Trial of Passion

by William Deverell

  And abruptly he turns and races to my back door, entering the house half a minute ahead of me. Aghast, I find him in the kitchen, hurriedly looking through the spice racks, examining a container of oregano, pouring out a sample onto his hand, smelling it. He runs his hands over sills and peeks under teacups, his frenetic search progressing ever closer to the refrigerator.

  But of course this coming calamity was foretold; long ago I knew that wherever Stoney goes he lays down a trail of land mines. To have befriended him is to have accepted his curse. I muster in my mind the various defences in law: lack of intent, alibi, automatism, insanity. These will be available, too, upon the charge of murdering Stoney.

  Now Margaret Blake’s half-ton pickup rolls into the driveway, braking hard near the open kitchen door. She sees me and steps out. “Arthur, I just drove by Stoney’s truck; it was parked off the road, and there was a police vehicle in the bushes. I was worried there’d been an accident.” Now she enters, and spies the constable crouching at the open fridge door, suddenly immobile, as if frozen into place. “Oh, it’s Constable Pound. . . .”

  “Ma’am, what did you just say?”

  “I said I thought there’d been an accident. Are you hungry? What are you doing in the fridge?”

  ” Whose truck was beside my unit?”

  “Stoney’s.”

  Constable Pound is faster than a speeding bullet out the door, and runs pell-mell up the path leading to the marijuana plants. “What has been going on, Arthur?”

  In partial explanation I pull out the cookie tin and show Margaret the contents: twelve home-baked peanut butter cookies and a plastic bag containing some cannabis cigarettes.

  “Not very clever,” she says. “Never hide your stash with your homemade cookies. What a character you are. Have you been smoking this?”

  “I’m afraid Rimbold turned me on.”

  The bells of her laughter. “I’ll hold onto it in case he comes back.” And she finds a better stash, unbuttoning her shirt-top and tucking the pot into the cup between bra and breast. I glimpse a seductive roundness, a flash of untanned flesh. When she catches me staring I blush.

  “I always used to get dizzy when I smoked this. Chris liked to get stoned, though.”

  “Ah, yes. What should I bring for dinner tomorrow?”

  “Just yourself.”

  But will she set the usual three places?

  I am alone, doing tai chi warm-ups (Flying Dove Spreads Its Wings), as Constable Pound returns — on foot and in a mood of dejection. He apologizes for his uncivil behaviour earlier. He asks me if he might use my phone to call the local garage: There’s a problem with his ignition. The perps, he tells me, have absconded with the evidence. He seeks to know whether I shall be expecting Stoney to return to work today. I tell him I doubt it.

  He asks me if I mind keeping this quiet. He doesn’t want it reported in the Echo.

  A hectic Saturday, as I put my little farm to bed for the next two weeks. Early in the morning, the girls from Mop’n’Chop show up to clean my house and receive instructions about the garden, though the drenching rain of last night ought to keep it green, and a grey, lowering sky promises more.

  My garage may still not be roofed in by the time I return. Janey Rosekeeper and Ginger Jones think they know where Stoney and Dog are hiding, and will pass on two items of free legal advice: one, say nothing; two, finish the roof before the rains of autumn come.

  As the girls work, I prepare a small breakfast: a slice of toast, lightly coated with locally produced marmalade. It is all I can handle. I have a poor appetite these days, and I fear my city suits will hang upon me like beach umbrellas.

  As I nibble my toast, Hubbell Meyerson phones from the office to worry me with questions about how well prepared I am. He hints that O’Donnell’s “defence team” would feel more comfortable if I spent the weekend in Vancouver working with them.

  “Gowan and I are going over the jury list now, weeding out feminists and fundamentalist preachers.”

  I ask Hubbell to pick up my suits at the dry cleaners and bring them to the office. I remind him I will be homeless in the city, but he has already booked a suite in the Hotel Vancouver. He tells me — by the way — that my divorce is set for early this fall.

  After we disconnect, I munch toast and remember Annabelle, happy in the hills of Northern Bavaria, half a world away. This woman who for so long held dominion over me has been nudged from the stage, has slipped through the cracks of my mind.

