The Off Season

by The Off Season (epub)

  “I like the way Janie handles her cheering section,” Maggie pointed out. “You’ll notice not a single chippie has thrown hatpins or busted glass.”

  “Oh, dear,” Joel-Andrew said, “we’ve made the evening news.” The news anchor and her cameraman ran from The Fisherman’s Café. The pile on the sidewalk rose. The morose cop proved good at stacking. From the balcony, cheering Victorian ladies lent an air of gaiety to the proceedings. The news anchor yammered into her mike. Her cameraman shot in color; and so soon all the world saw flickering pastel gowns, starchy white shirtfronts, random stacks of glittery teeth, a cacophony of bruises, bloodstains, limbs at peculiar angles. Joel-Andrew gasped as Frank flew by, and gasped again as Frank was added to the pile. Frank wore his morning coat and carried his ornately carved pool cue. His eyes fluttered as he sat confusedly on top of the pile. Frank tried to look dutiful.

  “That’s the old ball game,” Maggie said. “What’s really interesting is what happens next.” She pointed to the back of the tavern, back toward the ladies’ can where the IWW man emerged. The IWW man hollered that it was time to organize. It was time for the Victorian ghosts to hold a general strike.

  Chapter 25

  The first rumblings of trouble came on heels of the evening news. The news anchor used sarcasm and jollity. Her cameraman recorded the pile of merchants, loggers and fishermen; but the news anchor did not point out that it was a carefully placed pile only little larger than a haystack. The camera caught Frank at a clear disadvantage (Frank is unaccustomed to looking goofy), and nasty editing attended footage shot at The Fisherman’s Café.

  The network played Point Vestal for laughs. With such terrible publicity, next year’s tourist season seemed knocked into a cockaded hat. When the Victorians hoisted a big sign reading “Strike Headquarters” across the front of Janie’s Tavern, the camera attended the festivity.

  Our mayor and city council went into extraordinary session, and once again raised sewage rates. A town meeting took place at The Fisherman’s Café. At Janie’s Tavern a mob of celebrating ghosts got rid of a century’s worth of frustrations. The wide­-hipped and generous ladies certainly did not leave; nor did the WWI vet or the man from the IWW. There was not only a rift between the living and the dead of Point Vestal; there was a rift between some of the living and the living. When the Suffragettes, to a woman, marched into the tavern and joined the strike, the whole town reeled. When Bev crossed the street to join the strike, the town reeled further.

  “Because,” Bev explains, as she sits at the table in The Fish-erman’s Café while we discuss the writing of our history, “I had no one to consult.” She touches Samuel’s hand. “That was the second town meeting in less than three months. I wanted to stay sane.”

  Frank sniffs and snuzzles. Mikey Daniels’s milk truck stumbles past. Today the doughnuts are yellow with little sprinkles of purple, like promises of springtime crocuses. The doughnuts do not cheer us. If this book gets all the way written, and we remain friends, we’ll gain deeper understanding of the word “miracle.”

  “We have to be methodical,” Jerome suggests. “We should specify, back there as the strike began, exactly what everyone did. Otherwise the situation gets confused.”

  “Makes sense,” Frank says. “Samuel rode circuit, Bev whooped it up at the tavern with the Suffragettes—”

  “I did not whoop, and I left for work on time the following morning.” Bev avoids a scrap that looks like a sure thing, then continues, “Collette hid in the basement of the bookstore. The Irish cop remained on stakeout. Jerome dashed between town meeting and tavern, covering the story. Obed lurked undercover. He watched a crew unload the truck containing coffins. The Sailor kept order at the tavern. Maggie instructed The Sailor. Gerald brooded in the LaSalle. Gerald thought of busting the tavern, the town meeting, and the city council. Gerald about had a bellyfull of the whole business. Frank whimpered in the back of The Fisherman’s Café—”

  “I did not whimper,” Frank says. “I may have trembled a bit, because I knew August Starling would hurry back to town after he saw that news broadcast.”

  Jerome consults his voluminous notes. “F. (whimpering),” he reads with satisfaction. He flips a page. “Joel-Andrew and Kune were busy getting kicked out of town meeting . . .”

  Samuel hunches above his coffee cup and broods. His broadcloth suit sighs at the elbows. “I used to understand the nature of Evil,” he mutters. “Before August Starling.”

