by Jim Stark
Steve found the jocularity a bit too much. He tugged Randall by the sleeve towards a wall, for privacy. Then he cleared his throat, and his mind, and told him briefly about his ill-fated proposal to use lie detectors on all the clergy, twice a year, to ferret out the child molesters. “Well, you can bloody imagine how popular that made me,” he said. “There's a bishop by the name of Doyle who stood up and—” He was stopped in mid-sentence by the reaction of his old friend, who looked like he'd been slapped across the face.
"You are not going to believe this,” said Randall, shaking his head and throwing his bushy gray eyebrows skyward, “but I can help you with that problem. There's a man that you simply have to meet. He's staying at the lodge. Let me take care of a bit of business here, and then we'll head out in the helicopter. I'm meeting him for dinner tonight. Trust me, Steve. This guy has what you need. Are we on?"
"Uh—who is this person?” asked Steve. Randall smiled at him with the mischievous gleam of the young Randy, the gawky boy who sat behind him in math class in grade ten. “You're not going to tell me, are you?” he predicted.
"You're always in such a damned hurry,” said Randall, with no real appreciation that he was also describing himself. He threw an arm around the shoulders of his boyhood pal and led him forcibly to the front of the room. “Steve,” he boomed, “this is our chief engineer and main wizard, Laurent Gauthier. Steve and I go way back, Laurent. To grade nine, would you believe?"
"How are ya?” said Laurent with a firm handshake, the kind that bishops rarely got.
"Nice to meet you,” said Steve.
"Just give us a sec, okay?” Randall asked quietly.
Steve moved aside, to let them converse.
"How many units have your people made so far, Laurent?” Randall asked his chief engineer in a whisper.
"Just three—the one we sent out to Helliwell and these two,” he said, giving one of the slim, black cases to the boss. “I made them myself. No one else knows a thing yet."
"Good,” said Randall, slipping the LieDeck into his shirt pocket. “And I can expect the first production models to be completed by...?"
"Maybe eight o'clock tonight,” guessed Laurent. “They're not that complicated."
"Okay, I should be back here by then,” said Randall. He turned his attention to the workers, and held up a hand to get them to settle down.
"Ladies, gentlemen,” he said, “you have all agreed to live inside this building for the next few weeks to work on a new top-secret product, and I appreciate that. I expect your best efforts, and I intend to reward you all in your pay packets for the sacrifices you're making. You have all called your families. There must be no phone calls or emails or other communications in or out now until the first thousand units are built. We have the parts on hand, I'm told, thanks to a little cannibalizing of our stock. So, does anyone want out before we tell you what we're going to be making?"
No one responded, and by the looks on their faces, the workers who were about to be sequestered only wanted to know what the fuss was all about.
"Well, this is it!” he said proudly, holding up the LieDeck he'd just received from Gauthier. “This is not a Dictaphone, but as you can see, for the moment anyway, we're going to use casings from our new Dictaphone line to house the—uh—new device. Later, when we get to full production, we're going to microminiaturize the guts of the thing and maybe put it in a wristwatch. I have to go to an important meeting, and I'm already late, so to tell you what this new gadget is, I'll turn this meeting over to our top-notch magic-making chief engineer, Laurent Gauthier."
Laurent fished the other LieDeck from his pocket and signaled the workers to knock it off with the applause. “Hold on to your dentures, friends,” he said. “I have here a device that will impact dramatically on the life of every—"
Randall hustled Steve out the door before Laurent got into matters any further. Within minutes they were aboard Whitebird III, on their way to the lodge. “The man” went up front, hunkered down behind the pilot, put a hand on his shoulder, and talked in a low voice that was clearly meant to not be overheard.
"Sotto voce,” Steve whispered to himself—for reasons unknown, he just loved Latin. He looked out of the window as Kanata became the Ottawa River, then Québec farmland. His life seemed to be changing faster than the ground below, and it was both exhilarating and frightening. And now, an element of mystery, he said to himself.
When Randall returned to his seat and buckled up, he leaned to his left and looked directly at his guest. “I don't think you came to see me to get my sage advice on Church politics,” he said. “What's really going on, Steve?"
