The Off Season

by The Off Season (epub)

  “A bloody curious century,” The Sailor muttered again as the crowd flowed among the coffins. A sort of buyer’s frenzy lay below the subdued actions. Victorians’ flickering faces carried memories of plain pine boxes, memories of soaking rains. Faces of townspeople seemed thinking of bank balances, trying to calculate finance charges.

  Coffins decorated in Day-Glo colors, hermetically sealed, plastic. Gray steel coffins for the businessman, replete with calculators, pie charts, maps detailing natural resources. Coffins for young moderns, with saunas, morning-after pills, nylon jockstraps patterned with pansies.

  The children’s line, decorated with bunny rabbits, fire trucks, cartoons of smiling worms, happy snails. Coffins for the young set, with dashboards, stick shifts, folding seats. Coffins for the family, and coffins for special-interest groups ornamented with posters of bicycle racers, mountain climbers, and photographs from topless bars. Coffins with religious motifs; candelabra, stained glass covers, and whole-wheat communion wafers.

  Whispers ran through the crowd. “Impressive.” “Magnificent.” “A tour de force.” Desire muttered. “Look at that beauty, Marge. A pad. A shack.” Low mutters. “Fruits of technology.” “Beyond the mainstream.” “The sound of a different drummer.” “And look at the vaults. You’d naturally want a vault.”

  The crowd lingered among the vaults. Marble, granite, an economy line of limestone. The crowd stood awed before grave markers; sculpted cherubs, sculpted sports cars, massive marble scrolls carrying poetry by James Whitcomb Riley, Rod McKuen, and sayings of Kahlil Gibran.

  Buyer’s lust shone on the faces of the wealthy, and envy on the faces of the broke and despondent. The crowd gently elbowed aside those who were starry-eyed and overextended. It was then that crashing organ music heralded an address by Goody Friendship. The crowd turned toward the back of the building, toward a stage, and saw an organ with pipes rising twenty feet above the vaults. The real estate lady played. She wore an open choir robe, high heels, a bikini. The real estate lady brushed the folds of the robe away as she pedaled the organ. The crowd gasped. The lady owned a world-class pair of legs.

  Organ music died. Goody Friendship, darkly dressed, stepped forward to a gravestone pulpit depicting a joyful figure rising from the earth. The gravestone stood draped in purple velvet robes. The portrayed figure was probably human, but no one could call it male, female; although anyone could call it vague.

  “Dearly beloved,” Goody began, and his nearly plausible eyes seemed to examine the heart of each member of the crowd. “We gather on this occasion which should bring such joy . . .”

  A professional mourner (one of the Sicilians with machine guns) moaned. The lady who sold stocks and bonds dabbed at her nose with a hanky, and openly wept. The lady did not have world-class legs, but she had a perky little nose. She showed plenty of grief and cleavage.

  “However,” said Goody, “our joy is bounded by misunderstanding, a failure of charity.” Goody explained that unless the strike could be settled, there would be no tourist season. Everything the crowd now saw would fade away. Goody was smooth, politic, and did not accuse. He hoped for bright tomorrows, and he spoke of right behavior, pride, and blessed duty. August Starling blinked and sniffed.

  “For, as man is a poor worm,” Goody explained with sincerity, “thus spiritually depraved . . .” Goody turned, gave August Starling a look that was stern but compassionate, as Goody fed Starling his cue. “So even the most noble of men may sink into the pit of error . . .”

  August Starling confessed. He spoke of his sin of pride in Point Vestal. He spoke quietly, in control of his emotions. August Starling became a mourner; and he pled guilty to lusting for a proud tourist season that would benefit everybody—both the quick and the dead—and guilty of coveting all that was best for this prince among towns. He sniffed, snuffed, sneezled, snorked, and blinked back tears. He stood erect and manly in his dark business suit, and he admitted to gluttonous longings which asked that Point Vestal become the premier tourist town in the universe.

  “Give the blighters their due,” The Sailor whispered to the morose cop. “They’ve made this lot feel guilty from keel to tops’l. A guilty Victorian is a dutiful Victorian. I believe it’s known as strikebreaking.”

  Janie sniffled. Her bouncer wept openly. Victorian gentlemen controlled trembling lips, and Victorian ladies hid their shame behind shawls and fans. Organ music groaned, sobbed, throbbed. The IWW man saw his strike fading. Suffragettes stood perplexed, and their redly painted signs began to turn pale pink. Somewhere back in the crowd, Jerome took methodical notes.

