April Fool Read online

  “I’ll wait for the video,” Selwyn says, dry, unsmiling. He rarely smiles.

  “The Return of the Slasher. Starring Todd Clear-cut, disguised as good old country boy. He dug my peace symbols. ‘Cool,’ he said. Cool? He’s a liberal, he’s hip to peace and civil rights.” She fakes a male voice: “‘Taking a little shakedown cruise Saturday on the boat, think you might enjoy that?’ When I drew his attention to the ring on his hand, he said his wife was in the city. I said, ‘Drop me off, I think I’m going to be sick.’”

  As the Fargo chugs off the Garibaldi ferry ramp, Arthur is talking to himself again, reciting Shelley as a salve to his irritation. The ferry sailed three hours late, it’s half past seven, too late to lay down the law to Margaret. Anyway, he won’t run panting after her. She has Slappy, she doesn’t need another old dog hanging around.

  He still feels his stomach complaining about the unaccustomed rich food. He ought not to have had the coeur à la crème d’Angers.

  Also plaguing him is a feeling of uselessness as Nick Faloon blunders his way to a life sentence for murder. But is Arthur harbouring an illusion as to Nick’s innocence? Maybe Nick is capable of acts of vast evil, was guilty of the first assault, as well. Arthur can find little sustenance in that theory.

  Stoney’s flatbed is still immobile at the side of Potter’s Road, but the tools and wheelbarrows have disappeared. Arthur’s muffler is in its death throes by the time he nears Blunder Bay, and the roar startles a goat escaping up the road. The fence will have to be mended again. Tomatoes must be repotted in the greenhouse. Bills must be paid. He has to keep on top of things.

  7

  After spending the morning with Paavo, helping him shore up the fence, Arthur visits the Woofer house to find Kim Lee at a wok, stirring chop suey.

  “I.” She has trouble with that vowel, points to her chest. “Make. Out-take.” Takeout. She’s prepared a lunch for Margaret and Cud, to be hoisted to their tree fortress. Arthur sniffs at the wok. “I. Take. Tree house.” He doesn’t relish the idea of feeding Cuddles as well.

  He must drop by the gas station on the way back, ask them to replace the muffler. He doesn’t trust Stoney, who still hasn’t got his own truck running. Arthur can see it on Potter’s Road–its hood up, the self-proclaimed best mechanic on the island fiddling with the engine.

  He strolls there to find Stoney splicing ignition wires.

  “Where did you put the tools, Stoney?”

  “What tools?” he says, barely looking up.

  “The ones used to build the tree platform.”

  “Oh, them. Hey, I heard you have a muffler problem. I think I can get you a spare in good shape.”

  “The tools, Stoney. You don’t want them traced to you.”

  Stoney emerges, grease patches on his face. “Well, the good news is they’re all safe and accounted for. Dog is guarding them. Now.”

  The little adverb hints that Stoney has engineered another calamity. Arthur isn’t sure if he wants to hear the bad news yet, he isn’t emotionally prepared.

  “Hey, Arthur, I got a crisis here with the starter. Dog and me, we got to get them tools back to their rightful owners, so could we maybe borrow your truck for the day? I’ll fix the muffler, charge you only for parts, bring it right back.”

  Arthur will let him have the Fargo; he’ll take Margaret’s diesel. As they walk back, a goose follows Stoney, hissing.

  “Arthur, this low area over here screams, Dig me, man, dig me ten feet down, fill me with water. You really got to think about that swimming pond. Put in a dock, one of them rubber boats, loll around reading your Greek classics and shit.”

  “Stoney, you have something to tell me.”

  “Well, to tell the truth, there was this lady hanging around, eh? With a fancy camera, I figured she was one of the news photographers.”

  “And she followed you into the bush where the tools were hidden. And took pictures.”

  “Right. Except for one detail. They weren’t in the bush.”

  That detail is resolved when Arthur spies Dog sleeping under a blanket behind the garage. A glance through the window reveals climbing harnesses, saws, hammers, wheelbarrows, generator, even scale plans for the tree platform.

  Arthur has visions of writs flying. Garlinc versus Arthur Ramsgate Beauchamp, warehouseman for the conspiracy. Plaintiff further alleges the defendant’s vehicle was used to remove the incriminating items. He thinks about explaining to Ed Santorini how he has been victimized by the Garibaldi gremlins.

