Trial of Passion (46 page)

We stroll about her farm, joined by her dog, her cat, and a strutting goose. She leads me to a sturdy new gate in our fence. “I kind of fancied it up.”

And such a lovely gate it is, entwined with willow wands, a simple lockless latch, hinges oiled to swing easily open. It seems an invitation, a shortcut to her house and heart. . . .

She vaults onto the split-cedar fence and takes my hand. “All right, tell me about the trial.”

I relate the devastating evidence of Mrs. McIntosh. She nods in sympathy, then says, “Well, you have one thing going for you.”

“What's that?”

“Kimberley didn't remember anything about being slapped or any threats or pleading with him.”

“Or Satan or the wicked, wicked girl.” Of course. So preoccupied with my angst, I have missed the obvious. This apparent black hole in Kimberley's memory had been action-filled, bustling. Either that, or Mrs. McIntosh
was
reliving one of her bodice-ripping novels.

“Getting slapped would sure wake
me
up. Even if I'd passed out.”

“How on God's green earth did I let that slip by me?
Why
doesn't Kimberley remember? I could kiss you.”

“Well . . .”

I stare at her numbly, feeling myself being slowly drawn into the deep silver cups of her eyes. I raise myself to her perch, and she bends to my lips and caresses my face with her fingertips. Her animals are staring at us, curious, expectant.

“I love you, Margaret.”

“I know. It feels a little scary, Arthur. I'm a little . . .”

“You don't have to say anything.” No, I don't want her to finish that thought; leave me some hope and dignity.

“I'm just a little afraid of fooling myself, I think. Or maybe of losing control. I have to . . . let it settle in.”

Love is not an impetuous matter for the widow of Christopher Blake. It is not given freely, but hoarded, conserved like her precious rain forests. I am content that she keeps an open mind, and I will continue assiduously to follow my mentor's advice:
She demands to be wooed and pursued.
How cocky and confident was George Rimbold about my prospects. Too confident? Did the gay priest understand women so well?

But I must return to my plane before dark. At my wharf, she holds me tight, her breasts and hips pressing warm against me, and I feel prickles, a flutter in my loins, a want.

“Will I see you on Saturday?” she asks.

“I don't know right now.”

“Try to come. Even for a little while.”

What do I read in those mercury eyes? Affection? Or the self-reproach of one who cannot return the clumsy love I lavish upon her? It feels a little scary . . . I am pushing too hard, an amateur at love.

Before evening falls, I have time-travelled to the brawny, busy city and am back in my lonely hotel suite, communing with my gar-goyles. The vicissitudes of the day have sapped my strength and spirit. I do not look forward to the morrow. But the practice of advocacy is a demanding mistress, and I must bow to her whip. I call Augustina to ask how she fared this afternoon.

“Pretty well. Didn't step on any land mines. Wally could barely stay awake — he looked ghastlier as the day wore on — so we adjourned Dr. Sanchez until tomorrow morning. Sergeant Chekoff was fine. We have a nice little picture of Jonathan out there raking his leaves, looking puzzled by his visit.”

“And the jury?”

“I don't know, Arthur. They want something from us. Only two people really know what went on in that bedroom. . . .”

“And since Kimberley doesn't seem to remember, they are waiting for Jonathan to fill the void.”

“Something like that.”

But why doesn't Kimberley remember?

Mrs. McIntosh's apocalyptic revelations have panicked a jury I had been confident would acquit. Shall I be forced to put Jonathan on the stand after all? I would need the entire weekend to prepare him. Patricia will probably pick away at him for two days: She is an effective cross-examiner and he will be exposed to ferocious attack. Then we will doubtless hear Dominique Lander speak of Jonathan's proclivity to paint bound bodies before coitus. Then come the counsel addresses, and finally the judge's charge to the jury — we'll be another week.

But Rimbold is with me again, gazing down at me from wherever his heaven may be, with his sad, cynical smile, his wisdom.
Your dreams are what you fear; they are not what you are.

Couldn't you at least have stuck around until the end of the trial, George? Until I got back, until I could talk reason to you before you refunded to your absent God His one most bounteous gift? Ah, George, thank you for the fishing gear. Thank you for the pot.

