The Off Season

by The Off Season (epub)

  “Let us get along.” Frank is stuffy, there being no protocol to handle tenderness. “You keep good notes,” he tells Jerome.

  “Item four.” Jerome looks at us, and we do not know if he is defiant or apologetic. “You heard of a jailbreak. Rumor said The Sailor and the morose cop broke jail. People whispered that Gerald was beginning to slip.”

  “An unfair complaint,” Samuel admits. “The only jailbreak Gerald had in over fifty years.”

  “It wasn’t a jailbreak,” Jerome admits. “It was undercover. Gerald deputized The Sailor, the morose cop, and the Irish cop. The Sailor and the morose cop moved in with the Irish cop. For a while all three lived in the basement of the bookstore.” Jerome looks at Bev. “You never suspected?”

  “Never,” Bev says, “or I would have fixed the place up a bit.’’

  “After a hundred years in the jail, The Sailor would have been happy living in a swamp,” Jerome tells her.

  “Gerald must have had a reason,” Collette murmurs.

  “He had several,” Jerome answers. “In addition to deputizing those men, he asked Obed to go undercover. Cats get into places men cannot.”

  Samuel is impressed. “I had no idea the situation was so intricate.”

  We sit and remember ourselves in those younger days when the date was only 1973. We remember the years, the daily mist, innumerable winter storms. Time seems a roll of gray fabric that can be unwound, rewound, or wrapped, stitched, fashioned like the suits and dresses of our lives. Joel-Andrew is dead. Kune is either alive or dead, and we do not know which.

  “August Starling visited the newspaper office the last week of November in 1973,” Samuel says to Jerome. “Tell us about it.”

  “He ran a variety of cons,” Jerome said. “He looked for free advertising. It went something like this:

  When Starling arrived at the newspaper office, Jerome worked at a desk covered with photos of a tricycle wreck on Maple Street. One kid sported a bandaged pinkie, the other lost her television privileges for a month. It was not front-page stuff, but the photos were excellent, and it was a slow week. Jerome nearly did not recognize the boyish figure wearing a business suit. Without his whiskers, August Starling looked about nineteen years old.

  “How gaily shines the morn,” August Starling said, “when companions in the common weal their enterprise enjoin, and fairly sounds beloved and clarion cries—”

  “I don’t have all day,” Jerome said.

  “—of duty,” Starling said.

  “You want something,” Jerome told him. “You probably can’t have it, but I’ll give you ten minutes.”

  “It concerns missionary efforts in the tourist industry.”

  “Twenty minutes,” Jerome said, “and cut the posied speech.” He removed his green eyeshade. “How did Victorians get any business transacted? It takes you an hour to say ‘good morning.’”

  August Starling’s eyes reflected the happy realization that Jerome was an editorial man, one given to impassioned speeches—but short ones. “Excellent,” August Starling said, “I shall be direct.” He pointed into the empty street. “It is not crowded with tourists,” he said mournfully.

  “It’s winter. It’s the off season. Seattle is covered with snow and ice and probably polar bears.” Jerome also looked at the empty street, and for a moment was saddened. “Not a blamed thing to be done,” he advised Starling. “The Chamber of Commerce once tried a Fog and Mist Festival. The only tourists who showed up were three Sasquatch and a Greek Orthodox sponge diver named Absorba.”

  The ’39 LaSalle cruised by, with Gerald attempting to look innocuous as he kept tabs on August Starling. The LaSalle looked like a car that had burned up three odometers, which, in fact, it had.

  “New police cars are part of my plan,” Starling confided to Jerome. “As a loyal son of Point Vestal, I wish to contribute two brand new police vehicles.” August Starling blushed. “It is best to be prepared, even at the risk of being overprepared.”

  Jerome smelled a rat. Circa 1888, but a rat.

  “Police cars cost a lot of money,” he told Starling, “and I doubt if Gerald would take a fancy to ’em.”

  “A matter of progress,” Starling murmured. “Gerald approaches retirement.”

  “Gerald hardly ever flickers. He’s at least a century from retirement.” Jerome studied Starling with a steely journalistic gaze that could drill holes in boilerplate. “Blow some more smoke,” he advised Starling. “I’m beginning to enjoy this.”

