“It is so hard to picture you as a flower child, Margaret.”
She laughs in turn; again I think of bells. “Chris and I were the only ones to stay on the land. Chris was a natural farmer. He really did love the land. Everything about it, rural and wild. So do I. Real tree hugger. Do you ever actually hug a tree? I do that sometimes. We’re petitioning the government to reject that Evergreen Estates by-law, by the way. Do I dare ask you to add your name? Or did I read that you were in sympathy — ”
“I distinctly told that woolly-eared reporter I was opposed. Many things on this island get lost in translation.”
“Yes, you’re the subject of some vicious gossip these days, aren’t you?”
Finally, a chance to make earnest defence. “I was literally kidnapped by that woman and nearly raped. I escaped with my virginity bruised but intact.”
“But how could you resist her?” She is smiling, teasing me.
“I still have nightmares.”
“No, I never believed any of that stuff. I saw you on the boat out there with her. You looked really scared.”
“Should I put a light on?” The shell of night has closed upon us.
“I like the dark. Gosh, I can’t remember in years when I’ve sat down for more than ten minutes like this. What did you say about that agreeable condition of doing nothing? You’re right. It feels good.”
From high above, the steady bleat of a searching nighthawk. Our galaxy glows bright and thick in the moonless night, and the evening star seems blinding. I feel oddly light-headed. A drowsy numbnesspains my sense
Distantly comes a sound of civilization, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s my telephone. In the dark of my house, I stumble against a chair before finding the phone.
“What time is it there?” It’s Deborah on a bad line, my daughter far abroad.
“Deborah, how good to hear from you. It’s close to ten o’clock. What time is it wherever you are?”
“We’re in Rome and it’s six in the morning. I wanted to reach you before you went to bed.”
“How wonderful. Rome. My spiritual home.”
“You sound awfully happy.”
“And why shouldn’t I be? It is a marvellous summer night and stars fill the sky. How is the European jaunt, my dear? You are faring well? And Nicholas is busy and young Nick well?”
“We’ve been having a wonderful. . Dad, are you okay? Why are you so happy? Look, I hate to be the bearer of … But you’ve heard, haven’t you? Well, I just heard. About.. about … Is there a divorce happening, or what?”
“Ah, yes, it seems dear Annabelle is in love with some effete Nazi from Dusseldorf — ”
“Francois bloody Roehlig. He’s fifteen years younger than her.”
“She always wanted a son, and he probably needs a mother. I’ve wished her a future of unadulterated bliss. Give me a number where I can reach you — I am entertaining someone.”
“You haven’t been drinking?”
“I have been sipping only upon the sweet dew of poetry and fine conversation.”
“With whom? Who are you entertaining?”
“The neighbour lady.”
A pause from Rome. “Ah, the widow Blake. . Whoa, just a minute here, what is going on, Dad? Now, don’t tell me you are suddenly getting a life. Margaret Blake? You said she was some kind of militant busybody, you told me. . I’ll hang up. I love you. I’ll call you when you’re not, you know, engaged.”
I find my way through the darkness to the porch and to Margaret.
“That was my daughter.”
Margaret nods, but seems so lost in her silence that I fear intruding further upon it. I sit beside her, and the divan creaks. In dim outline against the sky, I make out her work-lined, handsome face. Again I try to picture this solemn woman in her youth, long-haired and barefoot, and wild. I have a sense from her of immense strength. The confession I’d made to Rimbold returns to me: It’s a shameful thought, but I think I’m attracted to dominant women.
“Your voice carries awfully well. I couldn’t help hear. . you’re getting a divorce?”
“The marriage died many years ago. I only recently became aware of that.”
My guest has a right to more than this: She has shared her former life. But I cannot bring myself to speak of Annabelle; it will only depress me. It would take more courage than I possess to tell Margaret of my physical failings as a husband, my impotence.
“Deborah is your one child?”
“The light of my life.”
“And are you happy? Like you told her?”
“Growing happier by the minute in your company.” A bold compliment, daringly offered.
“You’re awfully charming, you know, when you’re not playing the big shot.”
“Do I come across that way?”
“A little bit. You probably don’t notice.”
But of course I do. Overblown. Donnish and pedantic, Annabelle said. But it’s too late in life to undo the curse of who I am.
Another silence. I cannot think what to do with my hands, and I relight my pipe. The fields and the forest have fallen asleep, and the sea is windless and still. A blazing meteor: It traces a scar of fire across the sky, and dies.
“A shooting star, how beautiful,” she says. And she jumps up. “Let’s go for a walk on the beach.”
But again, from the house, the instrument of the devil is ringing. My first thought is to ignore it, but its call is insistent. I will be pleasant but short.
“It’s George, Arthur. I think I need a little help.”
The forest blots out the starlit sky, and darkness enshrouds me as I switch off my headlights. No lights are on in George’s house, but I detect the flickering glow of a fireplace.
His house — a rental — is a log cottage in the trees: finely grooved cedar timbers enclosed by plank decking and, above, a shake roof and a bedroom loft with its own balcony. Immense cedars and Douglas firs rise magisterially around it — this small acreage had not been logged since the turn of the century.
The front door is partly open, and its oiled hinges are silent as I step inside. The stale odour of alcohol seems to come at me in gusts. George is sitting by the hearth, feeding sticks into the fire, staring blearily at the flames. Beside him is an ashtray filled with butts. An empty bottle of rye whisky stands on the kitchen table, two other empty bottles on the floor.
I kneel beside him. “You’ve been having a bit of a time, George.”
“I wanna chuck it all.” He slurs this.
“Chuck what?”
“The whole damn thing.”
“What a ridiculous notion. I wouldn’t have a friend to come to. I won’t hear of it.”
That fetches a grim smile. The case is not totally hopeless. I assume it is only when the last of his drink ran out that he began entertaining such dour thoughts. This is fairly common.
“Is there anything else to drink in the house?”
“Drank it all up.” He hiccups. “Scotty, the bastard, won’t give me more.” Scotty Phillips, the island bootlegger.
“How long has this been going on?”
“Two, three days, I don’t know.”
I rise and go the refrigerator, where he keeps his fine-grind coffee. “Where are the filters?”
“First cupboard shelf.”
As I get the coffee under way, I blather on about this and that to keep George’s mind off whatever woes belabour him. I suspect a former priest’s loss of faith must stick daggers into him from time to time, but something else might be afflicting him, too.