Sing a Worried Song

by William Deverell

  Mandy has desisted from her kittenish ways by the time they arrive at her sturdy little bungalow, and she manages to make her way from garage to kitchen door without assistance. While she grapples with a complex coffee maker, Arthur checks for liquor stashes, in cupboards, on shelves.

  She catches him prowling in the living room. “Relax, the joint is clean.” She hands him a latte, seats him on a long couch, and stands over him, sipping from a steaming mug, studying him. She has said nothing about Skyler, and he can’t guess what she’s thinking.

  She seems more sober, even businesslike, as she instructs him to remove his suit jacket, which he does, leaving on shirt and braces. She takes strength from her coffee mug, puts it down, moves behind him, lowers his braces, and digs strong fingers into his shoulders. He remembers her massages from 1987. They are life-giving.

  “Randy was definitely not a member of your fan club, Arthur. He decided you had it in for him. Which you did. Accused you of tricking him. Which you did.” She’s still tipsy, but coherent. “But I got the sense it was more about your calling him impotent — beyond impotent, erotically fucked up. Either way, he’s not crazy enough to kill you for it.”

  He leans forward as she moves down his back, the upper spine. Those muscles were rigid but are loosening up. “Still doing tai chi?” she asks.

  “When I can scrounge the time. That feels very good.”

  “You’ve had no lapses?”

  “Not since you dragged me out of Chez Forget with my meal in a doggie bag.”

  “I’m surprised Brian hasn’t driven you back to drink. He’s a world-class bullshitter. He’s probably made up half that stuff. ‘Carve out your gizzard to eat with his toast’ — that’s typical Pomeroy-speak.”

  “Dr. Hawthorne is not a bullshitter.”

  “He’s writing a book about psychopaths, Arthur. He wants psychopaths. He needs psychopaths. Maybe he creates them.”

  Arthur is buoyed that she’s so sanguine about the matter. It helps him relax; he feels muscles relax in his lower back.

  “Why did you run away from me and go back to Annabelle?”

  Those lumbar muscles tighten again. Inhibitions loosened, she has broken their unwritten agreement not to talk intimately of that intimate time.

  He struggles to respond and to do so honestly. “That was a mistake … as events have shown. Regrettably, I was too much in love with her.”

  Still behind the couch, she continues to work on him, silently. He’s at a loss to guess what she’s thinking. He was a prisoner of love in those terrible ’80s, a victim of his own masochism. Mandy should not have felt rejected.

  She bends toward his back, her arms around his neck, puts her lips to his left ear. “Please sleep with me tonight,” she whispers.

  He is speechless with confusion and desire. Her hands slide under his shirt, down the fur of his chest, inducing an unwelcome swelling below, a message she cannot and does not miss. Suddenly she is on his lap, her dress and bra straps loose, a bounteous breast being offered in the cup of her hand.

  He is mesmerized by it, this Rubenesque whiteness, that succulent brown gumdrop at its hub. He has made politeness a virtue all his life. Would it be bad manners to spurn her gift? Does he owe it to her to act on the honest urgings of his libido? Throw caution to the winds, a small voice says.

  He gently clasps the points of her shoulders, and pushes her away from him. “Let’s have another coffee.”

  Stillness for a moment, then she slides away, off his lap. “Margaret?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27

  A taxi returns Arthur to his club at a woefully late hour — he dares not look at his watch. But it will be Sunday evening in Melbourne, and Deborah should be home. With her one fledgling flown to Stanford, she is alone.

  Before phoning, he takes off his rumpled suit and starts a tub. Deborah answers right away. “Wow, Dad. So great to hear your voice. I’m just making dinner. How are you?”

  She suddenly draws away from the receiver, laughing. “Hands to yourself! I’m talking to my father.”

  “My goodness,” Arthur says. It’s dinner for two. Is her companion the “someone authentic” she met over the Internet?

  Deborah explains: “He tried to take advantage of me as I was marinating.” Lower, confiding: “God, Dad, he is so cool, so un-Australian and non-sexist. Smart, funny, not bad to look at when he combs his hair.”

