Springtime in Lawrence Park

By Arnold Logan

Marie Barnacle should have had the perfect life. Born into wealth and prestige, she grew up in posh Lawrence Park, with its winding roads, stone mansions, and old money. But Marie’s charmed life is haunted by a dark family secret.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 3, 2016
• ISBN: 9780994009838

Book preview

2015

Oh what a lovely sunny day,

It’s spring again, it’s spring!

The sun is shining bright and gay,

It makes me want to sing!

—E. Blyton

awrence Park: 1975. Bright green, neat lawns, Range Rovers, shiny people smiling. In a weathered brick house, a little girl cried lustily. Rosy and beautiful one minute, puking or mewling the next. Putting a show on for buxom Nanny, for her pretty mother, for her rich papa.

When carried home from Sunnybrook Hospital, she was wrapped in an Irish swaddling blanket made of thick white wool woven by her Gran in Blackrock. She was christened Susan. At six months, she knew how to object when forced into her stiff cloaks, bonnets, scarves, and shiny black patent shoes.

But, when Nanny took her on walkies, all who saw her were mesmerized by her large, laughing green eyes. And that made her so happy. Nanny was the one who taught the child to walk, crawl, and run, then, finally, to talk.

Returning home under the lowering sky, a frantic search for Mother began—dear, sweet Mama. Her mother’s happy voice flowed like a nightingale’s through the house. Feeling orphaned, Susan raced after the song to mother’s warm body.

The shadows grew long, summertime rushed away, and indoor play called to her. Susan played with Silly Putty, crayons, and blocks. She had a toy whistle she tooted and a painted Teddy Bear on a string with wheels that caused his cymbals to crash.

Amazed by the size and smell of her two brothers, who worked so hard to keep her amused and felt so protective of her, Susan began to dance and play around the house across from the school her brothers attended. Her father appeared miraculous to her bright eyes, and she constantly hoped to capture his hand in hers, though often it eluded her grasp.

Three winters passed. Gaily, the yellow-billed cuckoo’s song outshone morning. The bird’s white feathers trilled to its tranquil melody. Bright colours abounded. Susan thought, Now I’ll run naked outside…it is grand!

The blonde child was only three. The sun strengthened its hold on this old earth. Spring again! And soon the trees and vines were laden with burdens of leaves and flowers. She ran naked in the square backyard, squealing with delight while her father and brothers chased her in circles.

Her brothers, laughing with admiring eyes that shone just for her, nicknamed the wonderful child Susan Pretty. Delicate curls of gold formed ringlets without a brush’s aid.

Tabitha, her mother, felt invincible. The scope of Papa Raul’s self-assurance expanded like a shimmering soap bubble.

The cash that flowed into the Barnacle family coffers had its source in the deep, oblique connections between Raul’s partners and the Liberal government of Pierre Trudeau. (The interregnum of 1979 would allow further unscrutinised, lucrative contracts to be effectualized beneath the cover afforded by the turbulent waters of Joe The Headwaiter Clark’s year-long Prime Ministership. When Pierre regained power in 1980, all was well. Old political patronages smoothly flowed once more.)

Raul joined the Empire and the Canadian clubs and developed other big-spending habits to which he’d always been drawn. He dreamed of reigniting the flame which had shone beneath the Barnacle name.

Declan, the eldest boy, abandoned General Allenby’s white-washed walls for the mahogany wainscotting and the coffered ceilings of British Colonial College, that welcome nest of wealth and prominence. He would start Grade One in a uniform, on the campus modelled after Ottawa’s Parliament Hill. Strong for six, he shone like a young Apollo.

Raul was attended by the best tailor in Central Canada. He ordered five bespoke suits with wide lapels, a dozen shirts of Sea Island cotton and ten of Italian silk for private functions. His height and new clothes helped Raul stand out in the office, at the club, and among the Ratepayers of Lawrence Park.

He had a proclivity to degrade himself by fawning on those with the great prestige or the wide basin of accumulated wealth that authenticate a charter membership in society’s top echelon—a strategy put into easy effect on the lawns of B.C.C.

Raul argued with his wife over who would be tasked with driving little Declan to B.C.C. each morning.

We’ll do best to arrange a taxi service. They pick up several other children too, stated Tabitha, to an indolent Raul in seersucker trunks sunbathing in the backyard. He took his complexion seriously and always maintained a good tan. After all, JFK never went anywhere without a good, deep tan, he reasoned. Nor should any successful man.

No, dear, Raul replied. Let’s arrange it so I’ll take Declan on my way to work. You know, we’ll both be wearing suits and ties. It will become an intense father-son habit.

