He slaps the hood of an elderly Dodge pickup that sits beside his workshop.
“It’s gotta new engine. Well, sorta reconditioned.”
The beast is painted purple where the rust doesn’t show through. The passenger door is held closed by a rope. The windshield is decorated with a large spiderweb crack. It is a fine traditional vehicle of Garibaldi Island. I will not be ashamed to drive it.
The engine starts with a throaty, mufferless growl, and I take to the road, riding high and proud upon the truck’s springy seat, and I wind down the country roads to the general store.
“Postcard here from a lady friend of yours working at the opera in Seattle,” says Mr. Makepeace, the postmaster. A photograph of Mount Rainier. A scrawled sentence or two from Annabelle, telling me she is swamped by her work, but enjoying herself. “Warmly yours, Annabelle.” Warmly yours. How passionate, how wanton. Was it too difficult to telephone?
“And Margaret Blake dropped off this double-registered for you. Summons from Small Claims Court. Over that pig you hit.”
George Rimbold arrives at my house at five a.m. and is surprised to see I am ready — a Thermos of coffee at hand, armed with pole and line, ready to do battle with the cunning codfish. “That’s the spirit, old son,” he says. “You’ve got to get them when they’re hungry. Are you joining the club?”
“The club?”
“You look to be growing a beard.” Rimbold strokes his own beard, grey and stringy beneath his thin face.
I ponder this. “I’m not sure . . . well, yes, I think I am.” Do I not recall artistic Annabelle giving her blessings to this hair-raising project? I, Beauchamp, who have never spent two continuous days without shaving, now wear an itchy symbol of my new-found freedom. “I see you are healing, George.”
He is no longer encumbered with an arm sling, and his head bandages have been removed.
“To be sure, I have felt the touch of Jesus, and cast away my dressings.”
At the dock, he looks at his former boat with such melancholy that I am racked with guilt. But he insists that I pilot the craft and directs me out to the middle of the bay. There are reefs below us here, he says, good fishing grounds.
The engine is stilled and we drift, and Rimbold teaches me the simple tasks of jigging for cod. The air is cool, but our bodies are warmed by cigarettes and coffee, and by the first rays of a sun approaching the solstice.
I am curious about the history of my companion, but too polite to broach the subject. A former priest: a plunging leap from grace?
After a while, Rimbold pulls a plastic bag from his pocket.
“Would you be liking a little puff of this?” he says, crumbling a small dried portion of green plant material into a cigarette paper.
“George, I am shocked beyond words.”
“Last summer’s crop, lost some potency, I’m afraid. It’s grown all over the island, Arthur. Biggest industry here, actually.”
I turn down his offer, but watch fascinated as he expands his lungs with smoke and holds it in for at least half a minute, then coughs a little.
“Garibaldi Gold, they call this. Hard on the lungs, but easy on the soul. Or what remains of my soul. Still, I’ve read nothing in the scriptures about pot.” He becomes garrulous. “Not on the list. ’Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass.’ I coveted my neighbour’s ass — that was my sin.”
He does not elaborate. One must assume he refers to an episode with one of his female parishioners. He is thoughtful for a moment, rhythmically bobbing his fishing rod.
“What matter, I was losing my faith anyway. It is far easier not to believe. And I am one for the easy road. Ah, there’s nothing better to be doing than to laze about with a little pot and a fishing line. It’s what I do best now.”
Under the apparently benign influence of Garibaldi Gold, Rimbold seems unable to still his tongue, and rambles on about his former life, his current doubts, his many alcoholic lapses. Until he washed up on Garibaldi’s shores several years ago, he had served in an inner-city parish in Montreal. Born in Dublin, studied for the priesthood there.
The discursive Rimbold continues to bounce from topic to topic, but is finally silenced by a tug on his line. He pulls in a fair-sized rock cod. I am envious, and fear I shall prove to be luckless at this sport.
But it is a pleasant time. Mists caress the water. A pair of cormorants sweep by. The surface of the Gulf of Georgia is a shimmering pane of glass.
Now as we drift, Margaret Blake’s farm comes into view, and I am inspired to describe to Rimbold my run-in with the pig and subsequently with her. He emits a deep rumble of laughter.
“Well, Margaret has no love for lawyers. Always taking the island despoilers to court, or the local government, then running into a brick wall of lawyers. She was sued for slander once, I believe, and had to take out a mortgage to pay the legal bills. And with her husband’s death .. . They were childless. We should be charitable to her.”
“Did you know her husband?”
“A fine man. Used to be our trustee, before Zoller. Played a hell of a fiddle, entertained a lot at parties. They came out here in the 1960s, hippies hoping to live off the land. The Blakes were among the few who succeeded at it. But poor Margaret has to do the work of two to manage things — I suspect she’s finding it quite a chore.”
George has portrayed a brave woman. I feel badly now. I will work something out with her to avoid embarrassing her in court.
A seal pokes its head above the water, then disappears. The competition. The mists swirl and rise and melt in the rising sun. A gull swoops down and analyses us, and is gone.
I am jolted from the reveries that these sweet moments induce by a tug on my line. A bite!
“Good on you,” says Rimbold. “Easy does it now.”