  August Starling seemed clumsy with his twentieth-century knowledge. He shoved his hat back, turned a chair around and straddled it. Jerome had the impression of a chicken sitting on a pointed egg. “Ask yourself this,” Starling said. “What do people fear most?”

  “The IRS,” Jerome told him. “Plus getting behind on house payments. They fear nuclear pop-offs, chemical fertilizer, catastrophic illness, higher sewage rates. They fear unwed mothers, feminism, recalls of manufactured goods. They fear Breathalyzers, venereal disease, food additives, and homosexuals. They are scared silly of having a pancreas, of meditating on the universe, of thinking about acid rain. They are frightened by Latins, Orientals, mysticism and Yiddish. There is nothin’ they won’t do to get away from—”

  “A century of fear,” August Starling interrupted in a low voice.

  “—to get away from fish inoculated with mercury, bureaucrats inoculated with ego, and dogs without rabies shots. I’m a journalist. You can trust me.” Jerome leaned back and began enumerating. “People are most afraid of—”

  “Death,” August Starling interrupted. “When you get right down to it, people are afraid only of dying.” August Starling hugged the back of his chair and attempted to look wise. “If Point Vestal can find a way to make people comfortable with death, the tourist industry is assured.”

  Shocked and intrigued, Jerome reached for his note pad.

  “They fear death so much,” August Starling mourned, “a funeral is just no fun any more. Cremations. Plain old caskets. No photographers. Simple ceremonies.”

  Jerome pushed his pad away. “If you’re thinking fancy funerals, think again.”

  “You underestimate me,” August Starling pretended to be sad. “What I have in mind is rather elaborate. It begins with an old religious custom.”

  Jerome took copious notes. Years later, when he reviewed those notes while sitting at the table in The Fisherman’s Café, all of us—Bev, Frank, Samuel and Collette—would be fascinated by Jerome’s methodical entries. By that time, the yellow legal pads were fading, but Jerome’s notes remained a telltale of emotions. Sometimes the writing is bold and firm. Sometimes it trembles, as if written by a ghostly hand.

  Chapter 20

  “August Starling’s Plan was gaudy,” Jerome tells us. “The man had unerring instinct for euphemisms. He had 20/20 vision for troublemakers. That is why he wanted Gerald to retire.”

  “He could make money.” Frank is not given to flattery, but his voice holds an edge of admiration. “August Starling took a handful of capital from coins sold to Collette. In less than a month, he controlled a young fortune.”

  “Dealing drugs,” Collette and Bev say in chorus.

  “Smuggling is traditional,” Frank reminds them.

  “An argument from ‘tradition’ no longer carries much weight in Point Vestal,” Samuel reminds Frank.

  “Certain people,” Collette says, “will walk across corpses while sniffing from a perfumed hankie. At least they will when corpses turn a profit.” She looks at Frank. “Do something to make me like you.”

  “Starling’s reasoning went this way,” Jerome says. “People are afraid of death. Point Vestal is filled with ghosts. Therefore, death is different in Point Vestal. While it is true that many of our ghosts develop flickers, none has flickered out completely. It follows that dying in Point Vestal is a very good deal. We might be witnessing a form of immortality.”

  “Yep,” says Collette, “and elephants don’t whistle, �
�cause an elephant got a hose nose.”

  “It would be grim immortality, indeed,” Samuel admits. “If you have nothing to look forward to except eternal grief or eternal birthday parties . . .” Samuel sees Frank’s confusion. “You couldn’t even teach Sunday school for all eternity without the conversation wearing thin.”

  “August Starling knew that,” Jerome explains. “August Starling did not talk about what is. He talked about what sells.”

  “There is a difference,” Frank points out to Bev.

  “That was part of the plan,” Jerome tells us. “There were other parts. First, this business of an old religious custom: Starling spoke warmly in behalf of indulgences. He pointed out that the world has run on the low side of the indulgence business for maybe four centuries, which is why things went downhill.”

  Samuel gasps and chokes.

  “August Starling wanted the ministerial association to sell indulgences covering all sins committed in Point Vestal. It follows that if you sell forgiveness for sins, you must have a variety of sins from which the customer can choose. Remember, also, such sins must be consistent with the Victorian charm of the community. August Starling spoke of tasteful cathouses, beautifully furnished opium dens, ornate gambling parlors.”

