Last Exit to Pine Lake Read online

  He covered one tired eye, and watched the smoke. He wished again for whiskey.

  ****

  Notes from Kimberley Molley, Student

  Hi Cindy. I’m like here on the dock. Paul Gottsen’s dock, that is. I guess you’re up by now. Are you there? Okay, you can read this whenever and get back to me if you want.

  Paul Gottsen’s cottage burned down. No it wasn’t me! Honest! I was just paddling in towards the cottage and planning on sitting on this dock until he woke up, but when I was still out on the lake I noticed that the light in the window was getting brighter, and before I even got to the dock there was smoke coming out from under the eaves. I could see it because it was getting light in the sky by that time.

  I didn’t know what to do so I ran up and hammered on the front door and the side door, but they were both locked and nobody answered. So I ran next door – there’s another cottage across the road – it’s more like a dirt track – and woke up the family there. The neighbour was already dressed and he ran out but by that time there was no way anybody could possibly get in the other cottage.

  Well, there wasn’t anything we could do but try throwing buckets of water from the lake but that didn’t do any good, and Rollie, that’s the neighbour’s name, his wife Tam, she already called the fire department. There’s some other cottages on the same bay, but there’s nobody in them except on weekends.

  The fire department I guess is a long ways away and it’s all volunteer, so they got here way after it was too late. Even the police got here before the fire department. I talked to a policewoman. She wanted to make sure I didn’t start the fire, I guess! I think she’s still suspicious. Paul Gottsen’s car is still in his laneway.

  Can’t blame her, I guess. I come here looking for Paul Gottsen and show up in the dark about the time he burns to death in his cottage. I’d be suspicious too, if I were her. There’s a fire marshal to judge by the title on the car looking around. He’s over talking to Rollie and Tam. Oops, here he comes now. Gotta go.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~

  Yeh, hi, I’m still here. I’m doing okay. Makes it kind of hard knowing you just watched somebody famous burn to death. Rollie had to go into work, but Tam phoned in and said she’d take the day off wherever she works, at the highways department I think. She fed me breakfast, with cereal and coffee and toast. We talked. Anyway she’s more shook up than me because she knew Paul for three years.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I think you’re right. I should come home. But I’ve got everything packed and I’ll let you know. No, nobody’s saying he killed himself, but Tam said he was seriously ill and she thought the cottage burned faster and hotter than it should have. We’ll see, but I don’t think the fire marshal’s going to tell me anything. Maybe there’ll be an inquest some time. I’m going to have a rest. Tam offered me a fold-out bed, and I think I’ll rest a bit. I’ll let you know by noon.

  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~

  I’m back again.

  Tam’s still taking care of me. She made me a sandwich. She says Rollie (that’s her husband the neighbour I told you about) is coming home early from his job because the police want him to talk to.

  I’ll probably go camping anyway. What the heck; I’ve got the canoe loaded and the weather’s fine. I can portage in to Sparkler or Pine Lake for a couple of nights and the police can come after me if they want to. As long as I start by three I should make it by dark. It’s been dry and the portage should be good.

  Tam says screw the cops. People out on the fringes must not like authority. But she wants me to wait for Rollie before I leave. I guess he said told her he had something to say to me.

  ****

  Peter Finer, Journalist

  From his book, Dark Waters: A Life of Paul Gottsen.

  We are, as the song says, dust in the wind. The verities of life are that we drift from pillar to post, from the soul’s deserts to the soul’s gardens on the whims of chance and the odd ideas that percolate in the bizarre brains of people around us.

  Three days before the fire I showed my Boss a press clipping. Paul Gottsen, who had disappeared from public view for most of a generation had helped keep some fisherman – probably a drunk fisherman to judge by my in-laws who are unable to separate the two activities – alive for a few more productive years of watching hockey and complaining about the government, the weather, and his in-laws.

  Which pinned down the location to Long Lake, south shore.

  “I’d like to go interview this guy,” I told him.

  He read the clipping, raised one eyebrow, then put his hands carefully on the desk making a steeple of them. “Why?”

