Of course, the same must go for Sally and Cousineau – since they regularly work together, they may not go unscathed. An unworthy thought, but jealousy is unhealthy only when obsessive, so let me enjoy my malice toward Ellery Cousineau: that is how I purge myself.
He and Sally have taken off to Japan for a promotion, along with a few other representatives of Chipmunk Press – the entire Miriam series is being brought out in translation. After a week of hotel-room tag, she may have her fill of Cousineau in more than a physical sense. I’ll be a tower of strength when she needs me. (The patient, despite his claims, is still conflicted, shuttling between hope and hopelessness.)
By the way, my practice run in the Okanagan Hills went well, and my times were pretty good, given that I was encumbered with a backpack and saddlebags. I may not win the gold, but I won’t shame my sponsors. The only glitch came when I had to resist taking the ferry across Arrow Lake, to Jackson Cove, only fifteen kilometres away. The town was pulling like a magnet.
One night, I camped by a waterfall in a provincial park, where my dreams literally took flight. Indeed, my bicycle sprouted wings – an old-fashioned flying machine with pedals – but I couldn’t urge it into the air, I was a flightless bird, a mechanical dodo on a mountain highway.
Suddenly I’m lost, I don’t recognize the terrain. There are rice paddies on either side of me, and fires are burning, and I hear the distant thunder of war. I know I have to escape, and I swing north, toward the Canadian border. Night falls as I flounder through the forest, the sound of barking dogs behind me. I can hear the river, the waterfall, and I know I’m close to the border, but I have to pee. I stop, go behind a tree, and there, close by my ear, I hear a voice: “What’s up, Doc?” I whirl and I confront Lyall DeWitt with a roar of anger. When he sees what I’m holding in my hand, he looks at me with confusion and fear. He turns and flees.
At which point my full bladder woke me.
I was heartened that in this dream (you hardly remarked on it, except to make mock applause) I had no fear of Lyall; I challenged him, flourished a weapon at him. Maybe my anger has become a shield, my loathing for Grundy and Lyall has filled all my emotional space. Or maybe I’ve simply confronted fear, dug deep, found strength.
But why does Lyall run away at the sight of a penis? An aversion disorder?
In the morning, I sat with my tin-cup coffee watching the ferry chug across the lake toward the village of my many dreams. Eventually, I headed back to Vernon, where I bought a bus ticket to Vancouver.
My mother’s libel trial was to reconvene on Wednesday in New Westminster, but was slow to get underway, the court lists backed up. I waited outside with Brovak, while he puffed on one of his Cuban cigars. The trial was in the bag, he insisted, my expertise might not even be needed.
He was no less upbeat about the hearing into Vivian Lalonde’s complaint. He has retained a polygraph examiner, Charles Lougheed, a retired RCMP officer with psychology training. Given the limits of his art, he’s more than capable. A psychopath like Grundy can beat the polygraph. But can Vivian, who does not lack moral sense? I wish I could think of some way to derail this risky test.
Fleeing the cigar smoke, I joined Victoria, asked how her weekend went, the tryst with the mountain-climbing producer.
“We made it to the peak.”
A Mona Lisa smile. I followed her into court.
I settled myself in the back row, hoping to make myself small. Presently, I was soon joined by a beefy man with a farmer’s tan. For some reason, he gave me a nudge and said, “What the heck are you doing here?” I shrugged and smiled – I couldn’t remember having met him.
Clint Huff was looking more dapper than usual, in a tweed suit, and also more composed, almost confident. How would he react on hearing Victoria’s novel triggered the imagination of murderers? Probably less with horror than scornful vindication. The copycat aspect was a secret well kept hidden.
Huff turned to scan the room, spotted me, made me the first order of business, demanding that Judge Lafferty declare me a hostile witness. She explained his motion was premature.
As this was going on, the man beside me whispered, “When did they let you out?”
Don’t try even to imagine my reaction to this tricky question. How was I to respond? I’m on a day pass. I’m allowed to be free as long as I take my medication. I escaped. I’m still in. It seemed too simplistic to suggest he’d mistaken me for another.
