Whipped

by William Deverell

  Throughout the climb, Taba politely endured Arthur’s complaints about Stoney and his rustling of the truck. She merely chuckled over it, urging him to relax: it wasn’t the end of the world, he’d be back, carpe diem.

  The climb brought them at last to a mossy knoll with a full-compass view, but no sign of the Fargo.

  “Stunning,” said Taba. “Thank you.” She startled him by rising on her toes to plant a quick, soft kiss on his lips, then spread her arms to the horizon, the distant Olympic Mountains, her cropped hair flaming even redder in the sun. “I have arrived,” she shouted. Her announcement echoed back. “I am nowhere!” No-where, no-where, the hills replied.

  “How does one arrive nowhere?”

  She turned to him. “Because when you realize there is nowhere to go, you have arrived. Though you’re still nowhere.”

  She was mocking the slogan above the Transformers’ gate. Arthur had to laugh.

  “So, do you come here a lot?” she asked.

  “As often as I can.”

  “Always alone?”

  “‘In solitude, where we are least alone.’ Byron. Sorry, yes, quite alone.”

  “Until now.”

  “Yes.” Arthur wasn’t sure what the rules were here, alone on a hilltop with this saucy single mom. He hoped matters would not go too far. But he could still feel the softness of her lips from that quick kiss, and felt confused, conflicted.

  They settled on a carpet of moss under a giant arbutus with its reddish papery bark, its trunk and branches snaking skyward above them, a complex, colourful canopy.

  “This is softer than my mattress,” Taba said, lying back.

  There was a strong essence of invitation wafting from her, red hair splayed on the moss, legs slightly parted, arms behind her neck.

  He dismissed the carnal urge this prompted. He was having a testosterone issue, that was all. He was still suffering the spell of horniness prompted by the tiddly Austin litigator. He was a married man. He believed in his vows, even if someone else didn’t. Fortifying his resolve was the spectre of performance anxiety, always hovering, chiding him. You can’t get it up, Arthur. Don’t even try.

  Quite right. Taba will be only a friend, a willing ear, a confidante. A female buddy with whom he could share misgivings about the Transformers. Maybe about his life companion and her star candidate. But that would be too confessional, too self-pitying.

  The silence was uncomfortable, so, lacking anything original, he offered Lowell’s hoary rhetorical question: “‘What is so rare as a day in June?’”

  Taba moved to a sunnier spot, several feet away, and sat, her back to him. “How does the rest of that go?” She pulled her T-shirt over her head, undid her bra, and lay on her back again.

  He tried. “‘Then, if ever, come perfect days . . .’” The rest was a blank. Hypnotized by those two bared mounds, he could only fumble for words. “I forget. I can do better.” He struggled to untie his tongue before racing through a line from a favourite Keats sonnet. “‘To one who has been long in city pent, ’tis very sweet to look into the fair and open face of heaven.’”

  “What else have you got?”

  Arthur had never forgetten the lines that moved him as a student of the classics, and he couldn’t resist showing off. He recited Milton’s “L’Allegro”: Such sights as youthful poets dream, on summer eves by haunted stream.

  He got through it with only a few mental typos, and by the end of it had given up pretending not to see her, pretending not to feel aroused. “Not bad. I wrote a paper on it when I was nineteen.”

  “Not bad?” She was looking at him raptly.

  A distant engine hum. Arthur stood up and saw the Fargo below, on its return journey.

  “Come here, Arthur.”

  “That’s my truck.”

  “Come down here with me.”

  He took a hesitant step toward her, and she sat up and took his hand and pulled him down, easing him onto his back.

  “In case you think my interest is only platonic, it’s not.” She rolled on top of him and kissed him with open mouth and tongue. He answered, and felt a rush of unalloyed pleasure as his hands found her breasts, her engorged nipples. He was shocked and thrilled to feel an erection building, a message she was receiving, her body answering.

  When she sat up, his hands rose with her, continuing to heft her breasts while hers unsnapped his belt and reached under his shorts and found his thick, engorged cock.