  “He’s been missing for years. He was famous. This could be a literary scoop.”

  “Was?” He held out his hands, palms up.

  “Pardon?”

  “You said, ‘was famous,’ if I heard you. Not ‘is famous.’”

  “I’m going up that way anyway. I could do an interview. We could have a scoop.”

  “Don’t you think that if anyone wanted an interview someone would have gone there by now? Maybe he wants to stay missing. Maybe he pointed a shotgun at them.”

  “I’d be in the neighbourhood.”

  “You want to spend another day up there and get paid for it. While avoiding your relatives.”

  “We could be the literary lions of the country. For a while.”

  “Like that would get us more subscribers. Or advertisers.”

  “Oh, well,” I said. “I guess I get drunk and go fishing.”

  “I didn’t say that.” He scratched his chin. “You get an interview, say five thousand words worth – pump it up if you have to – and I’ll pay for the day. If you’ve got the regular stuff done.”

  Regular stuff was police reports on break-ins, warnings from the fire marshal on storing open cans of gasoline near the furnace, and plans by town council to tear up the downtown streets once again and turn main street into a zoo or circus or whatever. Usually about 30,000 words a week.

  “Done!” I’d have grabbed my hat and left, if I’d had a hat. So I just headed for the door.

  “Besides, the owner’s thinking his son should get a job here. We’ll slot him into your place tomorrow and if he’s any good, you don’t have to come back.” He smiled like Gollum.

  ****

  Long Lake. Fire Day. October 2.

  Rollie finished with the police by two, then watched the detective’s car bounce away along the cottage road. Head down, he walked past the pile of ashes that marked what had been Paul’s home and through the path to his own home. The path was deep in fallen leaves and light ash.

  The tree above Paul’s cottage had lost most of its leaves and a couple of major branches. Springtime would show how well it had survived. Rollie wondered, too, about the woodpecker.

  Kimberly, Rollie, and Tam sat at the table drinking tea and coffee, eating store-bought oatmeal cookies, and looking out the patio doors across the lake. Kimberley crossed and uncrossed her legs a few times. “This is your cat?" she asked, starting a conversation by picking up an orange tabby.

  “No,” Tam said. “That was Paul’s cat, Hank Dayton. That’s his name, Hank Dayton. Paul named him after an old friend and insisted that we use his whole name. Cats need dignity, he said.” She pointed to the corner, where an old black-and-white cat slept in a wicker cat basket. “That’s our cat, Sparky. Used to be a fighter – you have to be out here – but he’s old now, mostly deaf and partly blind. We should have him put down, but he’s been a friend so long….” She reached over to touch Paul’s cat on the paws.

  “You must be worse off than I am,” Kimberly offered. “I never even met Mr. Gottsen.”

  Tam started to say something, but Rollie interrupted. “The fire wasn’t an accident.” Into the silence that followed, he added, “The cottage was torched with kerosene.”

  “Maybe he was cleaning the outboard,” Tam started to say.

  “And it was stuffed full of combustible stuff �
� mostly dry branches – to make it burn better.” Rollie looked into the eyes across the table and took another cookie.

  “The fire marshal told you this?”

  “When I ran over this morning, I could smell the kerosene, and the doors were locked. Paul never locked his doors. But I could see the place was full of branches. Right full.” He spread his hands wide.

  “He killed himself?” Kimberly whispered.

  There was a long pause as Rollie got more coffee and returned to the table. He poured some for Tam. “I was up this morning before dawn to go to the can. There was a full moon, and I looked out the window. I thought I saw a canoe leave Paul’s place.”

  “Oh.” Tam looked down at the table.

  “I don’t think they’ve found any bones yet, although the investigators are coming tomorrow. The fire marshal thinks the fire was hot enough that they might find nothing but teeth. But I looked where the shed had been, and there were no metal pieces from the canoe there.”

  “Why would he set a fire and leave?” Kimberly asked.

  Tam answered. “He was dying. Is dying. It’s going to be painful, and might take a month or more, he told me.” She glanced at Rollie. “He’s probably gone off to die a little faster out there somewhere.”

