Whipped: An Arthur Beauchamp Novel(66)
They were descending now from the brow of what locals called Shewfelts’ Hill, their framed, brightly painted two-storey down there, guarded by a fleet of garden gnomes on its neatly trimmed lawn. Forty days before Christmas and they already had their decorations up, Rudolph on the roof.
Al kept going on about the Transformers. “I still can’t figure out their angle. Old Barry Peale wanted to make his will out to them, and they declined. Something corrupt has to be going on there. Porno movies? They’ve always got their cameras going. They just brought in a big van. No idea what’s in it. Maybe a lab for crystal meth.”
Arthur, however, was no longer persuaded that anything illegal was going on. Silverson was a trained hypnotherapist; he was surely motivated not by money but by ego. Exerting power over others’ minds. It almost seemed an experiment.
Al continued to vent even as he dropped Arthur off at the store. “They’re selling what’s left of their livestock, by the way, in case you’re interested in an emu or two. They’re going vegetarian. What Silverson calls achieving another plane. Wish they’d leave on one. I guess you’ve got enough on your mind. How’s Margaret?”
“I thought she might come by this weekend, but Parliament opens in nine days. Lots of things going on.”
“That’s right, Lloyd Chalmers, the judicial recount. Margaret will be fairly keyed up over that. Good friend of hers, isn’t he? Brilliant chap, I recorded his TED Talk.”
§
Arthur picked up a few things in the store and lined up at the mail counter behind Joanne and Henry, the Transformers featured in the Bleat who’d cycled all the way from L.A. to meet the Baba.
Abraham Makepeace was scanning a postcard intended for Joanne. “This here is from a talent agency wishing you happy Thanksgiving. You an actress?”
“I’m a nutritionist,” Joanne said, rolling her eyes at her partner.
“I wouldn’t have thought a nutritionist needed an agent. Maybe in L.A.”
“He’s a friend.” Joanne gently pried the postcard and a couple of letters from Makepeace’s grip while Henry filmed the exchange. Arthur couldn’t figure out why, but the Transformers were constantly chronicling the nosy postmaster.
Joanne and Henry bowed to Arthur, each voicing a “Namaste.” Unsure of protocol, Arthur bowed back. “Same to you.”
They left him to deal with Makepeace, who was massaging a special delivery envelope. “Cardboard backing on both sides. Return address is a box number in Montreal. My best guess is it’s about that libel charge against Margaret.”
§
On his way back home, Arthur came upon Kurt Zoller on the side of the road, pounding in a stake bearing the stencilled sign: Trust Zoller. Just do it.
Arthur could see a pile of such signs in the back seat of the orange Hummer. The thought of the island’s infamous obsessor becoming Island Trustee under Silverson’s thumb was truly alarming. Reverend Al was right, the Transformers had to be stopped. But how? This was a democracy. Even the hypnotized had a right to vote.
Zoller watched him approach. He too now had glazed eyes, a distant stare. How quickly he’d fallen under Silverson’s sway. He had them believing he was omnipresent, speaking to his subjects from the sky and the forest.
Zoller greeted him in a slow, mechanical way, then held him up for a while with a confusing ramble about his program for governing Garibaldi. As far as Arthur could make out, he wanted to prepare his subjects for the enlightenment that flowed through all life and was based on a universal energy. Arthur thanked him for that, and carried on home, clutching his envelope from Francisco Sierra.
§
After setting a fire, and with a mug of tea at hand, he settled into his favourite club chair and unfolded a notarized copy of Lou Sabatino’s handwritten letter to his family. Clipped to it was a note from Frank, expressing the hope this got safely to him.
A copy of Lou’s envelope was included, postmarked November 12 in Calgary. It bore no return address, nor did the letter, which was on lined pages torn from a steno notepad. His message to his family was pensive and thoughtfully expressed, wishing wife and children happy lives, promising to respect Celeste’s wish that they remain apart.
The letter offered up some odd, tender touches. Poetic phrasing about a love kindled by absence and memories. A snippet from Hamlet’s note to Ophelia: Doubt thou the stars are fire, doubt truth to be a liar, but never doubt I love. Lou had prepared a list: “Eight great ways to say I love you.” Nothing here to suggest a death wish. Yet suicide was a worry. Lou’s father-in-law had mentioned something about Lou making an attempt at it, jumping into a lake.
Particularly touching was Lou’s recall of his shy, fumbling pursuit of Celeste years ago, how he’d first set eyes on her, at a Christmas party, how he’d been struck dumb by her grace and beauty, how he’d spent an hour rehearsing an opening line, then flubbed it, something banal about how her lovely dress reflected the colours of autumn, then being reminded it was winter.
There were other light anecdotal remembrances of Celeste and the kids. Regrets over his failures as husband, as father, as a human being. A thank-you to Celeste for protecting Lisa and Logan from the child-stalker haunting their city. Assurances that he was safe and well, “building a new life.” He added: “Despite all, I am happier than I deserve to be.”