Sighing, Tabby gave way. That sounds wonderful! I’m sure Declan will be very happy that you’re willing. I really appreciate the way you’re turning into such a good father.

It must have been Susan’s birth that inspired me, said Raul happily, for he’d gotten his way.

After Labour Day, each morning at seven, father and son, dressed almost identically in suits, ties, and Oxford brogues, stood in the hallway which was now too pokey and bourgeois for Raul’s burgeoning tastes. They said their good-byes to Tabby and child Grady, who had just started Junior Kindergarten at General Allenby.

Raul drove his eldest to the hallowed halls of our childish parliament. He tingled with the sure knowledge that among the parents seeing their children off would be some prestigious men (with $20 million in income) to whom he’d been introduced at the club or recognized from the Globe and Mail’s Monday paper. Then he’d captivate them with his dry, vibrant humour. Within two weeks of Declan’s first semester, Raul was warmly welcomed to the diet where parental chats occurred beside the drop-off line used by those too harried to park and walk their tykes into school.

It was a cloudy morning on October 13th. Susan was suffering from a head cold and had a fever. It just so happened that Tabby had been invited to a power breakfast, the height of fashion in the late 70s. Raul’s services were therefore enlisted to cope with the sick child.

So, I’ll have to take her with me and Declan, announced Raul stentoriously.

Yes, dear, but be sure to bring her back by eleven. Nanny arrives at ten and can prepare her morning snack of crumbled toast in milky farina. She’ll let herself in. Hopefully, we’ll both be back around the same time.

Raul noted her schedule while nodding his long head. He felt complacent and a smile lit up his lantern jaw. He was glad for an excuse to skip morning gossip in the office. He’d have extra time to engage in trivial talk with the housebound mothers who found an excuse to stay around after the drop-off fathers had departed. Afterwards, he’d lunch at the Empire Club.

For her part, Tabitha thoroughly enjoyed rubbing antennae with the ladies. The association was called The Tridentine Liturgists. They were a group of Catholics staunchly engaged in passionate battle against the Romanist faction. The bone of contention between these Amazons was the Use of Sarum: the Romanists objected to the Sarum rite in the Catholic mass and breviary. This split among the English Catholics pointed to the grander division in their schizophrenic Church. Though some Recusant Catholics wanted to move into the future, they balked at the revolutionary promise of Vatican II. This difficult compromise continued to stupefy them ten years on. The traditional liturgists, still reeling from the placing of St Thomas More’s head upon a spike over London Bridge, longed for the Latin rites of medieval England. They yearned to bend their British knees and kiss the hand of the Holy See.

The married pair drove away from Glen Eden in opposite directions: Raul with Susan and Declan, Tabby to drop off Grady and join her soul sisters.

Leaving the Oriole Park traffic circle, Raul entered B.C.C. He drove past the drive-through lane where select upperclassmen, wearing orange safety vests, helped the youngest children remove their rolling backpacks from their parents’ vehicles. Raul steered his ivory New Yorker into a parking space.

Soon as he’d parked, Raul’s eyes started roving over the knots of parents gathered in walled circles. He was seeking out a tiny group containing those who mattered most to him and to Canada’s society at large.

Self-reliant Declan hopped out of the backseat, popped the trunk, and hurried with his own backpack to avoid being introduced to his father’s erstwhile friends. Father, he said, I’ll just go ahead. Projecting a serious countenance to deter any objections, he added, Can’t be late for class.

The obsequious, vain father reacted by turning his back to his retreating son. He opened the rear door, and reached for little Susan. Come with Papa, precious. Your lovely ringlets will win us more smiles than your athletic brother would. Beaming with contentment, Susan, adoration in her eyes, looked up at her darling father, who, in turn, admired her loveliness. He felt deep satisfaction as he lifted her out of the car seat. Gingerly planting her feet on the asphalt, he said, Put your hand in mine. They walked through the parking lot, crossing in front of the first car stopped in the drop-off lane. Raul followed his knowledgeable nose toward the circle of prominence, while Susan looked about her, feeling a mixture of faith and nervousness. She sought out another child’s face in the crowd, but there were none.

Insinuating himself into the tight group who gravely discussed the approaching festivities of Halloween, Raul got caught up in the excitement of planning Lawrence Park’s favourite holiday. He was so eager to join in the banter of his peers that he didn’t notice the lack of pressure from Susan’s fingers on his open palm. She wandered away through a forest of parental legs, hoping to find another child her age. A stray strand of sunlight glinted off the chrome bumper of the janitor’s silver Pontiac parked toward the back of the lot beneath a canopy of shedding poplar trees. In a dark corner uncovered by the morning sun, Susan saw a stray calico kitten lying hungry and forlorn. Susan wanted to save the little kitten and take it home with her. While the crowd of absorbed parents milled about, Susan darted to the edge of the curb. Now lost, she grew perplexed and put her thumb in her mouth, uncertain about how to get from the curb to the trees on this bold adventure.