  Was I truly in love with Annabelle or was it only a false sentiment, dutifully felt as a part of the baggage of marriage? Ah, yes, the bonds of matrimony. I grieve at all those wasted years.

  I can hear Ginger and Janey gossiping over the noise of the vacuum cleaner. They are talking about who is doing it with whom. I think of doing it with Margaret. I try to picture it, but the scene that plays out in my mind seems graceless, a Chaplinesque farce.

  But George Rimbold interrupts these crude ruminations. He is at the door with a salmon.

  “The coho are running, my son. This fat fellow was disgorged by the seas only this morning. Five pounds easy.”

  “I am overcome with envy.”

  He lays the gleaming, sticky fish atop my kitchen counter. “May I offer you and Margaret this pre-wedding gift.”

  “We haven’t quite planned a date, George.”

  “Are you not her guest for dinner then? I am providing the main course.”

  “Then you’ll join us.”

  “Oh, I will not do that. No, I see this as a decisive time in your relationship. You are going off to the wars. She will want to give her soldier something to remember her by.”

  Savouring his role as mischievous Cupid, George seems almost happier than I have ever seen him. I sense this man of lost religion has managed to come strongly to terms with himself: There is no faith, perhaps, but there are fish.

  He stays for coffee, and laughs with knee-slapping glee at my recounting of the close call yesterday over his previous gift to me. Then he retrieves his salmon and trots over to Margaret Blake’s house.

  The telephone rings again.

  “We’re back. Thought I’d bug you, find out all the poop.”

  “Ah, Deborah, safely home from Rome.”

  “Yeah. Back to work on Monday. And I’ve got to get one weary world traveller enrolled in Grade Three.”

  “I can give you the poop next week — I’m coming to Vancouver for the O’Donnell trial.”

  She insists that tomorrow, Sunday, I stay the night with her and the Nicks before trundling off to my hotel.

  “I’d enjoy that.”

  “How’s your life?”

  “Rather intense right now.”

  “How’s the widow Blake?”

  “We are continuing to mend fences.”

  “Sounds torrid. Love you, Dad.”

  I will see the widow Blake tonight, but then not for several days. Could it be possible, I wonder, to finish this trial in a week? And be back for Labour Day. Join her at that most glittering gala of the Garibaldi social scene, the annual fall fair, barbecue, and dance. But if the trial is not wound up by then, I fear I will be too caught up in it to return; I will be drowning in it, unable to come to the surface for a breath of fresh country air.

  The girls are finished; the house is gleaming. I pay them extra, and also let them keep the prince’s ransom in change Janey found tucked behind the cushions of my club chair.

  Another phone call. Gowan Cleaver this time.

  “You’ll be working against a bummed-out prosecutor, Arthur. I just beat Pat Blueman yesterday on a bank heist. My guy had an alibi as tight as a popcorn fart.”

  “Congratulations.”

  “Okay, the jury: We’ve managed to whittle the list down to about twenty hopefuls. I’m working on the assumption you want a female or two in there for balance, so we’ve got a couple of housewives, but no self-made women except for one beauty-shop owner — one of the senior partner’s wives gets don
e by her something like ten times a week. There’s a guy who’s an interior decorator living in the West End, so he’s probably gay, and I think we want gay. No Orientals, of course, too law and order. There’s one lady you don’t want. Hedy Jackson-Blyth, she’s the executive director of the Telephone Workers’ Fed, active in the women’s coalition, vocally pro-choice.”

  “But she sounds very liberal.”

  “Not on this issue.”

  The phone again summons me as I emerge dripping and grumpy from the shower — Cleaver’s cynical approach to jury selection has been grating on me — and I take the call in the kitchen as I towel off. I apologize to Augustina for answering with so brusque a voice. “What are you up to, Arthur?”

  “I’ve been manning a switchboard. Now I’m preparing to go out for dinner.”

  “Then I’ll be brief. Patricia gave me her list of witnesses. She’ll be starting right off the bat with Kimberley Martin. Do you want me to make the opening legal arguments? I have all the cases.”

  “Yes, relieve me of that agony.”

