Sing a Worried Song

by William Deverell

  He didn’t recognize those legs, though, as Annabelle’s. He lurches to a sitting position, trying to bring back a fading dream memory of those limbs: thinner, tauter, tanned, familiar.

  Freud warned of this sort of thing. Arthur’s solemn vow of abstinence from worry has only dumped all the crap into his unconscious, where it smouldered and erupted in an ugly dream.

  He must try harder. It is totally laughable that Margaret would find that lubricious old gasbag of any interest. Except as a source of campaign funds. Surely she wouldn’t sell herself for that.

  He curses himself for even thinking the last thought, heads for the shower, a cold, punishing one. Yes, he fell off the worry wagon briefly, but you fall and you get up again, and again. No doubt there’ll be further tests of his equanimity. Coming up, after chores: a full dress rehearsal for Halloween. He can take it.

  He improvises the lyrics and sings: “I was worried then, but I’m not worried now.”

  §

  Arthur has been summoned by his Japanese harem to the Woofer house, where these courtesans to the shogun are costuming him. He shows good humour and massive patience. It’s for a good cause, for the recycling depot, and Yoki and Niko want so much to win a prize tomorrow night.

  They are in flowered kimonos, both armed with fans. Niko, who has powdered her chubby face white, is studying herself in the tall hallway mirror. Yoki is dressing him in heavy dark robes, a breastplate of flattened tin cans, a helmet with a conical top. In a curved cardboard scabbard is a blunt-edged sickle pretending to be the blade of a ceremonial sword. He’s wearing a tin loin plate too, presumably to defy any attempt at emasculation. As a final flourish Yoki pastes on a lecherous moustache. A glance at his reflection proves what he fears: he looks like an idiot.

  Niko takes a picture of him on her smart phone. “Now you walk.” Arthur takes a few steps. “Not like ’fraidy cat, please. What is word? Swagger.”

  Homer wanders in, takes a look at him, and barks in protest. “Please, ladies, enough. I have important duties.” He’s due at the Hall to help set up.

  The girls start to unpin, unhook, unzip, untie. He finds himself in his boxer shorts, covering up with the leather breastplate, as the girls make jokes in Japanese, apparently bawdy.

  Twinkle, twinkle. He quickly pulls on his pants, and retrieves his phone. It’s Margaret, and she’s unusually buoyant. “We beat them up over Bill 94, they’re going to pull it back. It was the most amazing thing.”

  “Bill 94. What one was that?”

  “The tough-on-crime bill. No second chance. Arbitrary terms of parole.”

  “Of course. For murder and rape.” A softie, Pierrette called her boss.

  Margaret explains why it was the most amazing thing: a paroled murderer embarrassed the government by performing an epic rescue in Northern Ontario. “What an amazing, timely example of the power of rehabilitation. A man named Skyler. After something like twenty-five years behind bars. Why does that name seem familiar?”

  “I prosecuted him.”

  “Oh, my God.”

  “It’s in my biography, which may be getting a plug in the Toronto Star.” An enterprising reporter was on the phone to him this morning about “Death of a Stranger,” buttering him up over his incendiary cross-examination of an impotent thrill killer, asking for comment on Skyler’s heroic deed. Arthur regretted that he had no thoughts to share.

  Margaret has rushed off to find and flip through her copy of A Thirst for Justice, giving Arthur time to figure out how to avoid opening up the whole quagmire. One day soon, not now, he will find the courage to tell his life companion about his near-paranoid illness, the threats, tracking Skyler by phone, scanning the bushes for strangers, the relentless ear-splitting siren.

  Margaret finds it “fascinating” that he put away a supposedly psychopathic monster who ultimately, as an epic twist, showed such bravery and selflessness. Arthur has little to say. He does not want to recall that difficult trial and the trauma attending it, his struggle to stay clean, Annabelle and the heldentenor. And Hubbell.

  He remembers his vow not to worry. Happily, Niko gets them off-topic by borrowing the phone while Arthur ties his shoelaces. “Niko here. How is life? All happy here. Please look at BlackBerry for excellent photo.”

  Margaret laughs on retrieving an image of Arthur as shogun of all Japan. Arthur is pleased that she’s in such bright humour and he presses on, entertainingly, about how he has turned over a new leaf, is worry-free, is actually looking forward to Halloween.