  “It’s a clear win for August Starling,” the morose cop muttered. “The strike is busted. Let’s ease on over to Janie’s Tavern. This crew is now a dollar short and a day late.”

  “I make it to be 1:30 PM,” The Sailor whispered. “We’ve yet a bit of time.” The Sailor motioned toward the stage on which sat the organ. “Cast your beamers on that, mate. This race is not completely run.”

  A small glow of light appeared in the gloom. It was laughing light, like sunbeams playing between leaves. Amusing light, like light chuckling to itself as it danced over a playground; streaming down sliding boards, romping in the spray of fountains. Light with a sense of humor.

  From stage rear, shrouded by ebony drapes, sounded the clear voice of a violin. The drapes moved backward, as the violin player stood not in darkness but in something that resembled dawn—or maybe it resembled dusk. At any rate, Joel-Andrew played.

  “That’s the good chap,” The Sailor muttered. “A stout breeze in a fair quarter.”

  “I only regret,” the morose cop said, “that the Irish cop misses this. For I do believe it’s a violin-and-cat act.”

  “This comes a cropper for Gerald,” The Sailor said. “Gerald can scarcely avoid making an arrest. All the while, though, that’s Gerald’s undercover cat.”

  Satiric Obed danced light as butterflies. Obed twirled, his white tail fluffy as Scotch broom in wind. Obed jumped like popping seedpods, in long leaps graceful as running vines of melons, in hops plump as strawberries.

  “You’ll notice,” the morose cop mentioned, “the organ lady is nicely occupied. I judge we’ll be hearing exactly nothing from the organ.”

  Cats surrounded the organ lady, propounding to her in English, Greek, ancient Mesopotamian. The organ lady sat silent. Attentive. Leggy. Gray cats with white tail tips. White cats with gray tail tips. Cats with all white tails. Cats with all gray tails. Cats with fluff, and cats smooth-furred. Cats more-or-less operatic. Cats coy, cats conversing in Spanish.

  “It’s a heist,” the morose cop murmured, “but gorgeous nonetheless. I ain’t seen such elegant derangement since Isadora Duncan.”

  Satiric Obed twirled, tail aspin. Obed tripped light as forest breezes, light as hatched shells of sparrows, larks, bluebirds. Obed performed a rite of spring, a dance optimistic as a seed catalog. Music followed Obed, admired Obed; music filled with life and filled with love—with fecundity—with hope. The music trilled above the heads of the congregation. It touched a sourpuss here, a confused Victorian there. It chortled before the dour face of Goody Friendship, then skipped happily past August Starling as it darted birdlike before Janie and her bouncer. The music was inviting. You could dance to it.

  The music returned to flutter before August Starling, and momentarily the young face of August Starling was nothing but a flickering mask before a dry and clacking skull. The crowd gasped in admiration. This was showmanship. This was consistency in the theme of resurrection. The young mask of August Starling flickered. The dry skull clacked. Victorians exchanged shocked glances. They gasped and were sad. The Victorians understood that only the skull was real, the young mask of August Starling a facade. The crowd cheered.

  “I have strained hump in half the ports of the world,” The Sailor whispered, “and I’ve seen a gypsy circus. But I bleeding well never saw a troupe of cats.”

  “Isadora Duncan was very, very good,” the mo
rose cop explained. “I regret she isn’t here. She could meet the artistic director.”

  A cacophony of cats. A chorus of cats. Cats singing a Ukrainian love song. Cats scattered across the stage like sprinkles of spice. Dancing. Leaping. Tails aflip. Talented Obed danced sparkly with spring. The music lay across the congregation, tugged at the corners of mouths, brought involuntary smiles.

  For some it brought sadness. The music celebrated life. Janie’s bouncer touched Janie’s hand, the two remembering life. Flickering figures sighed, hungered for a second chance, or hungered for oblivion. Memories of a century of cold, of whooing and rueing in frigid garrets and cellars, memories of life; memories of the freezing antics of death. The Sailor looked at the morose cop, remembered, no doubt, a century spent together in a Victorian cell. The morose cop hawked, spat, turned.

  “Maybe I’ve got to bear this,” he muttered, “but I don’t have to bear it sober.”

