Act of Evil

by Ron Chudley

  “Oh?”

  “On my way through Phoenix, I visited some super galleries. One of them had an exhibition of animal carvings that reminded me of Fitz’s work, though not nearly so good, I might say. And I suddenly thought, why on Earth doesn’t Fitz show his wonderful work? And then later I thought, hey, maybe Fitz and I could have an exhibition together. In Victoria. Vancouver, even. What do you think?”

  “I think it’s wonderful. Not enough people see his stuff. But what he’ll think is another matter.”

  “I know. I had this idea I might use my feminine wiles to try to persuade him.” Her enthusiastic expression faded. “But, after what you’ve told me, I can see that today isn’t the best time. So . . . what else has been happening?”

  Before Mattie could reply, the telephone rang. It was an old landline handset, situated on a shelf at the far end of the kitchen, with a harsh bell that could be heard all over the house. When the racket commenced, both women jumped. “Lawks, my heart!” Sylvie laughed.

  Mattie headed for the phone. “I don’t know who it could be. No one but you ever phones on Sunday morning.”

  “Probably a telemarketer. They’re getting bloody shameless. I’d tell him to go to hell.”

  “I bet you would,” Mattie smiled, picking up the phone. “Hello.”

  “Hi,” said a voice Mattie instantly recognized. “I hope you really did want me to call.”

  twelve

  Hal turned off the Trans-Canada Highway at Duncan. This was the second time in two days he’d made the trip up-island: yesterday to see his brother, now to visit with someone who, somewhat more surprisingly, had managed to turn up again in his life. Having prodded himself into finally making that phone call to Mattie, he’d checked out of his Victoria hotel. Whatever happened, later that day—not much later, if the meeting turned out to be a disaster—he’d be taking the ferry to Vancouver, to get on with things in the real world. Strangely though, the thought of the forthcoming gig didn’t fill him with the usual buzz of anticipation.

  The road to Maple Bay was pleasantly winding, with a lake off to one side and some new-looking subdivisions clustered on the hills nearby. Hal felt that he must have been out this way in the old days, but he had no memory of it, which was hardly surprising considering the elapsed time. Passing yet another development, where many large homes could be glimpsed under construction, on level after level ascending the flank of a steep rise, he began to realize just how much money must be pouring into this favored island. That put him in mind of the visit to his old friend Vince’s Malahat mansion. No wonder the clever bastard was rich; Vancouver Island seemed to be in the process of huge expansion. This was no surprise, since it had a great climate, low crime rate, and relatively unspoiled natural beauty. Not for much longer, he thought glumly, then sighed resignedly. A paradise such as this could hardly hope to remain undiscovered forever.

  The directions Mattie had given him were pretty simple. Shortly before reaching the coast, he turned south toward Genoa Bay, passed a marina, then swung onto a side road that skirted the ocean. Presently he came upon an unusually large section of undeveloped land sandwiched between the road and the water. A little later he spied a gate with the name TRAIL on a tipsy mailbox. Hal swung into the drive, which meandered through a stand of densely packed fir and coast maple, giving no hint of what might lie beyond. The approach was in the shape of a lazy S. After the completion of the second bend it emerged from the trees and there, on the far side of an expanse of parched lawn, was a house.

  After all Hal had recently witnessed of new construction, this was like stepping back into another era. The building was large, solid, in a broad-gabled style which in the late nineteenth century would have been considered modern. Hal had seen such places in the venerable streets of Rosedale in Toronto, pampered and valued in the millions. This house, of no less grand lineage, was nonetheless in need of some TLC. And though it commanded an ocean view of breathtaking beauty, it also had an aspect that was more than a trifle forlorn.

  The driveway curved around in front of the building, ending in a parking area that contained several vehicles. The nearest was a minivan with the words SYLVIE'S POTTERY WORKS painted in bold letters on the side. Hal parked beside it and walked back to the house.

  The veranda, under the overhang of a second-floor balcony, was broad and cool. To the right, it was enclosed with mesh, giving it a tropical feeling; to the left, it was open, stretching the length of the building. The front door, of oak solid enough to repel Viking marauders, sported an iron knocker. Hal was in the act of reaching for this, when the door was opened by Mattie.