  “Oh, by the way, I forgot to mention I had that lunch with Hubbell on the weekend.” Now he’s done it, impulsively, blindly. “He mentioned something about doing a funder for your by-elections.”

  “Yes, he did say something like that. In passing.”

  “In passing?” How often do they pass? The old goat seems to spend more time in Ottawa than Barbados.

  “I think he came up to me after a press conference. I told him, fine, work on it, we’re broke, we’re beating the bushes for money.”

  She was looking hot. Stop it, he tells himself. Remember your vow.

  “Well, let’s hope he can come through for you.” There seems nothing more to say. “I miss you, darling.”

  “Me too,” she simply says.

  He wants to tell her how much he loves her but somehow that would seem pushy, forcing a rote response.

  The sense that he doesn’t truly know her comes on as he disconnects. Who is the woman behind the politician’s mask?

  He kicks himself. He can do better than this.

  Be happy.

  §

  Arthur doesn’t want to be late — there are witches and goblins to be displayed, pumpkins to be carved — so he speeds his pace, takes a shortcut through the north pasture to Potters Road, being happy as promised, happy to be outside on this blissful afternoon, the sun boiling the mists away, not a whisper of wind, maples in yellow dress, dogwoods in red, the fall song of a white-crowned sparrow.

  As he passes Maud Miller’s roadside stand, he senses a movement, a deer, maybe, or a loitering dog. He turns but sees only pumpkins, cucumbers, and apples.

  He is cautious now, and where the road makes a sharp bend, he detours off it, behind a hedge. Soon he makes out, once again, the old codger in a ragged cloth coat and felt hat, apparently trying to shadow him. It takes a few moments for him to recognize that woeful face beneath the week’s growth of beard.

  Arthur emerges to confront him. “What are you up to, Ernst? Are you following me?”

  “I’m on undercover duty. Someone out there wants to bump you off. You said so yourself. A thrill killer.”

  “It’s over. Didn’t you read about it? Skyler is a hero.”

  “Don’t believe what you see in the newspapers. He’s here. I know it. He stole my frigging gun.”

  “What do you mean? You lost your gun?”

  “It’s not anywhere. I had it last weekend, I think. I was playing with it …”

  “Playing with it?”

  “Never mind. I think he took it. Skyler.”

  Arthur suspects Pound is suffering a full-blown psychosis. “Let’s walk together. We’ll go up to the Community Hall.” Maybe Doc Dooley will be there, or Reverend Al, someone to offer help.

  “No, we can’t be seen together.” Pound falls back. Arthur carries on, slowly, letting him follow, but when he begins the ascent of Breadloaf Hill, the poor fellow has vanished like a ghost.

  Be happy.

  WEDNESDAY, OCTOBER 31

  Niko and Yoki fidget impatiently until Arthur’s Fargo finally pulls in to the Hall grounds, the dance well under way. Arrive late, leave early — that is his plan. If the girls want to linger, they can hitch a ride back. He finds a quick-getaway spot not far from the outdoor biffy, where a witch and a scarecrow wait in line.

  As they enter the hall,
Arthur pulls his helmet down over his ears to mute the shrieking guitars and the howling of ragged, aging voices. The Red Tide Blues Band, made up of retirees from touring bands, prefers heavy metal, a genre that Arthur doesn’t quite get, but deign to play old rock-and-roll favourites.

  Arthur has yielded to his courtesans’ demands they make a staged arrival, so as they follow along, bowing and fanning, he swaggers ahead in his thick robes and tin armour and conical hat, awkward, ill at ease, embarrassed beyond measure.

  Dancers and drinkers — in costumes that are hokey but entertaining — make way for them. Tildy and the Pieces are gunslingers, with Stetsons, toy guns in holsters. Emily LeMay is a credible hooker and is being escorted by Abraham Makepeace, her bejewelled pimp. Baldy Johannsen wears a dress, as usual. There’s a pregnant nun, a standard.

  Mookie Schloss, a Playboy bunny, comes by with a tray of cookies for sale, proceeds for the recycling depot. Niko buys one and playfully sticks it into Arthur’s mouth. Chocolate chip, not bad.

  Dominating this lavish masquerade is Nelson Forbish, a sumo wrestler, folds of fat pouring lava-like over his skimpy thong. As he snaps pictures of Arthur and his fluttering escorts, the lead guitarist plays a riff from The Mikado: “Three little maids from school are we.” This ends their set.

