New Girl in Little Cove by Damhnait Monaghan (book club suggestions TXT) 📗

I froze, wondering if I had gravy on my face. I discreetly mopped my mouth, but the napkin remained pristine white.

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Your one-year contract. How’d you swing that? Probationary is usually two.”

“I asked for one year,” I said. “I think they were a bit desperate, because of the . . . situation. So they said yes.”

“Brigid Roche.” Mrs. Bishop sighed. “Grief makes us do foolish things. Don’t we know that in this house.” She twisted her wedding ring and the room went quiet.

To fill the silence, I asked Geri what type of nursing she did.

“General surgery,” she said. “Never a dull moment.”

“Geri likes plenty of excitement,” Doug said. “Even on the job.”

“I likes to be on the go,” she said evenly. “Nothing wrong with that. And I likes being amongst the townies. Anyway, enough about the townies, now. Why did you become a teacher, Rachel?”

“Maybe because my dad was one,” I said. “He passed away in April.”

“I’m so sorry,” both Geri and Mrs. Bishop murmured.

“Thank you,” I said simply. “His students loved him.”

Doug caught my eye and gave me a little smile. For a minute, the only sound was the wall clock ticking. My mind wandered to Dad’s funeral. A girl with little round glasses had clung to Mom, sobbing, “I loved him so much.” Mom told me later that she couldn’t decide whether to hug her or hit her.

I forced myself back to the present. “What about you, Doug, why did you become a teacher?”

“NBA never came calling.” He stood up then and said, “Time for cake.” He opened the fridge and removed a large chocolate cake. I found myself wondering if Geri had baked it, but then she said it looked delicious, so I decided she hadn’t.

We sang “Happy Birthday,” then Doug blew out the candles and cut the cake. As Mrs. Bishop passed me a slice, she said, “What are your plans for Christmas, Rachel?”

Doug answered for me. “Sure you knows she’s going up to the mainland.”

I didn’t correct him, not wanting another pity invitation. I would be in Clayville, all on my lonesome as Doug had put it earlier. The Christmas break was less than two weeks long, too short a time to go to Australia, I’d reasoned, especially with all the plane changes. And it had seemed pointless to go back to Toronto with Mom not there and our house rented out for the year.

“Pointless?” Sheila had practically shouted down the phone line when I told her. “What about me? Don’t we always go for dim sum on Christmas Eve? And who’s going to carry my bags during the Boxing Day sales?”

But by the time I decided Sheila was right and I should go visit her in Toronto, there were no flights left. It would be me, myself and my fiddle having a festive little pity party.

I was tired, so when my offer to help do the dishes was gently declined, I made my leave. Geri asked if I would mind dropping her at her mother’s, explaining that it was on the way.

During the short drive, we chatted about the holidays. Geri said she would be home for a few days over Christmas, but would be attending a big New Year’s Eve party in St. John’s. I wondered if Doug would go too. It didn’t sound like his scene to me.

I dropped Geri at a small house ablaze with light, waiting, probably unnecessarily, until she went inside.

Afterwards, as I drove home, I found myself speculating about Geri and Doug. They seemed at ease with each other, but lacking in affection. Why hadn’t she asked Doug to take her home? The whole thing seemed odd, but then again, as my romantic history would attest, I was no expert on relationships myself.

19

On the last day of term, the faded red-velvet curtains on the stage at the front of the gym opened to reveal a choir dressed in white robes. Stage left, seated at the piano, was Sister Mary Catherine. As the opening notes of “Away in a Manger” rang out, a dozen tremulous voices gained confidence and volume. When the song was over, the grade seven pupils arrived onstage to present the nativity. Hanging at the back of Sister’s classroom, their costumes hadn’t looked like much, but now, as the children took their positions, a charming tableau emerged with shepherds in bathrobes and tea towels and angels in white bedsheets and silver tinsel. The narrator took a deep breath and began. “Many people were on the road to Bethlehem, Mary and Joseph among them.”

I stood against the back wall, having arrived too late to find a seat in the packed house. Phonse was next to me, leaning on his broom. My eyes roved over the audience and landed on the hookers, all sitting in a row. Lucille caught me looking and nodded. Further along, Cynthia sat with a guy in a black leather jacket. His arm was wrapped tight around her shoulder and he looked too old for her. Heck, he looked too old for me. I didn’t recognize him, not even when he glanced over his shoulder. His scowl would have done Billy Idol proud.

The narrator was reaching the conclusion of the familiar story when I spotted Georgie Corrigan, coat open over her distended stomach. She must be due any day. As a homemade donkey crossed the stage pushed by Mary and Joseph, I was reminded of Georgie’s comment that day in the takeout about the Virgin Mary.

When the vignette ended, the audience clapped loudly. As the curtains swung shut, the back door of the gym opened behind me, blowing in a gust of cold air, and Doug. He shut the door carefully so it didn’t slam and came over to stand beside me.

“Where were you?” I whispered.

“Clayville. Patrick asked me to get the booze for the staff party,” he said. “The road was right slippery so I had to take ’er slow coming back. Then I