  “I hope this isn’t a problem, but we can’t locate Professor O’Donnell. He’s supposed to be here helping us prep. I hope he hasn’t fallen off the wagon.”

  Yes, this has been a constant worry: Might he succumb to the demons of alcohol as his day of reckoning draws closer? If he breaks under the tension, he also breaks his vow to me, and I have half a mind to leave him in the lurch.

  “Send a posse out to find him. I’ll be arriving tomorrow in the afternoon.”

  “Shall I pick you up on this side?”

  “Thank you, but I’ll be driving in.”

  “Who are you having dinner with, as if I didn’t know? Make sure you bring her flowers.”

  “But she has a myriad of flowers.”

  “Bring her flowers.”

  I dress. I fasten my suspenders, snap them for good luck. I emerge from my house with knocking knees. From my garden, I gather nasturtiums and cornflowers, and zinnias, a floral potpourri that clearly lacks an arranger’s fussy touch, but makes up for that in sheer size and variety.

  I aim myself in the direction of Margaret Blake’s house. I march purposely forward.

  I’ll not disturb you, darling. I’ll be reading. Call me if you want coffee or anything.

  Thank you, Penny.

  The meal was delicious, Mrs. Kropinski.

  Thank you, dear.

  Please be comfortable, Kimberley. Would you like to lie down on that divan?

  So this is your little office-in-home? Comfortable. You’ve nice taste.

  About taste, I do not know. Penny has the taste.

  I’m not sure if this hypnotism stuff is going to work. Trial starting Monday — I’m pretty tense. I’ll try.

  Fine. And now I want you to unburden yourself. Tell me some of the things that are worrying you.

  Oh, Remy has a big catastrophe happening in Guyana, some kind of reagent with cyanide spilled at a gold mine, and it’s completely poisoned a river. Remy is going nuts. And, oh, God, Mother is threatening to fly out from Labrador for the trial — I told her no, definitely not. It would be so embarrassing. I’ve always been her good little girl. . . . And what else? I’ve been getting these lusts.

  Lusts?

  Yeah, I don’t know why, maybe Remy isn’t . . . Well, he’s a little distracted, I guess. I mean, I like sex — I think it’s healthy. Of course as soon as I say that, here comes the guilt again. Punish me, Father, give me ten Hail Marys. God, I’m a masochist. Growing up Catholic you learn to love pain. I was never weaned from Sunday school. . . .

  You are frowning. Some thought has struck you?

  Yeah, but, I don’t know — it just went.

  Sunday school . . .

  Oh, hey, I found out O’Donnell’s seeing a psychiatrist, too.

  How did you learn that?

  Remy said one of the detectives told him. Do you know a Dr. Jane Dix?

  Quite well. For him, a very odd choice.

  Why?

  She is very active on women’s issues.

  Hmm. I guess you get the therapist you deserve. Well, maybe she’s what he needs. She must be having a lot of fun with his screwed-up head. His latest addiction is jogging, according to Remy’s informed sources. What’s the psychological explanation for that? Fear, right? He’s a scared rabbit. Oh, I’m back with Remy, now, living at his place. He came crawling. Ooh, that felt good. Apologized for being upset over the play, promised to be more supportive. He should, after all, he’s the one who pushed me into this.

  How do you mean?

  I’m not sure if I would have laid charges. . . . I’m not sure. Remy was all gung-ho.

  Are you feeling more relaxed now?

  Yeah, I think I’m exhausted from talking.

  I am going to move over here. I will just plug this in behind you —

  Comfortable?

  Yes.

  Please let all your muscles go limp, yes? Your whole body. All the tension is gone. Your mind is relaxed. Do not concentrate on anything; just listen to my voice.

  Whoo, I feel funny already. Okay, I put myself completely in your hands.

  We are doing this together. Cooperation, yes? Not control.

  Okay.