  “It is all traditional,” Frank says. “What’s wrong with that?”

  “The ministerial association wouldn’t cooperate,” Samuel says. “That’s one thing wrong with it.”

  “As you recall, Starling had a contingency plan,” Jerome says. “I’ll get to that in a minute. Meanwhile, in addition to guilt-free sin, Starling planned the return of the Victorian funeral.” Jerome consults his notes. “Rotating preachers, ebony hearses, black horses in spans of six, silent mourners hired like movie extras, gorgeous selections of coffins, fruit-flavored embalming fluid (raspberry, strawberry, grape), ten days lying in state, an abundance of photographs—pictures of the happy corpse, of the corpse and living friends, pictures making contrasting and noble statements—such as photos of beribboned babies regarding the remnants of old men.”

  Jerome glances again at his notes, gives a low whistle. “Starch and lace concessions,” he murmurs, “a small fortune in starch and lace. In addition, money for barbers, dentists, suit­ and dressmakers, florists. Steady employment for chamber­ music groups, gardeners for the cemeteries (Starling planned a modest dozen cemeteries for a start), and jobs for masons who would build the mausoleums—”

  “Dentists?” Collette is as confused as the rest of us.

  “Standard maintenance,” Jerome explains. “The Victorians owned a fascination with teeth. Starling thought it unkindly to inter a mossy bicuspid.”

  “Keep it up,” Collette says, “and I am gonna urp.” Even her blue eyes look pale.

  “Equipment sales,” Jerome says. “Backhoes for digging graves, plus sales of granite and marble. Stonecutting equipment, polishers, engraving tools. Employment for sculptors, artists, singers, writers, and other such trash. A large market for memorial souvenirs, dinner plates carrying sentimental quotes, Bibles held by the deceased, plaster sea gulls with drooping wings and mournful looks . . .”

  “I get the picture,” Frank says, not a little excited. Then Frank thinks of some problems. “Hard to sell,” he says. “Seattle people are too afraid of dying.”

  “I am certain,” Bev says, “that August Starling had a scam.”

  “Starling peddled immortality,” Jerome tells us. “He would sell indulgences. Since the customer was free of sin, the customer would have a happy immortality. There was additional bait, plus a kicker.”

  “Bait?” We all breathe the word at the same time.

  “With each funeral, Starling would issue coupons good toward eventual resurrection. After the funeral, the ghostly presence could earn additional coupons by playing ball with Starling. The ghost would give testimonials, serve as tour guide of cathouses, et cetera. Starling used his own resurrection, and that of the Irishman, to prove such a thing possible.”

  “Did Joel-Andrew know about this?” Bev is astounded. “If Joel-Andrew knew, he would have called down angels.”

  “Joel-Andrew did call down angels,” Jerome reminds her, “but later. To answer your question: at the time, Joel-Andrew did not know. Obed probably knew, but Obed worked undercover for Gerald.”

  “What was the kicker?” Samuel’s nostrils widen. He snorts, ready to canter into battle. Samuel has warred against evil all his life, but it has been mostly garden-variety evil. He rarely gets a shot at the mainliners.

  “There were actually two kickers.” Jerome consults his notes. “First: Only tourists were eligible, and they could buy insurance against the time they might die in some other place. The insurance paid for their funerals, plus transportation to Point Vestal from any point in Seattle.” Jerome’s hands tremble. He looks at Samuel, at Bev. “You are not going to like the second kicker.”

  “I didn’t like the first one,” Bev tells him, “but I’m not blaming you.”

  “The second kicker was the Messiah,” Jerome says. “Starling interviewed several candidates—gurus—television preachers—football coaches—that sort. He would train his man, then stage the Second Coming—get the networks involved—use a stage filled with country singers, a dozen choirs, characters from the Disney Studios, testimonials by football players, politicians, aging comedians, other riffraff, as well as the chorus line from Auntie Mame. He would bring his Messiah to Point Vestal aboard a fancy tour ship. He planned flyovers by the Air Force stunt team, ‘The Hallelujah Chorus’ performed by the Marine Band, twenty-one-gun salutes, free balloons in mourning black for children . . .”