  His name is Grant Shanahan, she says. He’s some kind of ocean scientist, several years divorced, like her. He’s been staying over on weekends. There are plans to merge more closely, now that Nick is in California.

  A prize plucked from an Internet dating site? Arthur finds that amazing. He always thought those outfits were bogus, a scheme to profit from the lonely. Like those sexy singles his computer offers up. But he’s happy for his daughter. Her ex, a stockbroker, was a bit of a bore.

  “My God, Dad, it must be late back there. Why are you still up?”

  An AA emergency, he says. Deborah would remember those late-night calls. “Sweetie, I’m incredibly happy for you. But take it easy, it’s never wise to move too fast with these things.” He’s an expert.

  He explains he needs some quick advice about how to handle Hubbell Meyerson, who will be joining him for brunch in seven hours.

  “You’ll handle him in your usual way, Dad. You won’t make a scene. You won’t confront him. Beauchamps just don’t do that sort of thing.”

  Arthur takes umbrage at this accusation of cowardice. “Just wait and see. I intend to let him have both barrels. Out of curiosity, how many times was Annabelle with him, did she tell you? In her inebriated unbosoming.”

  “I didn’t ask. It was a purging. She actually felt better afterward. Hey, Dad, let it go. I wish I hadn’t told you. You’ve got a different life. A terrific life. With a terrific woman. How is everything with her?”

  “Fine, I believe. Sometimes I’m not too sure, but that’s just me.”

  “Oh, God, now you’re worried about Margaret. Mom really left her scars. Dad, this sort of neurotic thinking has got to stop.”

  Arthur crawls into the tub, feeling spanked by his own child.

  §

  It is getting on to a quarter to twelve, Arthur has a flight out of the harbour in forty-five minutes, and he’s trying not to show impatience as Hubbell, over a second martini, regales him about the hedonistic amenities of his diplomatic posting: the nubile girls who run papers in to him to sign, the private pool at his adjoining residence, which he encourages them to share, the beaches, the tropical sunsets, the carnivals.

  He has a deep tan and has grown a curly beard as amends for his baldness, and has fattened his face with chipmunk cheeks but somehow retains a robust handsomeness.

  The server comes to take their plates. Arthur’s poached eggs are sitting poorly in his stomach. He wonders if Meyerson suspects that Arthur knows. He’s being very jaunty. There’s no hint of embarrassment or guilt.

  “Sorry we couldn’t do this up proper,” Hubbell says, “but I’m expected tonight at a reception for Their Royal Highnesses’ advance guard.” This seems meant to impress the old boys at a nearby table, who are watching the news on a big-screen TV.

  “Oh, by the way, I’ll be renting a suite at the Château next month, inviting some players, investors, not green but greenish. I’m going to ask Margaret to say a few words, and we’ll see if we can’t raise a little moolah for her, for those by-elections.”

  Hubbell is waving for the chit, doesn’t notice Arthur choking on his tea.

  “Twinkle, twinkle, little star.” Arthur is too flustered to remember in which pocket he put the phone. His fellow diners are grinning. Hubbell sings, “How I wonder what you are.”

  Arthur finally flips open his cell. Almost noon, it says. He’s had maybe five hours’ sleep.

 
It’s Mandy. “Just wanted to thank you for not busting me for attempted rape. How long did you stay?”

  Arthur hesitates. What should he reply in front of Hubbell? “Until I could hear your gentle snores,” he says. They talked until half past midnight, when he persuaded her to drink lots of water, take Aspirin, and head for bed. He stayed for another hour, doing crossword puzzles, feeling over-caffeinated.

  “Stop obsessing over Skyler, Arthur,” Mandy says. “He doesn’t give a shit about you. He’s too full of himself.”

  “Yes, I heard him on the radio.” Skyler earnestly going on about his new life mission. He made a “mistake” many years ago — an admission of guilt, finally? — and wants to give back, to reach out, help kids. The story was also on the inside pages of morning editions, the 1987 trial only lightly touched on: A street beggar. A lot of drinking. Numerous knife wounds. The name of prosecuting counsel was not mentioned.

  “I’m off to do Pilates. That’s how we lonely middle-aged women relieve our sexual frustration.”

