The aftermath was curiously quiet. Because Arly was a young offender, her name never made it into the Laingford Gazette. She was charged with the murders, but she wasn’t tried as an adult, in spite of the Toronto Kanes putting a heckuva lot of pressure on the Powers That Be. It was suggested that her uncle Victor Watson had molested her at some point, and that Kane had messed with her as well, which got the child abuse people on her side, although I never heard the details. She got sentenced to a couple of years in a juvenile detention centre, but she’ll be out soon enough, and I heard she got pre-accepted at art school. MacLean’s magazine did a feature on her a while ago—the “Incarcerated Artist” type-thing. They used a fake name and put one of those black-out things over her eyes in the pictures of her doing sculpture in her cell, but everyone knows who she is. Her stuff is fetching big bucks now. I bought the male figure with the Christmas ornament genitalia myself. It’s a nice piece.
The Kountry Pantree opened on schedule, with a nice parade and a free community picnic. Kountry Kow, however, having been stained rather nastily by its final animator, was tossed. I did get paid for it, though. I gave the bucks to Eddie, to help pay for his new car.
You will not be surprised to learn that nothing ever came of the Ontario Municipal Board inquiry into Laingford Council wrongdoing. Mayor Lunenberg is, as far as I know, still acting on behalf of the numbered corporation that runs the place. The beachside playground at Kountry Pantree went ahead and the pike, as far as we know, are spawning elsewhere.
The League for Social Justice disbanded after numerous attempts to be heard. Susan was particularly devastated by Eddie’s involvement with Kountry Pantree, though I don’t think she ever actually confronted him about it. She never shops there, though. Eddie still works at Watson’s and has become quite a close friend of Archie, who seems to let him run the place. Archie is said to be back at AA meetings again.
Brent Miller moved in with Rico, and they’re both trying to get the local United Church to recognize their partnership by legally marrying them. More on that next time.
After Arly Watson said what she did, I got to thinking about betrayal. Everything she did, I believe, was based on a kind of skewed sense of loyalty. But at least she was loyal. A couple of days after the Bath Tub Bash, when I was clearing up my worktable, I came across those notebooks from the Secret Stealing Club, and all of a sudden I remembered, like Serena, what my mind had filed away safely in a box marked “Do Not Open.”
Gaby and I had been operating our club for a month or two. I was helping my Mom bake bread one day when there was a knock at the door. My mother opened it, and Mr. Murchison, the school principal, was standing there. Gaby was standing beside him, as pale as candle wax. I knew immediately what was going on. Mr. Murchison said that Gaby had been caught shoplifting, and that she had confessed everything, told about the club, and about me. I was so mad I could hardly stand up. What did I do? I denied everything. I called Gaby a lying, dirty thief and, being a fine actress, pulled it off. At least I think I did. That was why Gaby’s book stopped suddenly. I carried on for a while longer, out of defiance, probably, then hid the books at Emma Tempest’s store. But I will never forget the look on Gaby’s face when I betrayed her. Never.
I guess, if I am looking for a place or a time when I first became a person without integrity, I’ll have to go back to before I was ten.
You might be wondering about the Becker thing. Hah. Me, too. His ex-wife, Catherine, came back early from Calgary because she was offered a job there and had come back to pack. The rumours about her and Duke Pitblado were just rumours, I guess. Who cares? Anyway, she took Bryan with her. I saw him briefly, just after the Watson case. He offered to do me a website again, and I declined. Then I showed him Sophie Durette’s photograph, the red blur at the top of the falls.
“I tried to tell you in that picture I did at your place,” Bryan said. “I saw a guy at the top of the falls, and, well, I mooned him. I never mooned anybody before. Then I looked and there were two of them, then the red guy pushed the other guy over.” The “red guy”—Kane in a red sweatshirt—had threatened the kid at the picnic, just before taking Arly off for champagne and caviar. “He told me I could get arrested for what I did,” Bryan said. “I was scared to tell Dad.” No kidding. I would’ve been, too. Cop’s kids don’t moon people.
Becker now flies out occasionally to see him, and they exchange e-mail. Bryan often writes “Say hi to Polly,” which is sweet of him.
I still have Becker’s ring, and I still haven’t given him an answer to his question. The day after David Kane’s death, we had a long talk, and we agreed to work for a little longer with what we have. I did a lot of apologizing, and he did, too, although I think I had more to apologize for than he did.
My disinterest in beer did not go away, but my interest in Kahlua did, about a week after the Bath Tub Bash. Then one day I lit a cigarette, put it out, and dumped the whole thing, ashtray and all, into the garbage. Next it was dope. Then I developed a peculiar, unprecedented appetite for perogies and sauerkraut and had to admit that something was up. I pulled Robin’s “second opinion” package off the bathroom shelf, did the test, and the stupid, wretched stick turned bright blue.
I haven’t told Becker yet, but I’m going to have to mention it soon, because my army fatigues are starting to feel distinctly uncomfortable.