  Clothing was cast aside, boots, socks, and underwear. All shyness was dismissed, all resolve forgotten, and quickly he was on top and entering her with deep, hungry thrusts. He was amazed and proud that he so quickly found completion, and his exultant shout echoed off the hills.

  PENNILESS IN PORCUPINE PLAIN

  The hitchhiking had been beyond crappy, especially across the sparseness of Northern Ontario, all rock and lake and forest extending to infinity, and Lou had to resort to long, slow hops by bus, staying in cheap motels in scraggy, scrubby, nothing-happening towns on the old Trans-Canada highway, his wallet getting ever thinner.

  It took him almost two weeks to get to Winnipeg, and by then his Amex was over the limit and he was down to flophouses and the Sally Ann. In Regina, he was rousted by the cops after trying to nap under a tree in Wascana Park.

  Meanwhile, he was still battling his bank, long-distance on his phone, which was quickly running out of minutes, to recover the thirty-two grand stolen by the Mafia imposter Charles Bandolino. Somehow that shithole had hacked his password, password hints, and debit card number. The bank was looking into it. There were papers to be filled out. Affidavits. Please provide a mailing address. No, sir, it can’t be done online.

  On the first day of summer, he landed in a burg called Porcupine Plain, somewhere, he guessed, in the hilly southwest of Saskatchewan, beyond the endless flatlands that his Greyhound buses had crawled across.

  This is where his money ran out. This is where he was totally broke except for $16.55, less the cost of the all-day bacon and eggs that the Quill Café had just fried up for him.

  Porcupine Plain was in a valley formed by a meandering creek and surrounded by grain fields spread beneath green hills where cattle grazed. Aside from its pastoral setting, the town had earned the right to be called plain, a main street called Main Street with a dozen storefronts, a paint-peeling two-storey hotel and tavern, a post office, a two-pump garage, a lumberyard, a credit union. A couple of church steeples. A curling rink. The dominant structure a grain elevator.

  The Quill seemed the place to be, at least for lunch. All booths were taken, just a few stools available. A real old-fashioned diner, not one of those faux ones in the city, full of grizzled men in suspenders and tractor caps, with a fair number of middle-aged women, likely farmers themselves. Dust on their boots. Lingering over coffee, joking and gossiping, like he’d imagined they did in small towns instead of staring hypnotically at iPhones. Occasionally they looked him over, a nondescript little man with a big suitcase.

  He was wishing he’d packed a tent. He had no idea where he was going to sleep tonight, maybe in a cattle pen.

  He ate slowly, dipping toast into yolk, relishing each mouthful, his last square meal before he had to resort to the local soup kitchen, if there was one. There were only three jobs up on the community bulletin board outside the bus stop: a skilled mechanic, a licensed pilot for crop-dusting, and an assistant to the local veterinarian.

  He wiped his plate clean with the last of his toast and waited for the bill, nursing his coffee, his third refill, eavesdropping on the two men in the booth behind him.

  “The screen goes all wonky. And the colours ain’t right.”

  “I heard if you turn it off and on again it resets.”

  “I tried that twenty times.”

  “You sure you ain’t got a battery issue?”

  “Battery’s cha
rged, according to the manual. See this here green light?”

  “Did you do anything, Oscar?” A woman’s voice. “Like spill beer on it when you got plastered the other night?”

  “I got three years out of it. Planned obsolescence, that’s how them computer companies earn their billions.”

  Lou looked over his shoulder at the back of the bald head of a man in a rumpled suit. Across from him, staring at an open laptop, a Dell Inspiron, was a guy in a John Deere cap who had to be Oscar, and his cherub-faced wife.

  “Let me have a look at it.” Lou went into his bag and brought out his repair kit.

  §

  In the half hour it took to run tests, open up the guts of the laptop, and fiddle away with tiny tweezers and a small soldering iron, Lou had gathered a crowd. Oscar and his wife and his bald friend — who turned out to be the mayor — leaned over him in frowning fascination. A dozen others milled about the counter space that had been cleared for him near an outlet for the soldering iron.

