I take another route home. After breakfast, I toiclass="underline" in my garden, in the woodshed, in the yard. I feel the fat melt away like butter in the sun. On a sweltering day in late July, I brave the ocean. Naked, I swim in the salt sea foam above Neptune’s coral caves, and emerge to dry like a seal on the rocks. I am smoking less, no cigarettes, just an occasional pipe.
I have joined a local tai chi group that meets weekly in the community hall. I have also joined a drama group, the Garibaldi Players. I continue to go to theAAmeetings. I have visited our septuagenarian physician, crusty old Doc Dooley, who pronounces my heart and arteries fit and dares me to outlive him. I fish on weekends with George Rimbold. I make other new friends, fellow elopers from the city. Among them are the arty and the crafty: painters, potters, poets.
A writer of science fiction. A mad inventor. A burned-out rock guitarist. A burned-out broker. A burned-out traveller in cyberspace.
At home, I cook, I read, I darn my socks.
But is there pretence in all of this? How am I able to block out Beauchamp versus Beauchamp, soon to wend its way into the divorce courts, and the even more hideous case of Regina versus Honourable Jonathan Shaun O’Donnell?
As to the latter, quite easy. Mr. O’Donnell and Miss Martin live in another country, another planet. I stubbornly refuse to accept their existence. I intend to have my summer. As to Annabelle: yes, I still suffer bouts of self-pity and jealousy when I think of Francois Roehlig, my replacement, the younger, leaner model for the current year. More horsepower, faster acceleration. Something that Annabelle can drive with pride. Do I sound bitter? Arthur Beauchamp? Never. What are thirty years of a man’s life worth? A trifle in the eternal warp of time. How many of those years were happy? The first two, perhaps.
Yes, pain persists, but the wound seems clean and does not fester. I try not to pick at the scab; I have rendered myself into the care of time, misery’s healer. I suffer depressions, but occasionally feel lightheaded, as if a great weight is lifting from me, the baggage of the past.
Deborah and the two Nicks will be in Europe all summer — her husband is seeking new investments in the Old World. When my daughter phoned on the eve of their flight, I couldn’t find it in my heart to tell her that the final nail has been pounded into the coffin of her parents’ marriage. Quietly, I have left the matter of its dissolution in the hands of Hubbell Meyerson. Annabelle has a lawyer, too. It is all unbearably amicable.
In the meantime, I have not got around to mending fences with Margaret Blake, though on one of my walks to the store, I encountered her in her driveway apprehending an escaping goat — and received the coldest of shoulders. Her expression read: You are a typical two-faced lawyer — I couldn’t fathom why.
But then I observe that the latest edition of theIsland Echohas memisquoted: “Prominent island resident A. R. Beauchamp, Q.C., when asked about where he stands on Evergreen Estates, said he’s sympathetic.” As I recall, the word was antipathetic, but Not Now Nelson Forbish has not the keenest ear for the nuances of the English language.
But good news. On a bright afternoon near the end of the month, Stoney appears in my driveway, grinning like a chipmunk at the controls of my Phantom v. Somehow he has managed to fit all the pieces together.
“Rewired, greased, washed, and waxed, Mr. Beauchamp.”
“Put it in the garage, Stoney.”
“You don’t wanna use it?”
“I would like to buy the truck.”
I feel at home in my old Dodge. I will save my Rolls for trips to town — it is part of my former life.
Ah-hah, the absent-minded professor.
Please, Jane, that’s one of those judgmental phrases that cause people to feel oppressed. I am a temporally inconvenienced professor.
You’re in a sarcastic mood.
I’m sorry. You’re displeased with me, I don’t blame you. The reason I didn’t come last Tuesday was that I lost a day somewhere. I thought Wednesday was Tuesday. When I came by, your receptionist said you were out.
Youaresuffering time confusion. I ought to bill you for it. You know, Jonathan, one of the primary causes of short-term memory loss is overconsumption of alcohol.
Haven’t had a drop in two weeks. I’ve enlisted in the self-improvement army. I’m running every day.
You’re awfully sweaty.
I just did six miles. Almost killed me. But just when it hurts the worst, it. . well, you get a kind of high.
Hmm. Be comfortable, Jonathan.
Should I assume the usual position?
I prefer my patients to stand at attention. Yes, Jonathan, sit down, lie down, relax.
Okay, I’m comfortable.
Something tells me you’re not.
How so?
You showed up on the wrong day last week. You cancelled the week before. A little avoidance problem, Jonathan? You said on the phone there’s something you wanted to tell me.
Yes. I guess I’d better do that. Get it over with.
I’m listening.
I lied to you. I did go to bed with Kimberley Martin.
You. . How do you mean?
We performed acts of sex.
I’m sorry, I’m. . She consented?
She? I was the seducee.
This is. . Why am I hearing this now, after months of on-again, off-again supposed therapy based on what I took to be a truthful history of this incident, why am I. . Why was I lied to? For God’s sake, Jonathan, my time is valuable!
Um, what can I say? I wrestled with it, Jane. Partly it was. . I guess I didn’t want to believe itdidreally happen. I was sort of blocking, in denial -
Bullshit. Don’t give me your amateur psychobabble, you were conning me. I feel like a failure.
No, no, not at all. You’ve challenged me. I’ve got a better sense of myself, I. . that’s one of the reasons I was drinking, I was afraid to face up to the truth, and now. . look, I’m sorry, I thought since I was lying to my lawyer,I also had to lie to you, I just … I was. . afraid of losing everything, my career, my name. That sounds so fucking self-serving it makes me sick.
Okay. Okay.
Sorry. Self-pity is such a boring indulgence.
Your pain gives me hope for you, that’s all I can say.
Hope. I don’t need hope, I need a miracle. She was bloody brilliant on the stand last week. Stanislavsky Method — she became her role. Maybe she’s become convinced by her own lies. Refused to admit she was coming on to me.
Is the pot calling the kettle black?
Okay, okay. We both indulged in some flirting. But safe-sex flirting. Shewasengaged. .
And you were her professor.
Yes, butIwasn’t acting the slut.
Slut is a word that says more about the teller than his tale.
Sorry, but. . Look, I regard myself as a modern person, I’m not some stuffy crock who’d prefer we all live in the eighteenth century. Equality of the sexes? Let me at the ramparts. I’m a director of the Civil Liberties Association, I’m pro-choice, persons of colour are my brothers and sisters. I was raised as a child in a very conservative home — old Tory aristocracy where sexism and prejudice came with breakfast, dinner, and tea. I’ve conquered that as best I could. There are remnants I haven’t got rid of, inappropriate words like slut. Okay?
Why are yousodefensive?
Sorry. That was an ugly thing to say. I don’t suppose she’s really. . that kind of woman. It’s a word that came out in anger. Do I hate her? I don’t know. I’m confused by her.
Okay, tell me about that night. I want to know how you felt about it.
We, ah, okay, after the others left, I told you Kimberley was curled up asleep on a chair, right? I didn’t know what proper protocol was. I brought a sheet to cover her, and then I just stood and stared at her. She was. . well, never mind. It’s hard to express.