There was no point in putting it off. “I ... left the Church,” he said. “I—uh—I think I—uh—may...” His head dropped a bit. He couldn't quite find the words to match his feelings.
"Really? You left the Church?” asked Randall.
"Really,” admitted Steve, with his eyes pointed at the chopper floor. “I'm not making it public for a couple of weeks, but it's..."
"Well ... look,” said Randall as he slowly internalized the stunning reality of Steve's decision. “I want you to stay with us at the manor for a while, just until you get yourself sorted out."
"I'm okay,” said Steve. “You know our cottage in Norway Bay? I'll be staying there. My brother bought it from the family estate, and he said to use it for as long as I need. It's furnished and everything. I've moved in already, this afternoon. It's a ten- fifteen-minute drive from your place. We'll be almost neighbors. Really ... I'm all set."
"Well, okay,” said Randall. “But I want you to know that I'm here for you, Steve. We'll clear some time to talk, to really talk.” After a pause, he added, “I suppose you're looking for a new job?"
"I'm glad you brought that up,” said Steve. “It seems I could use one."
* * *
Victor and Annette had enjoyed their day, especially the lunch at Ray's Restaurant and the tour of Whiteside Technologies in Kanata. Victor had decided not to tell Randall he was in the building, even though Patriot surely kept him informed. In late afternoon, he and Annette had a stroll at the half-built nine-hole golf course on the northern part of the estate. Now they were kicked back, side by side on the elevated deck at the lodge, above the front porch. They were listening to music, sprawled out on two pine chaise lounges with deep mattresses, nursing glasses of chilled white wine. The former cabbie waggled his feet in sync with the glorious high harmonies of an early Vince Gill as he lamented, “Nobody answers when I call your name.” Annette thrilled to “Liebestraum,” by Franz Liszt. Neither one spoke. God bless the iPod.
Victor was wishing that he could rearrange his privates without Annette noticing, but decided he could put up with the discomfort. And he found he wasn't really listening to the words of the song in his ears any more. His mind kept drifting back to the golf course.
He and Annette had sauntered along the edge of what was destined to become the sixth fairway. They had watched a bulldozer shove tons of wet, brown earth from point A to point B. They had been enthralled by a giant, yellow machine that noisily encircled a tree, drove down four hydraulically operated blades, crunched roots like celery sticks, yanked the tree out of the ground, root clump and all, tipped the whole works back, rolled off slowly, and replanted it in a prepared hole a hundred yards away.
Victor had wanted to take Annette's hand as they watched this brute demonstration of technological prowess and human ascendancy, but ... well, he hadn't dared. She was six years younger than him, and he hadn't been in a relationship—hadn't even been close to being in a relationship—for so very long. Besides, as far as looks went, on a scale of one to ten, Annette was a seven, easily, arguably an eight, and he was still a three. It wasn't as bad as the six-point spread that existed between himself and Helen Kozinski, and he and Annette had sort of become friends that day in Ray's, but then there was that Lou Glassen fellow, the dentist ... and besides, besides ... ?
Victor knew he wa
s just plain horny, that his “id” had gone impulse shopping, just as it had yesterday, with Helen. He opened his eyes a bit, peeked down at his rounded belly, and he wondered if he had passed some sort of unmarked threshold, without even noticing. Maybe I've reached an age and a shape where I'm sexually attractive to no one, he thought as he closed his eyes again and leaned back, destined never to be laid or loved again, except by women who want my money ... or have no taste in men. He closed his eyes again and tried to change the inner topic ... to no avail.
It bothered him that he was having such feelings towards a woman who was basically ... he almost thought “not my type,” but then realized that he didn't have a type. In any case, she was nice, she was pretty, but truth be told, he just wanted to scoop her up like that big tree-moving machine, carry her off into the bush and ... “Stop it,” he scolded himself under his breath, without opening his eyes. He crossed his legs on the chaise lounge. Nobody answers when I call your name.