  A few brisk, pointed words persuade Stoney that the tools must be hauled away within the hour, under canvas. Arthur secures the plans. Built-in table, shelves, benches. A privacy partition for the chemical toilet. Where do they shower? “One foamy here,” says a scribble. No mention of another.

  What nonsense to entertain such low suspicions. Margaret and Cud? How absurd, she’s never had much time for the fellow, with his unbounded lack of class. (“Want to see the peace symbol on my ass?” She looks up, bored with Tolstoy. “Why not?”) An irrational anxiety is creating seamy imaginings, an ugly habit learned during a long career as cuckold.

  Early this morning, midnight for her, Deborah called from Melbourne, shocked and delighted to have seen her father on the late news, a brief clip. “The kind of item they throw in for a chuckle to soften you up for the ads,” she said. “Nicky said you looked a little pompous.” His fourteen-year-old grandson.

  Deborah viewed the protest as a lark, refused to give ear to his complaints. “Dad, you’re perfectly capable of making your own sandwiches…You’re miffed because she’s on the podium and you’re second fiddle…Do something, get active, there’s more to life than growing radishes. You were a big-time lawyer when she met you. What have you done to impress her since?”

  At the Gap Trail, the logging trucks are gone, press vans in their place. A sign reserves a roped-off area for Garlinc employees, a table with its glossy brochures, “In Harmony with Nature.” Todd Clearihue’s Audi is there. Another two dozen vehicles are strung down the road. Among the stumps, a banner, “Operation Eagle.” Tents have been erected. A Greenpeace information table. A Rainforest Alliance booth.

  Corporal Al is on foot patrol and pulls Beauchamp over. “Let me take this rig off your hands, Arthur, or you’ll have an uphill hike. Everyone’s assembling to go to the heights to look for eagles, that’s why all the cars.” He leans into the cab. “Sure smells good.” Essences of soya and garlic waft from the cartons.

  “War rations.”

  “Actually a lot of folks are taking turns sending up hot meals.” He takes Arthur’s place in the Toyota. “Don’t see you much at Tai Chi these days.”

  “I’ve been remiss.”

  A six-minute hike brings him to the Gap. Clearihue is conferring with a woman, an investigator perhaps, making notes for court, taking pictures.

  The regulars of the Save Gwendolyn Society are assembling with cameras and binoculars. They want to hear about the court procoeedings. They want Arthur to be honorary patron for the fundraising drive. They talk about auctions and bake sales, garage sales. Garlinc paid $8 million for this property. The last bake sale brought in $258.

  But support for the protest is growing. Selwyn gave a strong interview on national television. Donations have started to flow to the Save Gwendolyn Society.

  Hammocks have been strung up on the tree platform–Margaret is gently swinging in one, reading. Cud is leaning over the railing, lowering a rope to Felicity Jones. She puts a few pages in a basket. Love verses? I am a flower waiting to be plucked…

  Slappy tries to jump into the basket, and Felicity has to wrestle him out. Cud waits until the chop suey is added to the cargo, then pulls it up. Arthur fights off a surge of resentment that Margaret is sharing a high-rise apartment with this versifying quack. An original voice from the bush. Bawdy and muscular. The reviewers of Liquor Balls were cautious, as if in fear such a ruffianly poet might harm them if they panned the book.

  One
foamy here. He feels reverberations, echoes of fears instilled through long conditioning. Annabelle, his socially energetic ex-wife, banished him to hell, to cuckoldom, alcoholism, impotence, he was writhing with jealousy. He came to Garibaldi six years ago less to retire from law than to escape the pain, the shame, the sniggers. He does not intend to go through that again.

  “Arthur, you made lunch?” Margaret has risen and joined Cud. Comrades. Shoulder to shoulder.

  “You must thank Kim Lee.”

  She seems disappointed in him. “Any eggs?”

  “Yes, ten this morning. The hens are beginning to lay again. No nanny goats have dropped their burdens.” Reporters have sidled up, recording these homely shouted moments for their mass audiences.

  “Arthur, after I finish War and Peace, I think I’ll need something lighter.”

  “I shall bring you some mysteries, you have earned the right to forbidden tastes.” She devours such books. He’ll keep her busy reading.