  Prepared as he was, Hal nonetheless experienced a reprise of the shock he’d previously felt when, sprawled on his rear end, he’d first spotted his old friend. Momentarily, it was if he was transported back in time, looking at someone who’d been frozen, waiting two decades for his return. Then the illusion dissolved as Mattie smiled and reached for his hand.

  “Hal!” Mattie said. “I’m so glad. I was such an idiot the other day, running off like that, I wouldn’t have blamed you if you’d given up on me entirely. But you’re here. Come in.”

  Briskly she ushered him inside, and led him through a paneled hall, past stairs that climbed to upper regions and a large dining room, finally into a bright kitchen. Through high windows, Hal could again see the spectacular sea view. Mattie indicated the room’s other occupant, an attractive women who, he discovered, was surveying him with frank amusement.

  “Hello, Hal!” The woman said, in a plummy English voice, at once aristocratic and earthy. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you. And my-my! Aren’t you the pretty lad.”

  “This is Sylvie,” Mattie laughed. “My oldest friend. No tact at all, but a wonderful artist.”

  “Crafty old craftsperson, actually,” Sylvie responded. “But I manage to keep busy.”

  Mattie poured coffee and they sat around the big kitchen table. In contrast to the awkwardness he’d feared, the talk was as easy and light as if they were at a cocktail party. Hal wondered if Mattie had perhaps invited her friend for moral support. In any case, the exuberant Sylvie monopolized the conversation. She claimed she saw few movies, but nonetheless was familiar with most of his own, her comments critical, witty, and admiring in almost equal proportion. She asked him questions about show business, his career, and—with complete lack of embarrassment—his personal life. Hal was starting to think that she was coming on to him, when he tumbled to what was going on. This was a sort of set-up. Mattie was cleverly using her friend as a buffer, while extracting information in a way that was easy and painless. Hal didn’t know whether to feel amused or embarrassed. But one thing was sure: for her to have gone to all this trouble, his reappearance must have created something of a stir.

  He hoped it wasn’t one they’d both regret.

  Then, as effortlessly as she’d performed her inquisition, Sylvie broke it off. If she’d been booked as the opening act in this show, her performance was apparently concluded. “Well, duckies, I really must run,” she chirped, clapping her hands together and rising briskly. “Sunday it may be, but the potter’s wheel never rests. Mattie darling, thanks for the tiffin. Hal, you hunk, as my Cockney nanny used to say ‘it’s been corker.’ And when you and Mattie get tired of reminiscing—please get her to send you along to me. Cheery bye!”

  With a brisk buss on each of their cheeks and a swish of her long dress she was gone. Presently there came the sound of an engine, revving high then fading fast.

  “So that was your friend Sylvie.” Hal grinned.

  “That was Sylvie. She’s—helped me through some hard times.”

  “This being one of them?”

  Mattie colored. “You noticed.”

  “Did you think that talking to me would be so difficult?”

  “I didn’t really know how it would be. Anyway, that third degree of Sylvie’s wasn’t exactly planned. It’s sort of what she does. I just took advantage, I guess. Do you mind?”


  “As long as you now know that it’s not necessary. All I wanted was to say hi and chat about old times. The thing I said the other day, being guilty at how we broke up, that was stupid. You’ve had a whole life since then, and it was pure ego for me to think you’d even remember me well enough to be mad. I’m sorry.”

  Mattie grinned. “Apologizing again?”

  “So I’m sorry for being sorry, too,” he laughed. “Okay?”

  “Okay, peace. Hal, I’m just glad you’re here. Let’s start again. Do you want some more coffee?”

  “No, thanks.” He sat looking at her, Mattie who—he now admitted—had been quietly waiting in some back alcove of his heart. Not that he still loved her, of course. But now it was possible to admit that there was perhaps something unfinished between them. And here they were, at last face to face again, in a house where she’d spent much of her life—and he still knew next to nothing about what that life had been. “What I really want,” he said, “is to hear about you!”