  Scotty Phillips, dressed appropriately as a carnival barker, jumps up to the stage. “Okay, he’s finally showed, so let’s hear it for good old Arthur Beauchamp, first runner-up as Garibaldian of the Year.” Applause. Arthur will finish his cookie with a coffee while plotting his early exit. “And it looks like we got a new top contender for group entry — look at them geisha girls fanning his butt. Twenty-minute break, folks, while our panel of judges meets in the kitchen.”

  Arthur leads his entourage to the back, where pastries are for sale, as well as tea and coffee, a mug of which he takes to a table by the rear exit, where the Nogginses sit with their beers. Bored with him, Niko and Yoki depart with their cameras.

  Zoë is Mary Poppins. Reverend Al has again hauled out his old long johns, dyed red, and tail and horns. “Quite a few boys enjoying their feminine side,” he says. “The year’s one big chance to indulge in a favourite fetish.”

  Arthur has seen at least five men dressed as women. A few women have also come as men. Three clowns. Two Elvises. A Mickey, a Minnie, and a Mighty Mouse. The lazy wear masks of the prominent, some scary, a Vladimir Putin, a Stephen Harper, a Donald Trump. There are characters from a popular cartoon series. “That’s Homer,” Zoë explains. “That’s Krusty the Clown. Over there is Sideshow Bob.” She’s a fan of The Simpsons, has sat Arthur down to watch episodes.

  Ernst Pound has come not as a decrepit old man but in uniform; yet it’s a disguise of sorts — he’s well kempt, shaved, with a shine on his boots. Arthur catches only a few glimpses of him, by the wall, unarmed, his eyes sharp and crazy as he looks for the thrill killer. Kurt Zoller is a caped superhero, with a giant Z stitched onto his tunic. Oddest of all is a four-footed ensemble of Stoney as a kangaroo with Dog’s head poking out of his pouch and wearing moose antlers, the symbolism of which is unclear.

  Arthur is feeling a little odd — not ill in any way, just … peculiar. But it’s hot in here in this heavy robe, these flattened tin cans. The Tin Woodman of Oz. The exotic nature of the evening, the play and costumery is … unsettling.

  He asks Al and Zoë to arrange a ride for the Woofers. “I may want to leave early. I’m feeling a little iffy. It’s just come on.”

  “Oh, dear,” Zoë says. “Oh, no.”

  “Oh, no, what?” Arthur asks.

  Al says, “I hope you didn’t try any of those cookies that were going the rounds. There was more in them than chocolate chip. Stoney had something to do with it, I heard, he and Mookie Schloss. They came out of her oven.”

  A blast of music ends any hope of continuing this distressing conversation. A cookie laced with marijuana, that’s what is causing his growing disorientation.

  He decides to get some fresh air. The cannabis is still kicking in; he’s not sure if he’ll be able to drive, and without a flashlight he can’t walk home. For how long will he be stuck in this stoned state?

  The snap of cold air gives him sudden relief. There are others outside, talking, laughing, smoking. He senses small alterations of shape and colour. The music is fainter behind those closed doors, but more tuneful.

  He sits on a log bench, tries to remember to be happy. I’m worried now, but I won’t be worried long. The reason he won’t be worried long is that a worrisome event has already occurred: he feels utterly stoned.

  There stands the evening’s most incongruous combo, the four-footed kangaroo, Stoney’s hood is down, and his mitts off, as he rolls a cigarette. Dog, still in the pouch, has removed his moose antlers and is sipping from a canned soft drink. When Arthur waves them over, they propel themselves by hopping as one.

  Stoney raises his hand as if to stop Arthur’s tongue. “Okay, I know you got a gripe, and it’s a reasonable one. I want to be frontal about it. I told Mookie them cookies were only for a special list of invitees, and when I seen you scarf one by mistake, I got diverted and then it was too late to warn you.”

  “How strong is this pot? When shall I be coming out of it?”

  “Pot? Naw, I traded the last of the good reefer to your buddy Pomeroy, for some fungi.”

  “Psilocybin.” Arthur pronounces the word slowly, beguiled by its sound, its sibilance.