I roll a joint to his memory and smoke it, then in a tossing sleep descend to Hades, in a chariot drawn by Pluto's coal-black steeds, and there I see George being taken by the current of the Lethe, the river of oblivion.

A buffet breakfast is offered daily in a salon down the hall from my room, and that is where I have arranged to meet Dr. Jane Dix. This encounter, which earlier I considered a waste of valuable time, now seems crucial: Ground has shifted; we are no longer on terra firma.

I find the young psychiatrist waiting for me in a secluded alcove of the salon, away from the chatter and clicking cups of a table of conventioneers.

She stands, shakes my hand briskly.

“I understand you lost a friend. I'm sorry. Tell me about him.”

She seems brusque, yet intelligent and kind. She nods in sympathy as I talk about my sardonic, wise guru, relate his history, recall our friendship. She gently prods me about Garibaldi, and I tell her briefly of my life there, but I am stiff with this lively-eyed therapist, afraid of revealing the warps in my psyche.

“You're tired of playing lawyer?”

“This will be my last case.”

“You seem incredibly good at it.”

“Life has more to offer, Dr. Dix.”

“Jane, please. And what
does
life offer you?”

“Peace and poetry, and fresh potatoes.”

“Garibaldi isn't just an escape from the courtroom? Some convenient harbour?”

This percipient woman is daring me to be open. “Indeed not. I have found life on Garibaldi amply fulfilling.”

I fetch a coffee service on a tray, with croissants and jam, and plates of fruit. “What do you have in?” I ask.

She studies me for a while, as I am poised with the cream jug. “White, no sugar. You seem very formal in your ways, Arthur. Gentlemanly.”

“Fussy and stuffy, I'm told.”

“I don't see that for one second. Though I sense a private school in the background.”

“That's too insightful of you.” I feel awkward about her blunt forays into my life. Is she planning to peel off my layers of protective skin in search of the repressed weakling inside? She obviously knows I'm an
AA
member. Jonathan has probably told her about my career as a cuckold, the recent fracturing of my marriage.

“Jonathan went to the usual snobby boarding schools, of course,” she says. “Did they use corporal punishment at yours?”

“Liberally applied to that fatty area Shakespeare calls the afternoon of the body.”

“Societally accepted S and M. Sometimes the scars stay there for life.”

In defence, I turn the mirror to her. “And what are the pertinent details of
your
life?”

“I'm a contrary radical feminist lesbian with a chip on my shoulder.”

This forces a smile from me. But time is fleeting. “What did you think of Mrs. McIntosh, Jane?”

“Unfulfilled fantasies of love starring the next-door neighbour. An initial refusal to believe her love object could do this. Disappointment and anger blossoming into a desire for revenge. So she decides to tell the whole story.”

“A truthful one?”

“I think so.”

I grimace.

“Cheer up,” she says, and she removes a file from her briefcase. “I've transcribed several of my sessions with Jonathan. He insists that you peruse them. Some interesting papers and articles here, too.” Her eyes undress me. “I take it you know something about bondage, Arthur.”

Dare I tell her about my recurring dreams? “It's a form of theatre, I suppose.”

“Yes, much like your courtrooms. Those can be theatres of pain, too, from what I've observed. I want to talk about pain with you, Arthur.”

I nod glumly. She continues.

“Pain is everywhere: in life, in law, in art. The dying swan, the tortured face of the flamenco dancer, El Greco's Christ on the cross. The bad guy getting shot off his horse, murder mysteries, cop shows — we entertain ourselves with pain. Violence and sex sell toothpaste. We love
it. We can't get enough of it. Forgive me: I've been doing a lot of thinking and reading in the last few days, and I've got a whole treatise.”

“Just carry on,” I say. It is obvious now where this is leading. All faith in Jonathan has flown: Clearly, Dominique Lander is telling more truth than I cared to believe.

Jane shuffles through some of her articles, finds a page. She talks between sips of coffee and little bites of cantaloupe.