  “Me?”

  “Well, of course. You realize I don’t know anything: whether you’re married, if you have kids, what it is you do. Mattie, the only clue I have right now is that name on the mailbox. Trail—is that your name now?”

  She nodded, smiling. “Yes, and it’s my turn to say sorry. I wasn‘t trying to be mysterious. I’ve always been a bit shy, remember? So, where do I start? All right . . . I’m a widow. My husband died twenty years ago. We had two children, a girl and a boy, who were one and three at the time. This house belongs to my father-in-law, Fitzgerald Trail, whose family has owned the property forever. Fitz is in his seventies and is off somewhere, probably fishing, but you’ll maybe meet him later. My daughter, Jennifer, is twenty-three and teaching ESL in Toulouse, France. I teach English too, but literature, at Cowichan High, in Duncan, where I also—this will hardly surprise you—do some theater. Now and then I direct plays for the local dramatic club, and sometimes help out with sets and costumes—but never act. That’s just about it.”

  “Looks like you keep busy. And your son?”

  “My son?”

  “You said you had a girl and a boy, What does he do?”

  Mattie didn’t immediately reply. She rose and drifted to the window, gazing out at the water. At last she said, “It was really quite maddening.”

  “Come again?”

  Mattie’s head turned slowly from left to right, as if she were searching for something in the distance. Hal had no idea what was happening, but it had something of the feeling of a ritual. He stayed quiet and waited. After a while Mattie said, “I told him not to go.”

  “What?”

  “He was an accountant, you know. A real quiet guy, nothing like the theater people I was used to. He was sweet, and dependable, and he really did love us all very much. But a stickler, not cheap or mean—but such a stickler: for details, you know, and what he thought was right! God . . . Anyway, we’d rented this video. I can’t remember what the movie was or if we even liked it, only it was due back and somehow we’d forgotten. Then, at the last minute, he remembered. If he got in the car right away, he said, he could just get it in on time. I told him not to bother, I’d take it back tomorrow. But he wouldn’t hear of it. So off he went, and he made it. Video back, no fine, everything dandy. The only trouble was that on the way home some drunk ran a light and hit him, broadside, right at the driver’s door. The car was nearly cut in half. The only way they could identify him was—through our dentist.”

  Shock and horror kept Hal silent a long time. At last he said, “Mattie, I’m so very sorry. How long ago did this happen?”

  “As I said, twenty years.”

  “Twenty . . . ? Then—we’re not talking about your son?”

  Mattie shook her head in apparent surprise. “No, My husband. I was telling you what happened to Will.”

  Hal gave a whistle of relief. “Whew, I thought . . . That’s terrible, of course. But I thought you were talking about your boy. What’s his name?”

  “Brian.”

  “Right. So what’s he up to?”

  Mattie turned back to the window. “He’s out there.”

  “You mean he’s at sea.”

  “I mean in the sea. Somewhere in the sea. Five years ago he vanished and we never found him.”

  Mattie’s head was slowly turning again, in that searching way. Stunned, Hal watched her, this once-regular girl who’d come back into his life as what seemed like a genuinely tragic figure. He had a sudden urge to leave her like that, to hurry from the house and bolt off the Island, back to his life of professional make-believe, where hearts, though teased, were seldom long discomforted.

  But he swiftly dismissed that first gutless impulse. He knew his real need was to be right here. To discover, at very least, what it was between them that felt unfinished—or if indeed there was anything at all. So he sat quietly and after a while Mattie said, “I will tell you about Brian—if you really want to hear—but not right now. Okay?”

  “Of course.”

  “Do you think you’ll be staying for lunch?”

  “I’d very much like to.”

  “Good.”

  She remained at the window, watching the sea. After a while he joined her. Though as yet he had no idea what this was all about, being part of it felt unusually important.

  thirteen

  When Trent arrived at Stephanie’s he found her door locked. It was well before the time when she had to leave for work and her car was in the drive, so that didn’t bode well. He knocked tentatively, but there was no response. Then the door opened, but it was not his fiancée. Her twenty-year-old son Gary—known as Gat—appeared, clad in his bike leathers. Instead of holding the door for Trent, he shut it firmly and moved off. Trent tried the door but found it still locked. “Hey, Gat!” he called after the departing figure. “What’s up? Why’d you lock the door?”