The creature surrenders after a brave struggle and soon I haul it aboard, a ling cod weighing at least five pounds. Well, perhaps I overstate. But exaggeration is a part of the fishing business, is it not?
Rimbold rolls up another marijuana cigarette and offers it, and in my elation I toss care to the wind, and take a tiny puff. But the marijuana — which I must say is vastly overrated — neither clouds senses nor encourages that talkative state of euphoria I have observed in Rimbold.
As we motor back to the dock I am seized with an unaccountable panic about the state of my Phantom V.
When I arrive at Stoney’s garage, I observe that parts of my beloved car are scattered to all corners of his work space. Even the seats are out. I stare at my car’s remains as one might an old comrade lying in a casket. I indulge in a few quiet moments of meditation.
Finally, Stoney breaches the silence. “Found mice in it.”
I am not sure if I have heard him correctly. My mind seems fuzzy.
“Quite a few, actually. Coupla families.”
“Mice.”
“Well, now, Mr. Beauchamp, that old garage of yours — and you wanna maybe think of replacing it soon — is probably overrun with them and they must’ve got in the car and started nests.”
“But, Stoney, why is it in a thousand pieces?”
“Well, here’s the thing, they got into the wiring. Why they didn’t go for all the leather in here, I dunno, but they chewed up the wiring. You see, that’s probably why one of your headlights wasn’t working, and, uh, there was a nest behind the back seat, and you maybe been driving without tail lights, too.”
He continues with a long, baffling speech about electrical systems. I sense he is nervous, in fear of me.
“Can you put it together, Stoney? Do you know where everything goes?”
“No problem. It’s all in a map in my head. And I’ll redo the wiring, eh? It don’t take a genius to rewire a car, whether you’re doin’ a vw bug or some kinda luxomobile. I can do it, Mr. Beauchamp. You gotta believe in me. I know you think I’m full of talk, but one thing I do know is electrical systems.”
My mind forms
a picture of myself describing this woeful scene to my mechanic in Vancouver. His look of confusion gives way to barely concealed mirth, and the sinister gleam of avarice shines from his eyes. But I must call him today, and be prepared to pay an arm and a leg.
How to explain to Stoney that I shall be sending my trade elsewhere? I commence with a lie. “Stoney, it’s not that I don’t have confidence in you . . .”
But suddenly I stay my tongue. Oddly, it is as if an angel of peace descends upon my weary shoulders, and I find myself relaxing. It is a mere possession, a material thing, a chattel.
“Let’s see if you can get it on the road again.”
“And I’ll do the bodywork on the fender.”
Incredibly, I find myself smiling. I clap Stoney on the back, offer him some reassuring words, then return to my 1969 Dodge pickup with the passenger door that won’t shut.
DIRECT EXAMINATION BY MS. BLUEMAN
Q
Your name is Dr. Rosa Sanchez.
A
Yes.
Q
And you are a qualified medical practitioner —
MR. CLEAVER:
I’ll admit her qualifications. District pathologist.
THE COURT:
Okay, proceed, Miss Blueman.
Q
On the early-morning hours of November twenty-eighth last, did you examine a certain Ms. Kimberley Martin?
A
Yes, at the North Shore General Hospital, at six o’clock in the morning. I was called in.
Q
Okay, and state the results of your examination.
A
I noted some redness on the interior aspects of both wrists and both ankles, an inch-long latitudinal lesion on her left shin, and some chafing there. On the inner aspect of her right breast I also found some recent bruising, two protruded areas, slightly purple. Also some slight haematoma of her exterior vaginal area, just a faint reddening, really. And . . .
Q
Yes? What else did you find?
A
Some recent bruising in the area of her anus.
MR. CLEAVER:
Her . . . Just a minute, I don’t have any particulars of this. . . .
MS. BLUEMAN:
I think if you’ll look at the copy of Dr. Sanchez’s report —
THE COURT:
Mr. Cleaver?
MR. CLEAVER:
Um, yes, well, is the complainant saying she was buggered?
THE COURT:
I don’t see a charge of buggery on this information, Miss Blueman.
MS. BLUEMAN:
Good Lord, is it necessary?
THE COURT:
Miss Blueman! This is no place for profanity. … The charge is sexual assault, so I suppose it subsumes a case of anal penetration. But that slight reddening could be from anything, couldn’t it, doctor? A rash. One often gets . . . Oh, never mind. Excuse me, I believe she’s your witness, Miss Blueman.
MS. BLUEMAN:
Yes, your honour, you can cross-examine her after I finish.
THE COURT:
I wasn’t —
MS. BLUEMAN:
I’m sorry, perhaps your honour was seeking some private medical information.
THE COURT:
Miss . . . Oh, just carry on. It’s getting near the end of the day and I’m tired. Get on with your witness.
Q
Doctor, did you do any tests for sperm?
A
Yes, I took a swab sample from within the patient’s vagina and subsequently examined it under a microscope. I found no sign of sperm.
MS. BLUEMAN:
Please answer my learned friend’s questions.
CROSS-EXAMINATION BY MR. CLEAVER
Q
No sperm. But if sexual intercourse had occurred several hours later you would expect to find thousands of the little beasties, wouldn’t you? Alive and kicking.