Impulsively, she stepped off the sidewalk between two stopped cars. The second school bell rang. An anxious mother who’d parked behind Susan saw the curly hair of the three-year-old as she turned the wheel of her Silver Ghost. But she was too rushed to leave her car and find the child’s parent. The Aston Martin Lagonda in front of Susan stood still even though its passenger had disembarked. The driver kept chatting with a school monitor who was in his son’s class. Once he realised that he was slowing down the car line, he backed up.

Susan’s tousled head wasn’t high enough to be visible in his rear-view mirror. The Lagonda’s rear bumper knocked her head back into the Roller’s front bumper and its rear tires flattened the bloodied child’s spindly legs. The humming crowd’s puerile chatter immediately changed to anguished wails and angry shouts.

When he discovered the victim’s identity, Raul grabbed his head in his hands with all his strength as he knelt beside her. Blood had formed like a halo around Susan’s caved-in skull. Roaring like a dying bull struck by a matador’s estoque, Raul crashed to the ground.

Ten minutes later, an ambulance appeared. But by then Susan’s lifeless face wore a mask of blood. Comatose, Raul was taken together with his daughter to Sunnybrook Hospital. He developed a high fever and was held for several days. The Barnacle family’s sense of desolation swept like a sirocco wind across the high-altitude desert of their lives. Tabby and young Declan stood around Raul’s bed with little Grady, who was sucking his thumb as tiny droplets of salt tears left his eyes. He vaguely appreciated the fact that Susan Pretty had left their lives forever, and he feared that his father had died too.

It’s senseless, the disconsolate mother whispered to her eldest son, who nodded, dumbfounded. Grady’s instincts caused him to put his hand in hers, precociously comforting his bereaved mother.

I don’t think Susan is gone, not really. If she is, she’s in heaven…. His voice trailed off into a whimper while his mind dissolved and the welling tears exploded into a torrent.

Tabby grabbed his head and drove it into her stomach, gently caressing his hair. His tears stained her hands as she struggled to contain her own. Darling, little Grady, she managed to get out of her strangled throat. We will see her again. If we’re good enough. She is up there, for certain.

Tabby glanced at her culpable husband’s snoring figure. Psychosomatic illness and narcotics had sent him into a long, peaceful sleep.

After the fever had gone down and the swelling in his brain had subsided, his wrought emotional state left an indelible mark upon his visage.

The funeral was held on the Monday after Raul had been discharged. The perfect child who had brought the glow of joy to all was now placed in the Barnacle crypt at old Holy Cross cemetery.

For the next year the Barnacles shunned parties, preferring to salve their wounds in each other’s humbled eyes. Reflexively, they held their individual personae at bay, becoming the limbs of one shade-like, suffering corpus. Tabby went to Mass on a daily basis to light a candle for Susan. The priest’s words consoled her flickering faith. She began to weaken as little hints were dropped into her ears.

This loss has opened wide your soul, casting the darkest of shadows over your family. Only you, Tabitha, are in a position to put it to rights. The time has come to demonstrate your profound love of Jesus by overcoming this trial, which He, in His immaculate wisdom, set for you. Refuse to let this loss become a snare of moral disgrace. Satan sees the vacuum in your spirit as an opportunity: he will use it to draw your boys to him through your weakness. You must take action. Find a source of light to dispel the shades of ceaseless melancholy, before the furrows of futile bitterness dug deep into your frail mind become fertile grounds where the Devil will plant his sinful seeds.

Tabby couldn’t help but agree with her confessor. That same year, the grieving couple conceived their second baby girl.

It was autumn’s end, 1980, when Tabby brought Marie Dorée into the world. The child’s baptism took place in the Church of the Blessed Sacrament. The stained-glass light from its baptistery window shot the love of Heaven across her forehead.

Susan had exemplified the quintessence of loveliness: the preternatural grace of her vivid green eyes framed by her golden ringlets, her nose as soft and small as a pat of butter, a pair of perfectly proportioned red lips that often had exploded with gales of sweet laughter. By contrast, the infant Marie Dorée had a fine, blonde fuzz of rare hue. Her blue eyes were unblemished sapphire. They formed a blazing band above a nose of unique design and a pair of slim lips that ran like a pink ribbon from ear to ear. Her natural, babyish joy seemed to be cradled in the arms of an oddly isolated character. Only Raul was alert to it, for he saw his own fate etched in his little girl.

