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 inviting 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.