“I’m flattered to know my love life is of such interest, Cud.”
“Hey, man, just curious. She was pissed you weren’t there for her big exit.”
If the truth be told-and it won’t be told here, in a bootlegger’s bar-the doornail didn’t need the Viagra. Somehow all the unruly emotions of the day got the blood flowing, and though the two lovers might not have matched, in acrobatic skill, the nuptial display of eagles, they were well fuelled by pent-up desire. Five stars.
They talked through the night. (“I’m supposed to throw leaflets from a hot-air balloon? Of course I love you.”) They laughed, relived their time apart, the oddball things that happened. He has decided she probably does care for him deeply. But he senses demands, subtle and unspoken. He knows he has to perform. Not physically, thank God. Politically. In court. Her hero saved Faloon, now he must save Gwendolyn.
Nelson finally gives way to Makepeace, who weeds out the offers and fliers, and deals the legitimate mail like playing cards. “Invitation from Flim Flam Films to a screening.”
Cud Brown from the lounge: “I put them in touch with the Sundance Film Festival. I told them to use my name.”
“Postcard from Melbourne, your grandson’s coming to visit. This here letter with the political sticker is from your friend Lotis. ‘Be Tribal, Buy Local, No Logo.’ What’s that mean?”
Arthur doesn’t know. How does one be tribal? He doesn’t open Lotis’s letter, he doesn’t want to. Inexplicably, he fears it. Why would she write him? She has a phone.
As he strolls up Potter’s Road, his own phone rings, with the sound of chimes-he is no longer anyone’s sunshine. It’s Brian, asking if he cares to hear the latest insight from Lila Chow-Thomas.
“Not really.” Brian frightened Arthur with his marriage tribulations, inflamed his condition, the Annabelle Syndrome. He was too ashamed to mention his jealous imaginings to Margaret, she would have been insulted. My God, Arthur, did you think you married a whore?
“She says we’ve got to stop one-upping each other, we enjoy the drama of conflict too much, the theatre of marriage. We’ve begun dating, by the way. I’m feeling great, off the booze forever this time, plus I found out who pulled the panties prank. A secretary with whom, regrettably, I’d shared a weak moment. News from another front: I’m now formally retained by Gilbert Gilbert.”
“How did that happen?”
“I gave my card to him as they were taking him away, before some other shyster could get his mitts on him. He’s impregnable. No jury will convict him.”
“Your confidence is admirable.”
“Jasper didn’t strike him, didn’t try to knock the gun askew. He walked into the bullet. Ergo, it’s a suicide not a murder.”
If you’ve destroyed my marriage, Flynn, I hope you roast in hell! Well he may, but Arthur refuses to allow that to sit on his conscience. One person’s death can never atone for another’s. Suicide can never atone for grisly murder. Flynn knew he would never earn parole after so deliberate a slaying. He escaped a living hell, took his chance that a last brave act might rescue his reputation if not his soul.
“Add to that, Jasper jostled him so hard the gun went off. Accident. Lack of intent. Insanity. Self-defence. Necessity. I’ve got a cornucopia of defences. Got to go. Good luck in Ottawa.” Where Arthur is to argue next week before the nation’s court of final appeal. The Supreme Court has agreed to hear the welter of injunctions and cross-injunctions, Garlinc versus Gwendolyn, Gwendolyn versus Garlinc.
The arguments are complex: misrepresentation, equitable estoppel, breach of contract, unjust enrichment. But the event Arthur is gambling on is a simple handshake, witnessed, admitted by the defaulter. Ancient law demands that land deals be in writing. But if placing one’s initials on a scrap of paper binds the parties, why shouldn’t a vigorous handshake?
Undressed, stripped of verbiage, the issue is really about saving one of the few clumps of beauty left in the world, a microscopic green dot on a global map…And how do you express that to a high court panel?
Arthur clumps past his gate to be greeted by a now familiar, unlovely sight. Six feet of water, a lumpy hill of clay, and a backhoe wanted by the law-these make up the abandoned engineering works of Island Landscraping. It’s been noted that Stoney is a little soft on Kim Lee, and crafty Margaret intends to use that as a lever to get him to finish the job. Maybe he’ll even let Arthur have the Fargo back for a while.
He enters his garden under hanging tentacles of wisteria, in riotous bloom on the trellis. There is much work to be done, that last row of beets may be beyond salvaging. He sits on the garden bench and examines Lotis’s letter. Postmarked Port Alberni. What’s she doing on Vancouver Island?
I don’t do well at goodbyes, Cyrano. I made such a weepy, soggy mess of it with Selwyn yesterday that I can’t bear a repeat. Especially with you, you lovely grumpy man. Can’t find words to tell you what a pleasure it was working with you. It’s been real, Arthur. I mean it. Realer than you can imagine. I’m going to do some travelling, rouse a little rabble here and there. Next stop, Tokyo, where the IMF will feel my wrath, I’ve been asked to help co-ordinate the protest. It’s your baby now whether Gwendolyn lives or dies. Love and solidarity. Good luck in front of the Supremes.
Whoa, just like that, the Woofering Morningstar flutters off. Arthur is rather shocked by his distress. Somewhat like a father who sees his wild daughter leave home, he feels a little cheated, wishes he’d tried harder to understand her. Many a time have great friendships sprung from bad beginnings. On first meeting, he quoted that to her, in Latin. The hippie nymph immediately saw through the pompous dead-tongue rapper.
No return address. She left a few things at Bungle Bay, so he imagines she’ll come back. He’s going to worry. She hitchhikes everywhere, it’s risky…
He sighs, looks squint-eyed at his thistles, ambles to the house to get into his coveralls. Margaret’s in the kitchen, on the phone to Deborah in Melbourne, catching her up. “You couldn’t walk into the laundry room. And of course he let Stoney loose in the yard. It looks like a damn bomb hit. I’ve ordered him and Dog to get their lazy asses back and finish the job or they’re mud on this island…No, Arthur’s incapable of dealing with those characters, they know how to get by him.”
She’s hasn’t noticed him. Curried chicken tonight, the good smells are back.
“I don’t dare wear it on the farm, I can’t imagine what possessed him…” She’s referring to the Piaget watch, the one Freddy Jacoby assured him wasn’t hot. “Oh, you don’t really think that…Arthur wouldn’t have anything to feel guilty about…Lotis? Coming on to Arthur?” Helpless laughter. “Oh, he probably had thoughts, but you know him. Anyway, she said he reminded her of her favourite old pontificating uncle.”
That, in the end, is how the pixie remembers him. Another Falstaff: that stuffed cloak-bag of guts, that vanity in years.
“No, they’re not cutting yet, Deb, it’s still in court. It’s all up to Arthur now. I’m packing him off to Ottawa next week.”
Pressure? What pressure? Arthur doesn’t feel pressure.
She spots him. “Darling, can you call Reverend Al?”
He does that in his garden while thinning carrots. Al exults: “Cheese and crackers got all muddy, we’ve gone over the top.” He means, Jesus Christ, God almighty, the Gwendolyn Society doesn’t have to borrow. The public furor over Garlinc’s attempt to reneg has brought in a spurt of donations.
All that remains is for Arthur to win over the Supreme Court of Canada. “We’re not out of the woods yet,” is how Zoller put it.