  “August Starling’s ruse founders,” The Sailor said. “View our people.” He pointed to the Victorians.

  The Victorians stood cast in darkness, cast in memory. The Victorians regretted death, and were somber before the joy of life. They flickered.

  “And look at the Point Vestal people.”

  The citizens of Point Vestal stood confused, while the city council stood perplexed. The mayor dreamed of sewage rates, possibly of stained glass coffins. Tourism. Economics. Sex. Publicity. The Chamber of Commerce stood sensual as young toads, and responsive as saltpeter. The man from the IWW began to make his move, beginning to renew his strike.

  “It is a fraud,” a Victorian voice said, the voice firm and dutiful. He spoke to the living citizens of Point Vestal. “You citizens may not understand, but I trust you will someday. Someday you will die.”

  The Victorian speaker stepped forward. He was not tall, but he moved with dignity that made him seem tall. The Victorian gentleman might have once been a merchant—or a preacher—or possibly a politician. Now he looked like a man sustained by integrity learned from experience. He turned from the people of Point Vestal and addressed the Victorians. “There are many things I did during my lifetime which I repent,” he said. “I was not the most pleasant gentleman. I most deeply repent, however, some lovely and loving things I did not do. The music reminds me of them.”

  The Victorian gentleman turned away from the Point Vestal crowd, away from his fellow Victorians, away from the music; turned his back from the lighted stage and faced the black and icy street. He gently but firmly thrust the IWW man aside. “Our affairs are not yours,” he told the IWW man. “No doubt your motives were of the highest.”

  “We had hopes,” Janie murmured. “Hopes of returning to life. It is just terrible when hope dies.” Janie did not even try to stop flickering. Her shoulders slumped. Her bouncer half supported her.

  “Let us take the high moral ground in this matter,” the Victorian gentleman replied to Janie. “I trust it will not be interpreted as sour grapes should I note that I would not wish to return to this.” The Victorian gentleman looked toward August Starling. “You have your wish, my man. The strike is broken. We retreat to The Parsonage, which will no longer be strike headquarters, but sanctuary. If you negotiate with us, it will be as one doomed man to another. If we must spend eternity in The Parsonage, so be it. I, at least, will endorse no part of your scheme.”

  “I, at least, will be a part of my own scheme,” the morose cop whispered. “I’m headed for Janie’s Tavern.”

  “A bottle of stout,” The Sailor agreed. The Sailor watched a silent crowd of Victorians move deliberately into the black and icy street. If their minds were ablaze with loss, their fears regulated by duty, no citizen of Point Vestal could tell.

  “Arrest that cat,” Goody Friendship roared above the crowd. “This is trespass.” Goody searched the crowd for Gerald, but Gerald simply shrugged. He watched the Victorians trudge hopelessly back to The Parsonage.

  Murmurs of “trespass” ran through the confused crowd. An important message seemed to have been delivered, but the crowd saw only a group of cats dancing. Murmurs of “It’s too deep for me” mingled with murmurs of “Victorian cop-out” and a groundswell of whispers of “August Starling for President.”

  Gerald eased forward. “It does not constitute trespass.” Gerald had aged. His lantern jaw seemed thinner. His mouth formed a thin line, his eyes sad. He did not flicker, not much. He tipped his cop’s hat to the back of his head, and viewed August Starling with curiosity, Goody Friendship with contempt. He looked at the leaders of Point Vestal and viewed them with indifferent calm. The leaders squirmed and looked confused. Gerald had never behaved this way before. “You advertised open house,” Gerald explained to no one in particular. “Be pretty hard to make a charge of trespass stick.”

  “Vag him,” August Starling murmured. “It’s a small and inconsequential matter.”

  “He’s an employed cat,” Gerald said. “He works for me.” Gerald looked at the crowd like a father viewing children he has cared for through the years of their growing up. “At least,” Gerald said, “Obed used to work for me. Back when I worked for you.” He unpinned his badge and tossed it to the mayor. He looked at August Starling. “You’ve got your wish, mister. My retirement address will be The Parsonage. Don’t call.” Gerald squared his cop’s hat, looked over the faces of the crowd. “I expected better from you,” he said softly. “I really hoped for better.”