  “Enjoy, man, it’s just a little taster — you’d need to polish off at least three of those for the full trip. All you’re gonna get is a little peek into the spiritual cosmos. Levels off in a few hours. Enjoy the music. Enjoy the view.”

  “Jesus will protect you,” Dog says.

  Brian Pomeroy has by some ethereal means engineered another misadventure for Arthur. He can almost hear him whispering from distant Haida Gwaii: “You’re in Zone One, Arturo.” Now his voice comes from behind, close and clear: “Good luck, chum, you’re knocking on the doors of perception.” Arthur turns, expecting to confront Brian and his taunting grin, but there’s nobody, just a shadow moving in the darkness.

  A voice hallucination? What other alarming mirages will this so-called taster offer up?

  Arthur doffs his helmet, and rises, and is relieved that he can find his balance. He could return to Al and Zoë, but he’s too self-conscious in this psychotropic state to talk to them or anyone. Maybe he can walk it off. If he can make it to the truck, he can lie down awhile.

  Kurt Zoller strolls past to check on his Hummer. Arthur thinks he hears him speaking, another voice memory: Permission to explore your property, sir. Arthur follows the caped superhero toward the lot, but pauses by the outdoor toilet. A few of the gunslinging Pieces are yelling to someone inside. This absurd tableau has Arthur smiling. He is shocked that he can find humour in anything right now.

  Mighty Mouse and two Simpsons characters have joined those trying to communicate with the inmate of the WC, and they’re struggling with the door. It finally opens to reveal Nelson Forbish stuck in the narrow compartment, unable to get up. The structure wobbles and tilts as Tildy Sears leads her cowgirls in a mighty tug, and Forbish comes tumbling out, frantically pulling up his thong.

  Arthur finds himself laughing outright. These shrooms seem to have a sense of humour. He ought not to fight them. Accept what is. An Aldous Huxley experience. He might even forgive Stoney for the spiked cookie.

  He strolls away, the tin cans clanging. He turns to look at the hall, the lights, the cars. No, the scene hasn’t morphed into the Roman theatres of Virgil and Cicero, but there’s a kind of beauty here. This lovely, quirky island. Its rich cast of characters. All dressed up in their unsubtle costumes.

  Arthur has the better costume, a costume of the mind.

  The music is muted now as he wanders away from the hall, but still he has a silly urge to dance. A part of him wants
to join the merrymakers tending to Forbish; in fact he feels an odd kinship with them, almost a kind of love — even for Zoller over there fondling his beloved Hummer. But what if they make fun of him? No, they won’t understand; he’s on a different spiritual plane.

  When he reaches the edge of the mesa, a ferry appears, the Trannie, its lights ablaze, toiling toward Ponsonby Island, its dock twinkling like a star cluster, a galaxy. Far brighter is a fat rising moon that sends a shimmering shaft across the saltchuck. The heavens loom close, an extrasolar quilt of stars.

  He is confused about where, in this astronomical vastness, his own body is located. He hears a distant, spooky voice, maybe ­all-seeing God, some kind of announcement, ominous, prophetic. The voice is familiar, grating. Scotty Phillips! Arthur turns and locates the Community Hall, sees people spilling outside, women lining up at the toilet, men heading for the trees, women dressed as men, men as women. All is weird but all is well. It’s Halloween on Garibaldi Island.

  Thus oriented, Arthur considers his options for an even better view, settles on Lovers’ Leap, three hundred yards away, where there’s a 270-degree lookout. He can master this drug experience. He just has to avoid being spooked.

  For instance, by one of the cartoon characters hurrying past him: Sideshow Bob, in his rubber mask and canopy of wild red hair, heading for a giant Douglas fir on the escarpment, where he sighs loudly, a ghostly mourn, as he relieves himself in its shadow. Arthur remembers this Simpsons character, the bitter, constantly thwarted evil genius.

  Zipping up, Sideshow Bob nods to Arthur as he walks past. Two eye slots, a malicious rubber grin. Arthur endures an overwhelming sense of Satan’s presence. He checks himself. It’s Halloween, for God’s sake. That’s just one of the locals. Honk Gilmore, maybe, from the height and shape. But he can’t get rid of a sense of foreboding, of evil.

  A sudden insight: this is what they mean by bad vibes. It’s probably a common drug reaction, a psilocybin side effect. He must remember that he is on a drug. The lows come with highs. The world is good. Life is good. I won’t be worried long …