  “I never believed it was showy or spectacular.” Bev is broody as Samuel. “I figured Evil was the absence of Good.”

  “We’re still missing something,” Samuel mutters.

  “. . . in addition,” Jerome continues, “the gunmen with the limo guarded the shipment of coffins. The real estate lady planned a tasteful series of condos. The condos were to be built on the saltwater swamp, as soon as the Department of Interior could eliminate the wildlife. The stock market lady put together a prospectus. She planned a development company that would eventually turn the entire county into a series of tasteful cemeteries.” Jerome looks up from his pages. “That takes care of everyone in town.”

  Samuel gnashes his teeth. Bev sneers. Collette trembles.

  “Let us resume,” Jerome says, his voice morbid. “Let us pick up Joel-Andrew and Kune just after they got kicked out of town meeting.”

  As Joel-Andrew and Kune left Janie’s Tavern after getting kicked out of town meeting, bright lights from The Fisherman’s Café slid across black ice. Ice covered the street. Wind had turned to light breeze, but the breeze carried mist that rapidly froze on the men. Within two blocks, their clothes crackled. They stepped carefully over ice and prepared for the long walk back to the warm basement of The Parsonage. A frightened figure huddled in a doorway. It might have been a woman.

  “In a way,” Joel-Andrew said, “my task is easier. I no longer have to save August Starling, only defeat him. The force of Evil has picked the most evil man in Point Vestal history; and the man and force are becoming one. I don’t think they have completely come together yet.”

  “You may enjoy some help in fighting,” Kune muttered, then relapsed into thought.

  “What I do not understand,” Joel-Andrew said, “is why Starling acts infantile. Starling is very old. He is skilled in old, old knowledge.”

  From the darkness on the Strait a sea lion hiccupped. Muffled sounds of powerful engines whispered above the tide. A voice, faint above engines, chirped. A second voice intoned.

  “August Starling, come back to town,” Kune said. “I wonder who is with him.” Kune paused, listened as the engines headed for the boat basin. “Starling has hired his own preacher,” Kune diagnosed, “because the ministerial association is not about to start selling indulgences.”

  “And the customers are not about to start buying them. Not if I can help it.” Joel-Andrew hitched his violin higher on his shoulder. “Nineveh,” he said, but he was not talking to Kune.

  “I don’t know anything about Nineveh,” Kune admitted “but I understand other things. My world may be banal, but I don’t have to be.” In the darkness Kune’s footsteps sounded like scattered raindrops. “. . . don’t give a popcorn poot for revolution,” he confided secretly, “but rebellion suits me fine as fine.” Scattered lights from the boat basin reached toward low overcast, but were dimmer than they should be. Kune stared. “The skyline changed,” he said. “I can’t quite say how. Maybe The Parsonage has moved.”

  Joel-Andrew understood that he was about to be confronted by Evil. “Lord,” he prayed silently, “I have to make a start sometime. Be with me, Lord.” He felt the energy of the Lord, vast and loving, surround him.

  From the boat basin, red light lay like red fog. Joel-Andrew could see it and was surprised Kune could not. Then he told himself no—Kune could not see it because Kune did not expect to see it. The light was every bit as pervading as fog, but dark as night. The light, and the darkness from the Strait, meshed so completely that the unsuspecting m
ind would believe red was black, or black, red.

  “. . . unloading something,” Kune muttered. “Can’t be drugs—those go to Seattle. Can’t be anything good. Maybe I’d better confront Starling.” His voice sounded apologetic. “You seem a little bit innocent.”

  “You do not understand the reasons for innocence.” Joel-Andrew knew it was useless to explain the situation, for it was really Kune who was innocent. Joel-Andrew nearly looked forward to a confrontation with August Starling. August Starling, who was the essence of true Evil, understood the conditions and terms, the jargon, the background, and the traditions of what was coming down. There were certain things Kune could not understand because Kune was a child of the twentieth century. He had the twentieth century’s weird faith in logic and process.

  Joel-Andrew held himself in careful control. If he exercised too much power, August Starling would simply flee. That would not turn Point Vestal around. “I’ll start by giving Starling a mild burn,” he said to Kune.