* * *
In the kitchen, Noel Lambert was frantically trying to prepare for the visitation. “The old man” hadn't eaten a full-fledged meal at the lodge since December, and Cam O'Connor had forgotten to call ahead. The housekeeper, Winnifred Jopps, had been recruited to assist him, although she was supposed to have been let off early to meet her girlfriends for what they called their annual “giggle-dinner,” their warm-up for the rite of spring at the Beach Barn.
"Bad enough dat Mr. O'Connor don’ call me ahead,” complained Noel as he cut every visible sign of fat from the edges of the steaks, “but after he is finally calling me, he is calling me back and saying dat Bishop Sutherland he's coming too, coming wit’ Mr. Whiteside."
"Grump,” muttered Winnifred. “I'm the one who should be bitching here."
"I t'ink, me, I am putting li'l bit dis Memories of Bangkok sauce on dat steak,” said Noel. “What you t'ink, Winnie? I'm getting dis stuff at Loblaws. Is really good stuff."
"That's supposed to be for fish,” said Winnifred.
"Oui, je sais, tabernacle," he sputtered playfully, “but he don’ know dat, an’ you not telling, n'est-ce pas?"
* * *
When Victor had returned from his wonderful afternoon out with Annette, he had found a Whiteside-produced LieDeck on his bed, one of the three that chief engineer Gauthier had made himself. The Dictaphone casing had a slapped-together look about it, with one button sealed up completely and other buttons adapted to new purposes, sporting hand-labeled bits of tape to educate the user. Unlike his original prototype, this one had all three of the signaling modes—the pin, the light, and the beeper. He had felt vulnerable during the entire day that he was without a LieDeck, and he had breathed relief when he tucked this new one into his shirt pocket.
It was surprisingly warm for April. Victor had put his headphones back on, and was ignoring Vince Gill again. He had his eyes closed, and he stared in wonder at the inside of his eyelids, at a brilliant ocean of ... well, not orange ... it was yellow-red, overlaid but unblended. The late-afternoon sun was trying to get in.
Annette was watching Michael and his girlfriend in the distance. It was Good Friday, so the two youngsters had no school. They were paddling a canoe from Michael's dock on the far shore over to where Dora's Creek fed Wilson Lake. According to Noel, at night, when the air was still, you could hear them laughing all the way from the other side. Sometimes, if Noel was to be believed, you could make out actual words as they chased each other and did those nutty things that young lovers seem compelled to do.
"Victor,” called Annette. He couldn't hear or see her, so she dipped her fingers into the ice bucket between them and flicked a few drops at his face.
"Hey,” he yelled as he tore off his iPod headphones. “This is an unprovoked assault, Your Honor. I was peacefully minding my own..."
"Knock it off, Bozo,” she laughed. “They're here."
* * *
During the sixteen-minute flight from the top of the office tower to the rugged dock on Wilson Lake, Randall had kept to his decision not to explain anything about the LieDeck to Steve, so that he could react freshly to the thing, and so that Victor could introduce his invention in his own way. Steve had told Randall the details of his visit to the Caughy Commission, how Barbara Farley had humiliated poor old Judge Caughy with her earthy analysis of social responsibility and morality. And he told him the longer version of how, and why, he had walked out of the Canadian Association of Catholic Bishops, and out of the Church. “For good,” he'd said with finality, although he hadn't intended the double-entendre.
Randall had stayed friends with Steve for forty years, even though the Whitesides weren't Catholics, or even churchgoers. He had always thought that Steve was a rock, in his character and in his beliefs. Now he was concerned for his old high school buddy. I wonder if the LieDeck can be used to find out if a guy really believes in God? he thought. If it can, it's going to knock the Argyle socks off a lot of priests and rabbis and ministers and imams ... and whatever else those types call themselves.
* * *
Snowball and Kodiak barked loudly and leapt wildly in the chain-link kennels that the groundskeeper had constructed down by the dock. In vain. Apparently helicopters aren't scared of bushy white dogs.
Annette and Victor walked down the outside wooden staircase that led from the upper balcony to the pine-needle floor. They waited until the engine was cut and the blades were wilting before they let “the kids” out of their kennels. “If they jump at you too hard, put a knee up and they'll get the message,” said Victor as he fended off Kodiak, causing both dogs to race out to the end of the dock. “Funny how Samoyeds can cheer things up,” he added as he watched Randall fight off the canine love-bombing. “Quite the welcoming committee, eh?” he yelled towards his two visitors as he walked with Annette out on the dock.
