Cadillac Cathedral (26 page)

Children were already flying their colourful kites out along the water’s edge. The sounds of their laughter carried, like all sounds down here, with a sort of crystal clarity. The light breeze that carried their voices also carried the fresh salt smell of the sea.

As he passed by the lower side of the house, he could smell the food Leena must have brought with her. She had probably prepared a complete
seisova poyta
, which everyone but the Finns would assume was a Swedish
smorgasbord
. Smoked salmon, salted herring. A huge bowl of cauliflower soup. Beetroot salad. Some sort of berry soup for dessert. Her donations to public events never varied.

Of course others would have brought the more common sort of summer fare that Martin had preferred — potato salad, green salads, cold ham, fried chicken.

While Margaret Baxter and Leena Pekkinen carried bowls and platters of food out onto the deck tables and covered them with tea
towels against flies, a tall young woman in a long skirt sat against the wall to play her cello — a town relative of the Baxters, Arvo believed. Her music was soft, melancholy — chosen, he supposed, to suit the occasion.

“A gentleman at the General Store gave me directions,” Myrtle Birdsong said, suddenly beside him. “I suppose I forgot about this gathering, or had the date wrong. I’d driven up just hoping for a chance to speak — to apologize, actually, for turning away your offer so casually. In the circumstances, I hardly knew what I was saying.” She turned to look off to the sparkling water of the Strait, but tilted the parasol to keep herself in its shade.

“Well,” Arvo said, “I didn’t warn you I was coming. We dropped in when you were probably still in shock.”

“And I did not properly express my gratitude. Or my admiration for your skill in restoring my father’s dear old hearse!” She put a white-gloved hand on his arm. “If you are still willing to return it — after today, of course — I’ve come to thank you for it as graciously as I should have done when you showed up at my door bearing flowers.”

Arvo tilted his head to view her aslant. “You’re sure of this?”

She nodded, briefly closing her eyes. “Of course I don’t intend to keep it to myself.”

It would be absurd for her to keep the hearse, she acknowledged, since she was not a funeral director and had no intention of becoming one now. “I’ve spoken to Ben Robinson, who may want to use it occasionally — whenever he is given responsibility for the funeral of, say, an important politician, or a local historian or a personal friend of mine. I’m sure my father would have approved.”

Ben had agreed, she said, to put the old hearse on display in some manner, so that people could admire it without doing it harm. “Behind glass, I expect.”

Arvo supposed that being on display in a picture window was preferable to hauling logs in the mountains, but neither was what the hearse had been originally built for. Of course she’d said it could be used for special occasions, which he supposed might include the funeral of famous, or at least wealthy, sons and daughters of the city.

“And maybe the city’s First of July parades?” he said. “Possibly even with you behind the wheel again.”

She laughed and brushed the notion aside with one hand. “Never! Never! I cringe to think …”

Her attention had been drawn to the few people still working their careful way down the slope. “I imagine your friend would be pleased with all this if he’d known — a large picnic in his honour. My goodness!”

Neighbours and friends, he explained. As well as some merchants from town, and those few city hall officials who still admired the efforts Martin had made in Ottawa on the district’s behalf. He did not say that he wondered how many of these people had bothered visiting Martin here while he was alive.

She drifted off in the direction of Martin’s house, maybe to see if there was anything she could do to help, or possibly just to be where so many of the women were chatting cheerfully as they continued to set food out on the tables.

Like four little birds on a wire, the young daughters of Ellen and Matt Foreman sat patiently in a row along a thick arbutus trunk that had chosen not to grow upright but to keep its head down and grow horizontally, a metre or so above the ground. Three of the girls swung their feet back and forth, humming some sort of tune, though the one nearest to Arvo scowled and hunched over her folded arms — disgusted, impatient, wondering why she was here.

He had no time to wonder such a thing for himself. Cynthia was
suddenly beside him again, a hand on his arm. “She’s changed her mind, hasn’t she?” She must have been watching, and couldn’t stand not knowing what had been said between him and Myrtle Birdsong. “It just took her a little time to get used to it. Did she say she wanted
you
as well?”

For a moment he wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly.

Cynthia studied his face, maybe to make sure he wasn’t keeping something from her. Then she smiled. “When you drive it down to the city this time, I’ll follow to drive you home. You won’t want Bert to do it. Lucy might decide she needs another shopping spree and then you’d be at her mercy.”

“Instead of being at
your
mercy, you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“Do you have any more plans I don’t know about?”

“Well. You already know about getting my drive-in theatre up and running again. You think it’s a nutty idea, I know, but I still may be asking you for all the help you’re willing to give, to keep me from making a total fool of myself. Whenever you’re not hiding in your workshop fixing up wrecks. Now watch out, here comes Martin’s boy. Probably wants to talk business. I’m out of here! I can’t trust myself not to tell him what I think. I remember all too well what sort of boy he was in the classroom. Poor Martin!”

Despite his opinion of this man — and now that he’d resurfaced it was possible to remember the boy he had been, before turning his back on his father — it was only right that he at least
offer
the son a chance to scatter Martin’s ashes in his stead. The women had told him this was to be done before they ate. A few people would make brief speeches from the deck, then Ed would start up his outboard motor and take Arvo and the cylinder of ashes out onto the bay. This was something a son might want to be seen doing by those who knew
how little he’d done for his father while the man was alive.

But Andrew Glass closed his eyes to the offer, and shook his head. “Uh-uh! No thanks. Just tell me how long this business will take and I’ll get out of your way till you’re done.”

“You don’t want to be part of this?”

Arvo could imagine taking hold of this man by the front of his shirt and pulling him up close for a talking-to. “Your father left you his place even though you stayed clear of him for years. You don’t think you owe him something?”