  “Holy shit?” the student said. She looked up at the raised eyebrows around the table, then told them about her encounter on the lake. “That might have been him throwing up out there. Are you going to tell the police?”

  “Not yet,” Rollie said. “I might be wrong. “And even if I’m right, he was a friend. He wants to go out and die by Pine Lake, I think he should have the chance.” He scratched his nose nervously and stared at the table. “He’ll get a day or two head start, if he’s lucky.” He made a two-fingered smoking-a-cigarette gesture to Tam, then went outside, Hank Dayton the cat following.

  “Pine Lake? I’m going to Pine Lake.” Kimberly looked around as if there were ghosts in the walls. “I mean that’s where I was planning to camp tonight.”

  “I wish you would,” Tam said. “If he’s out there I’d be happier if he wasn’t alone.” She turned away and touched both eyes with the tips of her fingers.

  They could hear Paul’s cat meowing at Rollie.

  ****

  Long Lake. Day after Fire Day. October 3.

  The next evening, when Tam returned from work, the fire investigators were still sifting through the ashes. By the time she’d spoken to him and started supper, Rollie got home.

  Ten minutes later a green Cavalier edged its way down the road. The man talked to an investigator, then tapped on Tam’s door and presented a business card that identified him as Peter Finer, Reporter and Journalist. He stood with his hands on his hips, like the Marlboro man or somebody who’d just won a gunfight.

  She hesitated a moment, then invited him in.

  ****

  Summary of the Story to This Point

  At this point, it is the day after the fire of October 2nd in which Paul Gottsen, writer, torched his cottage home on Long Lake. He’s dying anyway, and would prefer to do so out on Pine Lake (which is just the other side of Sparkler Lake.

  He believes (correctly) that people will assume he died in the fire, so nobody’s likely to come looking for him. However, his neighbour, Rollie, saw Paul slipping away in the moon light by canoe. Paul’s words are as spoken into a recorder at the time.

  Kimberly, a university student, arrived to interview Paul, but he was gone before she got to his cottage. Rollie and Tam (Paul’s neighbours) sent her after the writer. Her notes are as emailed to herself or texted to a friend. Her essay on Paul’s Naked Man with a Bible, however, was written months after these events.

  Peter Finer, a newspaper reporter, arrived the next day. His writings are from a book published almost a year after the fire.

  A character known to locals as “Mad Tom” has been living in the forest in the area for a couple of years. He’s avoided people except for Paul in that time. He writes into his diary every day.

  Please note: On October 2, Paul crosses the hills to Pine Lake. Kimberley follows the same day. But Peter Finer, the journalist, doesn’t get to the lakes until a day later, October 3. Parts of the story that include Peter are out-of-sequence in this story, so pay attention to the headers, or you may become confused.

  ****

  The Cottage, Long Lake. October 3.

  A mound of ashes that once was a home is a hole in the world.

  Peter, Tam, and Rollie could not see the former home of Paul Gottsen, but the smell hung in the still late afternoon air. Rollie told Peter all about the fire, including Kimberley’s part and the suspicions of the fire marshal.

  Peter Finer could see journalism awards sneaking through the woods towards his mantle, but he tilted his head to one side and frowned.

  “You think Gottsen – Paul – took his own life? Torched himself like some… Viking chief or something?” The reporter took another couple of cookies and poured himself more coffee. He smiled at Tam.

  “I – we – knew Paul pretty well”, Tam said. “We liked him. He had a lot of heartaches that he couldn’t work out”. She paused to look at Rollie.

  “Well, the general consensus is that he was so, ah, annoyed at the bad reception that Stolen Rain got, that he took himself away from the literary world – I know them bastards; can’t blame him – and now they’ll think he finally did the Hemingway thing and killed himself.” Peter Finer, who wanted to be more of a writer, leaned back with his eyebrows up.

  “I lived beside Paul for over six years,” Rollie said, leaning across the table towards Peter, “and I can tell you he was pissed off all that time. But never seriously depressed about it.”

  “Then why would he kill himself?”