Extremely proud to have a daughter again, Tabby vowed to smother her with the tincture of intense love. She searched Marie’s character in order to establish the most suitable parenting style to shape an upperclass star. Still, Tabby couldn’t help but fear the child’s sensitive nature, because it was companioned by a genetic disposition from Raul’s side, which seemed prone to tragedy. She didn’t want her second daughter to grow up to become a mousy melancholic. Tabitha had to prevent Marie from comparing herself to Susan. Deep in her bones, Tabby quailed with fear, for she believed that, if such a comparison were ever made, Marie would find herself poorer for it.

Every night, to soothe the demanding infant, Tabby sang the lullaby her own grandmother had sung to lull her to sleep on nights when her parents were out. Tabby’s great-grandmother had taught her daughter these lyrics from a William Blake poem, set to a tune of her own.

Sound the Flute!

Now it’s mute.

Birds delight

Day and Night.

Nightingale

In the dale

Lark in the Sky

Merrily

Merrily Merrily welcome in the Year

Little Boy

Full of joy.

Little Girl

Sweet and small.

Cock does crow

So do you.

Merry voice

Infant noise

Merrily Merrily to welcome in the Year

Little Lamb

Here I am,

Come and lick

My white neck.

Let me pull

Your soft Wool.

Let me kiss

Your soft face.

Merrily Merrily we welcome in the Year

Observing the sleeping infant, Tabby came to a firm conclusion. That night, as they lay in lilac-scented sheets, she tried to discuss it with Raul. As soon as he heard the name of Susan, Raul grunted, rolled over, and wished for sleep. Still, Tabby accepted his grunt as agreement. On the following weekend, Tabby sat Grady and Declan down for a serious discussion.

Boys, your father and I have made a careful decision on a matter of great importance. I want you to make a solemn promise. You can tell that Marie is burdened with a malleable, sensitive nature. She might be overly sensitive, which would be a terrible pity. In order to protect her confidence, you must never mention Susan’s name in front of her. She was all to us, our perfect Susan Pretty, but she has been taken by Baby Jesus. Therefore, you, Declan, and you, Grady, expunge her memory from your own. This is just in case, without forethought, perhaps in a careless rage, one of you will compare Marie with Susan, and she will then expect an explanation. I don’t want her to ever know she once had a sister. Susan’s body is buried; her spirit is at rest, though mine will never be until it is reunited with hers.

Grady chimed in. He had a more inquisitive disposition than Declan. Why, Mother? Can’t we just be proud of Susan Pretty? Marie would like to know about her and how happy she made all of us.

Tabby replied with a trembling chin. Grady, darling, though she’s barely two years old, you can tell Marie is a pensive child. She’s a bit like you, Grady, but without your curiosity. The trait worries me. It could eat away at her. It could prey upon her spirit, opening it up to unwanted influences. Susan would want us to protect Marie. It is our sacred duty, until we are all united in infinite love. Were Marie to be confronted by the fact of Susan, it could leave her with the impression that she was a mere substitute for a more-perfect child. Marie would strive and she would stumble. By trying too hard, Marie would make failure an unbreakable habit. This would make life an unbearable trial.

Declan had held his tongue until then. But now he wanted to show his authority. See, Grady, you can see how Marie might doubt herself. Trying to measure up to a myth is impossible.

Even without understanding his brother, Grady felt Tabitha’s pain. Her trembling jaw had sagged, as she couldn’t prevent herself from sobbing when Declan had spoken so pompously. He caressed his mother and looked at his older brother.

I do understand, Declan. Still, I hope we can at least tell Marie all about Susan when she’s all grown up. But if you say not to, Mother, then I won’t ever. I promise.

An atmosphere of intent settled over the trio and Tabby was able to corral her tears and wipe her cheeks with a tissue. I want to make it very clear to you. It will be hard to drive Susan’s memory from your minds. Marie is special too. And she is here. The only gift that I will receive in return for my loss.

The boys were made quiet by their mother’s spiritual turn. They made the sign of the cross. All three joined in a circle. They held hands and bowed their heads for a minute of silence. Tears came to Tabby’s and Declan’s eyes. They recited a prayer which Tabby had memorized.

O, Baby Susan, so young and yet made so strong and wise by the power of God, protect by your prayers all the young people of every place whose goodness and purity are threatened by the evils and impurities of this world.

