Mind Games Page 26

  She admitted Grundy asked her to lie if anyone inquired about his drinking that night. Given that, and given Grundy’s boasts to Martha Wade about his sexual stamina, I didn’t know what to believe.

  Now it is half past five on Friday, the last day of October. The sun is setting over the Monashee Mountains, glinting from waves on choppy Upper Arrow Lake. The race has been run.

  You’ll have heard the results by the time I get back, so I won’t be able to spin out the suspense as I usually do. I’ll fill your ears when we meet.

  A few entrants chickened out or went to the convention instead, in Kelowna, and as of yesterday morning we had sixty-one left. Nearly a third were women, and in age we spanned several decades: there were a couple of fit seniors, one I know to be seventy, a cardiologist.

  Festivities began Thursday with a pancake breakfast on the lawn of City Hall. Jib Faile was there, standing off to the side, looking around, sizing up the competition. He was focusing on a woman doing warm-ups, exhibiting her long, muscular legs. She in turn was giving me the once-over. I was to meet her later: Dr. Josephine Guild.

  Almost everyone but me seemed relaxed about the trials ahead, joking about their chances, vying for last place (for which there was actually a consolation prize), and treating this rally in the manner advised by my therapist. You have to have fun.

  We headed off behind a farm truck (tricked out with a banner to warn oncoming traffic that le prix de Okanagan would be puffing along behind). Our shoreline route would be the busy Okanagan Highway, south to Skaha Lake, then back. There’d be another overnight in Vernon (gathering in the Sasquatch Lounge as our lapsed times are tabulated), then (after another outdoor breakfast) a final gruelling climb over the Highlands to a town called Needles on Lower Arrow Lake. A lamb barbecue at the lakeside farm of a retired pediatrician. Back to our Vernon hotels by chartered bus.

  The sun was bright as we set out for the first leg, the few clouds seeking shelter by the hills above the peach and apple orchards. I stayed comfortably in the pack. On our return jog, a few doctors began to clump up in front. I joined them, drafting off them. When I glanced behind, I saw Faile drafting off me. And Josephine Guild close behind him.

  I had opportunity that evening, in the Vernon pub, to compare a few notes with Faile. He, too, had been training hard – I recognized him, a sinewy fellow whom I’d occasionally spotted pumping down the False Creek bicycle paths. “Watch out for her,” he said, indicating Dr. Guild: darkly attractive, a confident bearing, a teasing smile. “She’s a ringer. Bronze in the Canada Games three years ago.”

  But that event, he told me, was mountain biking. Road racing requires different skills, different training. She might easily win the women’s competition, but overall …? Not to be sexist, but God has endowed the male body with the speed and endurance of the hunter … I don’t think I’ll develop that notion.

  I didn’t have to wait long for a chance to meet her. Indeed, she made the move, joining me at the bar as I was ordering another grapefruit juice. She asked for a single malt.

  “I’ve been watching you,” she said.

  “You haven’t escaped my attention either.” I hoped that sounded more gallant than flirtatious.

  “You’ve been training. That’s a cyclist’s tan.” The white of my forehead where the face is shadowed by a helmet.

  As we continued this light exchange, she moved closer, thigh to thigh. We traded resumés, she expressing keen concern in the forensic arts, I learning she was a G.P. who runs fitness clinics. It turns out we both were recently separated.

  Intending to hint I must soon retire, I mentioned I hadn’t slept well the previous night. She may have taken that as an invitation. She had special training in relaxing the body through massage. “Would you like me to do some work on you?”

  I thanked her with the lame (and, on reflection, tactless) excuse that I might fall asleep in the process. She immediately clicked off. With a sardonic, “Yes, you’ll probably need to save all your energy,” she ordered another Glenfiddich and turned to the long-haired intern on the stool beside her.

  I fled to my room, to the shower, to bed, entertaining ignoble hopes that Dr. Guild might not only tire herself out with someone else tonight, but she might be hungover tomorrow, as well.

  I watched her the next morning over my bowl of granola as she wolfed down a plate of scrambled eggs and toast. This was an indication she might be out of training, though she showed no signs of weariness.