  “He didn’t have to kill himself.” Tam spoke really quietly.

  “How so?”

  She stared out the door towards the ashes. “His medical diagnosis. He had another couple of weeks, maybe a month, of useful life left. Got that from some doctors in Toronto, Mount Sinai hospital. Then he’d lose control over his body very quickly.” She contemplated her tea. “He’d have been a vegetable pretty soon.”

  “He never sounded like the kind of guy who would take well to being dependent on others.”

  “He wasn’t,” Rollie said. “And it was going to be rather painful, too. So they said.” He clenched his teeth and looked at the lake, his arms crossed tight.

  Peter nodded his head, and took another sandwich. “I might have done the same myself, in that case.”

  Rollie was looking at Tam. “We liked Paul,” he repeated. “He was a friend.”

  “Tell him, then,” Tam said, looking away, and just a bit angry. “Tell him what you think.” She got up to run some water into the dish sink, her whole body stiff.

  “It’s not what he’d want,” Rollie said. “We know that.” He chopped one hand in the air, changed the gesture to a fist, then stuffed the hand behind him.

  “If you’re right,” Tam said back, “then he shouldn’t die alone. No matter what he wants.”

  “What about the girl?” Rollie asked. “What about her?”

  “She might not find him. She doesn’t know these lakes. She hasn’t lived enough.” She stared, trembling, at her husband of three years.

  Rollie turned towards a totally confused Peter. His hands moved aimlessly for a moment. “There’s a chance Paul wasn’t in the cabin. I think he might have gone over to Pine Lake to die. I might have seen him.”

  Peter Finer was speechless. He could now see himself signing books, sometime in the future. “You did?”

  “I might have. They haven’t found a body yet. In the ashes. I didn’t find any parts of his canoe. I think I saw him leave in the dark. I’m not sure.”

  “And that girl, what’s her name, went that way?”

  “We told her. I told her to go to Pine Lake. I think that’s where he would have gone to die alone.”

  “Nobody should die alone,” Tam
said. “Not even if he wants to.”

  “That’s right,” Rollie said. “Paul shouldn’t die alone.”

  “Why are you telling me?” The journalist shook his head and knitted his brows, but didn’t stop looking at Rollie.

  “She’s been gone a since yesterday, and I’m starting to think she was too young to do this.”

  “Well….” Peter was trying to think of a way to get out there. He concentrated on the cookies and put his hands onto the table to hold them steady.

  “If you want to borrow our canoe, we’ll lend you some camping gear. Tam can make up some sandwiches.”

  ****

  Mad Tom’s Diary

  I should hear the Old Fart in the winds and in the waters that slap the shore. But He can’t exist, He won’t exist. He should exist; the universe needs a Great Clown.

  I’ve looked for the truth in the ways of all flesh in the carousels of my years and it seems there can be none. No angels come to call me home; no angels in the morning mist; no angels in the darkest night. On the forest’s dark floor I found no footprints but my own and those of the little animals. Could there be a God so small He leaves no footprints when the smallest mouseprints are so clear? No angels call me.

  And I become the clown. I fear I am become the clown.

  O Jesus let it not be me who made me the clown.

  There is no God but vacuum and it sucks. I would kill him for not being, just for that one lonesome fact. He left no sign; he cannot be. The universe is more lonesome than I can stand. Nobody knows the difference between a prophet and a nutcase anymore and I walk the woods alone.

  I have stalked His tinsel-towered midway and found only coloured glass surrounding emptiness, the tawdry prize less than the offer from a Nigerian banker. The loneliness is my friend; the emptiness of the universe and the lizard of waiting death are the bells in my hat. I would kick his Holy Golden Balls if I could have but a moment alone with Him. He who does not exist.

  I ride his stupid carousel, grinding Hell out of my solitary thought. They say He spoke through the beards of old wise men, but all those are now scoops of dirt and dust in the westerlies and who therefore can believe a single word they said? The words of clowns, dancing on the backs of carousel horses.

  I have moved my home in this the third year of my wilderness. There were voices crying in the last place and they were all mine so I could not sleep there.