by Keith Weaver
It was just a rogue thought, and it surprised me, seeming to arise in my mind out of nowhere. Those numbers. The lawyer, Hawley. Could it be? The idea sent a small tingle throughout my body. Possibilities quickly flashed in my mind.
I could hardly wait to regain the shore, dry off quickly, and get to my laptop.
Eleven
Hair still dripping, towel over my shoulders, I took a seat at the mahogany picnic table I had constructed using perfectly serviceable wood from three pallets that had come bearing cargo from Brazil. That had been last year. I rescued them from the flames, knowing exactly what I could do with them.
Well, okay, it was Andrea who actually built the table.
In fifteen seconds, I had my laptop ready to go, and I marvelled, yet again, at how computers always seem to know when I’m in a hurry and slow down accordingly. From the side pocket of my laptop case, I drew out one of the envelopes George and I had received from the lawyer Hawley and looked again at the numbers on the sheet inside:
-0.0009 0.0199
-0.0212 0.0168
0.0113 0.0203
-0.0053 0.0392
An earlier assumption had been that these were straightforward GPS coordinates, but a moment’s reflection made it clear that if that were the case, they designated spots somewhere very close to the equator. Now that my laptop had deigned to join me, I quickly confirmed that not only would they be bunched near the equator, but that they would designate four closely grouped points in the Atlantic off the coast of Ghana.
Another possibility was the one that had occurred to me after my swim, as I was preparing to climb back up the ladder. These numbers could have been derived using some reference point, and either the coordinates of the reference point were subtracted from the coordinates of the four real locations, or vice versa. Suppose that those four locations were somewhere near here. I knew that there was an often-used surveyor’s benchmark in Coboconk, and that the coordinates for that point would be readily available. On Google Maps, perchance? My fingers flew over the keyboard, and then, there was the benchmark! Right next to the bridge over the Gull River, just where it should be!
Okay! If x is the desired location, and y is one of the points on the sheet in front of me, and R is the reference point, then the two possibilities are x = R-y or x = R+y. A bit of work in Excel soon gave me two blocks of four sets of coordinates. Going back to Google Maps, I entered the coordinates, and found – nonsense. The first group of four points were all over the place: one in the middle of the village, one in the middle of the old quarry, one somewhere in a swamp, and the fourth apparently in the barn of an abandoned farm. The second set was just as ridiculously inconsistent. I tried other possibilities, using reference coordinates based on other significant local features. Same story.
I had been at it now for more than twenty minutes, had tried more than a dozen possible reference points, and my lack of success was becoming irksome. Stop! I said to myself. Think back to a few minutes ago. What really was this bright idea, and how did you come upon it?
Dutifully, I thought back. But my train of thought had hit a rut and ran stubbornly along the same track. The calculator demon in my head remained obstinately at work, casting up a clamour of other, even more distant possible reference points. I wanted to cut through this internal racket, since none of these further possibilities seemed to have that ring of truth, that –
Ring! Bell! The little church! It was indeed the most obvious spot, visible from anywhere on this part of the lake. And there was a bell in its steeple, and when it was rung it sent a sweet angelic tone rolling harmonically over the lake. I thought of Harold and his “accident”.
That could be it!
My fingers tap danced across the keys as I worked the cursor over Google Maps and then worked my spreadsheet again. Taking the first set of points, I checked the map and found, once again, nothing that looked particularly rational or consistent. My earlier hope now beginning to fade, I checked the second set of points.
Take your time! Check again! I said to myself.
This time, there was no mistake.
“Aha! Gotcha! You little bastard!”
“Got who?”
As I imagined a jacklit deer would be, I was suddenly immobile, trying to identify this rough beast, this sudden intruder to my discoveries. Andrea, now recognized as the source of the interference, cast me a querying gaze from the pool, looking a bit put out at having the peace of her floatation tank so rudely disturbed.
“Nothing”, I mumbled, bearing what I hoped was a suitably sheepish look.