  He checked the screen to ensure all colours were true before closing up, saying, “I think that’s done it.” There was a cheer.

  “I got a desktop where the monitor keeps going blank,” someone said.

  “I can’t get mine to boot up half the time,” said another.

  §

  “It’s taken us to Arizona a couple of times,” said Oscar. “I’ll hook up the power and water.”

  “I’d want to give everything a good dusting, Mr. O’Brien,” said Dolores, his wife. They owned an eight-hundred-acre spread down Porcupine Creek, along with a big house, barn, chickens, horses, and this fully equipped house trailer.

  “Please don’t go to a lot of trouble,” Lou said. He looked gratefully about. “Looks like a palace to me.”

  “The kids use it when they come,” Dolores said, “but they pretty well flew the nest. We got two empty bedrooms as well, if you prefer.”

  “This is just grand.”

  “Dinner will be ready in an hour. Give you a chance to settle in. Oscar, throw some steaks on the barbie.”

  “You like to start with a brew?” Oscar said. “I’ll put some cold Pils in the cooler.”

  After they left, Lou unpacked, then stepped outside to take a deep breath of air perfumed by wolf willow and watch the lowering sun paint the hills golden.

  NO ONE NEEDS TO KNOW

  “I sentence you to life!” cried the judge. A Greek chorus in the jury box called out, “And a hundred lashes!”

  Arthur started awake as the rising sun cleared the trees and glared at him through his bedroom window. In the dream that aroused him so rudely from his troubled sleep, he’d been found guilty of adultery in the first degree, adultery planned and deliberate, aggravated by the sin of pride in having achieved chest-thumping virility. The verdict was fair because he was guilty. His punishment was the lash of self-flagellation.

  He shrugged off the dream and let his mind spin back to the rutting, mindless glory of yesterday’s tryst with Taba Jones. Fuelled by too much Milton, Taba had been more the seducer than the seduced. But Arthur had been the eager pushover, aroused, abandoning reserve. Forget the Fargo. Forget Margaret.

  He’d done the inconceivable, but with what he suspected, in the mind-clearing brightness of a new day, was a disgraceful motive. Had getting even with Margaret been as much a driving force as lust? A response to the repulsive images he’d endured of Lloyd Chalmers entering her. How sad was that?

  He could barely remember the aftermath, its embarrassment and awkwardness, averting his eyes from naked Taba as they fumbled for their clothes, their hurried descent from East Point Ridge. The Fargo was waiting for him; Stoney wasn’t. He drove Taba home.

  “It was a one-off,” she’d said, kissing him goodnight at her doorstep. “No one needs to know.”

  Arthur had had the good grace to thank her for being so warm and generous and desirable. Both knew why there would be no sequels. Both knew where Arthur’s deepest affections lay.

  No one needs to know. Certainly not Margaret. Ever.

  He should have showered last night; his body smelled of the day’s excesses. He hadn’t eaten dinner either. His stomach was empty and his bladder full. Before bed, still quivering, he’d made a strong herbal tea to settle his nerves.

  He looked out the window and wondered why Niko and Yoki weren’t tossing feed to the chickens and stealing their eggs. They were nowhere to be seen. Could they still be at Starkers Cove? He ran downstairs to the phone to check his messages.

  Niko: “We having sleepover. No problem.” Then Yoki: “Very happy, working hard. Baba Sri Rameesh, he really cool.”

  Al Noggins would be putting his final touches on his Sunday sermon right about now. St. Mary’s would be Arthur’s first stop. Al would be enlisted as the deprogrammer.

  Arthur showered then gathered up his clothes from yesterday, ruefully observing the semen dribbles on his Stanfields, and was on his way to the washer when the phone rang. He grabbed the hallway portable and carried on.

  “Hi,” said Margaret. “Finally.”

  Arthur cleared his clogged throat. “Did you call earlier?”

  “Yeah. Where were you yesterday?”

