The Off Season

by The Off Season (epub)

  As this book continues, Jerome becomes more generous. He is not intellectually flabby, but he forgives some things he does not understand. “I have to assume,” he says kindly, “that in any given population, a certain percent is born stupid and graceless. The worst of them go into politics.”

  “It wasn’t all bad,” Frank explains. “It gave the Grand Army of the Republic a reason for being vigilant.”

  “They became vigilantes,” Bev sighs. “The GAR teamed up with those government people who followed Kune into town.” Jerome consults his notes: “Two narcs, the CIA, FBI, Internal Security, Internal Intelligence, IRS, Marine-Navy-Army and Air Force Intelligence, Forest Service, Immigration people . . .” Jerome shakes his head at the length of the list. “Just say no agency legally empowered to engage in criminal activities was absent.”

  “For a while,” Samuel muses, “it seemed August Starling would face a federal charge. As it developed, the agencies checked on each other. So many dragnets spread through town that the nets got tangled.” Samuel looks nearly churlish. “As I recall, the only charge filed was against the ministerial association. The IRS wanted an amusement tax on church services.”

  “At least the Whip and Cat Act solved the cat problem,” Frank points out.

  “It drove the cats underground,” Collette tells him. “You can’t say you cured a problem just because you no longer see it.”

  “It is a very good place to start,” Frank tells her.

  Jerome flips pages. “There is so much material. Perhaps we should make a calendar.”

  Bev agrees a calendar is a good idea. “Begin with January 13, 1974,” she tells Jerome. “The day Kune returned from Seattle.”

  calendar

  January 13, 1974. Kune returns from Seattle. He gets hit with rotten cabbage, tomatoes, and limburger cheese. Kune is shadowed by a great many people. The morose cop has first driving lesson. Misses shift on a gear, and accidentally hits the flamethrower button. Burns down an outhouse.

  January 14, 1974. Samuel departs town. Samuel puts together a plan.

  “If you’d given us a hint of what you were doing, we would have been better prepared,” Collette whispers, her voice low and conspiratorial. “We could have made doughnuts or cooked up chickens.”

  “It could not be told,” Samuel whispers back. “Too much depended on the element of surprise.”

  “The calendar,” Bev whispers. “Stick to the calendar.” Then Bev sits up straight and looks puzzled. “Why are we whispering?”

  January 15, 1974. August Starling cuts provisional deal with ghosts. Morose cop’s second driving lesson. Morose cop gets befuddled, and heat-seeking missile explodes three tons of burning garbage at the dump.

  Jerome pauses. “The deal Starling cut was ugly, although it promised to work, more or less. We should note the terms, which were simple.” Jerome’s normally objective voice layers with sadness.

  “After the Victorians’ resolution to withdraw to The Parsonage,” Samuel points out, “it’s a wonder there was any deal at all.”

  “They were trapped,” Frank chuckles. “They talked big. Then they realized they were setting themselves up to spend eternity in The Parsonage. The Parsonage was loaded with ghosts of preachers. August Starling had them in a mousetrap.”

  “We knew when we began there would be terrible parts to this book,” Collette says. “When Joel-Andrew stood up for the rights of the Victorians, he made his own situation worse. That’s when the ministerial association stopped speaking to him.” Her sadness is even deeper than Jerome’s. “I just hate this part,” she tells Bev.

  “It was really quite simple,” Jerome says. “What Starling could guarantee was warmth.” Jerome tilts his green eyeshade and glances around the warm interior of The Fisherman’s Café. “The five of us,” he suggests, “have never known what it is to be perpetually cold. For a hundred years most of those Victorians had shivered in garrets, basements, doorways, even outside. At the time Starling cut his deal, the Victorians were all camped in The Parsonage. The Parsonage is not a cozy place in January.”

  “The deal,” Samuel mutters to Jerome. “Just record the deal, and let’s get on with this.”