  The red light faltered, ran through a spectrum of reds, pinks, auburns; then to purples and blues, finally to green, then blushed a tinge of peach, turned tangerine. The light blushed golden, then became silver as burnished hubcaps. As the light became contained but celestial, the red was defeated. August Starling and his hired preacher stood on the pier, overflooded with light, like actors caught between scenes.

  “Fifteen-love,” Kune whispered. “You’ve got him nailed. As long as we stand in this darkness, he can’t tell who we are.”

  “He knows.” Joel-Andrew watched Starling, and he watched the preacher who was Starling’s hired gun. Celestial light framed Starling, handcuffed his movements, pinioned him like a black moth mounted against black ice on the pier. Starling’s face—which might have reflected terror—was bland, even bored. Only the preacher registered surprise. Starling made an attempt to move. The light softened. Joel-Andrew released him.

  “My clerical friend.” August Starling chirped, and his hand covered his crotch. Red light seeped across the pier, but was shoved backward. August Starling looked wizened, old, bent. Then he looked a couple of years younger.

  Cages stood stacked on the pier. They contained birds and beasts; rats, mice, crows, ravens, small dogs, cats, squirrels, rabbits. A goat stood tethered on the boat’s deck. The creatures’ eyes glowed redly. They scampered, snarled, moaned. August Starling’s preacher did not look like Samuel, but looked like he was trying to look like Samuel. He stood tall, in broadcloth, and bearded. His eyes held no wisdom, although they were steady as sealed beams. His teeth gleamed large and regular. His face looked like the front end of a ’47 Buick.

  “Experimental lab?” Kune whispered. Kune was awestruck. “Those animals are scary.”

  A bird screamed, the scream mechanical, like a movie imitation of a lost soul. The bird perched ruffled, rumpled, black, with a blood-red bill and blood-red feet. A dark red squirrel foamed at the mouth, spit like a cat. The tethered goat nickered, and accomplished an obscene little dance.

  “Give it up,” Joel-Andrew said to August Starling. “Admit you are whipped. Save us all some trouble.”

  August Starling began to explain. As a loyal—possibly noble—son of Point Vestal, he cared about the amusement of children. August Starling protested that he supported the school system, that a petting zoo was a necessary part of any school system; and it therefore followed that a man in his position could only be accused of beneficence when making a contribution in behalf of children . . .

  “Why are you chirping?” Joel-Andrew asked. “The hell-born carry a lot of dark knowledge. Are you a fake?”

  “I’m a realist,” Starling said. “You’re confused. If you take your confused head from the sand and look around you, you’ll know why I chirp.”

  “He has a point,” Kune muttered. “Television news anchors,” he explained.

  “I like your kid,” Starling said to Joel-Andrew about Kune. “I chirp because chirps are mindless. Remember, this is the twentieth century.”

  Joel-Andrew almost understood, but dared not show he was the least confused. “Maybe so,” Joel-Andrew said, “but between us we can play with older rules.” Joel-Andrew pointed a finger at the cages. A bird screamed, high wailing, a flurry of feathers. Bird and cage imploded, turning into a red and disappearing hole in the night. A rabbit wailed, then vanished.

  “That’s a scruffy-looking lot of demons,” Joel-Andrew said. “Scabby. That act wouldn’t even play in San Francisco.”

  “They actually came from San Francisco,” August Starling admitted. “I have my own timetable. Sometimes you have to work with what you can get.” August Starling no longer chirped.

  “This town has enough demons of its own,” Joel-Andrew said. “You’ll understand why I won’t allow imports.” A cage disappeared. A bird, very much like a vulture, rose on night wings. It tumbled, squalling, gasping, torn, and fell—a dark bundle of feathers—back to the pier. It disappeared.

  “If that is how it must be,” August Starling said, and his voice was pleasant, “I’ll work with the local commodity. Meanwhile we may as well both enjoy this.” He turned to the cages, flicked his hand—screams of anguish—torment—squalls of horror. Suffering lived like flame in the light, lived lie the quick heat of nitro beneath the darkness of sky and Strait. The cages and the beasts became darkness, and then the darkness fled on the scream of the goat.

  “Why do you keep it up?” Joel-Andrew asked. “Century after century. Sooner or later you always lose.”