  I want you to think of sleep now. Think only that one thought. Breathe deeply. Yes, you are becoming tired, and your eyes are heavy . . . your whole head is heavy, your eyelids are heavy . . . you are perfectly comfortable and you are so drowsy, and you are going to close your eye-lids. Your eyes, they are closing, they are closing now, and you are going into a deep sleep, and you will stay fast asleep until I tell you to wake up, yes? I am going to count to ten, and when I reach ten you will take a deep breath and fall completely asleep. But also you will hear my voice. When I speak to you, you will be able to hear. Your eyes feel so-o-o heavy. You are completely relaxed. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten. Take a deep breath. Do you hear me?

  Yes.

  You may open your eyes if you like.

  Okay.

  How old are you, Kimberley?

  Twenty-three.

  Do you remember when you were a little girl?

  Yes.

  Do you remember what you wanted to be when you grew up?

  An actress. I liked to play dress-up.

  Now I want you to go back to your childhood, yes? To a time when you are a little girl playing dress-up.

  Yes.

  How old are you now?

  Nine years old. Soon I’ll be ten.

  Does it make you happy to play dress-up?

  Yes, and my mummy lets me play with all her old clothes.

  What else do you like to do?

  I play with my friends. And I have a little sister, Kelly, and I look after her. And I have a dog named Morgan. And I like school very much. I have puppets, too, Mummy and Daddy gave them to me at Christmas.

  Do you remember a time when you were not so happy?

  No, I’m a happy girl. Mummy and Daddy say I’m a good girl, too.

  Now go back in time, yes? Go back to when you are a little younger and you are not so happy. You are at a time when you are sad.

  Yes.

  Why are you sad? Mummy’s mad at me.

  Why?

  Because I don’t want to go to Sunday school.

  And why don’t you want to go?

  I don’t know. I’m afraid.

  Tell me what you are afraid of, Kimberley.

  I don’t know. I don’t know.

  How old are you?

  I’m eight.

  Let us go together to your Sunday school. I will be with you. Let us go back to the week before. What is happening at Sunday school?

  I don’t want to go there.

  Why?

  It hurts.

  What hurts? . . . Kimberley, what hurts? Do not be afraid.

  He hurt me.

  I am sorry, I did not hear you so well. He hurt me so bad.

  Who hurt you?

  The ma
n that lives near the Sunday school. Did the man do something? Dr. Kropinski . . .

  It is okay, my dear, I am close by you.

  Mummy and Daddy told me not to speak to strangers, and I did, and it’s a mortal sin.

  Do not be afraid, Kimberley. Tell me what he did.

  He said he wanted to show me his bunny rabbits, he has some baby rabbits, and I can see them in a cage, and . . . I’m afraid.

  Here. I am holding your hand.

  And he pushed me into his shed, and pushed me against the wall, and he has his hand over my mouth and he’s dirty and smelly, and . . . and . . . he pulled my pants down and put his thing in me, in my bum, and it hurt so bad. And, and my dress is all dirty, and he called me a little tramp, and he is going to kill me and kill my mummy and daddy if I tell anyone, and I ran, and I fell into a ditch, and got all muddy, and I ran home, and I didn’t tell Mummy, I said I fell into a ditch.

  Why do you not tell your mother what happened?

  ‘Cause . . . ‘cause I don’t know.

  You do not know?

  I stopped ‘membering.

  You stopped remembering.

  Only that I fell.

  That is all that you recalled afterwards, yes? But you remember now.

  Yes.

  You remember that man.

  I don’t want to, but I ‘member.

  But it is all over, yes? It is a long time ago and it is all over. You are not afraid any more, are you, Kimberley? Yes, I am. I’m so scared.

  I am going to bring you back now, yes? When I count to three you will wake up. When you wake up, you will remember about the man who hurt you. Do you understand?

  Yes.

  One, two, three.

  Oh, God.

  Oh, goodness.

  Oh, oh.

  Penny, Penny, quick . . . Bring a towel and a basin. . . . B

  Margaret is sitting on her front veranda, bare-armed and willowy in a light Indian-print dress. One of her pet geese hisses and sticks its tongue out at me as I approach, then stalks off, haughty and disgusted. Margaret smiles, encouraging me to come forward, but my body has stalled five feet from her stoop, my knees locked in sudden dread — she will think I’m a silly oaf when I present my posies from behind my back. Worse, these were living things; I have damaged the environment, clear-cut my flower beds.