  Jerome consults his notes. “The ghosts were to receive pardons for all sins, as well as for crimes against the community. That did not include The Sailor or Gerald or the morose cop. Those three spirits would not play ball with August Starling. It did not include the Irish cop, who was never a real ghost, only pickled.” Jerome checks his notes. “In addition, the ghosts received new job descriptions. For example, the Crocker twins no longer took turns jumping off the bluff. They wailed from second-floor bedroom windows. Ghosts attending birthday parties no longer had to consume punch and cupcakes. The gentleman who used to hang staked on an iron picket fence got to rest in the Irish cop’s old coffin at Janie’s Tavern.” Jerome shakes his head. “It is strange how Evil can sometimes cause remission of ugliness. The ghosts were not well off, but, technically, they were better off.”

  “The important thing was visibility,” Frank explains to Bev and Collette. “Happy ghosts might make Starling’s Immortality Company even more attractive to tourists.”

  Frank misses the satanic cruelty of August Starling. The ghosts had suffered a hundred years of hopelessness. Then, a spark of hope arrived with August Starling. Then, accepting Starling’s deal, the ghosts were not really better off; because acceptance meant acquiescence to an eternity of hopelessness. Such matters are too subtle for Frank, and in a way, Frank is lucky. Eternity may not be such a hot idea.

  “The real issue was warmth,” Samuel mutters. “Starling’s deal sheltered the Victorians from the cold.”

  “The lowest levels of hell are cold,” Collette murmurs to Frank. “I read that somewhere.”

  Beyond the windows of The Fisherman’s Café frost and flakes of ice rime the beaches. We wish Collette could find some other way to make her point.

  January 16, 1974. Morose cop has third driving lesson. Backs through the front of Janie’s Tavern. He nearly runs over two drunken loggers and three drunken fishermen. The whole front of the Tavern is knocked to flinders. Bricks and glass and wood and rubbish lie everywhere. Maggie is delighted. Claims she has waited years to see look on Frank’s face. Meanwhile, the Victorians show reluctance to leave The Parsonage and rehearse their new jobs. Victorians mutter among themselves and no one can figure the cause.

  “August Starling counted on the Victorians,” Frank sighs. “He assumed that when duty called, Victorians would respond.”

  “And so they did,” Bev chortles. “Meanwhile, that was a jerry-built job you did repairing the front of the Tavern.”

  “I could not get competent help,” Frank told her. “Every carpenter, boat builder, and cabinetmaker in town was fitting out opium dens.” Frank’s feelings are hurt, and we find ourselves feeling a bit sorry for him. A teeny bit. “It was a flimsy piece of work,” he admits.

  January 17, 1974. Agatha joins crowd of ghosts at The Parsonage. Agatha was the woman Starling killed, then danced with, back in 1888. Sicilian gunmen move into pharmaceutical company, spend time peering at the FBI through gun ports. Collette receives six black roses and seven white ones, delivered by a Chinaman. The news anchor from the television station arrives back in town. She is accompanied by her cameraman, a helicopter, and three enormous camper vans loaded with equipment.

  “August Starling was delighted with those network people,” Jerome snuffles. “He failed to obtain free advertising in the newspaper, but he managed to get network coverage. Fifty percent is not bad.”

  “In terms of circulation,” Samuel mutters, “it was a tad bit over fifty percent.”

  “You people are unintentionally cruel,” Bev tells Samuel. She reaches to cover Collette’s hand, which trembles, as does Collette’s cute little Irish mouth. “It is going to be all right,” she assures Collette. “It will take a few more years to wear off.”

  Many long years have passed, and Collett
e still trembles over the awful events of January 23, 1974. Collette claims she wants a man. Anyone as pretty as Collette could get most any man she wanted, years ago. We feel real bad. Maybe Bev is wrong. Maybe things will never be all right for Collette, ever again.

  “It was like being a convict waiting for execution,” Collette whispers. “From January 17th to January 23rd, roses arrived every day. On the 18th there were seven black roses and six white ones. On the 19th there were eight black roses and five white ones.” She looks down at the table, unable to meet our eyes. “On the 23rd,” she says, “there were thirteen black roses. Of course, I don’t remember . . . I have to take my grandfather’s word.”

  Collette does not remember, because by January 23 Collette lay in a coffin concealed at the pharmaceutical company. Her grandfather, the Irish cop, nearly went mad until he rescued her.

  “It was a fancy coffin.” Collette trembles while Bev holds her like a mother holding a young daughter.