Give them strength in temptation and true repentance when they fail. Help them to find true Christian friends to accompany them in following the Lamb of God and finding safe pastures in His Church and in her holy sacraments.

May you lead us to the wedding banquet of heaven to rejoice with you and all the holy virgin martyrs in Jesus, who lives and reigns forever and ever.

Amen.

That orbed maiden with white fire laden

Whom mortals call the moon,

Glides glimmering o’er my fleece-like floor

By the midnight breezes strewn

—P.B. Shelley

he refused to eat her oatmeal at breakfast. Mama, do I have to? I don’t want to…. Marie said the last three words with pretty contempt, lengthening the vowels of the last syllable, Go. To. Schoooooooooool!

Declan spooned brown sugar into his bowl. He looked up. Marie, you like oatmeal. I don’t, yet I eat it. Now, it was just last week when you watched me try on my new uniform. I’m proud I’m an upper classman at B.C.C. You said you won’t stay home because you’re grown up too. Did you just grow down? Because you don’t look any shorter than you were last week.

Marie panted at the complicated obstacle. But I wanted to wear a uniform like you. I want a uniform. That’s the only reason I want to go to school. Marie stared at Grady and stuck her tongue out. He blew out his cheeks in response, and she popped her two orbs.

You’re an obstreperous child, said Grady passively.

Marie, bring home a drawing for me? Declan requested. And will you tell me if Miss Passwell is your teacher?

Marie sniffled, afraid to alienate her brave brothers with her weak tears. Her expression turned sad and profound. She acquiesced with a nod, sealing her fate.

Raul had to be in Niagara Falls for a conference, so the boys left by taxi. A tearful Marie, thumb in mouth, still clung tightly to her mother’s dress. They crossed the street holding hands. Marie begged when Tabitha forced her to stand with the other initiates beneath the arch through which the children entered. A stone frieze decorated the archway. It depicted the school’s namesake, Allenby, on his triumphal march through Jerusalem after its conquest. The sculptor had used Titus’ arch in Rome as his model.

Pity invaded Tabitha as she hugged Marie to her breast. I’m so very proud that you’re so very big. We’ll have a special treat when you come home. I’ll bake a vanilla cake, and you’ll add the strawberry frosting.

Can I, can I, Mommy? Pleeeease?

Yes, dearest, if your good manners are good and you don’t lick the spoon. And now that you’re a schoolgirl remember to call me ‘Mother.’ Not ‘Mommy’ any longer.

And sprinkles all over, too?

Ask me politely when the day’s over. Let go, now. The bell just rang, Marie. Hear the bell always in your life. My darling, by the second ring, you must be in your seat.

Tabitha tried to smile, but snatched Marie’s hand instead to put it to her lips. After shedding a silent tear, she kissed the shy child’s flushed cheek. Tabby felt the flame of conflict in her conscience. Susan’s face flashed into her thoughts. She turned her back to walk sadly across the lawn.

Marie never did like school much at all. She sat at the plastic desk, alternating sniffles with glances at her mostly calm classmates. The new faces intrigued her. She yearned for their acceptance. From the first day on, she was a dutiful attendee, though never a stellar scholar. Concomitantly, morbid fears made her desperate to draw attention to herself. Her one burning fascination was to thrive under the cold streetlights of Lawrence Park.

It was 1990. October’s grass smelled of morning dew. All the children in Grade Five set out to rate the girls. Both proud and scared, Marie was sure she was a Ten.

A descendent of English parents named Ashlent showed interest in Marie. But—like all boys—he had a plan, and Marie would be the instrument of its fulfillment. One day after school, they sat on the floor of an unvisited part of General Allenby.

Ten years old and dressed for the cold, Ashlent wore mukluks, a red-checked hunting cap, brown corduroys, and an Oxford shirt. He stared down at the floor, thinking hard about the way to implement his plan and bring it to a successful denouement.

Marie wore a fawn, cotton jumper embellished with pale flowers. A bit childish for Grade Five. She wore matching tights of ivory. Her black, patent-leather shoes click-clacked when she ran on the terrazzo floors. Even though she took ballet rather than tap dancing, she’d begged for the taps, as it was fun to pretend.

The very next day, sleet filled the sky. She presented herself more calmly than Ashlent, despite being filled with wonderful expectant feelings as she sat on the freezing floor during gym class. Beside her, Ashlent wondered if he would have to threaten her. With short, shallow breaths, Ashlent peered directly into Marie’s eyes. I wanted to tell you—if you’d like to get a number, I will have to assess you.

Thanks, Ash. Wow, it’s so nice to hear that! Marie’s voice shook, but she succeeded in raising her chin toward the ceiling.

