“Were you tempted?”
He responds huffily: “Of course not.” It will be a task confessing to Margaret. Confessing? He’s guilty of nothing.
“And you don’t think Jasper Flynn is humping her?”
“She says not.”
“And what? You believe her? You think Flynn turned her down when she grabbed his dick?”
Arthur can find no delicate way to respond.
Lotis is intrigued by the spat overheard in Cotters’ Cottage between Ruth and, presumably, Eve Winters. “‘It’s over, Ruth’? Whoa, I should’ve figured they were keeping something from me.”
She lunched Saturday at the home of Dr. Glynis Bloom, an anaesthetist, and Wilma Quong, an accountant, who were cooperative but subdued. Dr. Bloom was the more outgoing, and talked fondly of Winters, a friend of a dozen years. Also there was the graduate student, Ruth Delvechio, closed and apprehensive. She and Eve Winters had been romantically interested, but no mention was made of an affair-ending quarrel.
“A few bitching sessions-you expect that on a tough sixday hike-but ‘Fuck you, your fucking highness’ never came up. I can see why Winters wanted to shed her, she’s chronically gushy. ‘It’s lovely that you’re working for the environment, that’s just so important.’”
The unofficial reason Winters stayed on in Bamfield might have been to escape Ruth Delvechio, but Winters told them she wanted to spin out her holiday. She’d written two columns in advance, and was charmed by the village. The others had to return to their work and studies.
The name Adeline Angella meant nothing to them, but they recalled Winters’s display of temper about a threatened court action. “Apparently Eve could let fly, which makes for a different image of the cool-headed shrink.”
Lotis also met with Dr. Winters’s secretary, who was of little help. “Didn’t recall Angella’s name, only vaguely recognized her photo. Doctor Eve keyed all the patient interviews into the computer herself, all except the clerical odds and sods, appointments, accounts.”
Arthur is missing some of this. He’s sitting, absorbed in one of Winters’s columns, “The Man Who Thinks He’s a Masochist,” advice to Mr. J: “It is not unnatural to be attracted to strong women. In fact, it is a healthy sign. Through antiquity, women have sought strong males, now in this more liberated age there is a greater balance of attraction. Unconsciously we seek healthy partners to improve the species.” She tells Mr. J he must rid himself of any notion he suffers masochistic tendencies.
“Quite right,” he says aloud. He reddens, covers the page.
“Earth to Arthur Beauchamp.”
“Sorry, there’s too much traffic in my head…You’ve done some good work, Lotis.” For some reason those were difficult words. Why does it rankle him that she’s so unexpectedly competent? “I hope I’m not pressing you into service too severely.”
“Shit no, I’m pumped.”
He can’t remember, even as a young lawyer, having such bumptious energy. Or idealism, however flawed. He had no passion to change the world. The law was based on centuries of common sense. The law was his god, the courtroom his universe. He was born stuffy.
“I dragged Buddy Svabo from his backyard barbecue to ask if he’ll release Dr. Winters’s files. ‘Not,’ he said. He wants to argue it tomorrow.” The disclosure hearing. “Also, he’s hinting he has a jailhouse informant. A fink, I don’t know who. He says he doesn’t have to identify him.”
Arthur sits up, startled. “That’s preposterous. If Buddy Svabo has engaged a lying informer, it will rebound on him.” Would Nick Faloon be so careless with his words in prison?
“I had a quick visit with Nick, he looks like shit, depressed, unshaven, and out of shape. He thinks he burdened you with a case you can’t win. Also, he wonders when you’re coming to visit him.”
“I haven’t found the time yet.” But he must, and soon. Faloon has to be persuaded to come clean about his night with Holly Hoover. Claudette has a forgiving nature.