  We all remember how fancy it was. Brocade and plastic, with a bed styled in early Victorian. Color TV. A mirrored ceiling.

  January 18, 1974. Time flickers around the boat basin. Chinamen appear, then fade. The Strait heaves and burps. Lots of whales. Lots of ducks overhead. The GAR raids a basement and apprehends two kittens, locks them in the basement of City Hall. The Sailor releases them back on the street in ten minutes. Ministerial association endorses motherhood. Morose cop has fourth driving lesson. Hits master switch and town is flooded with two dozen colored lights, tracers, parachute flares, signal rockets. The lights are blue, orange, red, green, and white. TV news anchor, convinced she experiences explosion of a nuclear bomb, is dragged from an opium den. Her cameraman is sobbing.

  January 19, 1974. Kune challenges Goody Friendship to public debate on the topic: “Faith or Science in the Modern World.” Goody answers by trying to spread Kune with peanut butter. Goody displays embossed indulgence forms for public admiration. Indians do not exactly return to town, but they visit during daylight hours. They consult with Maggie. Maggie seems robust, a little younger. She no longer flickers. Frank worries for her health.

  “Because,” Frank explains, “Maggie was an old friend. Also, tradition was at stake.”

  “Uh-huh,” Collette whimpers, “because Maggie was always at Janie’s Tavern, the same way my grandfather was always kept in a cheap coffin for Halloween display.” Collette stops whimpering and begins to get angry. “I don’t think anyone learned anything from the whole affair.” Her voice is bitter.

  “Some of us did,” Samuel says, his fatigue great but his voice soothing. “We learned we had spent our lives living by dogma. We had patterns, but we had lost the knowledge on which those patterns were based. We forgot that Evil exists, and there is nothing relative about it.” He looks at Bev, as if pleased with her—or with himself—or with both of them. “Nineveh,” Samuel chuckles. “My dear, we were at least partly correct.”

  “The town still stands,” Bev admits. “Most of it.”

  January 20, 1974 (Sunday). The ministerial association finally decides to take staunch action. August Starling is condemned from eighteen pulpits. FBI opens a file on every preacher in Point Vestal. August Starling is denounced as a drug dealer from eighteen pulpits. The Department of the Interior opens a file on every preacher in Point Vestal. The Lord is praised from eighteen pulpits. The CIA opens a file on every preacher in Point Vestal. Catholics, Lutherans, Presbyterians, Quakers, and Baptists open cat sanctuaries. Department of State and Department of Immigration set up barbed wire perimeters around the churches. Two Navy missile frigates arrive and cruise on the Strait.

  January 21, 1974. Tourists begin to arrive. The town has never seen so many tourists. Better yet, the town has never seen so many rich tourists. The tourists arrive in cars, buses, yachts. The weather is rain and ice, so tourists cluster in cathouses, and in gambling parlors. The tourists have nothing to do but spend money until the opening day of Starling’s Immortality Company. The indulgence business skyrockets. Tourists are not waiting for opening day to start sinning. The ghosts sullenly take their stations, but they put in only eight-hour days, then return to The Parsonage. The ghosts meet their contracts minimally. They gather in groups and mutter. Some people say the Victorians lay plots. Tourists strain our accommodations. There is not an unrented spare room in town. Hoovervilles, constructed of corrugated boxes and RVs, spring up on the outskirts. As the cathouses and opium dens boom, August Starling fills out, grows slightly plumpish. He is everywhere greeted as a hero. August Starling is still clean-shaven, except for a little pencil line mustache. August Starling chirps. He still seems very young, but is far more muscular. In addition, TV anchor and her cameraman catch Goody Friendship in the sack with the real estate lady. Anchor files unedited report for network evening news. Goody Friendship is awarded town medal for best symbolic performance embodying theme of Point Vestal renaissance. Real estate lady’s sales quadruple. Joel-Andrew and Kune retreat to the basement of The Parsonage. Irish cop joins them. Gerald joins them.

  January 22, 1974 . . .

  “Whoa,” Bev says, and halts Jerome. “If you don’t protect the unities, I must. We can’t just sum up the events of those last two days. We have to tell about them. January 23 was the official grand opening. The parade, the dancing ducks, all of it.”

