Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(105)
Celeste was away too often, in Calgary with her fittings, but always seemed happy to return to her storefront studio and the tranquility of small-town life. She’d never been a city girl — she’d come from rural roots and harsh climes, northern Quebec.
She’d had only bad memories of Montreal, and was totally not interested in returning, despite Lou’s former oily boss’s endeavour to restore him to the payroll, to his desk at CP Montreal with a bonus and a nice raise.
Apparently he was now Dexter’s bosom buddy, his “colleague and friend,” who, “dispirited that he couldn’t work at the job he loved, sought and was granted leave.” Dexter had dashed off that toadying obituary after deciding that Lou, having vanished, was as good as dead. It still rankled. Lou had told him he could stuff the job and the bonus up his ass.
He was doing just fine. His publisher was promising a big run in hardback. He was still making a tidy sum from the internet. The illustrated list of ten secret nudist beaches had somehow made it past Facebook’s robotic censors, despite the content warning. A German chain of clothes-less resorts paid ten big ones for a banner ad.
He checked the time. The kids would be getting out of school. He had promised to go biking with Logan and then take Lisa riding up at the Storkovs’ hobby ranch. Not his favourite thing. For some reason the idea of mounting a horse creeped him out.
MOVIE NIGHT
Arthur’s party of four was stalled at the front of the community hall, where the island had turned out en masse. Kurt Zoller looked besieged, people slipping past him as he tried to block the wide double doors. “Everyone back!” he shouted. “The hall is full! Fire regulations in effect!”
Niko and Yoki looked dismayed, Margaret stoic, but to Arthur this was good news. He would be spared the awfulness of watching ninety minutes of low-budget foolery. He shrugged helplessly. “Well, we gave it a good try.”
He was about to usher his flock away when Mookie came out, waving to the crowd, silencing Zoller. “Sorry, everyone. We’ll have a repeat showing next week, I totally promise.” Some groans, some cheers. “Anyone with passes?” Then, on spotting Arthur’s entourage: “Group of four over there. Right inside please.”
Arthur was grabbed by both arms and propelled forward.
§
With Niko and Yoki taking the two reserved seats, the hall’s two-hundred-and-fifty folding chairs were all occupied. Arthur and Margaret found standing room by the side exit, beside a commercial popper run by Herman Schloss. It was resting now, exhausted, but its droppings crunched underfoot and the smell of buttered corn pervaded the air. Constable Dugald was standing on the other side, arms crossed, trying to look censorious. The front doors were wedged slightly open, Kurt Zoller peeking in.
His fellow Trustee, Ida Shewfelt, was a no-show — she likely feared she would burn in hell for exposing herself to pornography. But Al and Zo? Noggins had been given prime seats, in a group with Taba and her daughter Felicity. At least two dozen more were in the reserved section: several of the island elite — doctor, postmaster, bartender — and an eclectic mix comprising Honk Gilmore, Cud Brown, Wellness, Wholeness, Henrietta Wilks, and, front row centre, Robert Stonewell, master mechanic. Nelson Forbish was next to him, his fold-up wobbling under his weight. All, apparently, had got special invitations, which likely also included the Schlosses’ post-film bash.
Mookie’s movie would be shown on a drop-down screen and projected from her laptop on a table near the front. But now she was standing on the proscenium, its curtains partly drawn on either side of the screen. She raised a hand microphone. The gabble of conversation ceased.
“Okay folks, here is where I apologize. This is not exactly the romantic comedy you were expecting. I kind of pulled your leg, so please forgive me. You are going to see a movie called The Awakening, but it’s not the one I advertised. It’s a documentary. And I know you’re going to enjoy it more than you can imagine. Because it’s about you. I love you all.”
A mass shifting in seats. Loud murmurs. Arthur and Margaret exchanged puzzled looks.
Mookie scrambled down to her table. The lights dimmed. Images appeared on the screen. An aerial shot of Garibaldi from afar, the island expanding, filling the screen: its coves and hills, its forests and meadows and farms.
A male voice, deep, resonant, amiable, said, “There is a lovely little laid-back island in Canada’s Salish Sea on the Pacific Coast, called Garibaldi. We like to think we discovered it, and in a way we did, but of course it was inhabited — by happy folk, wonderful characters, unstressed, uncomplicated, and welcoming to strangers.”
Who, Arthur wondered, was “we”? The room was hushed, expectant.
“Their day-to-day needs are met by a variety of small businesses and social venues.” A montage of the general store, the Brig, the fire hall, the marina, St. Mary’s Church, Evergreen Estates and its commercial centre. And finally, this very community hall, where an outdoor gathering slowly came into focus. In the background was last year’s banner: “Wake up! Smell the Roses at the Spring Flower Show!” Doc Dooley was showing off a clutch of ribbons. A subtitle identified him as “family physician and master gardener.” Ida Shewfelt, sniffing her prize-winning display of elves peeking from amid the flowers. And here was Margaret flattering her! “Can I take a picture of you with your lovely garland?” The subtitle: “Margaret Blake, Green Party leader, Member of Parliament.”