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