  Arthur gulped back the impulse to blurt the truth. His free hand was having trouble releasing his underwear into the top-loader, a kind of paralysis.

  “When are you going to remember you have a cellphone? Oh, never mind. Arthur, there’s been a palace revolt in the Liberal caucus. The Drone was overthrown. He’s resigned. Their caucus picked Marcus Yates as interim leader. Fresh, young, gorgeous, hip, athletic, outdoorsy — but a former prominent pothead, if he isn’t still one. Risky choice, but there you go.”

  “My goodness.” That was all Arthur could manage.

  “Anyway, they’ve agreed to join in bringing down the government. That came after the PM withdrew the Coast Mountains bill. They’re approving it by cabinet order. October election.”

  Arthur’s stained briefs finally fell into the washing machine, followed by socks, shirt, and moss-stained pants. He took a breath. “And, uh, how are you feeling about that?”

  “Well, good. Obviously. Get this country back on track. Okay, I’m in Fredericton now, heading back to Ottawa for a strategy session. I have a couple of pit stops up north on my way back home for the Canada Day weekend. I’ll have to attend a few events, but I won’t force you to . . . I, um . . .” Her voice trailed off, then returned with an intensity that frightened him. “There’s something I need to talk to you about, Arthur.” A silence. “Are you still there?”

  “Sorry, I’m just . . . I’m starting a wash.”

  “Arthur, you may have heard that Lloyd Chalmers is running for us. I spoke at his nomination in Halifax on Thursday. It’s been in the papers. I didn’t mention it to you, and I feel shitty about that. It’s just that . . . how do I say it? You get so hurt when his name comes up, and I’ve caused you so much pain over what happened . . . I’m babbling.”

  Arthur listened numbly.

  “Nothing has happened between us since then. I’ve actually been avoiding him, but . . . well, there was the requisite hug in front of the cameras. He’s quite the womanizer, really, I honestly don’t know why I ever . . . He’s turned his attention to Jennie Withers, anyway. They were spotted at a table for two at Le Gourmand. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’re making out . . . Stop me. Say something.”

  “I love you,” he said weakly.

  “I love you too, darling. I do.”

  §

  Only fifteen parishioners had shown up today, average age on the cusp of seventy, and the service was brief. Reverend Al continued to rail outside the church. He was convinced that God was losing the battle for souls on Garibaldi Island. The cult was eating away at the island like cancer. Freeing Arthur’s brainwashed Woofers from Silver Tongue’s spell would be like wrestling with the devil.

/>   But Al agreed to take on the task, and they were on their way to the open house at Starkers Cove, in their Sunday suits in the Fargo — which, at one point, drifted onto the shoulder, causing Al to cut short his list of grievances. “Do you want me to drive? You seem in some kind of altered state, old boy.”

  “I’m fine. Distracted.” Here was Arthur with his closest friend, his confidant, a man of the cloth, and he could not confess his sin: a shameful act of infidelity prompted by false suspicion, compounded by an inflated sense of achievement. He would be all the more ignoble were he to mention Taba’s name. He resolved to bury the matter.

  A light drizzle had begun, and he focussed on the road, driving so slowly that a convoy of Garibaldians was backing up behind him. He pulled into the lookout above Starkers Cove to let them pass. Below, scores of cars and trucks were already parked outside the gate.

  “That looks like Morg down there,” Al said. “Appointed by his master to direct traffic. A simple task for a simple mind.”

  “Let’s see what he says about his promise to bring the girls back.”

  They carried on, waiting their turn near the former manure pile — its stink still pervaded the area — while Morg waved drivers onto a newly mown field. Dog, the Transformers’ eager early convert, was bustling about as assistant parking attendant. It was still drizzling, the western sky grumbling. “Let there be rain,” said Reverend Al, his hands together in prayer.

  The column of vehicles stalled while a couple of volunteers chased two chickens and a duck that had slipped out the gate. Enjoying the acrobatics of fowl and pursuers, recording them on camera, were the two latter-day hippies who’d arrived in their flower-powered VW van.