Martin’s son shrugged. “He wrote me long ago to say the place would be mine. Signed, sealed, and delivered. Guilt, I suppose. Since he knew I wouldn’t want to live here I assume he meant I could do whatever I want with it.”

“And these fellows with you — this means you’ve decided what you’ll do?”

Martin’s son looked at Arvo as he might at any proven fool. “I had the plans drawn up three years ago. As soon as all the paperwork’s done we’ll start.”

“Renovating,” Arvo guessed.

“You aren’t listening. This old shack will be gone. We’ve plans for a beach hotel along the base of the cliff.” He indicated the cliff that rose behind Martin’s house in case Arvo might never have noticed the high wall of weeds and wild shrubbery. “A spa. A pool. A dining room. And — up top in that hayfield, a row of cabins for people who like things rustic. Of course we’ll have to convince the government to improve that poor excuse for a road. Tourists want better than that.”

Arvo knew there’d be no point in protesting. District officials must have given this man the go-ahead without consulting the community. A meeting would have to be called, a group response determined. Jenny Banks might remember some of her father’s speeches.
Earl Boyd had a way of talking to most people as though they were idiots and would probably jump at the chance to take on both the local and provincial governments.

Of course no one in Portuguese Creek had ever succeeded in stopping decisions made elsewhere. Even Martin, though he’d persuaded a majority of local constituents to vote for him, had never managed to persuade anyone else of anything, even after he’d entered the House of Commons. The new park in town may have been his only accomplishment, though even that had been lobbied for by his predecessor.

But you had to try. As Martin himself had said, “You have to try if you want the right to complain after you’ve been ignored.”

“You can tell anyone that owns property along that road they’ll soon be rich,” said Andrew Glass, his face almost friendly now. “Selling their land to businesses who’ll put up shops and entertainment for the tourists.”

“That so?” Arvo said. “I know someone who owns a good chunk of land both sides of that road — has her own ideas what to do with it. I wouldn’t recommend picking a fight with her.”

“She’ll change,” said Martin’s son, turning away from Arvo in order to get on with his important business. “You watch.”

Arvo’s stomach felt a little queasy. There was no question Martin would have despised this man’s plan if he were here. But he wasn’t here. He must have known what his son was capable of, yet had done the fatherly thing anyway. He must have known how the community would feel about it, but apparently even an alienated son was more important to a father than his friends. Guilt, probably, as Andrew had suggested.

Could the hotel plans be stopped, and all the touristy stuff that would follow? If the son had official permission to do what he was
already doing, this wasn’t likely. Of course he may have been bluffing — counting on permission he hadn’t yet attained. In any case they could put up a fight, so he wouldn’t think he was getting his way without opposition.

Down amongst the driftwood Martin’s son was now in a fairly intense conversation with his associates. Maybe they were arguing about whether to leave the place to Martin’s friends for today and come back tomorrow. One of them had put on a jacket, or maybe had not removed it earlier. This one seemed a little familiar, even from behind, maybe from the animated gestures.

Of course it was Reynard the realtor. If he wasn’t already in charge of selling off any excess land and arranging financing for the hotel, he was probably doing everything he could think of to make sure that he would be soon. He had probably attached himself and his son’s Lexus to the tail end of the parade down from the highway.

But there wasn’t the opportunity to brood about this now. Myrtle Birdsong was again at his side. “I heard someone saying you’ll be scattering the ashes soon.”

“I will.”

“Well, we can speak again afterwards, perhaps. Or, if not, I’ll see you, I imagine, when you are down to return the hearse.” She smiled, and stood up on her toes to kiss him beside his ear.

“There’ll be a good deal of paperwork to do. Lawyers and whatnot.”

He knew he would never get to know this woman any better than he did already — a polite but affectionate stranger. Though he promised to return the hearse, he would leave it to her to decide whether she wanted his help with the complicated business of following a paper trail of licenses and documents until it was possible to be certain that no one else alive could claim the hearse. She would have to
approach a lawyer who could arrange for ownership to be registered in her name. He may not owe her any obligation to help through this process, but he owed some obligation, he thought, to the hearse — to make sure, if only from this distance, that its future was secure.

There was just one additional thing he wanted settled but this was not the time to bring it up. He could live for a good long while, or he could drop the next time a truck backfired. Eventually he would like to have it written down somewhere that whatever happened between now and then she would arrange for Ben Robinson to drive up here and haul his coffin to the bone-yard in her old man’s fancy hearse. After a lifetime of fixing up old wrecks so others could get a few more miles out of them, he would like his final ride to be in something he’d worked on himself. Besides — if he had to go out, he hoped to go out in style.

Of course there would be no question of returning the hearse to the mountain woman now. Her logger sons were better off with the Fargo flatbed, and she would just have to live without her separate sleeping quarters. The realtor, too, would have to accept the fact that his temptations had not won him the eye-catching vehicle he’d planned to park in front of the houses he’d contracted to sell. And now that Martin had been returned to Portuguese Creek and was about to be given a proper send-off, he could no longer lay any claim to the hearse himself — except, perhaps, for another few days while he got it in shape for its journey south.

Cynthia came out onto Martin’s deck again to lean over the railing and hammer a wooden spoon against a cooking pot. “Nobody gets any of this food till we’ve said goodbye to Martin. Where’s Arvo?” Arvo raised an arm. “Mario’s waiting, down at his boat,” she said, and banged the pot a few more times. “But first —
Quiet, please
! — first, there’s folks up here who want to say a few words — at least we
hope they’re few. Then, once they’ve had their say, and Leena has sung ‘Abide with Me,’ we’ll all head down to the water’s edge to watch Arvo set our Martin loose on the sea.”