worried about Peter McAllister.” It was Mr. Hunter’s voice.

  “What’s wrong?” asked Mr. Jenkins.

  “His marks are dropping,” Hunter replied. “He’s showing less interest in class. He’s isolating himself from others.”

  “Teenagers. There’s no cure,” said Jenkins.

  “Something’s different,” said Hunter. “If he’d been like this after coming to Clarksbury, I’d expect it, but not now. It’s been too long. Rosemary Watson is worried about him, too.”

  “I’m sure you’re overreacting,” said Jenkins. “Have you talked to him?”

  “He ditched school today,” said Mr. Hunter. “I tried calling him, but nobody’s answering the phone.”

  Rosemary put the phone on the hook and slipped out.

  ***

  The ride back on the bus was quiet. The fog and the sound of the shipwreck put a pall on everyone’s mood. Most just sat and stared out the windows. Rosemary sat in Peter’s seat again, and sighed.

  One student had a radio and was listening to the news about the shipwreck. Everyone could hear the report that emergency crews were trawling the coves between Clarksbury and Cape Croker, looking for the downed ship but turning up nothing. Not even wreckage.

  “The fog is getting in the way of our investigation,” said a firefighter the station had found for comment. “But we have all of our boats out on a search. If a ship went down today, we’ll find it.”

  If, thought Rosemary. He’s not sure a ship went down. He’s as confused as we are.

  The fog lifted as Rosemary left the bus, but she brooded through the rest of the afternoon. She ate dinner in silence. She dried the dishes listlessly. She sat in the living room but she couldn’t keep her attention on the book. Finally, she set the book aside and muttered, “It has to be done.”

  “What was that, Rosie?” asked her father.

  “I’m going for a walk,” she announced, pulling on her shoes before her father had a chance to comment.

  She pulled up her collar against the nippy air. On top of the escarpment, the sky remained clear, with the first stars coming out in the autumn twilight.

  She walked briskly, because she knew that if she slowed down, her nerves might make her turn around and go back. As she walked, she muttered to herself.

  “Peter, we have to talk.”

  Firm and to the point. Possibly too grim.

  “Peter, can we talk?” she tried again.

  Too wishy-washy.

  “Peter, can I have a word with you?”

  I’d never say that.

  She sighed. Perhaps the words will come when I see Peter at the door.

  Biting back her fears, she quickened her pace.

  She found Peter on his driveway, bouncing a basketball and practising a lay-up. The ball went clean through the hoop above the garage. He caught the ball on its first bounce and went straight back into that same lay-up. His face was sullen, his movements mechanical.

  “Peter?”

  Another run. Another lay-up. Another basket.

  “Peter!”

  Another run. Another basket.

  Rosemary caught his arm as he passed. “Peter, are you okay?”

  He stopped and held the basketball under one arm.

  He gave her a cold look. “I’m fine.”

  She stared at him in surprise. “Why didn’t you come to school today? People were worried about you.”

  “I wasn’t up for school today,” he said.

  “Are you sick?”

  “No.”

  “Something’s wrong, isn’t it? Please tell me, I’m your friend.”

  “Oh, absolutely. A friend.” He began bouncing the basketball. “A good friend.” Bounce. “A special friend.” Bounce. “Just a friend.”

  “What are you talking about?” She grabbed the ball from his hands. “Why are you so upset? Was it something I said?”

  “No. You said nothing. You made yourself quite clear. I appreciated the honesty, though I wish you had told me to my face.”

  “What do you mean?”

  But Peter ignored her question. “I’m sorry I freaked you out. Maybe I wasn’t ready, but I thought you were. You seemed to like being kissed for the first few minutes at least. I’m sorry I was wrong.”

  Peter’s words sounded so familiar. With a jolt she realized why.

  “How did you —”
she stammered. “Peter, you weren’t supposed to see that letter!”

  “Wasn’t I? What was I supposed to do, then? Stand around in the dark while you worked out your feelings?”

  “Peter, I —”

  “Well, what am I? A friend? Boyfriend?

  Acquaintance?” He snatched back his ball. “When you’ve decided what you want us to be, tell me. You know what my address is. I’d give you my fax number, except I don’t have one!”

  Rosemary flared. “Fine! And when you’re ready for a mature conversation, give me a call! I’ll be waiting!” She stormed off down the road.

  Peter’s glare faltered and he made to follow her, but he checked himself. After a moment’s hesitation, he threw one more basket, and then kicked the basketball into a corner of the yard. He stormed inside.

  ***

  “Who mailed my letter to Peter?” Rosemary shouted as she burst through her front door. “Was it you, Trisha? Was it?”

  Her little sister dropped her fork with a clatter.

  Her father stood up. “Rosemary, calm down.

  What’s wrong?”

  “Wrong? Somebody in this house delivered a letter Peter wasn’t supposed to see! It said all the wrong things!”

  “Rosie, what are you talking about?” said her father.

  “What letter? What’s wrong with Peter?”

  “Peter’s furious! My letter told him I just wanted to be friends with him.”

  “But you’re already ....” Mr. Watson pushed up his glasses. “Oh!”

  Rosemary beat her hands against her sides. “What he must think of me! And after I was ready to tell him how I felt. It’s all ruined!”

  “Rosemary, I’m sure it will be all right if you just give things time —”

  “Time?! Peter and I have had three years! Why didn’t I see this happening? Why wasn’t I ready? Why was I so stupid? Why didn’t anybody tell me?”

  “Rosemary, I —”

  Rosemary’s eyes were glistening now. Her voice quivered. “And now Peter thinks that I don’t love him, and I do, and he doesn’t love me, and I’m so confused, and everything is ruined, and you don’t understand, and I can’t take it anymore!” She could hold back the tears no longer. She ran to her room, slamming the door behind her. She flung herself onto her bed and cried into her pillow.