by James Bow
“I don’t.” Peter gave her a smile. It looked wistful. “Well, I guess I’d better get going.” He turned to leave.
She stopped him. “What are you doing?”
“Going home.”
“In this weather?”
He raised an eyebrow with small smile. “Where else would I go?”
The wind blew snow into her mouth and she spluttered.
Behind them, a screen door banged open and a man shouted, “Rosemary! Come inside, for heaven’s sake!”
They stumbled along a pathway and up swayback steps to an old stone house. The wind blew them past a front door plastered with snow. They entered a room lined with bookcases. The house smelled deliciously of spicy tomato sauce.
A German shepherd ploughed into Rosemary, knocking her down, and started licking her face, despite her muffled protests. Then it looked up at Peter and growled.
“Shamus!” Rosemary grabbed her dog. “No! Friend! Peter’s a friend!”
Shamus stopped growling, sniffed Peter’s leg, barked once, and then trotted off. Peter swallowed.
“He approves of you,” said Rosemary.
Rosemary’s father came back from the kitchen, wearing glasses, a “Kiss the Cook” apron, two potholders shaped like pig puppets, and a scowl. “Young lady! Why didn’t you call me for a lift? The radio has been going on all afternoon about this weather!”
“I’m sorry, Dad!” Rosemary pulled off her coat and boots. “I didn’t know about the weather. I walked home with —” She hesitated, hardly believing she was doing this. “Peter.”
Rosemary’s father pushed his glasses further up on his nose and peered at Peter. Then he snatched off his potholders and extended his hand. “I’m sorry! This is hardly a proper welcome. You live up the road, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir. Peter McAllister.”
“I’m Alexander Watson, Rosemary’s father.” Mr. Watson shook Peter’s hand and smiled brightly, all trace of his anger gone. “Come in! It’s not often Rosemary brings home gentlemen callers. In fact, I think this is a first. May I ask what your intentions are towards my daughter?”
“Dad!” Rosemary flushed red. Peter kept his eyes on the floor and didn’t say anything.
Rosemary’s father chuckled and patted Peter on the back. He nodded over his shoulder. “The phone’s in the kitchen. You’d better give your father a call; dinner’s almost ready.”
“He’s my uncle, actually,” said Peter, pulling off his coat and heading for the phone. He jumped back as a small blonde girl bounded down the stairs, holding a Lego model aloft and making engine noises.
Mr. Watson cleared his throat. “Trisha, no landing airplanes in the kitchen.”
The girl made a graceful turn and flew back up the stairs.
“Trish,” Rosemary explained to Peter as she passed.
In the kitchen, Mr. Watson lifted the lid off a steaming pot. “Rosemary, could you and Peter set the table? Your mother and Theo should be home soon.”
Rosemary nudged Peter as he hung up the phone. “Come on, I’ll show you where the placemats are.”
As he followed her into the dining room, rich and dark after the bright kitchen, she added, “Sorry about my dad. He likes to tease everybody. It’s his way of making people feel welcome.”
“I didn’t mind,” said Peter. He looked around. Bookshelves lined the walls like wainscotting.
Rosemary glanced at the table and sighed. “Dad forgot to put the plates out again.”
She pulled up a chair and climbed up to reach the top of a tall Victorian cabinet full of plates, linens, and a shelf of cookbooks. Grabbing what she needed, she hopped down and bumped into Peter, who’d had his arm out to steady her. She frowned at him a moment, then passed him the plates.
They circled the table, laying out mismatched china and an assortment of cutlery. Rosemary asked, “You live with your uncle?”
Peter looked away. “Um ... yeah.”
“Your parents are ...”
He shifted on his feet. “They died in a car accident when I was nine.”
Rosemary set a plate down with a thump. “Oh, I’m sorry!”
Peter coughed. “It — it’s nothing. It was years ago.”
“But you only just got here.”