  Gary barely turned his head. “Orders, man.”

  “What do you mean ‘orders?’”

  “Duh! She doesn’t want to see you.”

  “Why not?”

  “What do you think? She’s mad as shit. Some stunt you pulled? Sounds like you really fucked up good.”

  Gary’s motorbike was parked besides his mother’s old VW. He got on, donned his helmet, and started up. With a wave, as sardonic as if he’d lifted the middle finger, he was gone.

  Trent winced, sighed, then knocked on the door again. “Steph,” he called. Then louder, trying not to sound melodramatic. “Stephanie, please!”

  After a minute a voice drifted from the direction of the kitchen. “Go away!”

  Trent felt sick to his stomach. Gary’s description of his position, though crude, had been all too accurate. “Fucked up good” was exactly what he’d done. What in heaven had he been thinking? Yet at the time the charade had seemed—God help him—like a neat idea. He stood on his toes and peered in the kitchen window. Yes, there she was, sitting at the table with a cup of tea and the newspaper. She didn’t look up when he tapped on the pane, but just seeing her there gave him a sliver of hope. If she really didn’t want to see him, she’d be in her bedroom. This silent treatment was maybe just a statement, a sign that he was being punished, but also part of a possible dialogue. His job now was to move the communication to the next stage.

  He tapped again, not expecting her to look, but just hoping to get her attention. He put his face near the window, close enough that he could speak in a normal voice and still be heard through the glass. “Look, Steph,” he said carefully, “I’m truly sorry I frightened you last night. If you’d stayed around, instead of rushing off, I could have explained. What I did was stupid, I can see that now, but—you’ve got to believe me—I’d no idea you were taking my act so seriously. I thought you were just playing along. I was only trying to have a little fun. And—okay, I’ll admit it—the reason I wanted to show that I could do my brother’s job is because I’ve recently made such a fuck-up of my own. But it was an asinine idea and scare
d the hell out of you, which was unforgivable. But listen, darling, I love you. And though I may be a moron, I’d never hurt you on purpose. You must believe that.”

  He stopped, waiting, hoping. After a pause that seemed interminable, Stephanie rose and, without looking in his direction, left the kitchen. His heart sank, but presently there came the sound of the back door unlocking.

  Trent felt relieved, at least face to face he’d have some chance of getting back into her good graces. When he got inside, however, he wasn’t so sure. Her expression told him that he’d underestimated the depths of her outrage. Stony faced, she gestured toward the kitchen. “Trent, go in and sit down, please.”

  He extended a placating hand. “But, darling . . .”

  “Don’t fucking ‘darling’ me, you callous asshole. Either do as I say, or get out now and don’t come back.”

  Alarmed, he backed off. This was bad. He shut his mouth, and hurried into the kitchen, sitting opposite where she’d been at the table.

  This room, like the rest of the fifties-style bungalow, was small and compact, saved from dreariness by the yellow walls and bright ceramic floor tiles which Trent himself had laid. (And damn skilfully, if he did say so himself.) On the table were a brown-Betty teapot, Stephanie’s cup, and the Sunday Times Colonist, open to the Arts section. Prominent was a review of a local theater production, and Trent considered discussing this as a diversion. But before he could begin, Stephanie said curtly, “Trent, look at me!”

  Since she’d not looked at him directly since he’d arrived, he considered this somewhat unfair, but he did as he was bid. To his surprise, her expression was no longer angry but sorrowful and very calm. Quietly, she said, “You do know I love you, right?”

  He hadn’t been prepared for that opening, but rallied. “Of course, darling, And I love . . .”

  “Shut up!” she snapped, with an intensity that was scary. “Trent, this is not a discussion or a silly little making-up drama that’s going to end in sex. This is serious—and could be the last talk we ever have. So just can it, okay?”