Beach Reading

by Lorne Elliott

  “That I didn’t have to hang around here.”

  “Right! Better in fact that you don’t. It’ll keep you out of Barry’s way.”

  And because I should probably let somebody know, I said, “He came down to my tent the other night.” At least there’d be a suspect if my body was found.

  “Who did?”

  “Rattray.”

  “Really? Why?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Did he..? There weren’t any… problems were there?”

  “Not really. It was just weird.”

  Fergie put his head between his hands. “Oh Rattray, Rattray, Rattray. I don’t know what his problem is? Well, actually I do. He’s jealous….”

  “Of what?”

  “Sorry? Was that out loud?”

  “Yes.”

  “Oh. Well… He’s jealous of…almost everything, actually. Me. My job. Your job. Anybody else who has a job anywhere…”

  “Why?”

  “Who knows? He’s Rattray. When you first showed up he’d already asked me whether he should take that letter to the MacAkerns and I said no, see, because he would have made a big confrontation about it. But when you said that you were a friend of theirs, I figured I’d give it to you to deliver.”

  “So?”

  “So, being Barry Rattray, he makes a big deal about me allocating tasks to junior adjutants who are only sectioned to, and not employees of, the federal park system, and who do not have priority and seniority, et cetera et cetera… and now because of that, and some other stuff, I guess, I’m an enemy too, apparently, as well as you…”

  I was jealous of Rattray, he was jealous of me. I wanted the girl who wanted him, but whom he didn’t want. All personal feelings aside, it was easy to see that it would be better for everybody if Claire simply started loving me. Then everybody would be happy, except Claire of course, but somebody had to make a sacrifice for the good of the community.

  But that, as I knew with a pang, wasn’t going to be. Why was I torturing myself?

  “Enough to drive a man to drink,” said Fergie, then seemed to hear what he was saying, caught himself, looked at his desk drawer, and said, “Fuck it. It’s coffee break. Want one?”

  “No thanks.”

  “Of course not. Proper thing. I shouldn’t even have asked you. Take a small one myself, though. Be sure not to tell anybody, will you?”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, and as I left he was already opening the drawer.

  ***

  Now I spent my days on the beach, where I observed the wildlife and wrote up my observations. I also made notes on the tide, the delay in its descent caused by the expulsion of water from Barrisway Bay, which, meeting the clockwise coastal current around Prince Edward Island, pulled to the east. I modeled the shore and ocean floor in a sand sculpture from Barrisway and MacAkerns’ Point to the park’s eastern boundary using the depth measurements of a navigation chart from the office, which I amended. I put pieces of wood into the water and watched through my binoculars where they floated, then drew where the currents brought them. I finished my first notebook and filled up two more.

  I would wake up angry and sit on the beach, making my observations and occasionally yelling at the ocean. Underneath the objective style of my notes, my mind crawled around looking for things to be angry about.

  And in the evenings, I went to MacAkern’s to debate with Wallace, which cleansed and left me empty. Then I could go back to my camp and, calm now, look over my notes on birds and tides. These things were comprehensible.

  The Things of Man, though, at the office and with the election, had too many waves intersecting from too many sides. There was no pattern, and if one could be identified, then someone could use that knowledge to bend the advantage toward them.

  ***

  We were at the MacAkerns’ when Bailey entered the kitchen with a copy of The Guardian.

  “We have a problem,” he said. “The Conservatives are claiming that according to the elections act, paying for votes is illegal.”

  “How’s it any different than promising jobs?” said Wallace.

  “Hey, I agree,” said Bailey. “But don’t worry. It was to be expected.”

  “But…”

  “Don’t get hung up on it, Wallace. It’s a good thing.”

  “That was the main plank in our platform…”

  “It did its job. It got us some attention. Also, frankly, I don’t think we could have sustained it financially.”

  “I thought you said we had enough in the war chest?”

  “I lied. Now, we need some other enticements.”

  “How about a forward thinking platform of meaningful policy?”

  “Yeah, right,” Bailey snorted. So did Melissa, Robbie, Aiden and Brucie. I thought I might as well snort too.

  “OK. Now. Press release. Can you do the typing, Melissa?”

  “Go ahead.”

  “‘Ottawa Makes It Illegal To Get Your Money Back.’ New paragraph. ‘While admitting that he will submit to the decision of Elections Canada to close down his innovative salary give-back scheme, Independent Candidate MacAkern says, “Vote for me and I’ll get those laws changed.” He also said that while on the subject of campaign regulations, how about the fact that Robert Logan Head has been hiring paid government workers to help out in his campaign?”

  “I said that?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did I mean?”

  “Rattray’s working for them.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. Seems they read the letter we published using his name and they contacted him. So that kinda backfired.”

  “Well, that’s gonna backfire on them too, cause everybody thinks Rattray’s a tool.”

  “Good. Now. Next order of business. Somebody tell me what is the meaning of this?” He laid the “People” section of The Guardian open in front of Wallace.

  “Shit,” said Wallace.

  “Twenty-five cents,” said Bailey. “And who’s Eleanor Beardsley?”