“I bounced around foster homes for a while before the province allowed my uncle to take me in. Something about my parents not having a will or something saying who’d take care of me after —” He took a deep breath, then grinned at her. “Anyway, it’s over now. I’m with my uncle, whisked away from downtown Toronto to greater Clarksbury.”
“I’m sorry,” said Rosemary again. “What a thing to bring up.”
“Don’t worry,” said Peter. “I’m looking forward to dinner. I like my uncle, but ... well ... it’s just him and me in that place and he doesn’t believe in suppertime. He buys things you heat up in the microwave. You have a real family, Sage.” He grinned at her.
She looked away. “Hardly normal, though.”
“I wouldn’t wish normal on my worst enemy,” said Peter. “But I see what you mean. I’ve never seen so many books outside of a library. And where’s your television set?”
Rosemary grimaced. “Mom won’t have one in the house.”
Peter raised an eyebrow. “Explains your love of books.”
Rosemary looked up at him. His smile was perfectly benign. No teasing here. “Partly,” she said at last. “Dad’s the other reason.”
“The other reason for what?” Mr. Watson set a steaming bowl of spaghetti on the table. He took off his pig-puppet potholders and untied his apron.
“We were talking about the books,” said Peter.
Mr. Watson laughed. “Oh, yes. Town librarian isn’t a job; it’s a way of life. My love of books doesn’t turn off when I get home.” He glanced at a clock on the wall in the shape of a cat, its tail a pendulum. “Listen, kids, I think we’d better dig in before dinner gets cold.”
“But what about Mom and Theo?” asked Rosemary.
“Your mom’s already two hours late from picking up Theo.”
Peter nudged Rosemary. “Is Theo your brother?”
“Yeah,” she said. “He’s studying English at the University of Toronto.”
“The storm may have slowed them down,” Mr. Watson continued. “Waiting for them is likely to leave dinner cold, so let’s eat. Just make sure you leave enough for them to warm up in the microwave.”
After dinner, Mr. Watson led Peter on a tour of the house. “Books, books, books!” said Peter, staring up the main staircase and the shelves lining one wall of it. “How did you get so many?”
“Forty years of shopping in used book stores,” Mr. Watson replied.
“Have you read them all?” Peter asked Rosemary.
She snorted. “No!”
“I haven’t read them all, either,” said Mr. Watson. “Almost as intense as the joy of reading is the joy of just having a book. They may be able to put books on the computer these days, but it’s not the same.” He pulled out a thick tome with a dust jacket: All The Strange Hours by Loren C. Eiseley. “Here, feel the weight! Feel the quality of the paper!”
“I read it,” said Rosemary brightly.
Peter flipped through the pages and looked at her with a raised eyebrow. “This is a book about geology.”
“Rosemary is an avid reader of science books,” said Mr. Watson. “I hardly ever see her in the fiction section. Which reminds me: Did you remember to bring your English homework home this time, Rosemary?”
She drooped. “Yes, Dad.”
“What is it?”
“Another two chapters of The Outsiders.”
Peter studied her face. “What’s wrong with The Outsiders?”
“Only that it’s the grimmest book on the planet!”
Peter chuckled. “Wait until they make you read That Was Then, This is Now. Talk about dreary.”
Mr. Watson laughed. “I once heard Ms. Hinton say that the ending of That Was Then, This
is Now made readers throw the book against the wall. She seemed rather proud of that. But be that as it may, Rosemary, if two chapters of Hinton have been assigned, then two chapters shall be read.”
She sighed. “I can’t read A Midsummer Night’s Dream again?”
“You don’t get credit for reading the same book over again. Come on, Rosemary, you’ve got to build an appreciation for good literature.”
“Why do people have to die to make it good literature?”
He blinked at her, then mussed her hair. “It’s not always like that.”
“It’s like that a lot!”
Just then, they saw lights turn into their driveway. Rosemary brightened. “Mom’s home!”
They ran for the door. Shamus beat them to it, his tail banging into an umbrella stand. Then he stopped. He whimpered once and shied away.