Using the little church in Largs as my reference point, my desired points “x” were all within Balsam Lake. I quickly pulled up a map of depth contours for the lake. It took only a moment to see it.
The points were all in shallow areas, and in fact they all indicated the locations of underwater reefs.
But suddenly, the sharks of doubt were racing in, ready to tear to pieces my sleek bit of euphoria. Why shallow areas? Why reefs? Had I added 2 and 2 and come up with 6.3 masquerading as 4? Nice surprise! Nice bit of apparent consistency! But what did it mean? I had to ponder this.
I was being distracted slowly from my ponderings by a sound that began tapping insistently on the closed door of my attention. It was a faint sound, a distant drone. Gradually it became louder, closer. Suddenly a red and white float plane flashed across in front of us, barely thirty feet above the water, wings wagging madly. Then the throttle was opened, the engine roared more loudly, and the plane climbed and carried on to the south.
Andrea had leapt from the pool.
“Kate!” she shouted, as the plane disappeared behind the shore trees. “It’s Kate!” she shouted again, turning toward me, smiling in anticipation.
One end result of unpacking, walking with George, looking through the house, talking to Jimmy, swimming, finding underwater reefs, and just general daydreaming, was that time had flown. My watch told me it was already quarter to five, and we were meeting Kate at The Repose at five thirty. That’s where she was headed now, and Andrea and I had to get a move on.
Twelve
Rosedale is a lovely spot, and it has been able to remain quiet and peaceful because of two things: the waterway that joins Balsam Lake and Cameron Lake and the high bridge that spans this waterway. These two features quadrisect the village. As a result, there is no main street offering a track for hot rod traffic. Juvenile male drivers, in the grip of out-of-control hormones, are stymied. Their jalopies, sporting mufflers that are really little better than giant tomato-juice cans, have no stretch of road long enough to build up to that mock virile roar, a message having no specific target. In Rosedale, vehicular quiet reigns.
The Repose is located in the northwest quadrant of Rosedale, invisible from the highway, resting in seclusion on the shore of Balsam Lake behind a majestic stand of oak trees. It wasn’t always called The Repose, and its proper name is still not The Repose. When it first started up, about thirty years ago, it was Le Repos de Champlain, named after, you know, Samuel de Champlain, that storied explorer who passed through each of Ontario’s 32,000 lakes at least three times, lost several dozen astrolabes, and seemed to spend all his time carving his name on rocks. At least, that’s the impression you’ll get if you believe all the folklore about him. Champlain was here! Where? Doesn’t matter! He was here! He doesn’t deserve to be made the basis for all this local chest-thumping, because he really was a remarkable guy, and anyone who wants to get the straight goods on him will read the book Champlain’s Dream.
But Samuel actually did pass through the waterways now surrounding the location known as Rosedale, hence the name Le Repos de Champlain, admittedly exuding some hyperbole. As the observant among us have noticed, English has been, in the past, a very jealous linguistic god in North America, eager to stamp out any other language that dares to raise its declensions. One has only to look at the massive French influence that was once present throughout that vast swath of North America that is
now occupied by a fair bit of the US. Scattered over that area, we can find places whose names are pronounced in ways now much departed from their Gallic origins, Tare Hote and Nawlins being examples. Grandes Fourches has been degraded to Grand Forks, Little Rock once sported the delicate moniker La Petite Roche, and Baie Verte now sobs its way through life as Green Bay. The jealous god was hard at work in Ontario too, and a few of the early customers of Le Repos de Champlain started calling it Champlain’s Rest. They soon found that their custom was not welcome.
The owner, Maurice, let his views be known.
“Sacre mouchoir de la Vierge! Qu’est-ce qu’ils font, ces maudits anglais?”
Maurice is rather given to salty expressions, des tournures scabreuses, des expressions un peu cochonnes, especially when he thinks that with just a bit of effort people could get things right. He wasn’t having any of this Shamplane stuff in his establishment, any more than he would serve water to someone chirping “dullo”, or let a person continue thinking that the utterance “doolay” would get them a glass of milk.
