Cadillac Cathedral (2 page)

He knew most of what was said about him. Portuguese Creek was
a rural community where the people who talked about you behind your back were usually happy to say the same things to your face. He would laugh and brush away their words without a comment, anxious to get back to doing something important, like replacing the brake drum on the Chev pickup he’d found abandoned in Hagan Creek, the spring runoff having risen as high as the shattered windshield.

Most of Arvo’s entertaining took place in his workshop on afternoons when friends came down to collect their mail at the Store and crossed the road to his shed of rough planks and corrugated-iron, where the double doors were usually open while he worked. They sat on the stacks of old tires or overturned boxes to complain about the unreliable weather and the traitorous whims of their own untrustworthy bodies. They spoke of fly-wheels and shock absorbers and the gutlessness of certain makes of car, and swore the pot hole in the road past Baileys’ gate had got so deep and wide it should be reclassified as a lake and given a name. There were few weeks in a year it wasn’t filled with muddy water. Herbie Brewer predicted it would soon be coming through the floorboards and drowning his socks.

Herbie Brewer leaned against a post where he could rub his back on a convenient knot, but Peterson always sat with knees wide apart on an empty mortise-cornered wooden box stamped with faded letters:
CIL Explosives
. Because Arvo would not allow smoking in his workshop, Bert Peterson chewed fiercely at a stick of gum until it lost its flavour, then disposed of the exhausted wad against a side of the box beneath him and fished another stick from the pocket of his long-sleeved faded cotton shirt.

Cynthia O’Brien liked to sit near the open doorway where she could take part in the conversation while breathing air untainted by motor oil and watching the traffic go by. She may have taught
mathematics to some of those drivers — every bit as restless then as they appeared to be now. The doorway to Arvo’s workshop was a chance for her to observe the world while participating in the sort of conversations she used to hear about from her late husband. Once you’ve walked up to the Store to get your mail, she’d told Arvo, walking home could be depressing for someone who’d once participated in staff meetings and classroom debates. Women friends tended to feel they had to interrupt what they were doing and make her a cup of tea, but she could count on Arvo to go right on with his work.

For Arvo, whether there were visitors or not, there was always a radiator in need of a flush-out or a tire to replace on a rescued truck. Today they’d arrived when his head was beneath the hood of an early-model Mazda whose engine he’d only begun to take apart. He’d rather chat with friends while working than invite them into the house where he would have to ask them to take off their shoes and be careful where they sat. Inside his house they would expect him to bring out a cake or a cookie jar, and would then drop crumbs on the floor. For this reason he kept a coffee urn at one end of the workbench, beside his stack of crime paperbacks. Visitors could help themselves to a mug of coffee and a cinnamon roll he’d made from his mother’s
korvapuustit
recipe and not interrupt his work. A decent mechanic who took his work seriously could keep most vehicles running indefinitely. “Of course, the auto makers would arrange to have you killed if they heard you’d figured out how.”

But it was not the auto makers who were on everyone’s mind this afternoon, it was Martin Glass. “Too bad the doctors aren’t as smart as Arvo,” Peterson said. “They might’ve kept Martin’s insides humming a little longer.”

But people, unlike automobiles, could not always be reborn with another’s rescued parts — not once they’d stopped breathing at least.
Until recently, Martin Glass had been one of the regulars in Arvo’s machine shop, a one-term, long-ago Member of Parliament, who’d spoken only two or three times in the House and yet had quietly managed to secure the creation of a national wildlife park here in the valley, tripling the number of visitors to the area every summer and bringing new life to several businesses in town. Of course the town council took most of the credit for this boost to the local economy.

Martin had been an expert on local history he’d learned from his grandfather, one of the veterans who’d settled here after the First World War. He’d known who’d originally cleared each plot of land, could tell which family had built the still-standing houses, and had stories to tell about the fire that came down out of the mountains to wipe out many of their newly completed homes. He remembered when the tiny Anglican Church — stolen from the neighbouring community and dragged up the road behind a tractor — was still being used one Sunday of every month. Martin had even attended a service now and then.

But down in his waterfront home at the foot of Stevenson Road he had been hit quite suddenly with a mysterious ailment that stymied the local doctors, who’d passed him on to a city specialist with a reputation as a miracle-worker. After only three days in the miracle-worker’s care, Martin Glass had died.

Now his body waited for someone to make a decision. His friends were aware that there was no one but them to make it — no family except for a son who’d gone off to live in Saskatchewan and not returned, no political colleagues still alive in this part of the world, no close friends but themselves.

“He wouldn’t want to be buried down there in the city,” Cynthia said. “I can see him kicking up a fuss if they tried.”

Bert Peterson agreed. “I can’t help but think it’ll take a lot more
than just being dead to keep Martin from letting you know what he thought.”

“Well,
we
know what he thought,” Arvo said, coming out from under the Mazda’s hood with the fuel pump in his hand. In this summer afternoon warmth he kept his dark blue coveralls unzipped to the waist. Today there were finger smears of grease on the visible ribs of his narrow chest. “We’ve got to go down and bring the poor man home.”

Cynthia’s tone was doubtful. “You think doctors’ll hand him over just because we say
Please
?”

“I have the paperwork somewhere,” Arvo said. He narrowed his eyes and thought hard, looking up at the floating flecks of dust in the light from the high windows. “He got me to sign something years ago. Made me his executor or whatever the hell it’s called. That’ll be why I was the one they phoned.”

“Bless his heart,” Cynthia sighed. “He was always thoughtful of others.”

“He taught me to swim,” Herbie said. Of course they all knew this. When Herbie had arrived to live with Peterson — some sort of distant cousin — Martin had refused to take him out in his little boat until he’d been subjected to a few lessons.