  “If truth be told, I was tantalized.”

  “I know. Ciao.”

  Meyerson dabs his lips with his serviette. “Gentle snores? Tantalized? Sounds like you got laid.”

  Arthur’s expression is flinty, unmerciful. “I would never do that to Margaret, to my marriage. She is not just my loving partner but my best friend.”

  Hubbell can’t hold eye contact and is rescued by the server with the bill. Arthur now knows that Hubbell knows that Arthur knows. About Annabelle.

  You’ll handle him in your usual way, Dad. To which Arthur responded weakly: We shall see. He and Hubbell come from proper backgrounds, the best families, private schools, and are indoctrinated with good manners and discretion. Among men so programmed, there is no known outlet for personal feelings, especially over such awkward and intimate matters as fornicating with your best friend’s wife.

  Arthur loses this train of thought, distracted by images on the TV screen: Skyler talking about his sudden conversion to humanitarian causes.

  One of the ancients at the next table remarks, “He carved up that street person, that clown, remember him? One of those Granville panhandlers.”

  “Repaid his debt, I’d say, rescuing those gay boys. This country needs heroes.”

  Arthur and Hubbell listen to this in silence without looking at each other.

  Hubbell rises. “I’ll get you to your plane.”

  Arthur stays seated. “I’ve ordered a cab. It’s only ten minutes.”

  Hubbell seems about to offer his hand, then puts it to a substitute use, tightening his tie. Jocular in parting: “Hasta la vista, old boy.”

  “Goodbye, Hubbell.”

  SUNDAY, OCTOBER 28

  Arthur takes a break from mulching his beds this sunny afternoon, and sits down on a garden bench with the Bleat. He’s been keeping out of the way of the workers in the house. Tildy Sears is removing the remains of her alarm system, and Fred the Fix-It Man is repairing the wainscoting.

  Both are earning overtime, but Arthur just wants the work done, wants all reminders of his former state of high anxiety to disappear. He has taken an oath, in the manner of the true teetotaller: he is going to beat his worry affliction.

  It’s working. All he had to do was change his mind-set, to respond to his many inner questions rationally and sanely. Nobody is trying to kill you, Arthur. Your life companion is not having an affair. It is ludicrous to think she might be any more attracted to Hubbell Meyerson than, say, to Nelson Forbish. Good on you, Beauchamp, you’ve handled the stress as best you can, and have come out of it smiling, and it’s a lovely autumn day. Be happy. Repeat that mantra. Be happy.

  Relaxed by that exercise, he opens the Bleat, which reminds readers on the second page, in oversized type, of the island’s traditional Monster Ball on Wednesday. “Your chance to strut your stuff to the hot tunes of the Red Tide Blues Band.” A popular Gulf Island crew of grizzled rockers, none of them under sixty. “All funds to recycling. Prominent local businesses (see ads on back page) are giving away $100 prizes for best individual costume and best ensemble, for groups of at least two.” That’s what the Woofers are aiming for, with their version of The Mikado. “Not to worry,” he told them. He’s going to get right into the spirit of things.

  The good news is that Arthur will escape being named Garibaldian of the Year. According to the Bleat, the latest poll has Dog with an insurmountable lead. “In an exclusive interview, our local hero would only say, ‘Praise Jesus.’”

  Buried in Forbish’s “This ’n’ That” column, is this item: “We’re happy to confirm that rumours a former client of a certain local lawyer has been stalking him on the island are unfounded in fact.” Arthur hasn’t heard that version: a stalker.

  Oddly, though, he has had the sense of someone following him on hikes, once yesterday, once this morning. A codger in shoddy attire, slouching along a few hundred metres behind. Whoever he was, he couldn’t keep up either time. No worries there. No worries anywhere.

  Tildy calls him from the open kitchen window, then continues talking on a portable phone. Arthur makes his way there, waits for her conversation to end. “Awesome. I never been in Haida Gwaii. Maybe the long weekend, if I can save enough bread from this job. Here’s Arthur.”

  She presents him the phone. “He’s kinda crocked.”