Câlisse!
But he was gradually convinced that the name The Repose was okay for two reasons. First of all, because “repose” is a legitimate English word, and not just a lazy bastardization of French (although it is that). Second, he was swayed by the argument that until a body has learned French, they are stuck in the single digit IQ range, are unteachable as a result, and need sympathy more than indignation. For Maurice, this notion struck the unmistakeable diapason note of truth, as clear and compelling as anything heard in St. Joseph’s Oratory, or expressed in the elegant phrasing of Racine.
We drove slowly along the approach road that wound its way through the great imperious oaks, found a place to park, and entered The Repose. Maurice, clearly in charge behind the bar, waved and smiled. He is still fiery when the need arises, but now, his reputation assured and the name of his establishment protected from degradation, he rarely pumps his linguistic indignation up beyond deep red as opposed to the bright cherry volcanism he felt was demanded fifteen years ago.
There are two seating areas in The Repose. There is the “bar” for those who just want to stop for a quick beer, and then there’s the Salon de Fénelon, a more relaxed space that looks west through a sedate stand of mature trees and out over Balsam Lake, sees some spectacular summer sunsets, and invites guests to linger. It also brings Maurice that little extra service, the discreet augmentation de prix that’s applied to everything. It’s worth it, and I’ve never hesitated to pay.
“Bonsoir, Maurice! Ça marche?”
“Ah! Monsieur Vehlan! I know you speak le français. Aucun besoin de faire impression sur moi!”
All spoken through friendly smiles in both directions. Maurice était chez soi! Il avait Le Repos de Champlain en garde! Champlain was at rest. The world was as it should be.
There were just three people in the Salon de Fénelon as we entered, and Andrea had made a beeline for the only woman among them. Kate. Kate rose as Andrea approached, and they hugged in true feeling. It was a delight to watch them.
Almost the same height and build, otherwise they differed in hair, eye, and skin colouring, and in occupation. But they really were sisters, kindred spirits, and when they were together, they became a fascinating amalgam: a blend of Andrea, the off-duty modern urban businesswoman, and Kate the astutely business-oriented bush pilot and truculently feminine tomboy. After their hug, they sat straight away, talking animatedly, touching each others’ arms, being close but unlikely friends. Andrea wore tan slacks, sandals, and a pale yellow blouse, while Kate’s outfit consisted of a blue labourer’s shirt, sleeves cut off roughly at the shoulders and the name “Jim” embroidered on the pocket, faded jeans, and battered safety shoes. But despite the labourer’s disguise, and without Kate having to make any effort whatever, essence of woman radiated from her form.
“Hey! Marcus! Stop impersonating Lot’s wife and get over here!”
I strode over to her confidently, since Kate hates wimpiness. She clamped me in a fierce but completely ingenuous arms-around-the-neck hug, then laid on me a huge lips-to-lips smacker, her sleek black plain-cut hair tickling my cheeks.
“Better sit down now”, she said, and it was true that my loins had indeed been stirred.
“Drinks!” I cried, my forced enthusiasm masking the effort to emerge from the cloud of estrogen Kate had unwittingly puffed at me.
“Can’t”, Kate said. “I’m flying.”
“Tie the plane down”, I ordered. “Stay with us tonight. I’ll drive you back to it in the morning.”
“Wow! There’s a man in the house! Done! I’ll have a Mad Tom!” Kate agreed through a huge grin. “No. Make that two Mad Toms!”
“Menus!” Kate exclaimed, turning toward the bar.
“No! We eat at our place. Barbecued chicken and Caesar salad.”
“You’re on. Make that three Mad Toms!”
“Tankhouse for me”, this from Andrea.
“I guess it’s a beer evening. I’ll make mine a Cameron’s Ambear, if Maurice has any”, spoken back to them, half over my shoulder, as I headed for the bar. Didn’t make it that far, though.
