Cadillac Cathedral Read online

  Cadillac

  Cathedral

  OTHER BOOKS BY

  JACK HODGINS

  Spit Delaney’s Island (1976)

  The Invention of the World (1977)

  The Resurrection of Joseph Bourne (1979)

  The Barclay Family Theatre (1981)

  The Honorary Patron (1987)

  Left Behind in Squabble Bay (1988)

  Innocent Cities (1990)

  Over Forty in Broken Hill (1992)

  A Passion for Narrative: A Guide to Writing Fiction

  (1993, expanded 2001)

  The Macken Charm (1995)

  Broken Ground (1998)

  Distance (2003)

  Damage Done by the Storm (2004)

  The Master of Happy Endings (2010)

  Cadillac

  Cathedral

  A TALE

  Jack Hodgins

  RONSDALE PRESS

  CADILLAC CATHEDRAL

  Copyright © 2014 Jack Hodgins

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without prior written permission of the publisher, or, in Canada, in the case of photocopying or other reprographic copying, a licence from Access Copyright (the Canadian Copyright Licensing Agency).

  RONSDALE PRESS

  3350 West 21st Avenue

  Vancouver, B.C. Canada V6S 1G7

  www.ronsdalepress.com

  Typesetting: Julie Cochrane, in Granjon 11.5 pt on 17

  Cover Design: David Drummond

  Paper: Ancient Forest Friendly Silva, FSC Recycled, 100% post-consumer waste,

  totally chlorine-free and acid-free.

  Ronsdale Press wishes to thank the following for their support of its publishing program: the Canada Council for the Arts, the Government of Canada through the Canada Book Fund, the British Columbia Arts Council, and the Province of British Columbia through the British Columbia Book Publishing Tax Credit program.

  Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication

  Hodgins, Jack, 1938–, author

  Cadillac cathedral / Jack Hodgins.

  Issued in print and electronic formats.

  ISBN 978-1-55380-298-3 (print)

  ISBN 978-1-55380-300-3 (ebook) / ISBN 978-1-55380-299-0 (pdf)

  I. Title.

  PS8565.O3C33 2014 C813’.54 C2013-906857-0 C2013-906858-9

  At Ronsdale Press we are committed to protecting the environment. To this end we are working with Canopy (formerly Markets Initiative) and printers to phase out our use of paper produced from ancient forests. This book is one step towards that goal.

  Printed in Canada by Marquis Book Printing, Quebec

  for

  Lauren, Dexter, Emmett

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  The author is grateful to the Chor Leoni Men’s Choir, Erick Lichte, and the late Diane Loomer for encouraging and producing a collaborative song-and-narrative performance based on an early version of this story.

  The people, events, and places in this story are fictional. The community of Portuguese Creek is not to be confused with a real Vancouver Island community visited by a creek of that name.

  Cadillac

  Cathedral

  CHAPTER 1

  HE WAS A MAN in his seventies whose retirement years were filled with the pleasure of restoring cars and trucks that had been wrecked and then abandoned by those who could afford to replace them. From mountain roads and vacant lots he towed them home and got them running again for those who could not afford something off a used-car dealer’s yard. Having felt the frosty breath of old age on the back of his neck now and then, Arvo Saarikoski found pleasure in rebuilding old cars to something like their former selves — a miracle he could hardly manage for himself.

  When friends suggested he take the opportunity to travel before he got too old, he waved the notion aside. He’d travelled already — New Orleans, San Francisco, twice to the Baltic countries. Travel was exhausting, crowds were confusing, foreign countries were determined to empty your bank account. Worse, being carted around from place to place made him feel useless. He hadn’t been allowed to give the Norwegian tour bus a badly needed tune-up. He’d been prevented from examining the engine of the Louisiana paddle-wheeler, though he could tell it was in serious trouble while they laboured up a steamy canal.