A
If there had been discharge, yes, I would expect to find motile sperm. Assuming no condom.
Q
Did you see any cuts, bite marks, anything you could really call a wound?
A
Nothing that I would consider serious.
Q
Many things can cause bruises?
A
Of course.
Q
Sure. I have one on my bottom from my wife’s shopping cart. Hardly a sexual assault.
A
Well, I don’t know your wife, Mr. Cleaver. (Laughter.)
Q
And some people bruise more easily than others. Sometimes just a touch will do it. Am I right?
A
Some display more obvious haematomas than others.
Q
If they have soft or sensitive skin.
A
That’s a factor.
Q
And reddening in the pelvic area is not all that uncommon, is it?
A
I would find that difficult to answer.
Q
I mean there are rashes, as his honour suggested, or maybe a person doesn’t clean one’s self, or abuses one’s self . . . well, whatever.
MS. BLUEMAN:
My friend seems to be heading into an area of his own expertise. (Laughter.)
MR. CLEAVER:
I don’t . . . Forget it. Thank you, that’s all I have.
MS. BLUEMAN:
Your honour, Mr. Clarence de Remy Brown is on an extended trip to Latin America and I won’t be calling him until the trial.
MR. CLEAVER:
If there’s a trial.
MS. BLUEMAN:
Likewise, Paula Yi, the other student witness, I give notice I’ll be tendering her at the trial. And finally I have Mr. Paul Stanton here from the serology lab.
MR. CLEAVER:
I’m prepared to admit the serologist’s evidence so we can get to the end of the day.
THE COURT:
Thank goodness for that.
MS. BLUEMAN:
Mr. Stanton will say he examined the sheets removed from the O’Donnell house, Exhibits Six and Sixteen respectively, from the living-room couch and the bed upstairs. He found no semen stains, but he’ll say they both smelled of having been freshly washed. That brings us to the end of the Crown’s evidence until Ms. Martin is available this summer.
THE COURT:
How much time are we going to need, Mr. Cleaver, a day?
MR. CLEAVER:
I wouldn’t count on my being brief.
THE COURT:
Well, what’s it look like, madam clerk?
CLERK:
If we’re talking two days, your honour, we’ll have to go to July. The seventh and eighth are open.
THE COURT:
Adjourned to July seventh, ten o’clock in the morning.
The Queen of Prince George is only an hour and a half behind schedule on this drizzling late-June Saturday, and while awaiting its arrival I mingle with my brother and sister yokels: Nelson Forbish is here, and Janey Rosekeeper, and the allegedly insatiable Emily Lemay, and we are giving each other moral support for the task ahead — the entertaining of urban dwellers who don’t know enough to take their shoes off in a country home. Also in attendance, seated in her pickup truck, is Margaret Blake. I wish to talk to her, to seek rapprochement, but she will not meet my eye.
Now the ferry is berthing, and foreign troops are landing on these shores.
Once more unto the breach, dear friends. Stiffen the sinews, summon up the blood, for today I shall be in hand-to-hand combat again. Hubbell Meyerson and Gowan Cleaver would normally have come by chartered plane, but the firm’s aging godfather, Roy Bullingham, is joining in this expedition to harangue and beguile me into taking on the O’Donnell case. Phobic Bully boasts he has managed to live eighty-three undamaged years without once boarding a flying machine.
Cyclists descend like locusts and just as quickly disappear, leaving Hub and Bully and the thinly smiling Gowan Cleaver striding forward in their wake.
And if I am not mistaken, bringing up the rear is Honourable Jonathan Shaun O’Donnell. These are the potential wild horses. I had rather expected them to arrive by car — it’s unusual to see lawyers walking.
We gather by the rock-strewn beach at the side of the ferry slip, and I offer my farm-hardened hand to their silky city ones.
“You look like a man hiding from the law, Arthur,” says Bully. He has a high voice, tightened by the stress of his life’s work: maintaining our law firm’s stainless, haughty image.
“Arthur,” says Hubbell, “do you realize you have some kind of growth on your face?”
I wear a fortnight’s worth of whiskers; my feet are shod in gum-boots; my T-shirt advertises The Brig as “The Place To Go.” My partners look upon me despairingly, as if at one who is lost to civilization.
“Don’t think I’ve ever seen you outside a suit,” says Bully, and he begins grumbling, “Couldn’t get the damn car on the ferry. Meyer-son here didn’t make reservations. “The senior partner is reedlike in build, in a neat, crease-free three-piece suit. But even Hubbell and Gowan wear ties: Bully enforces a strict dress code. Jonathan is more casually attired, in slacks and a short-sleeved shirt.
“Yes, I’m afraid reservations are often required on summer weekends.”
“My secretary screwed up,” says Hubbell. He looks exasperated. I can see that Bully has been badgering him.
“Ah, well, it’s a complex life, gentlemen, when you have to rely on others for the simple things. I have no secretary, no servants, no wife in attendance. But now I can remember where everything is. Jonathan O’Donnell, your presence is an unexpected pleasure. You are looking well.”
Trial of Passion Page 9