Wait, don’t go yet. He put his hand over her pudgy fingers. She pretended annoyance at his forwardness. Marie, meet me under the scary tree on the playground.

When?

After school. Tomorrow. I’ve got baseball practice today, he said, trying to stop his lips from quivering uncontrollably.

Will you give me the rating? Marie blanched with excitement, fear, and anticipation.

I said so, didn’t I? His angry voice coupled with a determined look. Though she was trepidatious, she agreed to meet under the tree, the branches of which seemed to come alive, so much so that all the youngest children stayed clear of it when the afternoons darkened in late autumn.

If need be he’d trick Marie. He wanted a kiss, and then he would do what he’d heard his older brother brag about to his friends. To cop a feel would be more than she’d expect. He would feel like he’d taken more than she wished to give and as much as his brother ever got.

Marie wore a white blouse that morning, leaving her jumper at home. Her instincts told her to wear a skirt and blouse. The tartan skirt rode below her knees. She brushed her hair with some patience then silently entered her mother’s bathroom to cover her lips with stolen lipstick. She wanted to be a Ten, not only for Ashlent, but to feel superior to the other girls.

As Marie had secretly wished, the day was warm. She walked to General Allenby. Her large languid eyes glowed all day because of her private meeting with Ashlent, her first beau.

The school bell signaled the end of the long wait. Her friends streamed forth to go home. Marie lingered behind, though her friends asked her why. It was a taste of social shame. Committing a tiny deception to serve a great mystery. It mingled with a warm tension the identity of which she could not pinpoint.

Out behind the school, the sun waned and the wind rose. Cold, she hugged herself. Ashlent sauntered to the meeting tree. Marie, I waited for you.

That’s not true: I was here first, Marie said hotly. Well, Ash, tell me I’m a Ten already!

Let’s sit down here beside the swings first. I always keep my promise.

She sat as bidden. Ashlent breathed in the fresh scent of her young skin as he eyed the gauze blouse hiding its tiny hidden gems. He gazed along the length of her matchstick limbs while he mastered his new, powerful sensations.

Marie felt uncomfortable. She grappled with how to speedily end the encounter, get her rating, and obtain the sanctuary of her home. She made a move, grabbed Ashlent’s hand, and put it in hers. He shivered delightedly. My, you’re quick, Marie, he said and moved to kiss her. She turned away, but he grazed a cheek with both his soft lips. Thinking to herself that this gift sufficed, she watched his face for the affirmation she sought.

Without warning, he overcame his fear and made his move. One hand fumbled between the buttons of her blouse, the other arm circled her waist and squeezed. Gasping, Marie pushed him and he lost his balance. But his hand had successfully touched her breast, which gave him cause for satisfaction, despite an odd feeling that he had just got himself banished from paradise, shifting his existence to the decay of earthly life.

A mysterious force impelled him to attack again. Now weary of battle, Marie pushed him away and ran home tearfully. He chased her until the distance between them had narrowed. Then he ran as hard as he could to catch up to her.

You’re not going to talk, are you? Ashlent demanded, brandishing his fists to make good on his threat. ’Cause iffen you do, you’re going to get it right in the face!

I won’t talk, Marie wailed. Tears began to flow.

Marie, you’re a Ten! You’re a real bloody Ten! His conscience had pricked him: he gave her the assurances she’d come for, so he could absolve himself of guilt.

Once back home, she cascaded past the hall and flew up the stairs. Marie fell back into her room. When her tears ceased, she ran to the oval mirror above the dresser to admire herself. At last the ranks of the elect had opened.

All passions are essentially Jesuitical.

—H. de Balzac

aul’s business expanded with two other members of the Proud Genealogy Club as his partners. One was a descendent of John Cabot. They met where men learn how to assume the position of guiding a spiritually denuded flock. Raul’s dreams of becoming a Catholic priest, that vocation practiced best by the starry-eyed, had collapsed after a week-long Ignatian retreat in Espanola. Their eyes were opened, and they took their ambitions out beyond the seminary walls. The three Never-Frocked were well matched, as it happened, to the earthly temptations of liquor, strumpets, and noise—the phantasmagorical trinity of decadence. Their influential backgrounds afforded access to the gold teat of government contracts, the value of which increased exponentially after the introduction of Oil Can, Inc., a pet project of PET, Canada’s JFK-stand-in. He’d captained the nationalization of the petroleum industry with this transaction and started the currency down its path to devaluation.

