Arthur shakes his head. His little tractor would end up joining the Fargo.
“Okay if I borrow the Toyota then? I’ll be back in five minutes with some diesel.”
Margaret’s truck is clean, undented, he’d bought it last year for her birthday. But Arthur is too enervated to resist, and he yields up the keys.
He stares at the submerged truck for a while, a meditative time disturbed only by the chattering of Dog’s teeth. Lotis sends him in to warm up. “You’re still my hero,” she calls after him.
In the Woofer kitchen, Arthur hovers over Kim Lee as she slices a warm whole-wheat loaf. “Lotis make.” Lotis, the baker, wonders never cease. Kim rewards him with the crust for his sad-faced pantomime of hunger.
Retrieving peanut butter from the fridge, he glances down the hall at Lotis leaving the bathroom, topless, pulling up her jeans, hurrying to answer the phone. He averts his eyes from this casually immodest performance.
“Yeah, we’re packing a lunch for them. I’ll get a ride with Arthur. Ciao.” She strolls into the kitchen tugging down a new T-shirt: I’m a Friend of Gwendolyn. “We’ve ordered three hundred.” She hands him one. “Thirty bucks. Who was Gwendolyn, anyway?”
“A corruption of a Salishan name–G’win d’lin, a maiden of the forest who joined her lover in the Salish sea, and who lives there now, and whose long hair can be seen drifting like kelp with the tides.”
This causes Lotis an odd moment. She seems speechless. There’s a shine to her wide oval eyes as she says, “That is fucking beautiful.” She turns spirited, theatrical. “I want Gwendolyn’s role. For every tragedy, there must be a balcony scene. ‘O, swear not by the moon, the inconstant moon, that monthly changes in her circled orb.’ East Pasadena Rep, I was fifteen, it ran two weeks.”
A creditable Juliet. “‘How silver-sweet sound lovers’tongues by night.’”
“I’m beyond impressed.”
He’s too modest to boast about his heralded performance with the Garibaldi Players: Sir Toby Belch in Twelfth Night.
Lotis hands him a thick file: Dr. Winter’s entire output of published columns, three years’worth, magically secured from the vast tangle of information that floats about in the World Wide Web.
He idly leafs through them as he relates his adventures in Bamfield, capped off by Holly Hoover’s nocturnal visit. “She made a rather bold sexual advance before she left. Awkward. For me, at least.”
She wrenches the details from him, how Hoover offered sex as payment for advice.
“Were you tempted?”
He responds huffily: “Of course not.” It will be a task confessing to Margaret. Confessing? He’s guilty of nothing.
“And you don’t think Jasper Flynn is humping her?”
“She says not.”
“And what? You believe her? You think Flynn turned her down when she grabbed his dick?”
Arthur can find no delicate way to respond.
Lotis is intrigued by the spat overheard in Cotters’ Cottage between Ruth and, presumably, Eve Winters. “‘It’s over, Ruth’? Whoa, I should’ve figured they were keeping something from me.”
She lunched Saturday at the home of Dr. Glynis Bloom, an anaesthetist, and Wilma Quong, an accountant, who were cooperative but subdued. Dr. Bloom was the more outgoing, and talked fondly of Winters, a friend of a dozen years. Also there was the graduate student, Ruth Delvechio, closed and apprehensive. She and Eve Winters had been romantically interested, but no mention was made of an affair-ending quarrel.
“A few bitching sessions–you expect that on a tough sixday hike–but ‘Fuck you, your fucking highness’ never came up. I can see why Winters wanted to shed her, she’s chronically gushy. ‘It’s lovely that you’re working for the environment, that’s just so important.’”
The unofficial reason Winters stayed on in Bamfield might have been to escape Ruth Delvechio, but Winters told them she wanted to spin out her holiday. She’d written two columns in advance, and was charmed by the village. The others had to return to their work and studies.
The name Adeline Angella meant nothing to them, but they recalled Winters’s display of temper about a threatened court action. “Apparently Eve could let fly, which makes for a different image of the cool-headed shrink.”
Lotis also met with Dr. Winters’s secretary, who was of little help. “Didn’t recall Angella’s name, only vaguely recognized her photo. Doctor Eve keyed all the patient interviews into the computer herself, all except the clerical odds and sods, appointments, accounts.”