  Yesterday’s leaders started first in order of elapsed time, and it wasn’t long before only four of us were up front, taking turns against the wind. Then, as we began to climb, one dropped back, then another, and there were only Faile and me. Dr. Guild was slipping back.

  I was tiring too, calling for resources from deep within, seeking my second wind. I sensed Faile was struggling mightily, weary from the unforgiving uphill. I had already scouted the point at which I’d make my break, fourteen minutes from the summit of the Okanagan Highlands. There, I passed Faile on the inside, at a curve.

  The road dipped, and I bolted down, then up, the last ascent. I surprised the driver of our lead truck, coming almost abreast of him. He flashed me a victory sign and sped up.

  I glanced behind. Faile was fading, thirty metres behind. But there, around a bend, came Dr. Guild, head down, arms stiff, legs pumping. I didn’t let up. The summit approached, a first sight of the Arrow Lakes in the hazy distance, the road spiralling downward now, a rushing creek beside it.

  One has to brake for some of the sharper curves, and the art involves knowing the exact pressure to apply. Too strong and prolonged, and you lose vital seconds. Too light, and you go off the road into the pine trees. My advantage was knowing this road, knowing which curves were dangerous. Guild was drafting off Faile now, saving energy for a final push.

  Finally, I could see the unpretentious burg of Needles, and just beyond it, our host’s lakeside farm, a bus, some SUVs, lambs on spits over wood fires. The ferry to the Kootenays had docked, and cars were disembarking. The finish line was in the town itself, a community where apparently not much happens because the locals were out in force, gathered about a tape stretched across the road.

  Suddenly, as I swept around a final curve, I sensed I wasn’t alone. There she was, only fifteen metres behind, and our route was bottoming out into a valley, the town only minutes away

  I was working my heart out, Allis, fire was in my lungs. And this female Mercury was gaining, and soon we were almost wheel to wheel. This couldn’t be happening. But it was. All my training, my local knowledge, my clever tactics, my whole uncontrollable obsession over this stupid race – all were for nought.

  Josephine Guild was a length ahead of me when she broke the tape (a roll of pink toilet paper).

  The applause of bystanders came mockingly to my ears. Several young women were jumping and screaming. Those of my sex, the side I’d let down, were laughing self-consciously, and one – presumably the village redneck – whistled at me with contempt.

  Halfway down the block, almost to the waterfront, I caught up to the gliding Dr. Guild. I congratulated her, and she was magnanimous in response. I was about to turn back but noticed that the last cars were loading on the ferry.

  I don’t eat lamb. I’ve less fondness for humble pie. I had just enough time to catch that ferry, and did so unthinkingly, without stopping to retrieve my warm gear – left behind in our chartered bus.

  Now, as I stand at the railing pondering my impetuous act, I choose to be stubborn. There will be no going back. I have my wallet, and can buy a coat or jacket along the way.

  The declining sun dapples the lake with flecks of gold. The eastern shore approaches, drivers are heading to their vehicles, and I to Vesuvio II. Twenty kilometres to the north lies my destination, and it is taunting me.

  It is now several hours later, close to midnight – a guess only, because they’ve taken my watch. I am staring out of a barred window, at the cold black lake, at the lights
by the shore, illuminating the pools of the Warm Springs Hotel. I can hear the distant thump of guitars and bass, bearded men playing rock and roll. Goblins and ghouls dance in the hall. An explosion of fireworks …

  I’m still slashing through the undergrowth in my head, slowly emerging from a fog of Kootenay Brainfuck. Images from the night mock me, then evaporate like the mists from the springs. Willkommen! Snoopy the Bear. Princess Di and Dodi.

  I’ve made my one phone call – to John Brovak’s voice mail. Likely he’s at some Halloween function, cellphone turned off. I shouldn’t have tried to call a known drug lawyer, that only made the Mounties smirk in confirmation that they had their man. I was denied a second call, to Jack Churko. “He’s an inspector” I yelled, “VPD homicide.” They laughed, thinking I was a kidder.

  Finally, I can start to piece it together. I was on the Arrow Lake ferry, about to disembark, when a young man in a toque, an unlit cigarette dangling from his lips, beckoned me from the cab of his dilapidated pickup. “Dubbin, that you? Hey, Dub, it’s me, Louie. Fucking A, welcome back.” I stood there, bemused. What shall we call this episode? The Return of the Dooberman. He’s broken out, he’s back, he’s unstoppable.