Raul’s success reawakened Tabitha’s royal dreams. She was born of true patrician stock. Her family had cultivated less ephemeral grandeur than had Raul’s. Though they never became wealthy, their society contacts were non-pareil in Ontario. Therefore, as the money rolled in, Tabby preened her feathers, anticipating a blitz on the social heights of this many-windowed town.

The Barnacles drew up a list of five couples for a dinner. Only three RSVP’d. The Barnacle Home was modest, but it was in the best neighbourhood. They could rely on Toronto Style: to pretend innocence even while viewing oneself as an aristocrat. Live in a modest fashion and you can’t upset the populace—a lesson learned from the Sun King’s court, where the nobles’ playing at nymphs and shepherds in private parks had cost them their heads.

Three names and their elongated wives arrived on Saturday night. These men were driven, hardworking, and ascetic in public. Men lodged on such a height made their own determination of what the world owed them—even if their prominence was founded upon the struts of inherited wealth and the bedrock of long-ago connections. It must be said, however, that their careers and work ethic were interwoven in the fabric of their being.

At this stage of his career, Raul liked to quote J.D. Rockefeller, despite the oilman’s distaste for Catholics: If God hadn’t wanted me to be rich, He wouldn’t have given me money. The Barnacles’ road lay clear before them, especially since JFK swept aside, for himself and his co-religionist Raul, Anglican democracy’s mistrust of St. Peter’s children.

The pater familias of the clan put on his cufflinks after he’d given the three Barnacle children a stern lecture, the theme of which had been proper comportment in the presence of guests: good manners, politeness, and the restraint of outbursts of childish feeling.

Declan and Grady were emblems of Camelot: sensible, strong lads in wool trousers and herringbone blazers. Declan’s tie was blue and Grady’s red to illustrate the open hand that wealth proffers to those who fall within its sphere of influence.

Marie, now fourteen, wore a soft white dress—all trimmed in lace. She looked resplendent. Her hair was very long, its angel fineness cascaded down her back.

Tabby and her husband’s serene looks signalled their ambitions. The Barnacle mater, who often felt wretched, sought escape with convivial spirits. Her husband’s burgeoning coffers had overflowed at just the right time. Raul, vacuous peacock that he was, expected his guests would feel that to watch him breathe would be worth the price of admission, a price he calculated himself. Disconcertingly, he was often surprised to find himself in the red.

Snow fell on that April day. The dinner guests trundled in. They removed their wintry vestments in the foyer while chatting to their hostess. Reeking of charisma, she led the guests into the smallish dining room, Tabitha did not realize that her social ambitions had already been doomed by Raul’s unstable and sensual personality.

Two of the three gentlemen were fit and handsome, and their wives enchanted all they met. One was the president of a corporation that traded in blank canvasses for advertising agencies, a wholesale vendor of fraudulence. He was short, with thick lacquered hair. His face was pockmarked. A long scar ran from above his nose down to the corner of his insolent lips. His grey eyes exuded a unique degree of piggishness. His name was Johnson, Hardy. He was the oldest present.

A medical doctor formed the worse half of the second couple. They were a last-minute substitution for a gentleman who’d cancelled pragmatically, for he doubted the current value of the Barnacle credentials. He was a judge angling to hook a seat on the bench of the Supreme Court, a struggle which took precedence over politesse. His replacement—a foreigner named Hammock (né Hamovic)—was from Eastern Europe. His medical practice was courtly; he only treated patients who were either members of the Toronto symphony or musicians of note. If, by chance, a sick person without musicianship in his bones sought treatment from the good doctor, it was provided in a perfunctory way. It had been a mere formality to recite the Hippocratic Oath in exchange for his sheepskin. He only touched people he wished he were. Other ill people were hardly human to him and he regularly sent them to a horse doctor in Mount Forest until even that good veterinarian complained that the patients he was sending didn’t run a good quarter-mile.

A retired admiral was the third member of this fleet. He had a wife who towered over his 6-foot-two frame. His rangy face looked so hard that seamen assumed he ate copper nails for breakfast. His grandfather had been Commerce Minister, and his father Minister of War, before people decided to make fun of George Orwell. His wife, silent in public, took delight in tearing a strip off the poor admiral when they were at home.

The men were extremely taciturn. Restless, their gazes wandered far from Tabby’s chirpy verbosity. Their bored eyes increasingly sought out the lovely charms of the youngest member of the family. Marie was experienced in the art of evading the prying eyes and insidious hints of horrid, conceited men. Wisely, she hid the power of her burgeoning sexuality like Bluebeard buried his treasure.