  Brian is loud and slurring. “Yo, Arthur, I looked all over for you last night … No, that would be Friday night … Anyway someone said you dinked off with Mandy. Hey, man, I won’t ask, and that way you won’t have to lie. I’ve been too fucked up to contact you — I’m just emerging. Got so shit-faced I missed my flight. I’m still in Vancouver, somewhere up high, man, it’s a penthouse, Brovak’s, I think, and I’m with a small group of survivalists … survivors, and we’ve been going since Friday night … It’s Sunday, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, Brian. Why don’t you call back when you’ve fully emerged?”

  “I’ve been thinking of you, man, I can’t get you out of my head. In case you’re still worried about Skyler.”

  “I’m not.”

  “Jenkinslop … sop … the parole guy, I got this email from him. He’s okayed Skyler taking a leave in Toronto for a week, with his dad. But he’s got to show up every other day at … somewhere, it’s in my iPad, some police station.”

  “I see. That will afford him a chance to give his interviews from the nation’s media capital.”

  “Should be on He’s Got Talent. Has that ‘Aw, shucks’ shit down pat.”

  Skyler has been getting undeservedly favourable press — the media hasn’t dug hard into their morgues, reporting only the motiveless killing of Chumpy and the five-day trial leading to conviction, while burying Justice Horowitz’s comments in sentencing: “a murder committed in a most brutal and sadistic way.”

  “Well, thanks for calling, Brian. You had better find some place to lie down.”

  “Hang on, Arturo, and let me say something here. Not easy, but I owe it to you. Because when I think about it, I’m not sure I wasn’t trying to lay a trip on you. Skyler’s threats seemed real at the time, twenty-five years ago, and … okay, maybe there was a hidden motive — an unconscious motive — a vengeance thing over the way you side-swiped me at that trial. Still smarts. I never got back on track.”

  “Brian —”

  “It’s okay. I’m okay. I just want to say I may have exaggerated some things. No question he wanted to do you in, but I added a little colour. The quote about eating your gizzard with his toast. I’m not exactly sure where that came from.”

  “Horace Widgeon?”

  “I blew it, man. Took some crippling blows, couldn’t help it, I blew it.”

  Arthur tells him to sober up and call back when he can make sense.

  §

  Margaret’s Sunday evening chat is what she calls a “quickie.” No f
leshly symbolism intended, though it’s rapidly spoken, this account of an exhausting weekend of protests and rallies to save the Species at Risk Act. She has a spot tomorrow in question period. The government front bench will be well rehearsed for the issue. She will surprise them, take on the justice minister “over that pervasive war-on-crime bill” instead. The Green leader is not a one-trick pony.

  Presumably she’s referring to the bill that would lengthen the terms of parole. Arthur doesn’t ask for details; he’s unwilling to admit he can’t keep up with all her political battles. In general, the art of politics, which this sound-bite artiste revels in, is a mystery to Arthur, who regards routine affairs of state as insignificant within the great sweep of history.

  Allotted two minutes of speaking time, Arthur restricts himself to a synopsis of the East-End Bar event. He doesn’t mention the aftermath, with Mandy Pearl. He doesn’t know why. Nothing happened.

  Margaret is being pulled away. “Ciao,” she says. And adds something else, maybe an expression of her affection. Maybe not.

  “I love you,” he says into a dead line.

  TUESDAY, OCTOBER 30

  He runs sluggishly from the masked ball, burdened by his regalia, tripping over the hem of his kimono, and the pursuing beggar is closing the gap. He stumbles through a doorway into a familiar room, it’s his old living room in Point Grey, his old sofa. Black-masked Aphrodite is supine on it, her legs spread high, Silenus the satyr thrusting between them.

  “Hasta la vista!” the half-goat cries, discharging into the goddess, her mask slipping as she arches.

  Arthur wrenches himself awake before she can take it off.

  For a while he lies sweating and trembling under his heavy quilt, then raises himself up on his elbows to watch the thick morning mists of autumn creep across the pastures of Blunder Bay. It was Annabelle, surely. Hadn’t he seen crimson toenails? Or was that from another nightmare? It was the same sofa, though, the one on which she and Hubbell rutted after he went to bed early with For the Fun of It. He has long repressed all thoughts of that evening.