  He told me to sling my bike in the back. My first mistake was to accept this offer, but it was growing dark. In the cab, he thrust out his hand, squeezed mine hard – clearly, he regarded Dub as no small hero. I intended to set him straight, explain I was actually a wandering psychiatrist, but that seemed as absurd as the rendition he preferred.

  Once underway, he asked if I was coming to the dance. I hedged, asked where it was. The conversation went something like this:

  “At the hall, man.”

  “I might just crash.”

  “That don’t sound like the Dooberman. The joint’s gonna be jumping. Speaking of, got any of that good stuff?”

  Dooberman had to be a nickname. I was the doobie-man, the local dealer. They say there is for everyone, somewhere on this crowded planet, a person who goes about wearing the mask of another, his duplicate. But why did Dubbin Dooberman’s counterpart have to be an addle-headed shrink with relationship problems who’d just lost the race of his life?

  I should have told him I was in the business of dispensing only prescribed drugs, but made my second regrettable decision – to play him along. Otherwise, my theory went, he might succumb to silence and suspicion, like Joe Beauregard. I told him I was clean, man, on parole and going straight.

  This caused him to snicker. Louie was his name, nineteen or twenty, a skinny kid with a scrawny beard. I, Dub Dooberman, was almost twice his age. How long had we known each other? How long had I been gone, why had I been serving time?

  Louie asked what was with the bicycle, the weird getup, the number eighteen. A charity gig, I explained, my mouthpiece had got me off with community service. (I was still reasonably clear-headed, and must have thought I was being clever.)

  “I got a half a number in the ashtray, want to light it up?”

  I felt the Dooberman was being tested, asked to prove himself, his unalterable Doobness. I was obviously someone incapable of turning down a toke. I was in the Kootenays, where it is considered discourteous to do so, where cannabis is an important export industry.

  I lit, took a draw, made a show of holding it in, passed the joint to Louie.

  “Good bud, man,” said the Dooberman.

  “Just the regular Brainfuck,” said Louie.

  It was a potent strain, and as the cab filled with perfumed cloud, I achieved an almost instant high. My voice cracked with alarm: “Where’d you score this?”

  “Imagine it’s off one of your old man’s clones.”

  “My old man?”

  “Right on.”

  He plugged in a tape, early Led Zeppelin, turned up the volume to one level below ear-shattering screeching.

  I shouted, “Is he still, uh, hanging around?”

  “Yeah, of course. I’ll take you to his joint after I drop off some shit at the hall.”

  You can’t possibly comprehend how depressed I was by this time. Peter was the local godfather, his son (my half-brother?) had a record as long as the Oxford Dictionary. Did I want to visit him? No, I preferred to check into the Warm Springs Hotel, take a walk, clear my head.

  I wanted to shout more questions at Louie but was too befuddled, and he was lost in his music. Twilight had set in. The highway clung to the lake on the left, offered misty valley views. I was scarcely able to appreciate them, too stoned, too anxious.

  Small farms appeared, with fruit trees and chicken coops. SKI BIG JACKSON, said a sign. Another advertised the Warm Springs Hotel, and yet another announced our arrival at the town limits (WILLKOMMEN! ENJOY YOUR STAY!)

  We turned up a side road to a sturdy wooden building, the community hall. The front door was wide open. “Check,” boomed an amplified voice. “Check. Check.” A band was setting up inside. I jumped as a man dripping blood staggered out, half his face torn away. I looked at Louie, expecting shock, but he was laughing.

  “That you, Roscoe?” he yelled. “Fucking A, man.”

  What was fucking A about Roscoe? Then I flinched again as a stout woman emerged, a grand moustache, whiskers. “The bearded lady,” Louie shouted, getting out of the truck. “Guess who I brung?”

  Awareness came to me with a rush of relief: it was Halloween, for God’s sake. I laughed, but with an edge of desperation. I stayed in the truck, stuck my bike helmet on my head, hoping I might seem disguised too.

