An Imperfect Librarian by Elizabeth Murphy Page B

summer because you’ll have that bond with the place.”
    â€œCyril, Mercedes’ husband, says it comes only about once every two or three years.”
    â€œWell, it’s coming this year for sure. And it’s going to make up for the winter.”
    â€œSounds like an apology.”
    â€œA request for forgiveness. If the good weather continues, we’ll have one of the best summers on record.”
    â€œBest by Newfoundland standards.”
    â€œBest standards there are. How many other islands can boast their own dictionary, encyclopaedia, dog and pony?”
    â€œOr hexagons, Ray Hardings, three-pawed foxes, birds on crutches?”
    She laughs, lays down her glass then runs her fingers through her hair. She stares out the window into the darkness. “Once you’ve been this close to the ocean, you’ll never want to live anywhere else. We call it the sea. Ever hear the folk song?” She sings while she taps the one-two-three rhythm on the arm of her rocking chair. “The sea, the sea, the wonderful sea. Long may she roam between nation and me. And everyone here should go down on one knee. Thank God we’re surrounded by water.”
    I applaud.
    â€œOnce you have its salt flowing in your veins, you’re never the same,” she says. She closes her eyes and hums to the music.
    I close mine. Before long, the rocking makes me sleepy. I stand then go to the kitchen. “I’ve had more fresh air in the last five or six hours than I’ve had in years. I’m going to ‘give ’er,’ as they say here.”
    â€œGiver?”
    â€œCyril’s been giving me lessons in local sayings. I’m sure hetold me that give ’er as in ‘give it to her’ means speed on, go on or to go.”
    â€œI hope your friend isn’t charging you too much for those lessons. You can’t use give ’er in that sense. You can say, ‘I’m going to take off’ or ‘I’m going to hit the road’ or ‘burn some rubber’ but not give ’er. Anyway, it wouldn’t sound right coming out of you.”
    â€œI told you I could never be a Newfoundlander.”
    â€œIt’s not about the accent.” She pours the last of the wine. “We should meet again, share stories, music,” she says. “Who knows? By that time, you might have learned your book of fables off by heart.”
    â€œIf you don’t mind waiting years.”
    â€œI was thinking of this coming Saturday.”
    â€œFine, as long as you don’t expect me to have it memorized by then. I have a busy week ahead.” I open the porch door. The dogs get up off their beds. Three tails wag and swat each other.
    Norah squeezes in past me, opens the door and they rush outside. “I know the perfect place,” she says. “I’ll send you an email with the information. In the meantime, what about your lost boot? I’d lend you one of mine but I doubt it would fit.” She laughs. “I’d say that fox is wearing your boot over his wounded paw. He’s strutting around with the new prosthesis, showing off to everyone.”
    I step outside. “They were too tight. I was thinking of returning them to the shop.”
    â€œYou could still try,” she says. “Sorry. I bought a pair of boots here. I’d like to return one. Can I have half my money back?” She calls to me as I limp to my car. “Watch out for the moose and the foxes, especially the ones with boots. They’re fast.”
    The road is dark until I reach Shea Heights and look out onto the glimmering lights of the city. I negotiate the curvesdown the steep hill. Maybe the eight hundred dollar brake job was a fair deal. “Deflated, impotent, prick of a car.” I pass the mural of the whales, the Welcome to the Waterford Valley sign, the Railway Museum, drive across the harbour-front with the crab vessels, the rusted Russian trawler,