I noticed that her air of refinement slipped several notches as her indignation grew.
“Knocked her up, she claimed, as if we all didn’t know there were half a dozen others sniffing around her at the same time. But dear Kevin was always a sucker for a pretty face. Married her just in time. Cat’licks don’t care when the ceremony is as, long as it’s before the baby comes. As it was, she practically dropped it at the altar steps. Wore white, too.”
I felt uneasy and glanced at Dorothy to see her reaction to the change in Mildred Barkhouse’s demeanor. From the look on her face, Dorothy knew how thin a veneer covered Mildred’s spurious gentility.
“Yes, well . . . um . . .” I floundered for a suitable reply until Dorothy rescued the conversation by changing the subject.
“Is the Auxiliary still determined to have a Casino Night?” she asked Mildred, bluntly.
“Yes, that’s why I popped in. I looked for you after church, but you’d disappeared. Now I know why.” She smiled at me, her ladylike façade firmly back in place. “I wanted to let you know that we had a quick executive meeting last night, and it was unanimous—Casino Night is a go.”
I watched a dark cloud settle over Dorothy’s face. Her mouth turned down into a grim line. “Casino Night,” she sneered. “I hardly think we should be encouraging the local people to gamble. Surely they have enough with bingo every other night and the buses running them to the real Casino. Not to mention the video lottery terminals at the Treaty Store in Upper Cormorant. I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again. It’s not a suitable fundraiser for a responsible organization like the Volunteer Fire Department. Donald will be most disappointed with your decision.”
“Oh, no. I spoke to Father Donald after church, and he’s agreed to sell tickets at the door for us.” Mildred smiled in sweet triumph. “In fact, the A.C.W. are going to cater the lunch.” If she had torn one of the black velvet Elvis cushions on the sofa to shreds, she couldn’t have gotten a stronger reaction from Dorothy than these words wrought.
Dorothy stood up, her large frame quivering with indignation. Her voice trembled with fury as she faced Mildred. “Donald! Agreed! Tickets!” She drew a rasping breath. “And the Anglican Church Women’s group involved!”
I shrank back on the sofa, wishing myself anywhere but here. In fact, given a choice, I’d almost have preferred to be back in the courtroom facing the mob. It reminded me of a battle of the titans. Although only Dorothy physically fit the “titan” bill, Mildred Barkhouse’s saccharine-sweet demeanor covered a determination to control, every bit as daunting as Dorothy’s size.
Having delivered her payload, Mildred began to put on her gloves. She stood up, adjusted her hat and smiled at me. “It’s been so pleasant to meet you, Mr. Trenchant. I do hope you’ll enjoy living in our little community. I’m looking forward to seeing you again soon. Of course, if you become our lay reader, our paths will cross often.” She turned to Dorothy, as if her angry words had never been uttered. “Well, I’ll be off now, Dorothy, my dear. I can see myself out. Do give Father Donald my regards.” She swept out of the room on a waft of flowery perfume.
Dorothy fell back into her chair. To my dismay, tears glinted in her eyes. From the look on her face, I realized they were tears of pure rage. “I could kill that woman,” Dorothy said through clenched teeth, more to herself than me. “And Donald,” she hissed, “how could he be such a fool? The Bishop will be furious. The idea. Selling tickets at a Casino Night! Wait until I see him . . .”
I gabbled something incoherent about what a lovely church service it had been, and how much I’d enjoyed my lunch, and what a marvellous hostess she was, and beat my retreat, leaving Father Donald to face the music alone.
Four
After several weeks in my idyllic hideaway, I began to feel familiar with my new environment. Gone were the mega-malls, the vast libraries, art galleries, concert halls, museums, the restaurants and theatres of my past. Gone also were Wal-Mart, Cineplex, Costco, The Bay, Blockbuster Video and Yakamoto’s Take-out Sushi.
However, I soon found that the local ValuMart did supply my basic dietary needs, the Irving Gas Station did rent videos (albeit a little dated), and the library (in the basement of the Fire Hall) opened three afternoons a week. Take-out came from either Ralph’s Pizza or Akbar’s Donairs. Sit-down dining did not exist except at the Harbour View Motel, the sole restaurant in Cormorant Harbour—“fish and chips our specialty”.
My life settled into a comfortable routine. In the mornings, I followed the example of the great writers, settling myself at the keyboard for several hours of work. Although the program people saw my writing as a cover story, it meant much more than that to me. For them, it represented a convenient way to explain my presence and lack of gainful employment. Truth to tell, I didn’t need to be gainfully employed. The generous reward money for my information on the Bacciaglia gang, coupled with the conversion of my modest investments, kept me in reasonable comfort.
I recognized that I might never be published, given my circumstances, and even if by some miracle, my work did appear in print, I knew that any kudos it received would have to be anonymous. My face could never appear on any dustjacket, nor could I accept the Governor General’s Award for Literature in person.
My afternoons were spent in more leisurely pursuits—long walks on the beach, shopping forays into the Harbour, the occasional visit to the library and the discovery of the dubious joys of gardening.
I no longer saw every shadow as a threat, or every person I met as a member of the Mob. I had replaced my earlier tendency to panic with a calm but vigilant watchfulness. I tried to obey the strictures of the Program to the letter. I still remembered the ominous tone in my agent’s voice as she laid out the rules: “Whatever you do, don’t draw attention to yourself. Don’t rescue anyone from drowning, don’t save any little old ladies from muggers, don’t pull children from burning buildings, and never, ever, leap tall buildings at a single bound. Anonymity should be your watchword at all times. Try to blend in. Keep a low profile, that’s crucial. It’ll be years before the Mob forgets you, and even then, someone may be holding a personal grudge. If, for any reason, you suspect that your cover has been blown, get out and call me.” Despite her anger with me regarding the lay readership incident, I knew she had my best interests at heart. They’d chosen my hideaway well. Although I’d seen a number of strange characters in my perambulations around Cormorant Harbour, I doubted any of them concealed a Mafia hitman.
My little cottage had become my home. Having always lived in high-rise apartments, I had never experienced the joys of home ownership. Now, I took pride in my abilities on the maintenance front. Despite Kevin Jollimore’s disparaging remarks about my handyman skills, I found myself quite capable of mowing my own lawn and keeping the place tidy.
I saw far more of Kevin than I needed. Each day, he stopped by for one of his “neighbourly chats”, which led up either to a blatant bid for work or a request for a “small loan”. I always declined both, but that didn’t deter his visits. Ricky continued to use my property as his own private path to the beach, and after several unsuccessful attempts at blocking his way, I gave up. I had yet to meet the elusive Arleen; however, her voice haunted my dreams at night and shattered my concentration several times a day. I hoped that one day I would be able to tune her out as successfully as Ricky and Kevin did.
Thank heavens, the older Jollimores were all late risers. Ricky vanished each morning on the school bus, but Kevin seldom appeared much before eleven, leaving my writing time undisturbed.
One morning as I sat in my study, a front room of the little cottage once designated as the spare bedroom, gazing out of the window in search of inspiration and finding little in the dirt road and shambles of the Jollimore establishment, I wondered again if I’d been too hasty in my decision to overlook the road rather than the ocean. However convinced I’d been that the beauty of the ocean would prove to be too much of a distraction, I couldn’t help thinking that my present view might deter the muse within. I had