by Jim Stark
Victor thought about how far he'd come in the past two days. He'd been allowed, largely, to make his own decisions, and people hadn't overloaded him with unsolicited advice. On the other hand, he was still a hermit at heart, and Annette and Helen had both mentioned that he should be more assertive, so ... ?
"Winnie,” he said as everyone sat down, “I'd like you to join us for supper. You don't mind, do you Randall?"
"Uh—no—of course not,” managed Randall. “The lodge is your home, Victor, and I'm sure we'd be honored to have Ms. Jopps join us."
"But really I ... there won't be enough to go around,” said Winnie.
"Nonsense,” said Victor. “We've got four steaks prepared and five people to serve. You cut a bit off each steak and everybody's happy. That's the way we did it at my house when I was a kid. I'll even take the cut-off bits. The rule at home was that if you took the little chunks, you got out of doing dishes."
Randall laughed heartily and Steve added his support, so the deal was set, in spite of Winnie's mild protestations. Victor even went to the kitchen and helped her bring out the ice water. If this really is my home, he thought, then we'll do things normal around here. Annette laid out the extra place setting, right beside Victor's. Steve got another chair, and Randall just sat, drumming his thumbs together and smiling.
"I think he's got an eye for that lady,” Annette whispered to Randall as Victor and Winnie headed back to the kitchen to get the food.
After everyone was seated, Noel poured the wine and lingered. He watched as the diners took their first bites.
"Rave reviews,” said Randall enthusiastically.
"I love that sauce,” beamed the former bishop.
"Really?” asked the cook.
"It's terrific,” assured the host. And they are telling the truth, he almost added, forgetting momentarily that Winnie, Noel and Steve knew nothing about the LieDeck.
Winnifred, it turned out, had a wit and wisdom all her own, born of the suffering and growth that comes from the loss of a husband to a younger woman and a great will to get on with life. She noted that she was getting a better deal at the lodge than she would have at the dinner party she had planned with her girlfriends, and she talked about the barn dance she was going to attend that evening, and about the madcap band that did the gig every year—"Raccoons on Ice,” they were called, although no one knew why. Later, in hushed tones, she squealed on Noel, and told the secret of “his” new steak sauce—the “store-boughten” fish sauce from Loblaws.
Steve told stories about his childhood, about his brother Tony and the sand pile and a red truck. And he spoke about the humorous side of being a priest. “If only I could write a book about the vastly different species that I meet through the curtain of a confessional,” he said. “Met,” he corrected the tense.
He also derived a peculiar sort of delight from some mild swearing that went on, an indulgence he hadn't permitted himself since he was eighteen, when he'd first felt the call to the priesthood. And he mentioned, not with any great emotion, that he had just left the Church. “It ... happens,” he said. “I'm hardly the first, and I won't be the last.” He didn't share details.
Annette mostly stayed in the background. It had struck her how much the ex-bishop reminded her of her boyfriend, Lou Glassen, minus the pretences, the selfishness, the perfect, polished, dentist's teeth, and plus a few wrinkles, of course, mostly around the eyes.
Victor announced that he and Annette were also planning to go to the barn dance in Quyon, “just as friends, of course,” and Winnie said it would be great fun if they joined up with her girlfriends in a big gang. Then Victor got impish, and badgered Steve into agreeing to come along.
"I'd have to go to my cottage first, to—uh—shower and change,” Steve said, all the while wondering privately whether he'd chicken out when the time came. “I'll meet you there,” he swore. “Promise,” he'd been forced to add.
Randall was pleased to see everyone having a good time, but he was too aware of the passage of time to get into the full spirit of things. He had said he would meet Laurent Gauthier, his chief engineer, at eight o'clock, to see the first production LieDecks come off the assembly line. His other meeting was at nine o'clock, in his office. It had nothing to do with Victor Helliwell or the LieDeck, and that was a pleasant switch. People seemed to have forgotten that he was a busy man before all the recent commotion, and this was the first time in two days that he had dedicated significant time to the other business matters that were on his plate.
"Winnifred, Annette,” he said, “let's take our coffee and go out on the porch. Victor and Steve have something they need to discuss ... which means I get both the pretty girls."