  The man in the ghoulish mask came closer, peered at me. “Fuck me,” he said.

  “The Dooberman is back,” Louie said.

  “Man, this is going to be some party.”

  “Supposed to be a surprise,” I mumbled.

  The bearded lady frowned at me. “What are you supposed to be, Dubbin, some kind of athlete? I got it, running from the law. Shit, the cops are gonna recognize you in that.” He went to the trunk of a car, rummaged through a box.

  Others came out. There was a lot of, “Hey, Dub, what’s up, what’s happening, man?” and other questions that didn’t seem to require answers, as they unloaded the pickup – hall decorations, cases of beer, fireworks. I stood about in a daze.

  The bearded lady returned with a furry outfit with paws. “I was gonna give this to Clyde, but he already passed out.” He handed me a mask, as well: Snoopy with a Snidely Whiplash moustache and in leather headgear.

  Another joint was produced, lit, passed around. I couldn’t simply pretend to inhale, and felt obliged to take a puff. Then I stepped out of the truck, zipped myself into the costume. It smelled of long-dead bear, but at least I was warm.

  Louis then drove me a ways up a rural road. I thought I might be hallucinating when the name “Clinton W. Huff” flashed by. An illuminated mailbox, his house lit up too, behind some trees. Was the mayor receiving tiny guests, handing out FreedomFirstForever pamphlets to their parents?

  Louie made a loop up a rise, and I was deposited by a wooden gate, where a jack-o’-lantern beckoned with a crooked smile. I had to be reminded to retrieve my bicycle. “See you at the dance, Dub.”

  The mailbox was designed as an imitation birdhouse, a roof that opens to receive mail, a name carved into the wood: Walker.

  As Louie drove off, a couple of small ghosts flitted into view, hastening up the walkway to the Walker house. I stood there awhile, recording my impressions: a hand-built look, cedar logs and shingles, a turret with stained glass.

  A woman’s voice behind me: “Don’t run!”

  The two children slowed, gained the porch, knocked on the door. Their mother waited by the gate, and I wheeled my bike to her. She found my costume a source of humour. “What are you, Snoopy the bear?”

  “It’ll have to do. I just rode into town.” She was as confused as I about that, and I wasn’t able to assemble an explanation. “Do you know Mr. Walker?”

  “Oh, yes. Very nice man. They say his son, Dubbin, is a rotten egg.” Her hand went to her mouth.
“Oh, I’m sorry, are you related?”

  “Maybe.”

  Now comes my first glimpse of Walker. But his face is in the dark, the light behind him. A tall man, but hunched over. He shuffles forward, and the children shy away nervously: now I see why – he’s a two-headed monster … no, not quite, there’s a human form over his shoulder, a head hidden by falling hair, gloved hands dangling: a stuffed corpse.

  “Trick or treat,” a little voice pipes.

  “What do you want first, the trick or the treat? “A gruff voice.

  “Really, Mr. Walker,” the mother loudly chides.

  The children back off farther. “Now, now, boys, it’s just me.” Walker stands to his full height, extends bags of sweets, but the boys seem unwilling to come closer.

  Their mother walks into the yard to offer courage. “Todd, It’s just Mr. Walker getting all dressed up. See, Freddy, that’s a big pillow with arms sewn on it.”

  I followed her, and was now able to make him out more clearly: a white bathing cap over his head to simulate baldness, tufts of beard glued to chin and jowls – he resembled someone I know too well. The dummy over his shoulder was a replica of a woman with long hair. An imitation chain of office around his neck completed the picture.

  “Who are you?” said the woman. “The hunchback of Notre Dame?”

  “He’s the mayor of Jackson Cove,” I explained.

  “Exactly right.” He seemed startled. “And who the hell are you?”

  Walker was a few inches over six feet, a big handsome man, probably in his late fifties – I felt I could see the family resemblance behind the Huff-like disguise. Brown eyes, not blue like mine.

  The boys had accepted his offerings by now and scampered off, their mother in tow. From behind the house came a loud quacking, as if from a duck in its death throes.

  “Must have got one of them,” Walker said. “I let some weasels loose.” I could make no sense of this. He peered at me, trying to penetrate the Snoopy mask. “I say – do I know you?”