  “When we finish this history,” Samuel says to Bev, “let us get away from Point Vestal and everyone we know. Let us promise ourselves at least two weeks.” It is a little frightening to see a powerful man like Samuel shudder.

  Bev nods, more angry than shuddery. “We’ll get through this,” she tells Jerome and Frank. “Then it is simply ta-ta for a while. Don’t call. Don’t write.” To Jerome, Bev says, “Let’s pick up Joel-Andrew on the morning of January 22. That would be the day before Chinese New Year. In fact, it was the day of Chinese New Year’s Eve. You’ll remember Joel-Andrew was exhausted. He walked the beach early that morning. Almost as if he had a premonition.”

  Chapter 28

  North Beach is a beach of rocks; mostly dark volcanic shades, worn smooth when glaciers splintered the land. Glaciers carved passes, canals, shaved tops from low mountains and girdled sides of taller mountain ranges. North Beach holds mussels, tide pools, memories of shipwrecks and drowned bodies. It is a lonely stretch, relieved only by the lighthouse on a little hook several miles from town. Anyone walking the beach can be seen from great distance. If the walker is also sensitive, the beach appears as a dark seam edging the fabric of the land.

  On this January 22, 1974, two people had occasion to walk. Shades of silver and black moved over the face of the Strait. Clouds drifted like layers of licorice, and Joel-Andrew, stepping alone, could not figure why clouds drifted when there was no wind. He shivered, partly from fatigue, partly because his wardrobe included only a light sweater.

  On the Strait two missile frigates searched for small boats containing refugee Chinamen or refugee cats. A couple of fishing vessels passed beneath the frigates’ protective guns, as the fishermen headed home from a rendezvous with a Panamanian freighter.

  “Lord,” Joel-Andrew prayed, “I’m failing the task. I’m supposed to be furious and strong, but I still keep myself on a leash.” Joel-Andrew’s gray-green eyes were downcast, his slight form slumped. His fingers plucked nervously at his pant legs. A hundred yards away, Bev trudged carefully over rocky ground. She held a lumpy package. Joel-Andrew looked about for any response from the Lord. He saw no burning bush.

  “The people are confused,” Joel-Andrew explained to the Lord. “They are angry because on Sunday the ministerial association spoke the truth about August Starling. I thought when their preachers put the finger on evil, the people would respond.” Joel-Andrew felt the dizziness of fatigue and sadness. He had not slept for thirty hours. He preached on the streets, preached in buildings, and—when he tried to testify for the Lord among swirling fumes of opium—got bounced on the charge of being a secular humanist. He no longer hoped for a burnin
g bush. A talking clam would do. “Lord,’’ Joel-Andrew said, “I hope You’ve not chosen a coward. Ever since my ministry in San Francisco, I’ve been on defense.”

  At his back, along the wide main street of Point Vestal, Goody Friendship and the real estate lady cruised in a ’47 Buick. The Buick gave a chromed and toothy smile. The real estate lady wore a bikini and a flowered garter. Goody Friendship waved. The street clogged with tourists. Bumper stickers proudly proclaimed “Point Vestal—The Living End,” while a rock group named Josh and the Resurrection Sutra played an upbeat dirge.

  “Because,’’ Joel-Andrew explained to the Lord, “I figured I knew everything about Evil. Evil isn’t worth all this fanfare.”

  Low on the horizon, like a flight of fighter planes, a multiplicity of ducks formed vees, triangles, circles, squares. They stunted and caromed off dark clouds. The perspective was such that the ducks were a constantly changing halo behind Bev as she approached.

  “I’ve got it all on the line here, Lord,” Joel-Andrew murmured, “but I don’t know what to do. Appeals to reason do not work.” He watched as the TV news helicopter chipped, chipped, chipped, overhead. Cameras pointed at the changing patterns of stunt-flying ducks. Cameras picked up Bev as she approached within earshot.

  “Of course,” Joel-Andrew said, “I’m hardly a theologian; but even a theologian would know the results of Evil are more ugly than evil itself. You can’t get people to fight Evil, but sometimes they’ll fight the results.”

  “Total nonsense.” Bev greeted him, and she seemed looking forward to a talk. It was a nice change for Joel-Andrew, because everywhere he went he was scorned.