I settled for, “They never put me in.”
He frowned. “But I heard you got two years.”
I indicated we would talk later. Huff was back on his feet.
“Very well, my Lady. I now turn to some crucial proof – dare I call it incriminating? – volunteered by one of the good citizens of Jackson Cove. I now have confirmation that the defendant horror writer not only knew of me but has bandied my name about in a newspaper. I call on Victoria Dare to be cross-examined.”
This was so unexpected that Brovak was at a loss for words. Judge Lafferty allowed him to sputter a bit, then said, “Plaintiff has that right under the rules, Mr. Brovak.”
“Okay, I’m asking for an adjournment. Ms. Dare wasn’t expecting to take the stand.”
“That’s your problem.” Lafferty was stern. “This trial has gone on long enough.”
Victoria went to the witness box, flustered and unready.
“Before I commence,” said Huff, “I wish to put on record certain statistics compiled from the Registry of North American Municipalities, which records that among 21,738 towns of a population of two thousand or more there are only two Mayor Huffs, none of them bearing my given name. That is in response to the defendant’s argument of innocent coincidence.”
“Get on with your cross-examination, Mr. Huff.”
“Thank you. Do you continue to maintain you never heard of me, madam?”
“Of course I do.”
“I see. Well, have you heard of Joe Beauregard?”
Victoria hesitated. “Joe … I don’t think so.”
“I warn you, he’s in this courtroom.”
“If he is, I’m afraid I don’t know him.”
My neighbour leaned to my ear: “We never actually met. I talked to her on the phone.”
This, then, must be that same Joe Beauregard. It would seem that, like Huff, he’d mistaken me for one of his townspeople. You will now understand, Allis, why I felt trapped in another waking dream. It gets more bizarre.
Huff carried on: “How about his father, Michael Beauregard? Affectionately known to his wide circle of friends as Mike.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Huff, but you’re losing me.”
“It is not I, madam, who is losing.” With that sortie, he drew out a newspaper clipping, and as he read from it, I sank lower in my seat.” Prior to his retirement, Mr. Beauregard served twenty-eight years in the Canadian Army, rising to the rank of Master Sergeant. Sadly, on December 12, in his eighty-ninth year, he passed on to a higher service.’ Did you write that, madam?”
Victoria hesitated, glanced at Brovak, receiving no comfort. “I imagine I did.”
Huff passed out copies to lawyers and judge. He was impressive, drawing from Victoria that she runs an obituary service, that she’d been retained by Joe Beauregard to prepare this notice, and that it had appeared in a newspaper serving the area, the Nelson News.
“I have no specific memory of it,” Victoria said. “I’ve done as many as twenty obituaries a week, they’re full of names.”
Huff quoted further from the obit. Bad enough that the town of Jackson Cove was twice mentioned. Worse, the item ended thus: “‘Among the distinguished friends planning to attend the service will be Mayor Clinton Huff of Jackson Cove.’”
Huff might have hoped for more reaction than the dead silence that greeted this bombshell. Victoria’s mouth opened, but no words formed.
“For the record, my Lady, this piece of doggerel was written two years before When Comes the Darkness was published in a hardcover edition
by New Millennium Press. Mr. Joe Beauregard from Jackson Cove is here and can testify that I’ve never been known to torture or murder anyone.”
“I find as a fact that you haven’t, Mr. Huff,” Lafferty said.
“A joke.” He chuckled and sat, amiable now.
Joe Beauregard whispered, “The mayor is gonna owe me big time for this.”
I whispered back, “Do you remember my name?”
“What kind of question is that? You’re Dub, you’re the Dooberman.”
“The Dooberman? How long have we known each other?”
He looked at me with consternation. “Since you was ten years old and I caught you stealing fifteen bucks from my fruit stand. You gone off your rocker? Look at me, I’m Joe, I live half a mile down Chicory Road.” He was frowning at me now, maybe not so certain.
“When did I get busted?”