Arthur is missing some of this. He’s sitting, absorbed in one of Winters’s columns, “The Man Who Thinks He’s a Masochist,” advice to Mr. J: “It is not unnatural to be attracted to strong women. In fact, it is a healthy sign. Through antiquity, women have sought strong males, now in this more liberated age there is a greater balance of attraction. Unconsciously we seek healthy partners to improve the species.” She tells Mr. J he must rid himself of any notion he suffers masochistic tendencies.
“Quite right,” he says aloud. He reddens, covers the page.
“Earth to Arthur Beauchamp.”
“Sorry, there’s too much traffic in my head…You’ve done some good work, Lotis.” For some reason those were difficult words. Why does it rankle him that she’s so unexpectedly competent? “I hope I’m not pressing you into service too severely.”
“Shit no, I’m pumped.”
He can’t remember, even as a young lawyer, having such bumptious energy. Or idealism, however flawed. He had no passion to change the world. The law was based on centuries of common sense. The law was his god, the courtroom his universe. He was born stuffy.
“I dragged Buddy Svabo from his backyard barbecue to ask if he’ll release Dr. Winters’s files. ‘Not,’ he said. He wants to argue it tomorrow.” The disclosure hearing. “Also, he’s hinting he has a jailhouse informant. A fink, I don’t know who. He says he doesn’t have to identify him.”
Arthur sits up, startled. “That’s preposterous. If Buddy Svabo has engaged a lying informer, it will rebound on him.” Would Nick Faloon be so careless with his words in prison?
“I had a quick visit with Nick, he looks like shit, depressed, unshaven, and out of shape. He thinks he burdened you with a case you can’t win. Also, he wonders when you’re coming to visit him.”
“I haven’t found the time yet.” But he must, and soon. Faloon has to be persuaded to come clean about his night with Holly Hoover. Claudette has a forgiving nature.
Arthur is naked, lumbering through the woods with gluey slowness, fleeing a pursuing grizzly. He reaches the safety of the road only to find his truck gone…
“Dream bad.” As Kim Lee nudges him awake, he is partly on a sofa, partly on the floor, running from the bear. “Stoney come. Late go now.” This means Stoney is back with the Toyota and Arthur has overslept. She is extending the basket of out-take.
Hurrying out to impound the keys, he sees that Lotis has already commandeered the truck, is in the driver’s seat. Stoney has brought not just diesel fuel but a wetsuit for Dog, who is looking forlorn and froglike in flippers, mask, and snorkel. Arthur can’t bear to watch this drama play out, climbs in beside Lotis, who turns on the ignition.
“I thought you didn’t drive.”
“I’m from southern California. We late, go feed.”
A quick stop at the General Store, where Aloysius Noggins, still in clerical collar after Sunday service, is enjoying his reward, a steaming rum coffee. He’s waiting for the ferry–he’ll be meeting Selwyn Loo, escorting him to the Gap.
Reverend Al studies Lotis’s rump as she picks through a bin of oranges. “Blessed is the man who endureth temptation.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I am.”
He has just come from a meeting of the Save Gwendolyn Society. A bake sale has brought in $324. A bingo at the hall tonight might double that–if enough event-exhausted Garibaldians show up. Against these microscopic amounts, some dona
tions from afar have been sizable, $500,000 from a U.S. philanthropist, $200,000 from a wildlife fund.
The key is to keep Gwendolyn Valley in the news. The protesters are alive to that. Lotis has been brainstorming with them, scripting ceremonies to amuse the reporters, keep them happy.
“DAY ELEVEN!” cries the Sunday newspaper. Twenty-one days, Margaret promised, ten to go. She could reneg, and try for the Guinness record. She’s become unpredictable in her middle years. It’s not menopause, she’s over that. Some other womanly thing.
“Any eagle sightings?” Arthur asks Reverend Al.
“I’m about ready to admit to the futility of prayer.”
“Can’t stop progress.” Ernie Priposki, over-refreshed, staring with glazed eyes into space, somewhere beyond the canned soups.
On the Gap Trail, Arthur is met by Flim and Flam, as locals have taken to calling the filmmakers, and their cameras dog him silently all the way up the trail. At the Holy Tree, he finds Lotis fastening the lunch basket to the rope, Slappy overseeing. Cud Brown hangs over the railing, fixed upon Lotis.
