“Tell me if you find anything wrong with this picture, Ms. Hoover: spurned by the regal Doctor Eve, perceived as the town slut, condescended to, the humiliation rankling, growing…”
“Excuse me, Mr. Beauchamp.” It is Gilbert, who has stolen up behind him and is pulling at the tassel of his robe. “Union regulations.”
Arthur is vastly offended-his cross-examination was reaching a crescendo, he had the jurors with him. He looks up to see Wilbur Kroop’s head is tilted sideways-he looks in danger of toppling over entirely.
Gilbert carries on up to the bench, finding untapped wells of courage. “Sir?” He is about to nudge Kroop to consciousness when eyelids slide open and lips move.
“Well, Mr. Beauchamp? Do you have any more questions? Otherwise we’ll call it a day.”
Either the silence woke him or he was never truly asleep. Before Arthur can respond, Kroop, sensing movement behind him, or the smell of fear, turns to find Gilbert frozen in position, his hand an inch from his shoulder. “What are you doing?”
“Ah, regulations, sir.”
“Regulations? What regulations?”
“Union regulations, sir.”
“What are you talking about, man? What are you doing behind me?”
“I thought you might have slipped away from us for a few minutes, sir.”
“Because I was resting my eyes, you thought I slipped away? Slipped away? You utterly incompetent, snivelling, pusillanimous idiot! Get down where you belong!”
As Gilbert makes his way ferretlike to his place, Arthur can think only about absconding to the relatively sane domain of Garibaldi Island. “If your lordship pleases, I’ll continue with Ms. Hoover on Monday.”
Kroop nods, massages a neck muscle. “Witness, you are under cross-examination. You will return to this court at 10 a.m. on Monday, and until then you will not talk to any person about your evidence. You will not. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir.” Hoover is finally cowed. It took Kroop.
“Mr. Gilbert?” The judge looks darkly down at him like a vulture eyeing carrion.
“Sir?” He jumps, he’d been staring into space.
“Adjourn this court, Mr. Gilbert.” Kroop shakes his head. “Union regulations. It’s come to that.” He rises and walks off, wrathful as God, tempted to send the flood.
28
After calling ahead, Arthur and Lotis are met at the ferry by Fargo taxi. Lotis takes a chance on the open-air chesterfield while Arthur goes coach-class with Stoney. He ought to have chosen the chesterfield. Bad night, long week.
“How’s the trial going, eh? Everyone’s proud of the way you went from ordinary farmer to make a comeback as a famous lawyer. Hey, I would’ve showed up in a ’58 Caddie Series 62 V8 convertible, but that ain’t to be. A couple of goons stole it right off of my lot.”
Arthur has the picture. Stoney did minimal repairs, test-drove the vehicle to ensure its road-readiness-earning fares along the way-until Freddy Jacoby repossessed it.
When reminded where the car came from, Stoney pulls a joint from behind the visor. “Right. How’d I forget that? I must’ve been in trauma, it’s not every day a mint ’58 luxomo-bile lands in your lap. Yeah, Mr. Jacoby, a straight shooter, he paid in advance after I faxed my estimate. I was gonna have the Fargo sitting on your doorstep bright and shiny, but as a result of this setback, I’m down to one vehicle again.”
“Stoney, I intend to redeem this truck when the trial ends. You will deliver it up and there will be no excuses.”
“I promise.” He lights up, and they continue in silence toward Potter’s Road. There’s no time to detour to the Holy Tree. Bungle Bay’s caretakers, Reverend Al and Zoe, are expecting him. They’ll know Margaret’s plans.
Behind a curtain of canary-yellow broom and purple spikes of foxgloves lies St. Mary’s Church, beyond it the graveyard, a haphazard array of leaning markers. Pastured horses bowed as if in prayer. No breeze stirs bush or bough-Garibaldi seems apprehensive, an island in suspense while the truce holds.
Stoney turns into Arthur’s driveway. “If you pick up a kind of tang in the air, it’s temporary until I do one more patch on the pipes. Monster job getting your field back on line.”
As they pass the backhoe, a whiff of excrement. But they are quickly beyond it, through the gate past the garage. Here the air is more flavourful, lamb shish kebabs grilling on the stone barbecue. The two Japanese Woofers are tending it under Zoe’s direction. Reverend Al is sitting on the grass with a jug of homemade wine, celebrating the truce.
“Happening scene, man,” Stoney says. Not expecting an invitation for dinner, he declines anyway. “I’d join you, ordinary I would, but I don’t have time to sit on my ass, I got a thousand things.”
Lotis hops off, and Arthur is about to follow when Stoney says, “You ain’t forgetting something?”
Arthur looks around for what he might have dropped, sees Stoney’s palm out for the seven-fifty-to-anywhere fare. Predictably, he can’t make change for a ten.
Kim Lee comes from the Woofer house with a salad.
“Lookin’ good,” Stoney says.
She pauses. “Lookin’ good you too.” Arthur must warn her not to flirt with the scallywag.
He makes directly for Reverend Al, who is blessed by a ray of setting sun and well into a bottle of his excellent red plonk, blue-ribbon winner at the last Fall Fair.
“Because you have taken the pledge, old boy, you’re unable to celebrate by partaking of the blood of Christ. Since someone must rejoice for you, I’ll do double duty.”
Arthur sees Al’s big smile. Margaret is coming home. After dinner, they lounge by the outdoor fire, enjoying the long, languid evening. The sun has met the horizon, splinters of gold and flecks of rose. Al is well into his cups, and Lotis heading that way, raucous and theatrical. Arthur is invigorated by caffeine, spiced by Margaret’s pledge to hug her tree goodbye on Sunday. (Not Saturday, a poor media day, so he has tomorrow to prepare. A third lemon pie, he’s mastering the art.)
He must gird himself for another corny publicity event. He prefers not to be adorned in leaves, like an elephantine forest elf, or be called upon to recite the Desiderata or some such treacle. The only thing worse would be the Garibaldi Highland Pipers, who are demanding their turn, getting antsy. Bagpipes. Arthur shudders.
“It’s Cyrano versus the fluffhead.” Lotis wags a finger at Kim Lee in parody of Arthur’s cross examination. “Against a low-life tramp like yourself, madam, we have Sergeant Jasper Flynn, a standup family man.” Though the Woofers may not understand the script, they applaud the performance.
“Arthur’s such a ham.” Lotis snaps imaginary suspenders, puffs herself up, affects an unflattering swollen belly. “I ask you, madam, if there’s anything wrong with this picture-spurned by Doctor Eve, treated like the town slut, humiliation biting at her ass until she can’t stand it, she…What were you going to say, Arthur, before Gilbert stole the show?”
He meets the challenge. “Sitting in her leaky trailer, painting her toenails to the fierce tuneless beat of modern rock and roll, she continued to nurse her grievance over a six-pack of cider…”
“Whoa. She’s a garbage head. She’s doing crank, crystal, cartwheels, and in this totally gonged state she magnifies Eve’s brush-off. The snob, she’ll pay for that insult. Who does the bitch think she is anyway, I’m gonna march over there and…and what?”
“I am the resurrection and the life.” Reverend Al slurring. Zoe has put a blanket over him.
Arthur tamps his pipe. “With no plan in her drug-addled mind except to retrieve the tatters of her honour, Hoover remembers the Rohypnol, which she keeps handy in case a john threatens to become difficult.” This scenario is making sense. Hoover’s rival evildoers are fading into the gloom: no-show Harvey Coolidge, bitter Ruth Delvechio, and Arthur’s old favourite, Adeline Angella. And where has Daisy gone, who recently haunted his thoughts and dreams?