William Deverell - April Fool

“Who are you right now?” Sloan is squinting at him.

“I’m Samantha, I think…I’m confused.” He begins shaking.

“Mr. Faloon…”

The Owl perks up. “Yes, doctor?”

“Who are you?”

“Same guy I’ve always been.”

“Did you just have one of those, as you call them, lapses?”

“Not that I’m aware. Except I forgot what we were talking about.”

Sloan pulls some diagrams from his briefcase. “I’m going to put you through some tests.”

As Faloon stares at an ink blot, he wonders if he should add about the sleepwalking, but decides not to press it.

“I’d say that looks like a woman dancing.”

“Hmm,” says Sloan.

That evening, the Owl is in the lounge watching the news with the guard who threw his wife off a balcony and one of the squealers. The violent images from the Middle East disturb him, make him queasy. Another suicide bombing.

“Fucking Arabs,” says the guard.

“They don’t respect life,” says Faloon, who doesn’t advertise his heritage in these difficult times.

He is happy when the TV switches to local news, a bunch of people waving placards that read, “Save Gwendolyn.” His seatmates are bored by this and start talking, so he doesn’t pick up why Gwendolyn needs saving, maybe she’s also up on false charges.

“What was all that shit you were studying?” asks the squealer, whose name is Mario, and they call him Lanza. Except to be polite, Faloon doesn’t make efforts to relate to him, a guy who’s looking to get reduced to a deuce for ratting on a big-time dealer in nose product.

“Correspondence course.”

“Look at those horses’ asses,” says the guard.

Faloon focuses on the image on the screen, two people up in some kind of tree fort, the announcer carrying on about an injunction tomorrow. Then he is startled to see Arthur Beauchamp, in ragged coveralls, sitting on a small tractor, being interviewed, the ocean behind him, a nice house.

“Clem Keddidlehopper,” says the guard.

Faloon sends him a nasty look.

“I will be there to support her,” Mr. Beauchamp is saying.

“Will you be defending her in person, sir?” asks the interviewer.

“No, it is always a wise practice to hire lawyers for this sort of thing. I am a simple farmer.” Faloon knows he’ll have to give up on any daydreams that Mr. Beauchamp will come to his rescue.

Arthur rises late after a night of tossing, of dreaming of Margaret as a tree, growing out of sight. He grabs a suit and tie from the recesses of his closet, then races to his Fargo, hoping he won’t miss the early ferry. He finds time to buy a muffin from the Winnebagel, the ferry roadside stand, because the boat is late by twenty minutes: a problem with the engines this time.

As the Queen of Prince George limps toward the dock, he examines his suit for moth damage. He finds none, but it’s unfamiliar wear, he feels strange in it. He forgot his brogues; he’d slipped on his worn loafers. Again he wonders if his brain is not working to former capacity.

On the upper deck, armed with a cup of glutinous coffee from the dispensing machine, Arthur tamps tobacco into his pipe and watches the gulls glide in the slipstream. He wonders how long this hiatus in his comfortable routines will last. He will soon tire of tofu. Again he chides himself. Margaret will be eating dried cereal for twenty-one days, while putting up with a buffoon. (How are their sleeping quarters set up? He’d like to see the blueprints for this platform.)

The affidavits filed by Selwyn Loo, whom Arthur has yet to meet, seem competently prepared, but he’s had his ticket for only six years. “We’re green but mean,” said the spike-haired imp, Lotis Rudnicki. She has ginger, stood toe-to-toe with the right-wing opposition, the shallow icon Arthur Beauchamp. A former actress, he’s learned, minor Hollywood roles.

For now, Arthur has decided against hiring an old hand-he doesn’t want to be seen as demanding special attention for Margaret. Nor would she want it.

It’s Friday, day two of the Battle of the Gap. The loggers are still waiting by the trail. Reporters are squeezing out every saccharine droplet of human interest: Felicity, grounded but in a state of doe-eyed devotion for her Lord Byron, and a stuffed shirt stoutly defending his tree-hugging wife. Yesterday, Arthur escaped from a TV crew on his old John Deere.

He hopes the judge will be fair-tempered, and not one of the many he offended in the course of boisterous debate. He hasn’t been in a courtroom for years, but feels the old tension, his heart working harder. He tells himself to relax, he will be but a spectator today.

Chugging down the street to a loud thrum of engine-his muffler is loose-Arthur arrives in the capital of British Columbia. Victoria is lush with flowering plum and cherry trees, gardeners sprucing up the boulevards for the Americans and Japanese who will flock here in season to imbibe the floral gardens, winding streets, and tea rooms serving scones and Devonshire cream.

The courthouse is a drab, boxy affair, six storeys on half a city block. Arthur has defended many cases here, but he can’t bring any quickly to mind: yes, the bribery scandal, of course. The Beacon Park murder. But his triumphs are starting to lose shape, to blur in memory.

He hurries through a side door, avoiding the news cameras at the front. He utters a mild epithet on reading the posted docket: Edward Santorini is presiding in contested chambers-former chief Crown Attorney, loser of five straight murders against him. One time, while racked with a ferocious hangover, Arthur lashed out at Santorini, called him a horse’s ass.

He glances over the criminal list, sees Nicholas Faloon’s name, murder in the first degree, Provincial Courtroom 5. The crush of events has squeezed Faloon from his thoughts-this must be the mental fitness hearing.

Brian Pomeroy was on the answering machine: “I’ll do what I can, Arthur, but I’m afraid Nick’s deoxyribonucleic acid was found in a most inconvenient place.” Arthur is pleased Brian jumped to the task but dismayed that somehow-impossibly, absurdly-the DNA fingerprinting found a match in Faloon. He wonders if there’ll be time to pop down to the criminal courts. But in the meantime he’s late for the Gwendolyn hearing.

Todd Clearihue is in the corridor, speaking to a reporter, promoting Garlinc’s case but seeming anxious to return to court. He beats Arthur to the door, cracks it open. “They got started twenty minutes ago.” A friendly punch on the arm. “Hey, Arthur, I know we’ll be toking the peace pipe when this is all over. Listen, help me. Who’s the looker working your side? Damn, she’s familiar.”

“Lotis Rudnicki. The young lady you picked up hitchhiking.” Sorry I couldn’t fulfill your fantasies.

Clearihue blanches.

The room is crowded-mostly environmentalists, Arthur supposes. Counsel for Garlinc is Paul Prudhomme, a silver-haired patrician, old money, privately schooled, unambitious. He is fielding questions from the judge.

“Why can’t you go around that tree?”

Prudhomme is about to answer but is distracted by Arthur striding up the aisle-the grand entrance is an old habit, a show of control and confidence. He exchanges nods with Prudhomme, with Santorini, and eases his creaking back onto a chair behind lynx-eyed Lotis Morningstar Rudnicki. She looks almost unrecognizable in a chic pantsuit, with her hair brushed. No wonder Clearihue had trouble placing her. Beside her is an angular young man in a long ponytail, obviously Selwyn Loo. Arthur is confounded to see a white cane at his table. Dark glasses. The blindfold chess champion.

Selwyn turns to him, as if aware of his nearness through highly tuned senses. Arthur leans forward, but before he can introduce himself, Selwyn says, “Good morning, Mr. Beauchamp.”