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.