Once they were alone, Steve drew a heavy, preparatory breath and set about giving Victor a full understanding of the situation he was in. He spoke about his realization that he probably didn't believe in God any more, and maybe never did. He explained the proposal he'd made to the CACB to use polygraphs to identify criminals in the clergy. And he mentioned his threat to go to the media in two weeks if the Church didn't adopt his radical proposal. “Randy said you were in a position to help me,” he said finally. “Are you?"
Victor reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out his new Whiteside-produced LieDeck. “It's all yours,” he said, placing it in Steve's hand. “I can get another one tomorrow."
"Thanks,” said Steve with a curious grin as he examined the small device. “What ... is it?"
Chapter 12
BARN DANCE ‘14
Tirone Lucas was late, as usual. He had a delivery in Fort Coulonge, an hour west of Quyon, that he couldn't locate anybody to sign for. “Trucking's a good life, occasionally made miserable by dumbwads,” he'd tell anyone who would listen. But never mind. He'd gotten home before his Tammy started calling around after him, and they'd finally arrived at the Beach Barn, just an hour late, give or take.
The parking lot was stuffed. “This barn dance thing is getting more popular every year,” he said.
The previous year, they'd raised over $6,000 for Brenda Crosbie, the widow whose boy was supporting her when he got shot. Of course that was before they found out that Fatty Crosbie, her son, was dealing dope. They never did give the money to her. They ended up giving it to a group up in Shawville that helped youngsters who got steered the wrong way on drugs. This year, however, they planned to give the proceeds to the Red Cross, figuring there was no chance of a screw-up with that outfit.
"Don't that beat all?” said Tammy disapprovingly, sadly. “There's Ginette Lapine, doing traffic again this year. Claire's never gonna get her married off if she lets her spend all her time getting people's cars parked instead of dancing."
Tirone waved at Ginette and obeyed her signal to head down to the area behind the Beach Barn. “She sure does that with authority, don't she?” Tirone said as he stashed his Chrysler clunker a hundred yards from the back door, further than he'd ever seen cars parked before.
The ferry was bringing folks in from the Ontario side, by the dozens each trip, which was good for the money-raising but not so good for the cops. “At least this year the police are making them ‘forners’ leave their cars on the other side of the river,” everybody down at Ray's Restaurant had been saying all week. The Beach Barn was only a skip and a hop from the ferry dock, so the “forners” could skip or hop their way up to the dance.
Tirone locked the car, and he and Tammy wove their way through the lot and around the ancient Lion's Club building to the front door. The entrance was decorated with paper streamers, and things were already to the point where a gang of break-takers was hanging around outside, puffing cigarettes and swigging right from their bottles. There was an outside table with things to buy, and they had tickets on a gas barbecue, donated by the hardware store. The thumping country music was already stirring up feelings, and by the looks of things, the party was off to a rollicking good start without any help from the Lucases.
"Git your big ass over here and bu
y yourself one of my genuine pressed-cardboard cowboy hats, Tammy,” hollered Claire Lapine. “Nobody allowed in there if they ain't attired proper."
"Hi Claire,” said Tammy. “I see they got you out here doing sales again this year."
"Hell,” said Claire, “after spending all day on my feet at Ray's, the last thing I want is to be in there sweating and pretending I'm having fun. Besides, tell you the truth, I think country music stinks."
"They used to burn heretics, you know,” said Tirone as he tried on several hats in a doomed attempt to find one big enough for his whole head. “They'd have a lynching out here if I was to tell them inside what you just said about country music."
A clown dressed as a sheriff sidled up to Tirone and stuck a bright red, oversized, plastic six-shooter into his ribs from behind. “That'll be a one-loonie fine fur gittin’ mean before yur time,” he said.
"Jesus,” said Tirone, “I just got here, Buck, and you're sticking me up for a dollar before I even get a single dance in."
"Make that a toonie,” declared Buck Ash, with a lit cigarette clenched between his teeth the way he figured Clint Eastwood would do, “for giving lip to the law. Pay up, mister wise guy, or I'll hafta haul yur pitiful ass downtown."
