Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(23)
Such dreams, in their early kink-free form, had been less frequent since his marriage to Margaret, but occasionally ill-repressed memories sneaked back. Triggered by irksome happenings like a seducer’s name popping out at him from a WWF web page. A minister caught on camera en flagrante, or en flogrante.
Arthur couldn’t help feeling a vague empathy with Emil Farquist. Annabelle’s whippings had been a less dramatic but more painful form of the art, directed at the heart not the rump. Her glaringly open affairs over their twenty-five years of marriage had been emotionally crippling, until she finally abandoned him for a flouncy Wagnerian maestro. Margaret was a far cry from her. Just one little fling. Apologized for.
She had sounded weary on the phone last night. The world on her shoulders. As to Farquist, no precipitous action would be taken. Pierette would make discreet background inquiries. Lou Sabatino would be prevailed upon to give them a copy of the tape, on the assurance his name would not be mentioned. Arthur would be consulted all the way.
The rest of their conversation had been desultory. Had she held her audience spellbound at her session? Not exactly, but it went all right. He hoped she’d found time to enjoy Montreal despite her busy weekend. Not so, she said. She’d slept poorly and needed to catch up.
He said he loved her and let her go. Lloyd Chalmers was not mentioned.
He lay in bed awhile, trying to switch gears, wondering how he’d so quickly lost that placid, floating state that had carried him through most of the weekend. It seemed delusory now, a mirage. What had caused it? The gluten-free cookies — had Wholeness and Wellness impregnated them with some kind of love-all-things potion? That was ridiculous.
Back to reality. Get more seeds, a second planting of peas was due. Buy more netting, the robins were in the strawberries. Fill that goat-cheese order for the Legion benefit. Drop by the food bank with new-laid eggs.
§
He set out on foot to the general store for his gardening supplies. He was leery of taking the Fargo, with its bad muffler and the threat of being hauled over by unforgiving Constable Dugald.
As he neared the Hopeless Bay turnoff, Nelson Forbish came chugging behind him, his ATV piled high with bundled copies of the latest Bleat. He pulled over, tossed Arthur his copy. “If no news is good news, then all I got is good news. I’m late for the post office.” He sped on to Hopeless Bay, looking harried.
Arthur glanced through the little tabloid as he descended the winding road to the shoreline. Featured in the “Who’s Who on Garibaldi” column were the two fully geared cyclists Forbish interviewed last week. Joanne and Henry, he called them, not having got their last names. One a nutritionist, the other an osteopath. “This daunting duo cycled all the way from Los Angeles, driven by a fervent desire to meet Baba Sri Rameesh.” Joanne hoped to “complete unfinished parental issues,” and Henry wanted to “cleanse away his layers of negative patterns.”
The “What’s Comin’ Up” column: “Stay attuned, the next issue will give the inside scoop on the Transformation Mission, your Intrepid Reporter having enjoyed the hospitality of Mr. Jason Silverson (a truly mouth-watering pork roast — they’re not vegan!) and being offered a ‘no-holds-barred’ tour this week of the inner workings of their intriguing experiment in alternate lifestyles.”
Arthur could hear Silverson dictating those phrases, slowly, over canapés, so Forbish could take down all the adjectives. The guru, anxious about rumours of drugs and debauchery, would be assured of a complimentary review by serving another hearty meal as part of the tour package.
Arthur arrived at the store to find Forbish behind the post office counter — Makepeace had deputized him to distribute Bleats to the boxes while he attended to customers. Arthur was second in line, behind Taba Jones, the potter, whose coffee mugs adorned the shelves of Blunder Bay. An attractive redhead, sharp of mind, blunt of tongue. Cropped hair and a potter’s strong hands. Despairing mother of Felicity, whom Silverson was transforming.
Forbish was whining: it wasn’t fair, this wasn’t his job.
“I don’t have time to post your so-called newspapers.” Makepeace was shrill. “You got junk mail rates, so don’t complain.” Makepeace held a slim envelope up to the light, before handing it to Taba. “Money order for five hundred from some gallery in Seattle.”
“Thank you. Let’s broadcast it to the world.” She quickly checked her copy of the Bleat, flourished it at Forbish, bent over his labours. “Why isn’t my letter to the editor in here?”
“About the Transformers? I could have been sued and bankrupted. ‘They’re not from this planet’ is one phrase I remember.”
“You sell-out. Wined and dined. A VIP invitation.”
Arthur chimed in: “Yes, Nelson, it looks like you and Jason have become quite the loving couple.”
Nelson rose and turned to face them. “Contrary to false rumour, I think we got to give them the benefit of the doubt. They want to be accepted, they’re having an open house in a few weeks and they actually ordered a half-page invitation to all comers to see for themselves about their vision for a sustainable and loving future.”
“They’re not from this planet,” Taba snapped. She was clearly in a temper about Felicity.
With great effort, Forbish heaved himself up to full height, defiant. “A lot of what Jason says makes sense, we got our values all screwed up, we’re mortgaging our future on frivolous things. I’m going to do an op-ed to correct the erroneous gossip, people should give them more respect.”