  “I lose battles, but I win the war,” August Starling’s voice sounded almost cordial. “Because I always win the aftermath. The powers in my present incarnation have not yet come to full term.”

  “I doubt they’ll come to term,” Joel-Andrew told him. “Not if you continue to act so silly.”

  “You’ve learned nothing from history,” Starling said. “When my powers do come to full term, I trust you will still be in the neighborhood.”

  “Count on it,” Joel-Andrew told him. He turned to Kune. “The problem with Evil,” he explained, “is that it tries to haul you down to its level. Don’t make the mistake of taking August Starling personal.”

  “I’m a physician,” Kune muttered, “and unless there is a neurological explanation for this, I’m a physician in trouble.” In the distance, but not far off, familiar bells began to chime. Kune shook his head. “It’s The Parsonage. Point Vestal is a very strange place.”

  “No different from Seattle,” Joel-Andrew reminded him. “You told me that yourself.”

  “We can have but few secrets from each other,” August Starling said to Joel-Andrew. “I suppose you know why I chose Point Vestal?”

  “Because you figure it’s a pushover,” Joel-Andrew said. “Plus, of course, there’s the tourist business. No need to waste strength in Seattle if you can get the marks to come to you.”

  “I wish Maggie were here,” Kune muttered. “It is an absolute shame she is missing this.”

  August Starling’s preacher harrumphed, and steepled his hands. “Indulgences,” he said, as if explaining. “Missionaries to the Vatican. Crusades against the Turk. Conversion of the wily Jew. Fathers to—and keepers of—the darker races.”

  “You did a capable job on that one,” Joel-Andrew said to August Starling. “Are you going to snuff it, or shall I?”

  “Be my guest,” August Starling said, “but be warned it’s not a demon.”

  The energy of love projected from Joel-Andrew. Celestial light did not grow, but became more focused. Joel-Andrew gasped. Somewhere inside the preacher he felt the vacuum that once held a soul.

  “You cut a deal with him,” Joel-Andrew said to August Starling. “Which means I can doubtless set him free.”

  August Starling once more looked boylike. He stood young, supple, his narrow shoulders nicely padded in his expensive business suit. “No deal,” he said. “This gentleman schooled himself.” August Starling looked like a teacher taking pride in a prize student. “His bu
siness is called an ‘electronic ministry.’ You may have received some mailings . . .”

  “The sacred cause,” the preacher intoned. “Avoid inheritance taxes. We convert stocks, bonds, real estate on behalf of the heathen. Do not send trading stamps, discount grocery coupons; there is a twenty-dollar charge on all returned checks. We welcome credit cards.”

  Kune was relieved. “It’s only a TV preacher.”

  August Starling looked at his preacher, then at Kune, then at Joel-Andrew. “For dependability,” he said dryly to Joel-Andrew, “I’ll take my boy over yours.”

  “He’s not my boy,” Joel-Andrew said. “He can handle himself. Meanwhile, I’ll see you in court.” Joel-Andrew released the celestial light. Darkness came so quickly, it was blinding. “Let’s walk out of here,” Joel-Andrew told Kune. “If you can’t see, take my hand.”

  Heavy mist frosted the ground with black ice. Weeds and shrubs along the roadside made the surroundings like little landscapes, little towns. Kune shivered and trembled, his long blond hair stiff with ice.

  “We’ll get to The Parsonage,” Joel-Andrew murmured. “We’ll get you warm.”

  “I’ve walked in every kind of weather. I’m not trembling from the cold.” Kune tried to force a grin. “This stuff is not very scientific.”

  “Science is still in its infancy,” Joel-Andrew explained. “It will remain so until it stops denying evidence.”

  Kune trudged, deep in thought. “Denying evidence,’’ he said, “is that what I’ve been doing?”

  “When your lady friend, Shirley, became ill, and you could not help her, I expect you denied everything.” Joel-Andrew’s heart was glad. It was nearly worth the tussle with August Starling if Kune emerged from his self-imposed darkness. “And, yes,” Joel-Andrew said, “you’ve been trained to deny evidence. If you cannot duplicate phenomena in a lab, you’re trained to deny it exists.” Bells from The Parsonage tinkled across the ice. The bells sounded joyous and a little deranged.