“Havelock Ellis: Pain is an aspect of the love of life. We're all haunted by it, all living things. We live constantly next to it, waiting for it, fearing it, yet thrilled by it. The pain of love hurts as sharply as the pain of a wound to the body; tears of pain are indistinguishable from tears ofjoy.” She looks up from her papers. “This all leads to a theory, okay? There's no solid answer, but there are reasons people get into B and D, bondage and discipline. Pain excites. It arouses just as sex does: increased pulse and blood pressure and muscular tension, hyperventilation. So it can be a kind of turn-on. An aphrodisiac. It may be aberrant, but we're not dealing with psychopathy here or inordinate cruelty.”

She has much to say that is fascinating, but where do we go with it?

“Bondage is theatre, Arthur, but with a purpose. Hidden drives and desires are handled as play; demands of fantasy are met. Postponement and delay, begging, stalling, they're all part of the game. The bondee maybe doesn't truly enjoy the pain, but she or he is stimulated by the constraint, the sense of helplessness, the thrill of the unknown.”

“Where do these hidden drives and desires come from?”

“At a sort of basic sensory level, there's an interesting biological explanation: Pain releases endorphins in the brain — and they're addictive, like opiates. The long-distance runner breaks through the pain, gets a little hit of endorphin.” She reflects. “Probably why Jonathan took up running. Let me give you a sociological perspective.”

She finds another paper, glances for a moment at it, looks up. “S
and M patterns are imbedded in our culture — socially, we value aggression, the dynamic of dominance and submission. Our gender relationships are set up in that framework — the male is traditionally dominant, the female reluctant and submissive.”

“Ah, but the times, I have learned, are changing.”

“Not that much. Okay, I also read one interesting theory about masochism serving as a guilt-relieving system: The punishment gives expiation for the sin of sexuality. The masochist knows that if anything sexually forbidden happens, it's not her or his fault. Sometimes it never develops into scripted play: the prototypical case of the masochistic man and the cold, calculating woman — he satisfies his unconscious wish to be mistreated. It's not that uncommon — the desire for domination by an authoritarian partner.”

A brilliant aperçu from someone who knows nothing of my relationship with Annabelle. I cannot look at her squarely, and play with my coffee spoon. Clearly, she notices my agitation, and doubtless adds a mental paragraph to her file on me.

“Actually, bondage can be a way of dealing with male impotency.”

I take too large a gulp of coffee and feel it sear my throat. Her bright blue eyes are fixed on mine, which are veiled and guilty.

“Our culture is hard on men: all the demands — assertion, aggression, control. Can't blame a guy if he just wants out. Easier on him if his partner takes full responsibility. Tie me up. Have your will with me. Excite me. I've had a hard day at the office. Okay, so, Jonathan grew up in an old, old culture — he was trained from early on in the chauvinistic arts. He tries, but he's trapped within his father. Which brings me to a more clinical perspective. We're getting to the nitty-gritty here: the eroticizing of childhood pain. A traumatic event in childhood can trigger B and D behaviour patterns. Or general day-to-day abuse by a parent can accumulate and bring about an adaptive response. Kids escape from physical pain by romantic daydreaming. Sexual imagery. Masturbation. When you eroticize your suffering it sort of imprints”

We are running out of time: Court sits in fifteen minutes. She sees me check my watch, and speaks more rapidly, urgently.

“Jonathan's father regularly beat him until he was nearly ten — that's when his mother brought him to Canada. Jonathan denies this was abuse — just strict British discipline. Anyway, there were other processes going on. A father who couldn't express love. Just tons of ambivalence towards the great Lord Caraway. An older, favoured brother. A great deal of rebellion on the younger sibling's part, which manifested itself in attention-seeking behaviour: mostly truancy. If Daddy continues to ignore me, I'll be bad and he'll whip me — and they'd finally interact and little Jonnie would get the attention he sought, his substitute for love. He received one particularly harsh whaling after he walked into his parents' bedroom and found them making love. So you have a pretty fair picture.”

“Of what?”

“Of someone who understands his problem better now, and wants to deal with it and
can
deal with it.”

“We must go.”

“Here, take this file.” I slip it into my briefcase. “He wants to take the witness stand, Arthur. He
needs
to. He wants to unload. Everything.”