“The last time?”
Lafferty broke into this. “Would the parties who are in debate in the back row kindly take their business outside?” We fell silent.
Brovak and the Q.C. were making convoluted points of law. They wore such strained looks that I suspected terminal damage had been done to their case.
When the morning break came, Joe Beauregard rose and squeezed past me. “I got to get back to Jack Cove, I got a family to feed. Catch you later.” He walked quickly out.
I thought to pursue him and engage him further, but Brovak pulled me aside. “We’ve got to figure a way to deal with this schmozzle, Tim.”
I had no answers, but insisted he abandon the idea of my testifying about Huff’s mental state. He had proved himself more than competent, had outshone the crack lawyers for the defence. Moreover, I might have to concede the obvious: that the name of the mayor of Jackson Cove had become embedded in Victoria’s mind, in the unconscious murk.
Was that sufficient to make her liable? Brovak wasn’t sure.
Victoria’s testimony, when court resumed, was too apologetic. She had only a vague memory of preparing an obituary on information received from a Mr. Beauregard. She’d meant Clinton Huff no disrespect or harm, and neither his name nor his hometown had registered.
The day ended with an articulate summation by Huff and a response by the defending lawyers that was muted enough to betray doubt. Innocent mistake, they pleaded. Thievery of a man’s good name, said Huff.
Judge Lafferty didn’t find the issue simple. She adjourned to give a written judgment. Huff seemed displeased at being denied the immediate victory warranted by his stunning new evidence. As he left, he gave me a peremptory nod, as if to say “Got you.”
Victoria and I joined the lawyers at a nearby bar to rehash the day – it felt like a wake. I tried to lighten matters by recounting how I’d been confused with a reprobate named the Dooberman, but no one seemed much interested. The publisher’s Q.C. was wishing he hadn’t withdrawn the settlement offer. Brovak was moping, Victoria in despair. “I’m ruined. My literary career is in shambles. I may as well write my own obituary.” I tried to buck her up, to no avail.
A sad note to end on, but that fleshes out my week for you, Allis, fills the silence of our sail.
As we returned to False Creek, I stifled an urge to ask what thoughts were behind your distant smile. Mine, I’ll admit, had to do with this pleasant time with you continuing to the evening, into the unpredictable night.
I warned myself that we were too comfortable with each other, susceptible. You’re my therapist, I’m in danger of displacing, making you a surrogate for lost love. But, as we tied up at Sea Village, your eyes were on mine like a silent question, and I stammered this awkward invitation: “You wouldn’t be interested in joining me for dinner?”
“That seems rather negatively put,” you said, then hesitated. “I would be interested, except …”
I waited.
“I think I should go home and water my flowers.”
Cheeks were kissed. We went our separate ways.
1 Sally called me before flying to Japan on Thursday. She was concerned about Tim’s emotional state vis-à-vis her affair with her editor. I reassured her that he was well. Though the matter was not spoken of, her interest in Ellery Cousineau seems not to have abated. He is travelling overseas with her.
2 Mazurky and Hall (1979), Personality Trends among the Post-LSD Generation.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Date of Interview: Friday, October 24, 2003.
This has been an extraordinary week for Tim, highlighted by a confrontation that put him in peril. I phoned twice to express my concern for his well-being but was able to reach only his secretary. When he failed to call back, I assumed he intended to cancel. He surprised me by showing up on schedule.
He was so highly energized that I was allowed little chance to speak.1 Much of his eloquence was devoted to the “sub-average intellectual functioning” of a senior police officer responsible for a “Keystone cock-up.”
I noted a recurring manic tendency, but otherwise my observations are positive: he grows in self-assurance, and exhibits a toughness that in the first weeks of therapy was hard to locate. Indeed, he is well recovered from the traumas that led him to treatment.
There is still pain related to Sally, but he seems able to follow my advice to feel it, understand it, and release it. He was saddened by the sudden resolution of his problems with the disciplinary board, particularly by “the bittersweet agony of the moment.”