Tirone paid the revised fine with a two-dollar coin and threw in a five-dollar bill for good measure, and just as he was stuffing his wallet back into his hip pocket, he noticed a man who seemed out of place, not dressed funny or anything like that, but ... weird, in a way. The man walked oddly, it seemed, like he was in some kind of a trance. And he was looking up, like he'd just seen a flying saucer or some damned thing. And then the fellow let a little skip into his step, the way a kid might do just because the mood struck. He was approaching from up town way, and he was all by himself. Nobody comes to the annual spring blowout alone, he thought. “Who is that guy, Buck?” he asked. “I swear I seen him before, but I can't place him."
Buck followed the line of Tirone's finger. “Fucked if I know,” he said.
"Tell you what,” suggested Tirone. “You go give him a fine, see what you can figure out. Get his name. I seen his face before ... last summer ... or maybe other summers, but I can't remember who he is, and it's starting to bug me."
Well, Buck Ash had started his drinking in the mid-afternoon to get in the spirit of things, and because he couldn't do his stint as the Sheriff of Quyon if he went around toting a quart of bubbly. He was in “one of your finer fettles,” as Claire had expressed it, and he didn't need any extra encouragement to give this pretend-hick a hard time.
"Thaaaat's far enough, pardner,” he said, feet apart, hands on hips, cigarette hanging from his mouth. “The name's Buck Ash, an’ I happen ta be the Acting Sheriff of Quyon. I'm a'feared I gotta give you a ticket, fifty cents, ‘cause yur late. This here shindig started itself off more'n an hour ago, and where were you? Well now, you weren't here, were ya? So pay the sheriff, or I'll be forced ta squirt ya all over yur nice plaid shirt with my shiny red gun."
The man laughed at the whimsy of the situation and dropped two quarters into the slot of the tin can with the big red cross on it. “How many times does this happen to a guy in the course of the evening?” he asked.
"That'll be another twenty-five cents fur askin’ too many questions, mister, an’ I'm gonna have ta jack it even more if ya give me any trouble. What's yur name, anyways? We git kinda skittish about strangers in these parts, ‘specially strangers that's ugly."
"And ... am I ugly?” asked the amused man in the plaid shirt as he deposited another quarter.
"You are the consarndest ugliest critter ta come up the road all night, an if yur not careful, I'm gonna have ta hit ya fur a loonie jes’ fur being so gal-danged tough ta look at, which is prob'ly why ya ain't got no wife on yur arm. Now if I'm not mistaken, you was about ta tell the nice poleeeeceman what yur name is."
"My name,” said the stranger, “is Steve Sutherland."
Buck still looked like a clown on the outside, but he nearly went into shock on the inside. He got himself in position to get a better look at the face of the man, and sure enough, it was Tony Sutherland's brother.
"You're ... Bishop Sutherland,” said the Acting Sheriff of Quyon as he threw his cigarette to the ground.
"Not any more,” said Steve. “I quit."
"You ... quit what?” asked Buck.
"Well, bishoping,” he laughed. “I guess you'd say I'm sort of—uh—unemployed."
"Well I'll be f—uh—darned,” said Buck. “You mean you really aren't a bishop no more?"
"That's right,” said Steve.
"So—uh—what do I call you now, if you're not the...?"
"You can call me Mr. Sutherland if you're mad at me or you can call me Steve if we're having a normal conversation, or—uh—you can call me the ugly old fart in the plaid shirt if you need another quarter for the Red Cross,” said the former bishop with a smile.
"Oh jeeze,” said Buck, “I'm sorry, Father, I didn't mean no—"
"It's okay, Buck,” he laughed. “And I'm not even a priest any more, just ... a guy, okay?"
"Well, okay ... Steve ... but it doesn't seem right somehow. I can't think of you like one of the local rowdies, going in there to get all drunked up and hitting on the ladies. I mean ... is that what you're here to do, like the rest of the guys?"
"I intend to drink a few beers all right,” said Steve, “maybe even a few more than I should, and I intend to do some dancing, but as for the—uh—other part, I can't say I'm ready for that quite yet. What do you do for a living, Buck?"