Rosemary frowned. “Shamus, what’s wr—”
Mr. Watson yanked open the front door. The squall had broken, but snow was still falling. Two figures stood on either side of a station wagon, recognizable even as silhouettes.
Rosemary’s mother darted towards her husband. “Alex!”
“Kate,” said Mr. Watson. “Kate, what’s wrong?”
“It’s Theo!” said Kate Watson. “Alex, there’s something wrong with Theo!”
CHAPTER TWO
BEHIND THE SHELF
“That’s how it started. That’s how it went until she stopped.”
— Marjorie Campbell
Theo walked past his parents, his attention captured by a book in his hands, a paperback with a painting of a book on the cover. “Mom, I’m okay,” he said, without looking at her. He moved like someone half in another world: a sleepwalker, or a scuba diver, or someone in a lot of pain.
Mr. Watson, his breath fogging, touched his son’s arm. “Theo?”
Theo paused. He turned. He focused. “Hello,” he said. Then he stepped into the house. They followed him in.
“He’s been like that ever since I saw him in his residence,” said Rosemary’s mother. “I found him staring into that book, and I had to shout to get him to acknowledge me. It’s like he has tardive dyskinesia — flat affect.”
Peter blinked. “Huh?”
Rosemary tugged at Theo’s sleeve. “Theo?”
Theo gave her a smile, but his eyes were vacant. “Hello, Rosie,” he said. Then he turned back to his paperback book. Rosemary frowned at it, tried to see if there was a title. She caught sight only of an image of smoke emanating from an open book before he walked away, into the kitchen.
“Drugs?” Mr. Watson blanched.
“No,” said Rosemary’s mother. “I took him to the hospital. That’s why I was late. I had them run toxicology tests. Physically, he’s fine, but I don’t know, Alex, I don’t know. Who’s he?” She stared at Peter.
“Rosemary’s friend,” said Mr. Watson.
“Rosemary brought home a boy?”
Rosemary huffed. “He’s just a friend!”
Peter shifted on his feet. “The squall’s let up a bit. Maybe I should go home?”
“I’ll drive you,” said Mr. Watson. “Let’s get our coats on.”
Rosemary stood in the living room, torn between Peter and her father preparing to leave and her brother in the kitchen. After a moment, she settled on her brother, but froze at the kitchen door. Theo stood, facing the refrigerator, staring at the jumble of coloured-letter magnets as if he expected them to change and spell something. Her mother stood behind him, still in her winter coat.
I’m not supposed to be here yet, Rosemary thought, and she turned back to the living room.
Peter and her father were ready for winter and stepping out the door. Rosemary stopped Peter in the foyer. “Wait!” She clasped his hand in a sort of handshake. “Thanks for rescuing me.” She pulled a face.
“I wasn’t rescuing you, I was rescuing Leo.”
She scowled at him. Then her mouth quirked. She snorted and broke out into a grin.
He smiled at her. After a moment, she sobered. “Thanks,” she said again. “I guess ... see you Monday.”
“Yeah, at school,” he said. “Not much to do till then. You doing anything this weekend?”
She started. “I’m ... I’m working!”
“You work? Where?”
“At the library. I volunteer.”
“Isn’t the library closed on Sunday?”
Rosemary spluttered. Mr. Watson called from the idling car. “Ready?”
Peter nodded. Then he turned back to her. “Your brother’s going to be okay.”
She looked away. “How would you know?”
“I’ve seen worse.”
He turned away, leaving her staring, and got into the car. A moment later, the station wagon pulled out of the driveway and onto the snow-covered road. It crept carefully into the distance.
Rosemary stared after it for a few seconds, then closed the front door. She started for the kitchen, but hearing her mother’s calm, measured tones that Rosemary knew were a few steps away from breaking, she hesitated. Then she went to the closet, pulled on her boots, coat, and hat, and went outside.
