A closer view, from the corral fence, might well have inspired Vermeer. In the glow of yellow rays slicing through the mist, Nick sat beside Lavinia, raptly watching her pull milk from Bess, their Jersey cow. Lavinia was sure-handed, in rhythm with Bess-but suddenly, a Chaplinesque moment, she gave Nick a squirt in the eye. He jumped, but Lavinia’s infectious laughter made him grin. The kid was loosening up.
“I show you how.” She extended him a teat.
Arthur would find another moment to talk to Nick, he had no desire to spoil this pastoral scene with its gentle touch of Eros. He retreated quietly, took the turnips to the house, slung his day pack over his shoulder, and headed briskly up the driveway.
He trod up Centre Road, where bungalows decked out in lights and tinsel glowed through the mist. Once again, as they had for time immemorial, Jack and Ida Shewfelt had celebrated the divine miracle of Christ’s coming with the engineering miracle of hoisting Santa, his sleigh, and his entire team of reindeer onto their split-level roof.
Next door to them resided Bob Stonewell, target of their many complaints under the Unsightly Premises Bylaw. A sign advertising his car parts business was by Stoney’s rusted gate, behind it a ramshackle house and an old barn converted to a garage. Everywhere, relics poking from the mist, a jungle of them, a whole hillside, Chevies and Fords, Datsuns and Skodas. Arthur’s ailing 1969 Fargo pickup, his pet, his baby, was sitting by the garage on blocks, under a tarp.
There was the great mechanic himself, newly risen from bed, packing out yesterday’s beer bottles, a cigarette aglow between his lips. He waved. “If it ain’t the town tonsil, out getting his morning exercise. If you can’t do it easy, do it hard, that’s what I always say.” The merry clink of empties going into boxes.
Arthur asked after the health of the Fargo.
“I got a line on a rebuilt transmission. I can get a real sweet deal for cash up front.”
“What happened to the cash I already fronted?”
“Right. Well, it sort of got used on startup costs. I got a new business, limousine rental, I call it Loco Motion. Check out these beauties.” Indicating a pair of shiny fin-tails from the 1970s, a Chrysler and a Buick. “I’m restricting operations to Garibaldi, so normal car rental laws don’t apply, right?”
“Merry Christmas, Stoney.” Arthur carried on down the road.
Baking powder, silver wrap, and…yes, lemons, eight lemons. He mustn’t forget the mail. Above the fog was glorious sun, so despite his lack of sleep, he will adhere to his plan of huffing up Mount Norbert.
He found his way to Hopeless Bay, small-boat dock and a warehouse, century-old general store, a false-front structure with an enclosed porch serving as a coffee lounge. Here, several regulars were enjoying alcohol-enriched coffees. As a sideline, the proprietor, skeletal, dour Abraham Makepeace, sold brown-bagged bottles of rum or whisky to tippling locals. Hapless Constable Pound, wary of upsetting the community, turned a blind eye to the evils perpetrated here.
A couple of the lads were celebrating the season with Bacchus-like determination. Gomer Goulet, whose crab boat was tied up below, was standing, swaying as if in heavy seas, proclaiming his love of mankind. Gomer tended to get drunkenly soppy, especially at Christmas. Emily LeMay, the sultry ex-barmaid and untiring vamp, told him, “Sit down before you fall on your kazoo.”
Lemons, silver foil, and…yes, baking powder. Or was it soda? He mined the lemon bin, excavated a dozen fat ones. At the next bin, bagging up oranges, was Al Noggins, a spry, short, bearded Welshman, Garibaldi’s Anglican minister.
“Lemons? Fish for Christmas, Arthur?”
“Margaret has invited a dozen major contributors to the Granola Party, many of whom don’t eat warm-blooded life forms. I am to be on my best behaviour.”
“Firing up the troops, is she? Good luck to her; she’s a fresh voice in politics. While I have your ear, old boy,” Noggins moved close, “Cudworth came by for a spot of spiritual counselling. He’s pretty messed up. Carried on about this lawyer fellow, Pomeroy. Couldn’t understand why you recommended him, instead of…Well, he feels abandoned, Arthur.”
“Reverend Al, I do not defend bad poets. It is a long-standing policy.”
“Told him I’d speak to you. Merry Christmas.” He walked stiffly off. An awkward moment regretted-Noggins was a close friend.
Lemons, foil, baking powder, and, just in case, baking soda. Arthur bought a packet of pipe tobacco as well, then waited patiently while Makepeace sorted through the Blunder Bay mail. “Mostly Christmas cards-this one came open, it’s from that doctor you got off, the one who poisoned his wife. This here letter has no return address; I always get suspicious when I see that. Your Literary Gazette, your Guardian, and your Island Bleat, special holiday edition. And some stuff, I think from your accountant, about your retirement funds. Didn’t know you were sixty-nine, Arthur.”
“There’s a lot about me you don’t know, Abraham.”
Arthur was about to go but couldn’t pretend not to hear Emily LeMay calling him. “Hey, handsome, I got you something for Christmas.”
It would be uncivil to run off without an exchange of yuletide greetings, so he made his way to the porch. “Merry Christmas,” Gomer cried. “Very merry Christmas, it’s a time of joy, the cup of love is brimming over. Hey, you look like Santa.” That irked Arthur-he had the white beard and the pack on his back, but he didn’t have the legendary hero’s paunch.
“Santa, baby, you can come down my chimney any day.” Emily advanced, she was not to be denied her Christmas hug.
Nearly overcome by her perfume, its overlay of whisky, by her bounteous breasts pooling against him, he had trouble peeling himself free. “And a happy Christmas to you all.”
“Arthur, you’re gonna help out Cud Brown, aren’t you?” she said.
“You gotta defend him!” Gomer was gesturing wildly. “Arthur, you gotta have heart; it’s Christmas, the season of love, and Cud’s our buddy, he’s one of us. We got to stick together on this here rock.” His voice rose theatrically. “Cud worships you, man. Just like a father.” He began staggering toward Arthur. “He loves you, man, can’t you see that? Oh, God, don’t let them nail him to the cross.”
This last was blubbered to Arthur’s retreating backside, and then all he heard was sobbing. A few minutes later, as he crested a rise, he turned to see Gomer, his legs so rubbery as to be useless, being helped by friends down to his crab boat.
The episode was unsettling. The island was ganging up on him. Cud had capable counsel, the successful defender of the assassin of an Asian czar and, just last January, an addled court clerk bent on shooting the chief justice. The locals didn’t understand, and Arthur was loathe to explain, but he was definitely the wrong lawyer for Cud. He began mumbling to himself. “I wouldn’t have my heart in it; I plain don’t like him. Doesn’t have anything to do with Margaret, it’s something else. Not sure what it is.”
A fleeting suspicion: had it to do with his own lack of sexual prowess? He brushed off the thought like lint. Utter nonsense. He may not be the world’s most dynamic lover, but he showed sparks of competency. With the aid of Viagra. It’s not the lack of gas, it’s the engine. Volo, non valeo, I am willing but unable. Oddly, however, he functioned with unusual facility after winning a trial. But then weeks would pass…
He hiked uphill to the Mount Norbert trail still talking to himself-a bad habit, especially for a lawyer-then paused to rest, folding open the Bleat. From the front page, Hamish McCoy grinned at the camera, brandishing a hammer at a scaffold on the rise known as Ferryboat Knoll. Below the photo: “Tourists to our lovely island will be welcomed soon by the Goddess of Love, the internationally acclaimed and world-renowned local sculptor Hamish McCoy told the Bleat in an exclusive interview.”