Well, Buck Ash chatted up a storm for a few minutes, mostly about the NHL bosses and their lousy pension plan. Tirone was beginning to wonder what the devil was going on over there, and Tammy was on his case for standing outside waiting for “the Buck” when they could have been inside drinking beer and dancing.
When the Acting Sheriff of Quyon finally came back to Claire's hat-and-ticket table, he gave Tirone the inside scoop, with eyes the size of beefsteak tomatoes.
Tirone caught a glimpse of the man as he made his way up the steps, and sure enough, it was Bishop Sutherland. “You know who that is?” he asked his wife, pointing to the back of a disappearing plaid shirt. “That's Tony Sutherland's brother, the Bishop, except he isn't the Bishop any more, and he told Buck here he isn't even a priest any more."
"Git outta here,” squealed Tammy as she slapped Tirone's arm with the back of a hand. “Come on, let's get in there and kick some butt."
Steve paid his way in, got stamped with red ink on the back of his hand, and walked onto the straw-covered floor. There were tables along both sides of the Lion's “Beach Barn,” two rows on each side, and a bar in the corner, surrounded by eager customers. The strobe lights and the shifting, colored spotlights were not what he expected of a barn dance, but in the 21st century, anything went, or so it seemed.
The dance floor in the middle of the room was well populated with bobbing heads and flailing arms. The band was playing a song that Steve hadn't heard before, and the decibel-level was brain damaging—so high that it was almost impossible to make out the lyrics. With effort, Steve was barely able to get the words of the repeating chorus. "Drop-kick me Jesus through the goal-posts of life," he said to himself as he shook his head in disbelief. “Amen to that,” he added out loud, though he couldn't even hear his own voice. It was only a few hours since he'd walked out of the Church, and already he was being exposed to heretical new prayers—and on Good Friday, to boot!
* * *
"Down to the end, turn left. Down to the..."
As she drove into the parking lot, Annette obeyed the square-shouldered woman who was barking orders and pointing to where to stash the car. She then picked the mike from its holster on the dashboard. “We're just getting parked,” she reported to Patriot HQ. “Is everything in place?"
"All set. Boogie your little hearts out,” came a voice over the radio.
* * *
Claire snuck up behind Ginette a
nd plunked a cardboard cowboy hat on her head, startling her. “Here you go, sweetheart,” she said to her daughter. “Now you come on in when you're done out here."
"Thanks Mom,” said Ginette, more resentfully than gratefully, as her mother kissed her and turned to leave.
Buck was standing nearby. He hadn't had much new business over at the door for a while, so he'd come over to talk to Ginette. Now he found himself trying not to laugh at her, at the sight of her in a cowboy hat. He shaped his right hand into a claw, turned it dramatically towards his own face, and clamped it onto his extruded lips in mock terror, pretending that he dared not laugh or even speak.
"Oh just screw right off,” said Ginette.
Buck was about to tell her his story about Bishop Sutherland when he saw the three latecomers heading towards him from the back of the parking lot. “Do you know those people?” he asked Ginette, pretending that he didn't.
"Nope,” she said. “Go give ‘em a hard time, tiger."
"Sure wish you was straight, sweetie,” he said as he patted her bum and made a very hasty departure.
"Do that again and you die,” Ginette hollered after him.
"And who in tarnation are you folks?” Buck asked as the new threesome reached his position.
"My name's Norman Snider,” said Victor Helliwell.
Buck was slightly thrown. As a Patriot agent, he knew who Victor was, generally, and he couldn't figure why the man might lie about his name. “Well—uh—Norman,” he drawled, “I gotta fine youse a whole loonie fur being shorter than yur galfriend here."
"She's my mom,” lied Victor.
"I'm not his mom or his girlfriend,” winked Annette to her undercover colleague. “My name is Annette Blais, and I work for Patriot Security,” she said as she popped a loonie into his tin can.
"My name's Winnie,” said Winnie as she made a voluntary contribution to the Red Cross. “I'm his daughter,” she added, which earned her a playful elbow to the ribs from the alleged Norman Snider.