"Victor, Annette, this is Steve Sutherland,” said Randall as he inched his way around the circling, bounding dogs.
"Hi Steve,” said Victor as they shook hands. “This galumph is Kodiak, or Slurp, and the lady here is Snowball. Shake a paw."
The dogs weren't interested in that human tradition. They ran back off the dock, across the front yard, and up the stairs to the veranda.
"So much for your theory that they're happier outside,” said Annette, with a laugh. “I bet Noel lets them in and slips them scraps when we're not here.” She made it sound like a tradition ... and thought perhaps it was, or would be.
As the foursome walked towards the lodge, Randall explained that he couldn't stay long, that he had to leave by eight o'clock, at the latest. “I have to go to a secret meeting,” he whispered jokingly.
Victor wished he had spoken out loud. Even with a subdued voice, the LieDeck worked, but when people whispered, talked without using their vocal cords, he was as blind as he had been before, during the dark ages, before he'd perfected his invention.
"Mr. Whiteside, is very good to see you so soon again,” boomed Noel as he held the screen porch door open. “Dinner is almost ready. I am making dat steak, da way you like it, wit’ da mushroom and dat baked potato wit’ da sour cream, and I make da new sauce for dat steak ... is da best sauce I'm ever do, me, an’ if you don’ like, is breaking my li'l heart."
Noel's histrionics always amused Randall. “Well, then, I guess we better like it,” he chuckled with a wink as they reached the top step. “Steve, this is Noel Lambert, our cook, and Winnifred—uh—"
"Jopps,” she said politely, holding out her hand. “Winnifred Jopps ... or Winnie, really ... the housekeeper. Welcome, Your ... Grace ... is that the proper...?"
"Just call me Steve, okay?” he said.
"Certainly ... Steve,” she said, with an uncertain smile. “If you'll all come this way."
Winnifred's hair momentarily flew sideways as she turned quickly, almost pirouetted, to lead the procession in. Victor had noticed that about her before, that way she had of turning so that her hair flew out, like in the Vidal Sassoon ads on TV. There was nothing Hollywo
od-special about her hair—limply thin, chocolate brown with a couple of dozen gray misfits—but it was unusually long, past her shoulder blades, and would reach to within an inch from her butt, he imagined, if she were to throw her head all the way back for any reason.
It wasn't just the way her hair flew that interested Victor, but the way she so clearly enjoyed doing it—without the move seeming to be on purpose—almost as if it would surprise her to realize that anyone had actually noticed. She wore the front in bangs, like a shiny helmet, down to the eyebrows ... early Cher. A couple of times last night, when the firelight caught her profile just so, Victor thought he saw a petroglyph of a green-eyed Egyptian princess rather than a housekeeper.
As she strode through the large, rustic living room with the grand fireplaces at each end, Victor watched her from behind. She was about his height, he guessed, five-foot-seven or so, yet her legs seemed longer than his. He watched her designer jeans move ... until they stopped, until she stopped, right at the dining-room door, turned, and smilingly waved everyone in.
Victor caught her green eyes briefly as he passed by, but there was nothing more than courtesy there. They had wrinkles, those eyes, not the puffy bags that speak of weariness or impending funerals, but the laugh-lines of a seasoned liver of life. As far as he could gather—and he was now in the business of gathering such things—Winnifred met the six criteria he had established for a potential mate. She wasn't married, involved, gay, bulimic, out on bail or under forty.
"Thanks ... you,” he garbled on his way by. He tripped in between a “thanks” and a “thank you” when his libido made his brain fold over on itself and short-circuit, sort of a cerebral intussusception. “Oh my God,” he mumbled to himself.
The dining room had large picture windows that looked out on the lake and let the afternoon sun glisten off the varnished, knotty pine furniture. The outside glass door to the lower deck had been left open, but the inner screen door remained closed, to let in the breezes and the smells of a Canadian spring, minus the mozzies, if there were any yet.