  “It will work,” Frank says dreamily. “By Gadfrey, this is the biggest thing since the Wright Brothers.”

  We sit stunned. We are stunned by the colossal ego of August Starling, by the Victorian tastelessness of August Starling, the arrogant certainty of August Starling . . . but mostly we are stunned because Frank is correct. In a few short weeks, back in 1973, August Starling had cased the entire twentieth century.

  “Let me see if I’ve got it right,” Collette muses. “Starling had it set up so the customer received all the drinking, gambling, and boffing he could handle; then all sins were forgiven. Buying a funeral, he gained immortality and the likelihood of resurrection. In addition, Heaven came to him in the form of the Messiah.”

  “That’s basically it,” Jerome assures her. “There were trimmings—vibrator beds, cathouses for nonsmokers—stuff like that.”

  Even the wind that woofs around The Fisherman’s Café seems in mourning. It is easy to hear remembered echoes in that wind; the gabble of a Chinese mob, the desperate and persuasive voice of Obed. We hear Kune’s drawn-out cries, and quiet echoes of Joel-Andrew’s voice.

  Of course, we also have things for which we may be glad. Collette is still alive. Joel-Andrew may be dead, but he has not deserted Point Vestal. Kune walks, walks; is a quiet witness reminding us to retain our senses.

  “It must have been confusing for Joel-Andrew,” Collette says. “It certainly confuses me.” A scoop shovel of rain hits the windows, crash-splash. “Regretting but never forgetting the roses . . .” Collette whispers, and she is off in some field of memory.

  “Joel-Andrew was unmethodical,” Jerome says. “Him and his dancing cat. But Joel-Andrew was never confused. He was too innocent.”

  “Maybe less innocent and more methodical than we believe,” Bev tells Jerome, “but his methods were different. He exerted an enormous influence on Kune. He brought The Parsonage to an understanding of the difference between works and faith.”

  “To get on . . .” Frank looks to Jerome “Resume our story before distractions overtake us.”

  “Let us pick up the story back in the second week of December 1973,” Jerome says. “August Starling’s burger franchise was sited beside the boat basin. The pharmaceutical company rose quickly on the cliff at the approach to town. Let us start with Joel-Andrew, who by then seemed to be having some
influence on the all-seeing tower. That he influenced The Parsonage—and profoundly—is a matter of record.”

  Chapter 21

  In December, as Joel-Andrew discovered, winds carry hard and slanting rain. Sometimes a cold front sags through, dropping south from polar regions of Seattle. The all-seeing tower sees snow. The snow never lasts, for in a day or two it will be driven seaward by rain. In early mornings people feed airtight stoves with fir, alder, madrona; and people, no less than ghosts, are loath to go to work. In October we get October light, in November we get werelight, and in December we get black light. Streets reflect a midnight mood.

  Through more than a hundred years, the all-seeing tower had pretty much seen it all; but the all-seeing tower had never experienced Joel-Andrew, who, on the second Wednesday of December, viewed the black morning as one more opportunity to get August Starling bombed into a heavenly high. Joel-Andrew had already taken one shot. August Starling, preoccupied with what seemed sheets of notes about chemistry, had been polite, chirpy, distant. The conversation went nowhere. Joel-Andrew also took some shots at Kune.

  Joel-Andrew sighed and remained hopeful. He waited for revelation.

  “O Lord,” Joel-Andrew prayed, “after what Solomon went through when he prayed for wisdom, I’m scared to death of saying this—but Lord, may Thy humble servant be granted wisdom by which he may work Thy love.” Joel-Andrew raised his head, looked around the drawing room of The Parsonage, bowed his head in an afterthought. “And Lord” he added, “You may want to take a kindly look at Kune. Our boy is turning it around.”

  Joel-Andrew stood at a drawing room window and planned his day. A distant rattle of small-arms fire sounded not much louder than fleas playing hopscotch on a rug. The small-arms fire came from the boat basin. Gerald had waited until dawn to mount another assault on the eight or ten Cubans aboard the drug-running yacht. The Cubans proved tougher than Gerald expected.

  Gerald had trouble—Joel-Andrew thought with kindliness—because Gerald tried to take the Cubans alive.