Margaret appears, bundled in sweater, jacket, and toque.
“Are you feeling all right, my dear?”
“A bit of a sore throat.”
Arthur barely heard that, she’s hoarse. Cud speaks for her. “Your lady’s got a cold. We’re trying not to get too close.” His facetious grin.
Arthur’s worry level ratchets up another half-dozen notches. “Is she running a temperature?”
“Yeah, she’s kind of hot.”
Margaret finds her voice. “It’s minor. Over tomorrow.” A switch of topic. “You look like you’ve been putting on weight.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“A bass fiddle.”
Cud hauls up the basket, calls down to Lotis. “Man, this smells like it came out of the ovens of Arcady.” Arcady, as if the poseur has studied the Greek myths. (Has he ever read Tennyson? A Shakespeare sonnet? Blake? Housman?) “Who baked this?”
“The person you are speaking to.”
“You don’t look like a home-baking type.”
“You don’t look like a sexist.” Tossing her hair.
“I wasn’t until I met you, my lovely.”
“Yeah, I have this power to bring out the inner jerk in people.”
There is tension in this scene, entertainment for the cameras. It galls Arthur that Cud is loafing around up there, living off the community dole. These sandwiches came from the kitchens not of Arcady but Bungle Bay. It’s the Garibaldi Writer-in-Residence grant.
Arthur makes sure that Margaret has cold medications, and urges her to rest. That’s not all he wants to say, he has a host of concerns and questions. Insistent but with misgiving, he calls upon Cud to watch over her, ensure she drinks water, stays covered.
A few minutes later, Selwyn Loo comes into view, walking slowly, his cane ticking against rock and root. Reverend Al is beside him, offering no aid but his voice. “Straight ahead.”
The media part as if for Moses, affording Selwyn clear passage to the tree. A wholesale sucking-in of breath as he nearly trips on a buttress root. A collective exhalation as his hands go to the gnarled, knobbed bark of the ancient fir.
His fingers find a teardrop of sticky sap, which he puts to nose and tongue. He cocks his head, seems to be listening to the tree, as if to hear it breathe. The moment is shattered beautifully by a piercing note, a flicker flying by. He kneels and finds a newly fallen cone, thick with seed, which he spends a moment fondling, then pockets. “Good afternoon, everyone,” he says.
This is an almost transcendental moment for Arthur. He feels something powerful welling from him, like love. For Selwyn, for Gwendolyn, for the primal splendour of this forest. For the mystery of life itself. He resists an urge to join Selwyn at that tree, to put his arms around it, to hear it breathe, find its cone, its seed, its offering.
Arthur denies himself a second helping of stew–unless he gets a grip on his appetite, he will soon resemble Barney, the farting horse. An alcoholic may occasionally cut a romantic figure, but nobody loves a glutton.
Selwyn begged off staying the night, but enjoyed–in his manner, ever dour and long of face–a Blunder Bay walkabout. As they wandered along the paths, a solitary eagle flew in slow, grave circles above them. “They mate for life,” Selwyn said. He continues to suspect Garlinc shot one of the pair. He apologized for his gloom. “Depressive episode.”
Lotis took him to the ferry. Despite her frequent chiding of this morose fellow, her feelings for him, Arthur suspects, go beyond simple friendship. Beyond affection, maybe even to the barren wastelands of love not returned.
“Scene five, how she spent her summer holidays.” Lotis hoists a tray with bowls of stew for Stoney and Dog, who are in the barn, celebrating–the Fargo has been pulled from the pond. “Call 911 if I’m not back in five.”
He follows her out. A nippy evening, with stars and a burgeoning moon. In less difficult times, he and Margaret would be strolling to Blunder Point under that moon, their after-dinner ritual, with Slappy, his diligent inspection of every rock and bush and turd.
Lotis emerges from the barn waving away smoke. “Whoa, I got a contact high just walking in there. We’re going for a walk, want to come?” We includes Slappy, who came home today, charmed by Lotis. Maybe there’s a smell that she and Margaret share, something brave and rebellious, a smell that tells the old dog he’ll have adventures with them.
