9
I wake the next morning to the sound of rain thundering down on the roof. I stretch my arms and legs out wide and then shift
a little deeper under the covers. Honestly, is there a sound in the world that’s more comforting than rain on a metal roof?
Go ahead, try to name one.
See? You’ve got nothing.
I turn on my bedside kettle (which I have for days exactly like this) and snuggle up under the blankets to sip tea and do
Wordle. When I’m done (easy-peasy, WRECK in four guesses), I grab the book I’ve been reading and dive into the pages.
I’m so engrossed in the story, I almost forget about my museum date with Mrs. Finnamore. I leap out of bed the second I remember
and rush to get showered and dressed. I decide on a knee-length skirt that I’ve always thought looks sort of old-fashioned,
a short-sleeved blouse, and a pair of tiny brass earrings that are shaped like hammers. Weird, yes, but I think it’s pretty
fitting since we’re going to the local barrel-making museum.
(Yes, I said barrel-making. We’re in small-town PEI, what did you expect, an exhibit of Terracotta warriors?)
Mrs. Finnamore’s in a bit of a sour mood, and she fusses a little about going, but I dig my heels in and shoo her to my car.
“It’ll be good to get out of the house,” I say firmly.
The rain splatters the windshield as we drive into central Waldon (aka the one long street with all the shops and the post office) and find a parking spot near the museum. To my surprise, there’s a line to get inside. I think all the tourists must be desperate to find something indoors to do. I see a lot of grumpy-looking parents wrangling restless kids.
The museum is built inside of this huge, historic-looking house on the waterfront. It sort of looks like an old schoolhouse,
with a big veranda out front and a gable roof with a dormer window framing the center of the house. It’s really quite gorgeous,
even in the pouring rain.
“Look at this building!” I say.
“It’s falling apart,” Mrs. Finnamore says, unimpressed. “Look at those planters.”
I follow her gaze to the big stone planters that flank the museum entrance. I suppose she’s right—they do look a little neglected.
I’m not an expert gardener like Mrs. Finnamore, but even I know that those are all weeds.
“Well, still,” I say, tilting my head back to admire the house again.
“Oh, for goodness’ sake,” Mrs. Finnamore says, grabbing the handle of my umbrella to tilt it forward.
She keeps grumbling as we wait, but when we get to the front of the line, she waves me away when I offer to get the tickets.
She pays ten dollars for our admission and two dollars for the coat check. I hang up our dripping coats and umbrella and then
rejoin her at the entrance to the exhibits.
“Doesn’t it smell good in here?” I ask, breathing deeply through my nose. “Like sawdust and history.”
“History?” Mrs. Finnamore repeats. “I’m older than this factory.”
I pretend I don’t hear her. We walk slowly around the museum, which is quiet and echoey and dimly lit, peering at the old barrel-making equipment and watching a worker demonstrate how they used to make barrels. It’s a shame that it’s no longer a viable career option, because it looks quite peaceful. For a moment I envision myself as a barrel-maker. I can see the website now—EMILY EVANS: HANDCRAFTED BARRELS FOR ALL YOUR BARRELING NEEDS.
Amazing.
“Oh, there’s Jim,” Mrs. Finnamore says, gesturing toward an elderly gentleman sitting in the corner. He has a vest on that
says Security, which is... kind of hilarious. What are people going to steal? The barrels must weigh a hundred pounds each,
and most of the old equipment wouldn’t even fit through the doorway. Also, Jim looks like he’s about ninety. I can’t really
see him chasing down barrel thieves.
“His daughter just got out of the hospital. I should go see how he’s doing,” Mrs. Finnamore says, and then walks off to talk
to him.
“I’ll be here,” I say cheerfully, trying to ignore the fact that I’ve just been ditched by an eighty-eight-year-old.
I watch the barrel-maker for a while, then my phone dings in my pocket. I pull it out, absently wondering if my parents have
caved and bought New Zealand cell phone plans.
Instead, I find a text from John Smith (Auto Shop).
[12:21] John: get Wordle today?
I blink at it in surprise. I know I gave John my number, but I never thought he would actually use it. I guess he must be
having trouble with Wordle.
[12:22] Yep! How bout you?
[12:22] John: yep
Huh. Maybe not.
I’m about to put my phone away when it dings again.
[12:22] John: what word did you start with?
I stare at it for another incredulous moment. Is John actually continuing the conversation?
[12:23]: WATER.
[12:23] John: as in...?
A surprised noise slips from my lips. I sort of want to grab the tourist next to me, show her my phone, and say, “Are you
seeing this?”
Unless... maybe John is actually super talkative, but only in texts? I had a friend like that in high school. She was super
shy in person but crazy chatty in texts.
[12:24] As in, the WATER for my tea was boiling!
[12:24] John: tea is nasty
(Okay, maybe not crazy chatty.)
[12:24]: Tea is the best
[12:24]: After coffee
[12:24]: And milkshakes
[12:24]: And wine
[12:25] John: lol
Well, would you look at that? I got an “lol” from John. This is probably what it feels like to get a high five from the pope.
I consider typing something like, “What are you up to this weekend?,” but I feel like that would be pushing my luck. For the
second time, I’m just about to put my phone away when it dings.
[12:26] John: what are you up to this weekend?
Okay.
This is seriously bananas.
[12:27]: Have you been hacked??
[12:28] John: what?
[12:28]: You’ve never asked me this many questions before
[12:28] John: ?