He is fascinated by the picture he now has of his father, and feels an even more powerful urge to find him, to make a link that would finally “integrate” him. The fact that a Mr. Dooberman from Jackson Cove bears a close likeness – a man who apparently has been in trouble with the law – has fortified this mission.
Following the session, he accepted my offer of dinner at his favourite restaurant.
Sorry I didn’t call back, but your messages got to me late …
I understand absolutely …
… But you’ll have to put me on hold next week, I leave Wednesday for the Okanagan, the race starts at dawn Thursday, ends Friday afternoon, in time for the BCMA convention. We have about sixty signed up, and at least that many volunteers. We’ll have one overnight in Penticton, then it’s on to Arrow Lake and a barbecue that evening.
Sounds like fun. Are you going to the convention too?
Avoiding it like the plague.
Same plague that keeps you from visiting Jackson Cove?
I’ll stop by there when my head is screwed on tight. After all the shit settles. Who the hell is Dub Dooberman? I checked the police records. Nothing. I can’t find the name in any phone listing, or the directory for Jackson Cove.
Where do you want to start today?
There’s so much. The fiasco at my disciplinary hearing … I’m not sure …
I’ll start with you, Dr. Epstein, in an effort to unravel my confusion. A change has come over you, a softness in your eyes, where before was the steely intensity of the analyst. You’re not working me as hard. Today, you were unusually quiet, in your consulting room and at the Pondicherry. What’s with this constant distant smile? Maybe you’re just pleased with yourself: the patient is on his feet. They said he’d never walk again.
I am going to assume (against contrary, troubling evidence) that you’re merely displaying the sweet sadness of the therapist whose work is almost done. I’ve felt it many times – a closeness develops, a kind of love, but it must end: the patient must leave, must hope his new coping skills will help him tough it out alone.
Nataraja approved of you, though typically he mistook the nature of our relationship. (“You been horizontal with her yet?”) He has an avid interest in sex, and fondly recalls those halcyon days when many women of his New Age tribe sought enlightenment in his bed.
After you dropped me off, I carried your gentle kiss to bed with me, and you featured in a dream …
I’m going off track. Okay, I’ll start with Monday evening – that was when Dotty Chung summoned me to the Sapphire Lounge, when I met
the gracious Lolita L’Amour, when the web tightened on Grundy and Lyall.
I was on a training run, racing over the Second Narrows bridge, when Dotty lit up my cellphone. She’d been prospecting the gay bars recommended by James’s search, and had just struck gold. Lolita L’Amour, a bartender, recognized José Pierrera from a photograph, remembered serving him – and “two lovely young things he was with” – several weeks ago.
I sped to the Sapphire Lounge, which is in a small hotel on Hastings Street, in Burnaby, not more than half an hour’s walk from Pierrera’s home. The decor is vaguely Levantine, with faded murals of ocean and olive groves, and many of its clientele could be described as working-class transvestite. Thirty people would pack it, but on this night there were only a dozen present.
Dotty had also summoned Churko, and he was already there, on a bar stool looking massively uncomfortable. Dotty was beside him, chatting to the person I took to be Lolita. The several customers in drag looked dowdy in comparison to Madame L’Amour: striking in a slinky green gown and hot lip-stick. Her given name is Lawrence Green; one can’t easily tell her age – maybe early forties.
Churko greeted me with a grunt, glancing past me at a table where a couple was holding hands. He then watched with open distaste as Lolita offered her hand, and I kissed it.
“My dear, you have to be utterly the last gentleman standing,” she said.
“Let me go back over this,” Churko said. “You remember this José Pierrera guy?”
“I never knew the poor thing’s name. She spoke about two words of English. I think she’d been here a few times, but one really doesn’t notice José. The word nondescript comes to mind.”
“How come you never called in? We ran his picture on the fucking TV.”
“I don’t do TV, darling.”
“You don’t do newspapers either?”
“Too depressing. This is all so maudlin. I hope I’m not going to be dragged into some horrendous courtroom situation.”
Mind Games Page 23