  “I forgot to tell you, get Barney out of the lower pasture before he explodes. You need a gas mask for his farts.”

  Here comes Reverend Al, intent on breaking up this talkfest.

  “My dear, I have been instructed to have a deep, personal conversation with you, but I’m not quite sure how that could come about.”

  “How about a conjugal visit?”

  “If only I had the wings of Icarus.” A camera is in his face, capturing his foolish smile.

  “No hassle, man,” Cud says, “I’ll send down the elevator.”

  “Do it,” says Felicity. “It’s awesome up there.”

  Arthur has a crick in his neck from looking up. Icarus flew too close to the sun, fell to his death. He reminds himself that Stoney and Dog were among the building crew. He is leery of the rope ladder, though Felicity managed it well enough. But he can see himself tanglefooted in the rungs, hanging upside down.

  He glances at Doc Dooley, who is about to set out with the eagle-spotting party. Dooley shakes a warning finger. Avoid stress.

  “Margaret, the judge will forgive all sins if you evacuate the tree.”

  “Fat chance,” she says. Slappy punctuates this with an emphatic bark.

  Margaret seems far too pleased with her situation, her central role in this protest. Life with Arthur has paled, she has found a richer passion. A stout tree she can hug all day. How might Arthur urge her to give another volunteer a turn? He can’t just shout it–that would only stiffen her resolve.

  “Write her a letter.” Reverend Al, a mind reader. Then he joins the eagle seekers as they take up packsacks and cameras.

  Arthur tags along too, but is bearded by Todd Clearihue. “Hey, Arthur, can we pause for a friendly confab?” From his pocket, he produces several photographs–interiors of Arthur’s garage, the tools, a close-up of the plans. “I’ll be candid, Arthur, these were taken yesterday.”

  “By your trespassing private investigator. Todd, I suspect we may not be friends when this is over. Especially if I’m forced to sue for defamation should I hear the merest hint that I was in league with the parties who hid them there.”

  “Okay, let’s put that aside. I can’t believe you would do anything improper like that.”

  The intimation of blackmail has Arthur fighting an impulse to stalk off, but that would put past to any hope of negotiation. “Todd, you cannot deny that Gwendolyn Bay is a natural park. Nor that there is a hue and cry among the public. What an admirable gesture it would be to donate these lands–a brilliant coup of public relations.”

  Arthur expects no more than to soften up Garlinc for fair compensation–they will not throw away the $8 million paid for the land, will want other outlays covered. Clearihue carries on about anticipated profits, investment could be trebled, he has shareholders to answer to: a cynical mantra, the majority stock is held by his family.

  “Suggest a figure,” Arthur says.

  “Sixteen million on quick turnover. The property is worth that alone in timber and recreational potential.”

  “That’s double what you paid.”

  “Everyone knows the owners undervalued it.”

  “Outrageous.” Ten thousand bake sales later…

  “Arthur, let me be sincere with you–I’m just one shareholder. The other guys don’t give a shit about Gwendolyn.” A lowered voice. “I don’t want this to get back to them. I’m with you on this deal. I live here, this is my now-and-forever home, I want to see parkland. For me, my kids.” An intense look, he hungers to be believed.

  “Fine, then give me your bottom figure.”

  “Fourteen and a half.” Barely a whisper. “But it has to be quick, because if Justice Santorini switches on the green light, we’re driving into Gwendolyn. I don’t want to, but I don’t have an option.”

  Winded, Arthur lies on the moss, watching the troops disperse as they seek vantages to photograph a nest obscured by foliage. The structure is a massive thicket of sticks; the search crew can find no high point that might reveal if a female is nesting there.

  One solitary eagle is on the wing, floating on the thermals. Below Arthur lie Gwendolyn Valley and the cup-shaped bay. As the eagle floats off behind a ridge, a pair of vultures come into view, as if with glum augury: the expedition is futile and must fail. The few members of the press who joined the trek are already heading down the trail; there is no story here.

  They miss stout Flora Henderson tripping over her dog and ending up with her bottom wedged in a rift between rocks. Baldy Johansson cracks his shin trying to pull her out. Arthur is glad to see Baldy here–he was one of the naysayers hanging around the General Store.