The guests sensed the inherent weakness in the Barnacles’ ambitions: a fawning obsequiousness supporting a thirst for some acknowledgement that they were indeed clambering up the rungs toward the ceiling of the House of Canada. Now that Raul’s faults were on display, the guests unmasked their grimaces.

Marie’s brothers were fiercely proud of their baby sister. Though they obeyed their father’s hand of restraint, their anger could not be denied. Sipping ginger ale through a straw, Declan intercepted the men’s open stares in a vain effort to force them to feel ashamed. But his silent challenges were swept aside. Grady was far too bashful to match his strength against these cocksure gentlemen.

Dessert was served, and Marie’s two brothers seized the opportunity to escape upstairs. Raul was sharing his insights on civilization with his guests. His prominent first cousins, domiciled in the nation’s capital, were so respectable that it seemed natural to him to speak as though he personally occupied the centre of power. Yet all his guests had heard of the time when he’d failed to win a seat and seize a Conservative riding in the Grit landslide of ’74.

His blue eyes sparkled with embarrassment, for by dinner’s end Raul perceived the object of his guests’ interest. The blame lay on Marie for the destruction her presence had wrought.

During the men’s post-prandial retreat to his ebony-panelled study, the conversation turned to hockey, development, and newspapers, over Lagavulin and Cohibas. The ladies retreated to the kitchen. There, in egalitarian style, a peculiar concept, they all helped to clean up—a small bit of economizing for the Barnacles that they expected their guests to interpret as a charming nod to Canadian Utilitarianism. It had the opposite effect on these ladies, already dispirited by the men’s lack of interest in their stylish hair and clothes relative to Marie’s ethereal loveliness.

To Raul’s chagrin, the conversation circled around him as bees buzz round the head of a beekeeper, so he got nary a word in. The gentlemen were impatient for Marie’s return. She’d been in the kitchen helping Tabby clean up with the other society ladies. The guests awaited another glimpse of her arresting beauty. Their only pleasure over the course of the long evening had been feasting their eyes upon the blonde virgin.

Like a swollen river that bursts its banks, their desires soon flooded the Barnacles’ home. Raul’s dream of acceptance shattered. His delusion gave way to doom. Memories of his feelings the night he’d lost the election that fateful summer returned. Despite his illustrious name having secured the nomination, his personal failings had cost him the election in Huron-Kent.

All three wives’ instincts tingled in unison. Like three pealing church bells, they asked to be taken home. Tabby and Marie breathed a sigh of relief. Raul still reeled from the sharp slaps of rage his distressed pride had inflicted upon him.

Respectfully, Marie, her mother, and brothers stood beside Raul. But the most vain and bold of the men even dared to approach Marie. He ran his hand over her gentle sweet cheek. It felt like sandpaper, but it brought out a deep blush along with an awkward smile—part grateful, part anxious—that played over Marie’s coral lips while her eyes scanned the scar that almost reached his curled lip.

Raul drowned in a tsunami of anger. Declan had to bite his lip, his beet-red face burnt by shame. Grady bent his head in consternation. He felt burdened by his helplessness and played with his belt. Raul’s ire, increased by the scotch and cigars, urged him to slap the man hard. It took strength on his part to resist that urge and not cry out over his mortification.

With a sense of relief, Raul watched the last of his guests depart. His fury had almost boiled over even before the door closed. Marie looked her father’s way and felt humiliated—as if something had gone awry and somehow she was responsible.

Marie knew her mother would retreat to the kitchen to drink a glass of sherry, after which Tabby would begin the nightly ritual of cleaning away her makeup before getting under the lavender duvet to read a chapter of the latest Danielle Steele.

Marie went upstairs and donned her floral cotton nightgown. She danced into the bathroom, feeling smug and proud. Like a kitten, she washed her face and hands. She made faces at herself in the mirror before she brushed her teeth, like a human.

Grady’s copy of Ivanhoe sat on her bedside table, but she didn’t pick it up. She hated books, even though she had a native facility in speech and writing. She kept it there to show him that she, his baby sister, took an interest in the things he appreciated.

She then fell into a deep dream.

Alone in his study, a morose Raul nursed a glass of Jameson’s Proprietary while he worked himself up into a state. He nourished hatred for Marie’s unconscious destruction of his fond expectations. Nothing mattered more than to impress his family by winning the friendship of powerful men. Marie was Eve’s deceptive daughter, focussed upon her sole objective, the destruction of the men around her—or so it seemed to the former seminarian. The hungry gazes of the men whose favour Raul had hoped to obtain reappeared in the dark, garish light of his reflective mind. Over the next hour, his violent anger crested.

Marie was asleep by the time her vindictive