  Since he was determined not to travel any more, neighbours recommended a night-school class for seniors. It was never too late to learn something new. Bee-keeping. Photography. The history of labour unions. But he didn’t need a night-school class! Arvo was satisfied with what he was doing — what he’d been doing for years. You could see the results out there on the roads. A handsome ’38 Ford V8 he’d rebuilt for the elderly Gordon twins was still being driven in vintage car parades by the one surviving sister. A ’93 Saturn, once inhabited by a family of raccoons in a derelict barn, now carried Colin Hardy and his classmates to and from the college south of town. Arvo had worked for a month and a half on the 1982 Camaro he’d found overturned in a gravel pit behind Connor Lake, determined to get it ready for Tom Grove’s high school graduation. He’d been rewarded with a kiss from the girlfriend and an invitation to attend the ceremony — though once he’d dressed in his suit and tie he’d decided the invitation had been only a courtesy, not meant to be taken seriously.

  From wrecks that defied his efforts to revive them, he salvaged the reusable parts and hauled the carcasses onto the field behind his house. Since Portuguese Creek was eleven kilometres north of town, there were no officials to object to his sprawling graveyard of auto parts.

  Nor was there a wife to object to this view from the kitchen window. He had survived a few close-calls that might have surprised his friends if they’d known. It had been mostly married women who’d found this loose-limbed lanky bachelor intriguing. But he’d seen how these women frowned at the crescents of grease beneath his fingernails and knew they were plotting to clean him up and suggest a different sort of activity to fill his days. When he’d dropped hints of a broken heart that had never completely mended, they’d decided not to waste their time on a man who would rather restore life to old cars than reawaken passion in an ageing woman’s heart.

  At any rate, he suspected that any woman who saw the inside of his house would be alarmed to see how perfect he’d been keeping it. He might labour with engines and oily car parts in his workshop but he never failed to scrub down in his backyard sauna before returning to the house he kept as spotless as his mother had kept it before him. You could see yourself reflected in her linoleum floors; you saw no unwashed dishes in her kitchen sink nor wrinkle in the satin cover on his bed. Her crocheted doilies remained stiff with starch and perfectly white beneath the family photos on her polished tables. A day in the grease pit did not prevent him from keeping the place just as Silvi Saarikoski had famously kept it before him.

  Few had forgotten the heavy middle-aged woman from Thunder Bay who had stepped down off a bus claiming in the Store to be his “intended.” This was almost twenty years ago. No one but Arvo had known she’d arrived as the result of a letter he’d written — unwisely, it turned out. She had not been intimidated by his meticulous housekeeping, nor was she bothered by his love affair with old cars, but within the month he’d found good reason to put both her and her teenaged son onto another bus.

  Of course the next time Arvo put foot inside the Store, Matt Foreman suggested that Thunder Bay was a long way to come for such a short visit.

  “I would’ve liked it even shorter,” Arvo said. “Turned out she was mostly looking for someone to bail her light-fingered son out of jail every weekend.”

  Foreman removed a few outdated notices from the cork-board above the co
ffee maker. “I thought I heard her yelling Finnish at you once.”

  Arvo laughed. “Her suomeski wasn’t much better than mine but she knew more swear words than my Uncle Ahti. I heard just about every one of them while I was pushing her onto the bus. She cursed me even while I was paying for their tickets! Turned out the whole business cost me more than I knew — as I found out next time I went to my underwear drawer for some cash.”

  “She robbed you?”

  “You could say she taught me a lesson.”

  “Not to give up on women altogether?”

  “To give up on any woman I met since I was twenty or thirty years old.”

  He knew that so far as the local wives and widows were concerned, his unhappy experience with the woman from Thunder Bay had served him right. A long-armed, long-legged, long-backed scrawny man who preferred the company of four-wheeled wrecks to the companionship of an affectionate female had no business expecting anything from life but loneliness. If he was worth keeping an eye on at all, it was only because there was a slim possibility they might witness a reunion with his first and only sweetheart, the rumoured mystery girl whose name had not been spoken here but whose existence was never in doubt.

  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?”