  Far down the beach, a determined otter forages among the driftwood. There are cliff swallows here, returning migrants, swooping like darts–where will they go when the walls of the Gap come down? And what is this? A little clump of ghost-white leaves and flowers. It may be the Phantom Orchid that lives off fungi, threatened in its northern range. He pictures the forest stripped to nakedness.

  Arthur has always run from causes, distrustful of zealots with their hard opinions, but he’s been feeling his despair turn to anger, the fuel that drives one to…social action, Lotis Rudnicki calls it. She taunted him again in the restaurant. Get on message, get on board, get involved. She remains stubbornly unwilling to tremble in his presence, enjoys defying the old crustacean and his calcified values.

  He has been shoved about from all sides–Margaret, Deborah, the militant pixie–and it’s wearing him down. He’ll give these young lawyers a hand. He’ll advise, he’ll take a more active role in court. He’ll go that far. For Margaret.

  On his way home, he stops at the General Store for his mail. The usual table of hard-drinking citizenry is here, as is Nelson Forbish, sticking copies of The Bleat in the mail slots, a special edition under the headline, “BOTTLE OF THE GAP DRAWS WORLD ATTENTION.”

  “‘Bottle of the Gap?’” says Ernie Priposki, staring at the front page over his fortified coffee.

  “Rush job of proofreading,” Nelson says.

  Arthur retrieves a copy: a photograph of two blurred, distant figures up a tree. Closer inspection informs that one of them is “prominent citizen Margaret Blake, wife of a former distinguished lawyer.” What is he going to say to Ed Santorini? The judge will not be satisfied with a fat chance.

  “Can’t stop progress,” Priposki says. “They’re gonna have a fancy lounge in that development, with TV and cocktail waitresses.”

  Abraham Makepeace, heretofore not known to have a sense of humour, says, “Would you be happier if I wore a dress?” He fondles each article of Arthur’s mail. “Here’s your pension cheque, that’s about all the good news. Card from a Woofer who’s cancelling, going to business school. Margaret’s got her David Suzuki newsletter. Invitation to subscribe to Time, with a free electronic pocket organizer. This here looks like it’s from a law office.”

  Arthur tears it open. A few lines from Brian Pomeroy acknowledging he has the Faloon file well in hand, and invi
ting Arthur to join him in the defence. Fat chance.

  “Hey, Arthur, you finding life on the homestead a little lonely these days?” The throaty chuckle of Emily Lemay, who managed the Brig Tavern until that fateful day when the kitchen grease caught fire. “Want me to come by and change the bedding?”

  “He ain’t that desperate,” says Priposki.

  “If I ever am, Emily, you’ll be the first person I call.”

  “You got my number, case you need solace.” Her Rubensesque figure quivers as she chortles. “Cuddles likes them young, but he ain’t choosy. Randier than a five-legged dog.”

  She winks at Priposki, who joins in the ribbing: “Did I hear right he gave a librarian the clap on one of them reading tours?”

  Arthur grins, he’s a good sport.

  Miraculously, yesterday’s newspapers have arrived, and he buys a Sun, reads about the memorial service for Dr. Eve Winters, about the tributes for this caring marital healer. No children, and the story doesn’t mention a consort. She was something of an athlete: tennis, swimming, bicycling.

  On an inside page he sees his own picture: blowing Margaret a kiss from beneath the tree. How mawkish.

  He picks out several mysteries from the used-book shelves, buys a new can opener–he has no idea where Margaret stored the old one. The coffee tin was empty–or was it the sugar tin? He buys both. He isn’t sure what else the house is lacking–Margaret usually gives him a list.

  He studies a bag of whole wheat flour. Yes, and yeast, he’ll make his own bread. He’s not a greenhorn in the kitchen, just out of practice ever since, on another April day, the widow next door came by looking for a lost lamb, finding one in Arthur. He succumbed hopelessly to love, remains its pathetic prisoner to this day. He feels hollow without her, incomplete.

  He’s not sure how much of his feelings she returns. “Arthur, I love you,” she will say, but brightly, playfully. On their last night together, she shunned his touch in bed. She’d been deeply in love with popular, outgoing, fiddle-playing Chris Blake, who died untimely of a heart attack three years before Arthur plodded onto the scene. His ghost still haunts Blunder Bay, flitting in through bedroom windows, hovering, watching, judging.