“Hein? Eef Maurice ’as eet? Tu es vraiment un con, Monsieur Vehlan”, and I made a smart U-turn to accompany Maurice back to the table, our drinks, including my Cameron’s Ambear, already on the tray he carried.
From that point onward, the next hour flowed, flew, on a river of conversation and laughter. Kate brought us up to date on her highly unpredictable life, and before we knew it, we had walked to Kate’s plane where she secured it to Maurice’s dock, and were in my car and headed back to Largs. On the way, I briefed Kate about our house guest. But at the back of my mind, all the way to Largs, I wondered about one of the men who had been sitting in The Repose. I had caught his eye once and there was a flicker of something, but that was what I half expected because I was sure I knew him from way back in my life. If he was who I thought he was, I would have to seek him out at some point. Some point soon.
We entered the house, making the clamour of a gathering that was already in full swing. Andrea disappeared to climb into party fatigues. Kate’s shoes were kicked into a corner, and she whipped off her jeans revealing what looked like cycling shorts underneath. I handed Kate a couple of bottles of wine, it being understood that we would reassemble in the back garden. The chicken was prepared and ready to go, the romaine cleaned and ready to be shredded, the homemade Caesar dressing made, and the garlic bread wrapped in foil and ready to be heated. I retrieved it all from the fridge, and Kate and I descended the few steps to the garden. It was still late afternoon, a good two hours to the beginning of a spectacular sunset, and consequently the mosquitoes hadn’t yet formed their evening attack squadrons. We placed wine and salad on the table, and chicken and garlic bread ready for the barbecue. I collected the needed wine glasses from our outdoor cabinet, got the barbecue going, and then went to sit with Kate for a moment before Andrea emerged.
We got the ritual of cheers, clink, and first sip out of the way.
“Have you had a chance to look for the canoe?”
“Looked for and found”, Kate said economically.
“Where was it?”
“Strange place. On the west side of Indian Point, a good kilometre up into North Bay.”
I pondered this for a moment. Not just strange, I thought. Impossible.
“Could you take me there tomorrow? Can you land the plane nearby?”
“Is this a business deal?”
“It can be.”
“No. Just joking. Yes, we can go there.”
I smiled at Kate and raised my glass to her once more, then went back inside to collect the condiments and to coax George to join us.
I didn’t know what to expect when George appeared, but given the other members of the group I needn’t have worried.
Thirteen
It took several minutes to coax George to join us for dinner. Even then he was far from con
vinced that it was a good idea and was nervous and jumpy. But he did come down.
“Kate”, I said in a calm and quiet voice, “this is George, a client of mine going through a rough patch and staying with us for a good dose of country relaxation.” Kate and Andrea rose from the table, smiling brightly.
“Come, George”, I said. “Come over and have a seat”, and I laid a friendly arm across his shoulders.
“Please sit here, George”, Andrea said, indicating the centre of the seat facing the lake, and she walked over and took his arm. They moved slowly to the table and George was enfolded by the two women, one on each side of him, who proceeded to set up a quiet, continuous flow of talk about the lake (not named), our house, Largs, the countryside, the weather, and how pleasant it was in the country in summer. No questions were posed. The choice of things to drink (beer, wine, Sprite, and mineral water) was given, and George quietly selected a can of Sprite. I drifted off to attend to the barbecue. The soft, unchallenging patter continued behind me. I heated the garlic bread, cooked and sliced the chicken, brought it to the table, and we put together our meals.
The short version is that we ate, George saying not a word while we all chowed down, but he smiled a few times in apparent acknowledgement that he was following the discussion.
I poured more wine for Andrea, Kate, and myself, waved a second can of Sprite at George, which he accepted with a smile, and we all just sat in silence watching the sun descend toward the western shore of the lake.
“Thank you”, George said at length. “That was … yes … very good. But … I … it’s time for me to …” and he waved vaguely toward the house.