“Those papers say anything about how we’re supposed to pick him up?” Peterson asked. “We can’t just throw him in the trunk and drive off.”

“I’ll have to call on what’s-his-name in town,” Arvo said. “Henderson’s funeral outfit.” Before placing the Mazda’s fuel pump on his workbench he brushed a pair of dead spark plugs into the battered garbage can. “To send them down a hearse.”

“There goes Harry Hickson, heading north!” Cynthia announced. “I wonder who he knows in
that
direction. Didn’t he take a stab at running against our Martin?”

“Too bad Arvo never built himself a hearse out of all his salvaged parts,” Peterson said. “We could’ve taken care of Martin ourselves.”

Arvo dipped both hands in his pan of gasoline and dried them on a discarded pyjama leg. “You think I never rebuilt a hearse?” He lifted his striped engineer cap and relocated it farther back on his thinning hair, then leaned against his workbench and folded his arms. He reminded them of the time the police hired him to haul a rolled-over hearse to the junkyard and he’d brought it here instead. “Fixed it up and sold it to some hippies — back when there were genuine hippies still around.”

Well, he knew that a few of them were still around even now, though they couldn’t really be called hippies since they’d started working in the construction industry, or managing one of the forest-farms where they do what they like to call “harvesting” trees. The particular group of ex-hippies that had bought the reconditioned hearse had crammed half their tribe inside and driven off to disappear somewhere east — probably in the Rockies.

“The problem is, you don’t find many decent wrecks any more,” Arvo was sad to report. “Before you can get at them they’ve been mashed down to the size of a suitcase and sent away for recycling.”

“I seen a hearse when I was out grouse-hunting once,” Peterson said. “Back in the mountains, up behind McConnell Lake. Looked about as old as the hills behind it.”

“You’re sure it was a hearse?” Arvo said. He winked at Herbie. “Was it black?”

“Everything on
wheels
was black in those days,” Cynthia said. Though she kept her eye on the outside world, she missed nothing that was being said. “I remember seeing my very first coloured car when I was a girl — green! I thought it was some kind of joke.”

“Well,” Peterson said, “what I seen looked like one of them old-time glass-walled horse-drawn hearses, but with an open-air driver’s
cab and a long engine hood out front. Running board with spare tire mounted on it.”

Silence followed this.

“Isabel Macken’s going into the Store,” Cynthia reported. “Back from riding horses up the Fraser Canyon. She hasn’t broken any limbs that I can see.”

“I just might know that hearse you’re talking about,” Arvo said, aware of an increase in his heart rate but frowning fiercely at his own long hands. “When an undertaker named Birdsong bought himself a modern hearse — this was down in the city, long ago now — I remember he lent the old one to a cousin who’d fallen on hard times. Old Joe Hudson was a butcher who used to deliver his roasts and steaks up and down the highway around here. After he died, nobody knew where it went. He started pacing the length of the workbench, his long narrow face flushed-up. “That hearse you seen is a Cadillac — I’m sure of it. Manufactured by a fellow named Cunningham back in the thirties. I had my hands inside her engine once when Hudson owned her. Where’d you say you saw it?”

“This one don’t need much fixing,” Peterson said. “Second time I seen it, a family running one of them so-called tree farm outfits was using it.”

“Using it for what?” Arvo said, ready to be indignant.

“You sure you want to know?” Peterson said. “It was parked beside a pile of fresh-cut pole-size Douglas fir — a cable shackled to the rear axle.”

Though not usually given to sudden outbursts, Arvo slammed his open hand against the nearest post, rattling the iron roof and dislodging dust from the rafters. “What sort of idiot would use a hearse to haul logs?”

No one had an answer to this, though they seemed to be giving it thought.

“Someone needs to rescue that poor thing,” Cynthia eventually said — sang it rather, as she tended to do with anything that might sound like advice. She placed her wide-brimmed hat on her head and slapped a hand on the top to nail it in place.

The others waited for more.

“Well?” She huffed up, an impatient classroom teacher again, and shifted to face the men. “What were we just saying? If we got our hands on that hearse we could use her to haul poor Martin to the graveyard! Could we not?”

“We could not,” Bert Peterson said. “Why would a hospital turn one of their bodies over to us?”

“Why wouldn’t they?” Cynthia snapped back. “Arvo has only to find the paper that says we can. They’ll be glad to have someone take Martin off their hands. There’s no one else to do it.”

This was Cynthia’s no-nonsense approach to things — the teacher who’d retired early to run the concession-stand at her husband’s drive-in movie theatre long after drive-in movies had gone out of fashion. Anyone who objected to the price of drinks received a lesson in economics. After Henry’s death she’d closed the business and let the property go back to its native bush. There were other things for a person to do in life.

She reminded the men that Martin had had no real friends but themselves, at least in the past few years. Even the party officials who’d worked for Martin’s election had stopped inviting him to their events, and his name had not appeared in the local paper for years. He’d claimed that this was fine with him — exactly what he preferred.

Arvo remembered Martin saying, “I’ve had my moment in the sun. Nobody listened to me in Ottawa, so why should anyone listen here?” Rather than shop in town he’d ordered his groceries delivered to his little sea-side place at the end of Cynthia’s road. It seemed that
most of his recent social life had taken place right here in Arvo’s shed.

“Martin would be pleased,” Arvo said. “Stealing the hearse, I mean. Instead of just asking Henderson Funerals to go down and pick him up. But he’ll be pissed he couldn’t be in on it himself.”

“Well, he
will
be in on it,” Cynthia said. “In a manner of speaking.”

Arvo used the pyjama leg to erase his fingerprints from the Mazda’s hood. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he said. “First we have to find that hearse. Then, if we’re going to rescue poor old Martin from that hospital morgue, I’ll have to get her into good-enough shape for the trip.”

CHAPTER 2