How was she going to explain this? I was wrong. I want my job back. Please give it to me, so that I can figure out who really killed my former student. I know she didn’t kill herself, because she was getting a tattoo. She had plans. Permanent ones. And now she’s dead.
The door opened before she could knock.
“You know, the homeowner’s association has a bylaw against loitering.” Síofra leaned against the door.
“There’s no such thing as a homeowner in this town,” Hwa told him. “Everyone rents.”
He shrugged. “Shouldn’t you be in the hospital?”
“Shouldn’t you be at work?” When he didn’t answer, she peered around him into the unit. She glimpsed a gleaming kitchen lit like a jewelry store, and the curve of a huge window surmounting a long inset fireplace. Something bubbled in the stove. It smelled of sesame. Her empty stomach clenched like a child’s grasping fist.
“Hungry?”
“What is it?”
“There is fainting imam in the oven and peanut soup on the stove.”
Hwa squinted at the kitchen. “Fainting…?”
“Imam. It’s roasted eggplant, stuffed with tomatoes, dressed with yogurt, mint, and pine nuts.” He entered the kitchen. “Are you coming in, or do I need to show you a dessert menu?”
Hwa hastened inside. She shut the door behind her and removed her shoes. She placed them with all the other shoes and slippers on a rack, under a large mirror in an ornate frame. “Where are your boots?”
“Over there.” He pointed.
“Those aren’t winter boots. You need something waterproof, with thicker tread, and better lining, and they should go up to here.” She pointed at the place where a doctor would test the reflexes in her knee. “Do you not understand how winter works, in Newfoundland?”
“Winter’s the one with all the flowers, isn’t it? The trees all bud and baby animals run around?”
Hwa threw up her arms. One of them, anyway. The one that didn’t hurt. Then she let it drop. “I’m just saying, you need to get fitted and put in your order soon, before the stock runs out. Otherwise you’ll have soggy socks from November to March.”
He rolled mint leaves into little cigars and then began slicing them into ribbons. The smell rose in the air, brightening the ambient scents of roasting garlic and cumin. “Did you really come here to criticize my choice of footwear?”
Hwa sighed. “No.”
He fetched down a very small glass bottle of jewelred syrup from a cabinet over the worktop. It looked almost like perfume. “Do you want to talk about why you really came, or should we continue avoiding the issue?”
Hwa crossed over to the bar. Laid her hands on it, flat. It was the colour of good caramel, and very cold. Hwa saw little golden flecks of mica embedded in its surface. “I want my job back.”
Síofra uncorked the bottle and beaded a drop of the syrup inside on the tip of his middle finger. He sucked it off and nodded to himself. “Fine.”
“Because I know that I…” Hwa frowned. “What? Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“Don’t I have to sign something? Or interview again? Or, you know, grovel? Beg forgiveness?”
Síofra turned and picked up a wooden spoon from a rest on the worktop. It had a large, perfectly round hole in the paddle, and it looked very old. He stirred the soup slowly in lazy figure eights. He frowned at the spoon for a moment, changed his grip, and began stirring in the other direction. “Forgiveness for what?”
“I quit. I gave up. I abandoned my post.”
“No, you didn’t. You took a bullet for Joel, and you lost a lot of blood, and you said something you didn’t mean. Now you’re feeling better, and we’re having a conversation about it.” He returned the wooden spoon its rest and turned around. “And as part of that conversation, I should ask for your forgiveness.”
Hwa blinked. “Excuse me?”
“The exercise was meant to test your response to an armed threat, and the school’s response to an emergency scenario. You and Joel were never supposed to be in any real danger. But you were. And you were hurt. And I’m sorry.” He stared out the window at the city for a moment. “Your job was to protect Joel, and mine was to protect you. I’m the one who failed you, Hwa. Not the other way around.”
Hwa looked away. She hadn’t been expecting an apology. Much less a genuine one. “G’wan, b’y,” she muttered, letting her accent slip.
“I heard about your friend. You have my condolences.”
“Thanks.” She bounced on her toes. This was awkward. Unbelievably awkward. She’d come ready for a fight and now the fight had nowhere to go. It pooled inside her like acid in her joints, corrosive and irritating. “Can I help you? I can chop, or wash, or—”