  “Widow of the late Elmer Blake,” said Robbie. “El’ner and Elmer.”

  “Toe and Gump’s Mom,” said Wallace.

  “Does she have ties to the Conservative Party?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “She must’ve been played, then.”

  “Why?” said Robbie, leaning in.

  “She’s written a story about Smooth Lennie.”

  Robbie looked at Wallace. Wallace looked at Robbie.

  “‘Prince Edward Island has long been a breeding ground for colourful Maritime characters,’” Bailey read, ‘but Leonard “Smooth Lennie” MacKay, the Island’s own Sam Slick, would have to top the list of the best known of them’ …And yes. Here it is, in the sidebar: ‘…Uncle of Wallace MacAkern who is running as Independent Candidate in Barrisway this summer…’”

  “Oh Christ,” said Wallace, taking the paper and scanning it. “She lists the scams…Fixing the Gold Cup and Saucer Race…The crab license kickback…The Irish moss subsidy… It’s all here…The Georgetown arson trial, the tide-wall…Oh Jesus, she’s written up the tide-wall!…The Island whiskey project…”

  “Who’s feeding her this stuff?” said Bailey.

  “Could be a coincidence.”

  “Don’t believe it. They must’ve had this in the works since they heard you’d thrown your hat into the ring. And there’s going to be a daily selection from her upcoming book, Island Characters for three weeks. Until election day, which is rather convenient.” Bailey sat down heavily. “Is this going to be a problem, you being related to him? I heard that Head is starting to refer to you as ‘Smooth Wally.’”

  “Clever.”

  “Yes. But you’re gonna need a better comeback than that.”

  “How about ‘I loved my uncle,
but I hated his politics’?”

  “Not bad.”

  “May I remind you that he was also a Conservative?” said Robbie.

  “That’s better. People! From now on it’s never ‘Smooth Lennie MacKay,’ it’s ‘Conservative MP Smooth Lennie Mackay’. And let’s get some dirt on Robert Logan Head’s relatives.”

  “Why’d this have to happen now?” said Wallace.

  “Because it was orchestrated to do exactly that. Now it’s time we started to get some information on them.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like how are they getting information on us. We need an insider.”

  Wallace cheered up. “Right! An insider. Of course! Ward Morris recommends that. Chapter Four, ‘Getting the Skinny.’”

  Bailey thought a bit, sucking his lip. “Melissa, we need somebody to go work for them.”

  “A spy?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Do I get to wear a message ring?” She had rolled and lit a joint, and was sharing it with Aiden and Robbie.

  “Does she get to write notes with invisible ink?” said Robbie.

  “No. I just want you to volunteer at their riding office.”

  “Maybe I could use a false name?”

  “Whatever…”

  “Who’ll I say I am? Natasha Sloventsky?”

  “Ivana Katerina, Woman of Mystery,” giggled Robbie. I had never heard her giggle before.

  “I want you to volunteer for Head’s campaign, and once you’re there, keep an ear open for any news.”

  “Do I get a spy car?” said Melissa. “Dress in a long mink coat?”

  “With nothing on underneath! Oh!Yes! Dahlink!”

  “I’ll photograph you!” said Aiden. And he picked up his camera and started to click at her, while Melissa pouted and posed. “Work with me! Baby! Beautiful!… Gorgeous!”

  Robbie pranced around like a photographer’s assistant, moved in to puff Melissa’s hair, “Oh! Yes! Perfect!” she said, then pecked her on the cheek. “Fabulous!”

  They all collapsed into their seats laughing.

  “Well, nothing wrong with having a bit of fun with it, I suppose,” said Bailey. “So this means, I take it, that you’re OK with the idea?”

  “Not really,” said Melissa. “Why me?”

  “Robbie is Wallace’s sister and if she shows up there, they’d obviously suspect something.”

  “Wait! Robbie can’t come with me?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I definitely don’t want to do it, then.”

  “Aren’t you sweet,” said Robbie, and they kissed.

  “Do I have to hose you two down?”

  “Sounds like fun.”

  “Look,” said Bailey. “If we’re going to win this campaign, we’re going to have to make some personal sacrifices….”

  “Bailey..?” interrupted Aiden.

  “Yes?”

  “I can do it?”

  Bailey turned. “Aiden! Of course. Thanks. And maybe that would be better.”

  “I gotta go into town? To get some pictures developed? I’ll volunteer at their office on the way back? I’d better not live here, though? Somebody might follow me home and find out?”

  “Good point.”

  “I can find some place? And stay there? But how do I contact you.” That last question, of course, he said like a statement.

  “Let me think…”

  “When I get anything, I could sneak away and phone you?”

  “Sure. Simple. That’ll work.”

  “I could run m-m-messages to your place,” said Brucie.

  “Thanks. Yes. That might be helpful,” said Bailey. “You could be our secret messenger.”

  “All r-r-right!”

  “But don’t tell anybody anything about what we’re doing.”

  “Don’t worry. I won’t b-b-blab.”