On the way, Lotis doesn’t try to break Arthur’s silence, and the only sounds are footfalls and snapping twigs, and Slappy behind them, sniffing and snorting.
Where the trail takes a short, steep upturn, Arthur absently takes Lotis’s hand. “Let’s not twist any ankles this time, my dear.”
“What?”
His mind has become a wandering fool. “Mental slip, sorry.”
“You’re totally hopeless without her, aren’t you?”
16
Because all the rooms in the Victoria courthouse are taken, the disclosure hearing takes place in a study area of the law library. Arthur has Lotis at his side; Buddy Svabo sits alone, looking pugnacious. Judge Iris Takahashi is here to arbitrate, Arthur’s former student, dimly remembered. On the other side of a glass partition, wandering around the stacks with a briefcase, is Staff Sergeant Jasper Flynn.
Arthur is cross, depressed–Munni Sidhoo, the biotechnology professor, worked all weekend on the semen sample, and her result, no surprise, has Faloon’s DNA floating about in the biochemical mix. A long shot that didn’t pay off.
“We seek to examine,” Arthur says, “the dirty underwear my learned friend has been loath to disclose. He claims to enjoy the services of a jailhouse snitch.”
“My witness is a Crown informant. By long-standing rule, I don’t have to divulge his name.”
“Nonsense,” says Arthur. “He will be called to give evidence. He won’t be wearing a bag over his head.”
“This person is in jail awaiting sentence, he’s at risk if he’s exposed.”
“You’ll have to make safe arrangements for him,” says Takahashi. “Counsel is entitled to know who he is and what he intends to say.”
“How is it the defence gets everything and gives nothing?” Buddy’s exasperation is poorly feigned. “Okay, you’ve got me on the ropes. Father Yvon Réchard of the Holy Roman Church–more of a saintly soul than you expected, eh, Artie?”
“And how does he find himself behind bars?”
Buddy shrugs. “One of those Indian residential school things. Thirty years later, a bunch of guys decide to complain. They’re grown up now, you’d think they’d want to put this behind them.”
“Put what behind them?”
“Well, Father Réchard…” To give him credit, Buddy reddens as he grapples for a safe way to answer. “He’s up for seven counts of sexual assault.”
“Which you intend to prosecute with faint heart.” Arthur wonders how strong his own heart is, he shouldn’t get riled. Bu
t he finds his voice rising. “Or maybe not at all–is that the deal you made? You’d swap the ruined lives of seven men for perjured testimony?” As Arthur slaps the table, lawyers in the library turn from their studies. Jasper Flynn, standing among the legal texts, glances up, stiffens, as if ready to go into action. Lotis looks surprised to see that the icon has a temper.
Buddy has raised his hands defensively, as if protecting his head. “Hey, hold on, Artie, if he gets a cheaper sentence for co-operating, that’s up to the judge, I’m neutral.”
Doubtless a deal not made on paper, but with winks and nudges between Svabo and counsel for the priest: a suspended sentence, probation. Arthur must sit down with his client, must garner information on this pedophiliac.
Buddy hands out copies of Réchard’s statement. A mere three paragraphs, in a neat hand on lined paper. He occupied a cell adjacent to Nick’s. They often shared a table at mealtime. They talked about religion and philosophy. The priest believed Faloon was a Catholic–“fallen, like myself, so far from grace.”
Arthur picks up a hint of Milton in that line. The final paragraph, the nub of this jailhouse confession, is less poetic, just as pious: “I felt something was bothering poor Nick because he had been sleepwalking in his cell. I asked him if he wished to relieve himself of any troubles. He shook his head, and I didn’t press it. But that night I heard him whispering to me from the next cell. He said, ‘I couldn’t help it. She was beautiful. I just couldn’t help myself, I couldn’t help myself.’ His voice trailed off as he repeated that. I felt it my duty to come forward.”
“Short and sweet,” says Buddy, trying to look virtuous.
“He felt it his duty to come forward?” Arthur raises his voice again. “The very forward Reverend Réchard, is it? If the man has no compunction about betraying the confessional, why should we assume he’s honest at all? I can hardly wait, Buddy. I am chomping at the bit. I want the jury to see how desperate you are.”
“I have to call whatever evidence comes my way, Artie, that’s my job.”
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