  Chapter 27

  Christmas avoided point Vestal. Time churned, caused vague confusion. A few people, perhaps, understood that August Starling took some lumps. Even fewer understood that powerful forces ran through our streets. Our people—having never pondered the nature of Evil—festered in general agreement that Good is better than bad because it’s nicer. The ministerial association felt the force of Evil and responded by fearing Joel-Andrew. The ministerial association had a growing sense that things were terribly out of whack, but it took time to sort the situation.

  Time yerked, yorked, yanked. Well into December, somewhere around the 29th, we found it was still the 23rd. The only way to estimate the date was to measure the amount of black light which faded toward the end of the month. We had Christmas in there someplace, because children played with new toys. The toys were ugly—cemetery games, plastic dolls fitted with genitals and with veins for embalming fluid, lead soldiers lying in realistic positions—and the children were not the only ones confused.

  “It’s a genuine blessing,” August Starling explained about the way time stalled. “How fairly smiles each dark and icy morn, where stern and beauteous duty stands free to play some catch-up ball.” August Starling’s comprehension of the twentieth century improved. He fitted out second and third floors of downtown buildings, and he was busy, busy, busy. Harlots must be recruited from Seattle, basements waterproofed and painted, opium obtained. The pharmaceutical company geared up. People hoped, spread paint, took lessons in how to smile through sorrow, took lessons in how to deal blackjack. They chatted about the rumor of a coming messiah. Would he be tall and blond, short and blond, chubby? Would his name be Olaf, Nickolas, Chester?

  We sit in The Fisherman’s Café and it is January, near the end of the century. We think about the past, and dread telling what happened after Gerald turned in his badge. It would be easy if we could simply write that all hell broke loose, but that would only cover part of action.

  When Gerald retired, and was awarded the ’39 LaSalle instead of a watch, the town policeman’s job was up for grabs. No one grabbed. Even after August Starling bought the new police van—the one with two dozen colored lights, heat, seeking missiles and a flamethrower—hardly anyone wanted the job. It came down to a choice between a Sicilian gunman, the Irish cop, or the morose cop. An Irishman was a tacky choice, the Sicilian gunman worse. The job went to the morose cop, who appointed The Sailor his deputy.

  “Someone should have taught him to drive,” Frank sniffs. “Someone capable.”

  We sit and regret. Back
there in 1973 everyone was busy. The only driving instructor was a logging truck operator. That accounts for at least two percent of what happened on Chinese New Year.

  The Strait is calm today. Above the San Juan Islands light gleams silver from a remote dawn. On the coast whales play, but on the Strait not even a salmon roils the surface. The morning air is stenchy from the tide flats.

  “And yet, we can’t blame it all on the morose cop,” Frank says. “Joel-Andrew and Kune and The Parsonage . . .” He blinks back a tear. Of the lot of us, Frank is least changed; occasionally his Victorian control slips, but his tummy has grown back.

  “It was the most innocuous form of evil,” Bev says. “Because everybody did what everybody does anyway. Except everything was tainted. You could feel August Starling’s power growing.”

  “Let us do a summation,” Jerome says. “Many things were happening.”

  “As long as we don’t sum too quickly,” Bev tells him. “When we began writing the book, you were the one who worried about the unities.”

  “And cows don’t whistle,” Collette murmurs, “’cause cows have got moo flues.”

  “It wasn’t cows. It was cats.” Jerome snuffles and tugs at his green eyeshade. “August Starling suffered a reverse, but Joel-Andrew suffered reverses as well. The Martha Washington Brigade named Joel-Andrew a Communist. The Loyal Order of Beagles said Obed was an incendiary. Mothers Against Transgression and Sensuality denounced violins as instruments of moral degeneration. Kune was already censured. You’ll also recall that Kune went to Seattle to try to make the system work. When he returned from his visit, people threw rotting vegetables at him. People were sad, and afraid, and mad, and did not know why. The town council finally reacted.”

  “The Whip and Cat Act,” Frank says, and with some satisfaction.

  Jerome consults his notes: “All cats off the street by 7:00 PM or suffer flogging. All cats licensed, tranquilized, perpetually leashed. Cats to be banded, as well as branded with the name of the owner. No fraternization between cats until the cat sterilization plan was implemented. No assembly of more than two cats, public or private. An exorbitant tax placed on cat food . . .” Jerome raises his eyes from the page. He looks at us with cynical and journalistic gaze. “Politics is the lowest form of human endeavor.”