Her father had made a rink in the backyard with a garden hose. The ice was covered with new snow, but Rosemary was able to entertain herself with running slides. Her mind went over the day again and again. Folding girls and now Theo.
She hadn’t told Peter about the girl in the library because she wasn’t sure it was real. Theo made it more real. She couldn’t tell her mother — not yet anyway. She didn’t know what she was talking about, and her parents would be scared that not only was Theo losing his mind, but so was she.
The back door banged. Rosemary skidded to a stop. Theo stood on the back porch, slumped against the stone, his eyes on the book in his hands. “Hey, Rosie,” he said, his voice flat, stagnant as a pond, but suddenly she felt years younger, and protected.
She slid across the rink and stumbled on the snow. “Hi.”
They stared at each other. Or, rather, Rosemary stared at Theo. He stared at his book. The silence stretched between them. Rosemary opened her mouth to say something, but Theo spoke first.
“I — I heard you were in a fight.”
Rosemary gaped. “Did Dad tell you?” How did Dad know?
“You shouldn’t ... let them get to you,” he said, still not looking at her. “They’re ... only words.”
“Theo, are you all right?”
Theo stood silent a long moment. She could see no change in his expression, but somehow Rosemary sensed that he was considering his answer very carefully.
“Of course I’m all right,” he said at last. “Don’t worry about me.”
“Theo, look at me.”
He looked at her. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, as though she were in a fog.
“Theo, I know something’s wrong. Is it — is it like high school? Are you sick?”
“No.”
She bit her lip. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Rosie, it’s okay.”
“No, it’s not!” Her voice cracked. “I hate to see you like this! I hate —” She halted. “Snap out of it!”
“Rosie, please —” And she was reminded of him in his hospital bed, unresponsive as she tried to reach him.
“It’s not fair!” Rosemary shouted. “You’re not supposed to be like this! You’re the one who protects me, gets me out of fights. You’re supposed to be strong!”
His eyes glanced down at the pages as she spoke. He closed them, in pain. “Rosie, please, I’ll handle this. I’ll be all right. Just ... stay away from the books.”
She stuttered to a stop. “What?”
“The books.” He took a deep breath. “Stay out of this.” He turned and stepped back into the house.
“Theo, wait!” She struggled through the snowdrifts after him and scrambled up the back porch. She banged her way into the kitchen and ran into the front room. It was empty. Upstairs, she heard Theo’s bedroom door click shut.
As she debated whether to follow, the lights of the station wagon pulled into the driveway. A minute later, her father entered, stomping the snow from his boots. “I drove your boyfriend home, safe and sound, dear!”
“Dad!” She stood with her hands on her hips.
“What?” Her father looked playfully blank.
“He’s not my boyfriend!”
“He’s your friend, isn’t he?”
She faltered. “Well, yes, but —”
“And he’s a boy, isn’t he? Those are the two criteria for the term, aren’t they?”
Rosemary scowled at the floor. “You know what I mean.”
Her father nudged her chin. “Yes, dearest. I do.”
“How can you be silly at a time like this?”
“It’s how I cope.”
Rosemary softened. “What do you think happened to Theo?”
Mr. Watson sighed. “I don’t know. But we’ll find out, dearest. I promise.”
Rosemary snuggled beneath the covers, smelling bacon. She could hear the clatter of plates downstairs and the sizzle of the frying pan and she remembered that it was Saturday: pancakes and bacon day. Smiling, she tossed aside the covers and jumped out of bed. She was halfway to the closet when she stopped.
She picked up a grey sweatshirt tossed carelessly over the back of her desk chair. It had a faded group photo on the front of a cast of actors in costume. “Clarksbury High” read the black bold text beneath the photo, and beneath that was a date and “A Midsummer Night’s Dream.” Theo was in front, dressed as Puck, mugging for the camera. She smiled at his grin, then frowned as she remembered how different he had been last night.
She crept to the door and peered out into the hallway. Theo’s door was open and his room was empty. She felt a little hope rise inside her. Was Theo better?