[12:28] John: sure I have
[12:2]: You definitely haven’t
[12:2]: And I’m at a barrel museum
[12:30] John: ... why?
Four questions! This is definitely a record.
[12:31]: For fun!
[12:31]: Duh.
[12:32]: I took Mrs. Finnamore, the lady I’m helping out at home
[12:32]: She didn’t really want to come, though
[12:33] John: smart lady
[12:33]: Pffft
[12:33]: You wish you were at a barrel museum right now
[12:34] John: I really don’t
[12:34] John: but have fun, I guess
[12:35]: I will, thanks!
[12:35]: Enjoy your sad, barrel-less weekend
[12:35] John: haha
[12:35] John: thanks
Well, would you look at that? An “lol” and a “haha.” Somebody alert the media.
I chuckle at myself, then lurch sideways as someone’s toddler rams into my legs. I smile at the kid’s mother, who apologizes
wearily.
“No problem,” I say.
I watch the kid run off to barrel (ha!) into someone else, then smile a little to myself. Maybe John and I are more than Wordle
allies. Maybe we’re Wordle acquaintances. Heck, maybe we’re even approaching Wordle friends!
I wander around the museum, peering at exhibits and just taking in the general atmosphere. It’s been so long since I’ve been
to a museum, I forgot how much I love them. They’re so quiet and peaceful, and it’s so fun to learn something new—even something
as objectively dry as barrel-making. It would be cool to work here, watching people mill about, soaking up little bits of
knowledge. I wonder if they ever need anyone to help out.
Just as I think it, my eyes land on a poster pinned to a nearby wall.
VOLUNTEERS WANTED
Like fate .
I glance over to make sure Mrs. Finnamore isn’t looking for me (she isn’t; apparently Jim is much better company than I am)
and then head back to the main desk where we bought our tickets. I wait for a young family to finish their purchase and then
step up to talk to the middle-aged woman working the desk. Five minutes later, I’m chatting with the museum manager in a back
room. Five minutes after that, I have my first shift! From noon to five tomorrow, and every Saturday and Sunday after that.
The museum manager, Shelley, says I’ll start at the ticket desk, but once I feel comfortable, I can move on to guided tours.
Well, okay, actually she said that all I had to do was sell tickets and keep an eye out for kids trying to push barrels over,
but when I suggested doing guided tours in the future, she looked at me funny and said, “I guess.”
Whatever. I’m going to take it. I’ve been looking for something to fill up my weekends a bit, and this is going to be perfect.
Plus, museums are kind of creative places, aren’t they? Plenty of “scope for the imagination,” as Anne of Green Gables would
say.
Grinning cheerfully, I make my way back to Mrs. Finnamore, who is still talking with Jim.
“Ah, Emily,” she says briskly. “I was just telling Jim how you’re going to be helping me out around the house. She’s going
to get my groceries,” she tells Jim. “And she’s going to do the laundry, once I’ve taught her how to use the machine properly.”
“Is that right?” Jim asks. He’s very tall and thin, with a few strands of white hair combed over his crown. He’s got a kindly look about him, and even though his hands are swollen and curled around his cane, he seems pretty hale for his age.
“She could do the same for you,” Mrs. Finnamore says.
Hang on, what?
“Well, now, I don’t know,” Jim says, while I hastily raise my hands up in protest. “I’m doing all right.”
“You’re too old to be standing in those grocery lines,” Mrs. Finnamore scolds. (Which, please! She’s one to talk.)
“How much does it cost?” Jim asks, looking at me.
I open my mouth to tell him apologetically that my arrangement with Mrs. Finnamore is really more of a one-off, but Mrs. Finnamore
answers before I can.
“It’s two-fifty for the week, but that’s with her sorting out all those pills the fool doctor thinks I should take. For groceries
and laundry I’m sure it’s no more than a hundred.”
“Oh—not that much,” I say hastily. Honestly, I am going to kill Mrs. Finnamore. “Plus, I don’t really have time—”
“I’ll give her your phone number once I get home,” Mrs. Finnamore says, speaking over me. “You’ll be home later tonight?”
Jim nods.
“Very good. Emily will call you then. Tell your daughter I’m thinking of her.”
I smile weakly at Jim and then hurry after Mrs. Finnamore, who is heading for the exit. “You can’t be telling other people
I’ll work for them!” I tell her as we get into the car. The rain is still pouring down, bouncing two inches off the windshield.
“Oh, it’s only Jim,” Mrs. Finnamore says, waving me away. “He really shouldn’t be living alone. He hasn’t done well since his wife died last year. Bowel cancer, you know. And none of his children live here anymore... plus his daughter’s in and out of the hospital with her lungs...”
Well, crap. I can hardly refuse to help poor Jim out now, can I?
“I mean... I guess it might be fine, for a little while. No one else, though,” I add firmly. “I don’t have time.”
“Oh, what do you girls do today? Spend all your time tapping away on your phones. Plus, my friend Doris could really use help
with her pills. You know she’s on twice as many as I am, and hers are the kind you have to take every day—”
“Mrs. Finnamore,” I groan.
“What? It’s a little extra cash, and it won’t take you five minutes. She just lives up the street from us, you know, you could
pop in to her place on those little runs of yours—”
I sigh inwardly and resolve myself to helping out this Doris woman too.
Honestly, before you know it, I’m going to be the unofficial caregiver for the entire town of Waldon.