Arthur is naked, lumbering through the woods with gluey slowness, fleeing a pursuing grizzly. He reaches the safety of the road only to find his truck gone…
“Dream bad.” As Kim Lee nudges him awake, he is partly on a sofa, partly on the floor, running from the bear. “Stoney come. Late go now.” This means Stoney is back with the Toyota and Arthur has overslept. She is extending the basket of out-take.
Hurrying out to impound the keys, he sees that Lotis has already commandeered the truck, is in the driver’s seat. Stoney has brought not just diesel fuel but a wetsuit for Dog, who is looking forlorn and froglike in flippers, mask, and snorkel. Arthur can’t bear to watch this drama play out, climbs in beside Lotis, who turns on the ignition.
“I thought you didn’t drive.”
“I’m from southern California. We late, go feed.”
A quick stop at the General Store, where Aloysius Noggins, still in clerical collar after Sunday service, is enjoying his reward, a steaming rum coffee. He’s waiting for the ferry-he’ll be meeting Selwyn Loo, escorting him to the Gap.
Reverend Al studies Lotis’s rump as she picks through a bin of oranges. “Blessed is the man who endureth temptation.”
“Speak for yourself.”
“I am.”
He has just come from a meeting of the Save Gwendolyn Society. A bake sale has brought in $324. A bingo at the hall tonight might double that-if enough event-exhausted Garibaldians show up. Against these microscopic amounts, some donations from afar have been sizable, $500,000 from a U.S. philanthropist, $200,000 from a wildlife fund.
The key is to keep Gwendolyn Valley in the news. The protesters are alive to that. Lotis has been brainstorming with them, scripting ceremonies to amuse the reporters, keep them happy.
“DAY ELEVEN!” cries the Sunday newspaper. Twenty-one days, Margaret promised, ten to go. She could reneg, and try for the Guinness record. She’s become unpredictable in her middle years. It’s not menopause, she’s over that. Some other womanly thing.
“Any eagle sightings?” Arthur asks Reverend Al.
“I’m about ready to admit to the futility of prayer.”
“Can’t stop progress.” Ernie Priposki, over-refreshed, staring with glazed eyes into space, somewhere beyond the canned soups.
On the Gap Trail, Arthur is met by Flim and Flam, as locals have taken to calling the filmmakers, and their cameras dog him silently all the way up the trail. At the Holy Tree, he finds Lotis fastening the lunch basket to the rope, Slappy overseeing. Cud Brown hangs over the railing, fixed upon Lotis.
Margaret appears, bundled in sweater, jacket, and toque.
“Are you feeling all right, my dear?”
“A bit of a sore throat.”
Arthur barely heard that, she’s hoarse. Cud speaks for her. “Your lady’s got a cold. We’re trying not to get too close.” His facetious grin.
Arthur’s worry level ratchets up another half-dozen notches. “Is she running a temperature?”
“Yeah, she’s kind of hot.”
Margaret finds her voice. “It’s minor. Over tomorrow.” A switch of topic. “You look like you’ve been putting on weight.”
“I’m fit as a fiddle.”
“A bass fiddle.”
Cud hauls up the basket, calls down to Lotis. “Man, this smells like it came out of the ovens of Arcady.” Arcady, as if the poseur has studied the Greek myths. (Has he ever read Tennyson? A Shakespeare sonnet? Blake? Housman?) “Who baked this?”
“The person you are speaking to.”
“You don’t look like a home-baking type.”
“You don’t look like a sexist.” Tossing her hair.
“I wasn’t until I met you, my lovely.”
“Yeah, I have this power to bring out the inner jerk in people.”
There is tension in this scene, entertainment for the cameras. It galls Arthur that Cud is loafing around up there, living off the community dole. These sandwiches came from the kitchens not of Arcady but Bungle Bay. It’s the Garibaldi Writer-in-Residence grant.
Arthur makes sure that Margaret has cold medications, and urges her to rest. That’s not all he wants to say, he has a host of concerns and questions. Insistent but with misgiving, he calls upon Cud to watch over her, ensure she drinks water, stays covered.