  It was agreed that Melissa and Robbie would drive Aiden down to rent a car and leave him there to find his way back to Conservative headquarters. Everybody said goodbye and good luck and Aiden departed like a hero, which in retrospect, turned out to be quite ironic.

  9

  The next day I snuck into the park office to pick up some more paper, looking first to see that Claire wasn’t around, and crossed the lobby towards my office. As I passed, Rattray’s open door a voice inside said, “Hey. I want you.”

  I looked in and saw Rattray. He didn’t look up, just sat there pretending to be casual, and made a gesture for me to approach, still without looking. He was clean-shaven and newly pressed and had undoubtedly just calibrated his epaulets with a micrometer. But I was pleased to see there was still a little bruise on the side of his nose. I wondered if I should ask him if he would like to borrow my makeup, but instead I said, “What do you want?”

  “Come here,” he said.

  I came in, letting it be known by my demeanour that I wasn’t obliged to just because he had told me to. “What?”

  “I found your notebook.” He looked up to see my reaction. He must have been rehearsing all morning.

  I paused. “Give it here.”

  “Not so fast. I was reading it.”

  “That’s my business.”

  “Not entirely. There’s something in it that concerns me”.

  “It’s private,” I said.

  But he was in charge now. “There’s some notes about birds and shit. And a whole lot of other crap, and then, what? A poem? Jesus!”

  “Give it.”

  “…But right in the middle there’s something really interesting. It’s the first draft of a letter…”

  I didn’t say anything, though of course I knew what he was getting at. “It’s all about how you really like the idea of that vegetable stand and how you’re going to leave some money for them.”

  “So?”

  “So I’m thinking it’s an awful lot like that other letter.”

  “What other letter?”

  “The one they accused me of writing.”

  I looked at him for a while. “So, they’re punching and kicking you and you’re saying ‘oh please don’t hit me! I didn’t do anything?’ Is that what it was like?”

  “There were two of them…” he said, and stopped.

  I didn’t say anything, just stood there with one hip cocked, looking back at him. Might as well go down fighting. “Did it hurt?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” was his witty retort. He looked at me some more and then got back to the point. “I’m keeping the notebook, and if you give me any more shit, or refuse to do anything I tell you to, I will make it public. Got it?” My eyes must’ve flicked around the desk, because he said, “No, I don’t have it here. I’ve hidden it. I’m the new recruitment officer for the Conservative Party,” he said, and he pointed his finger at me and sighted down it like a pistol. “And I’m recruiting you.”

  “Did they give you a shiny badge to wear?”

  His face fell. “You do what I say. And you can start by telling me about the MacAkerns.”

  “What about the MacAkerns?”

  “Noticed any, oh I don’t know…. illegal activity there?”

  What I needed was a bone to toss him to give me time to retaliate, and which wouldn’t mean prison for my friends. Marijuana could mean just that, but from everything I’d heard about the whisky that Dunbar had given Wallace, it seemed to inhabit a legal grey area. I didn’t know whether freezing was in fact a legal form of distillation, but it sounded like it hadn’t as yet been legislated against, so that came to the same thing, didn’t it? Or did it? Surely they couldn’t lock somebody up for leaving something out in the winter in Canada. Not yet, anyway.

  And right then I had a brief and awful vision of what could drive legislation if you let it: the will to control. The free use of The Things
of God (in this case cold weather) being reined under legal control by the Things of Man.

  I also saw the resistance which must be set against that to achieve, if not victory, at least balance. And in that moment I became a rebel, a real one, not just pretend. I saw the future as it would be if the Rattrays of the world were in charge, cruel because they were afraid, needing to get something on the world because the world had something on them, having to control so they wouldn’t be controlled.

  I started to say something, then caught myself. He had to think that he had forced it out of me.

  “What?” he said.

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. No…”

  “I have your notebook,” he threatened.

  I turned as though I was hating myself for what I was doing. “Fergie asked me to see if he could buy a case of bootleg whiskey from them.”

  “Monroe did?”

  “Yes.”

  “From MacAkern?”

  “Yes.”

  “Perfect! That’s exactly what I mean! We can set him up! We can catch him red-handed.”

  “We’re not the police, Rattray.”

  “We can tell the police how to catch him red-handed. Just as good.”

  “Why?”

  “High time I was in charge of things around here. Fergie’s a drunk. He’s been screwing up since forever.”

  “You were drinking the other night.”

  “What other night?”

  “On the beach.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, and really looked like he didn’t know. Maybe he didn’t. The possibility remained that he was simply insane. He continued, “Now. You’re going to phone the MacAkerns.”

  “What? Now?”

  “Phone them.”

  So I dialed the MacAkerns’ number and Melissa picked up.

  “Campaign Headquarters for The Wallace MacAkern Campaign. Vote Wallace!” Her joyful energy even came down the telephone wire, the direct opposite to here where everything was seething, locked down and destructive.

  “Hi, Melissa, it’s Christian. Is Wallace there?”

  “Sure, Christian.”

  I waited until he took the receiver. “Hello?”