Hardly Working

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“Get in, girls,” ordered Lisa. “It’s already going to be hell finding parking.”

The van wheezed into gear and coughed and spat all the way up West Fourth. I was in the back, and Cleo, up in the passenger seat, turned back to face me. Over the sound of the engine, she said, “This apartment is definitely a step up from your last.”

“Ten steps,” I mumbled.

“I remember Dinah’s last place well,” said Lisa.

“It could have housed morgue overflow,” said Cleo.

“It wasn’t that cold,” I protested.

“No? You didn’t notice my fingers turning blue from hypothermia whenever I came to visit you? And those clog dancers living overhead were amazing.”

“The upstairs tenants were a little noisy.”

“Your landlord had a nerve. Calling it a basement suite,” Cleo said. “It was a bunker. It was almost completely underground.”

“It was a bit dark,” I admitted. I didn’t tell them that it had been so dark that once during a power failure, I thought I’d gone blind. My only consolation in that moment was the possibility of expanding my love life to include ugly men with beautiful voices.

“If you can just get those last few boxes unpacked, you’ll be all set,” said Lisa.

It was a very big if.

We rode along in silence for a while. Then I said what we’d all been thinking. “I sure hope nobody finks on us.”

“It was a previous commitment,” said Lisa. “If it gets back to Trutch we’ll just tell him that protests like this are part of Green World’s constitution.” She made a fast turn and came to a screeching halt.

“Stanley Park?” Cleo raised her eyebrows.

“This is it,” said Lisa. “This is our destination.”

I was confused. I’d been expecting a long ride into an immense dark rain forest.

“Douglas firs. And not just one but four,” said Lisa. “They’re saying that they’re diseased, but it’s pure propaganda….”

I laughed.

“Okay. Let’s go,” sighed Cleo, and climbed down from the van.

Lisa bulldozed ahead of us. “It’s not far from here.”

I grabbed my knapsack and we followed, almost running to keep up.

When we reached the site, it was deserted.

Lisa stood immobile. “Oh my God.”

“We obviously have the wrong day.” Cleo looked a little relieved.

Lisa was close to tears. “We’re too late.”

The freshly cut naked stumps of four huge Douglas firs made us all feel cheated. A couple of minutes passed before we could hear a strange low hum coming from Lisa.

“What’s she doing?” whispered Cleo.

“Singing, I think.”

We decided it was better to leave Lisa alone with her grief. It was the first time I’d ever heard a hymn for a dead tree. When she was finished mourning, I held up my knapsack and said, “Now girls, come over here. I have something to show you. You have to know that I do not like to miss an opportunity. While my mother thinks that a field or a forest or a beach is a place where animals and insects regenerate the species, I happen to think that it’s a nice place for a picnic.” I unzipped my deluxe knapsack to reveal plates and glasses, bread and cheeses, and a bottle of chilled white wine. “I came prepared for any eventuality. It’s a beautiful day. Let’s make the most of it.”

“Right on,” said Lisa.

We chose a section of beach just beyond the seawall and were just polishing off the bottle of wine when a man’s voice called across to us, “Dinah? Dinah Nichols?”

I hit the ground like an infantryman under attack. “Who is it?” I hissed to Cleo.

“Big-time corporate donor,” she hissed back.

I eased up slowly, and when I saw who it was, uttered, “Tod.”

He was dressed in jogging clothes and dripping with sweat. He looked less jaunty than usual. Unsmiling. “What a stroke of luck. I tried calling you at work but you weren’t there.”

“You did? Uh…”

“We have to talk. My place? Around four? It’s important.” Without waiting for my answer, he turned and jogged away.

Lisa dropped me off at my car and I drove to Halliwell the printer’s. I pushed open the door. The shop seemed deserted. “Anybody here?”

Halliwell’s voice came from a distance. “Downstairs.”

I descended the narrow wooden steps and called out, “Mr. Halliwell?”

He was standing at a press, watching the paper pile up, and didn’t bother to look up at me. He was tall and scrawny, more of a ghost than a man. Every word he spoke came out in a slow drawling taunt. “Well, I’ll be damned. Miss Nichols in person. I feel privileged.”

“Don’t I always come in person?”

“When I called your office to let you know the brochures were ready, they told me you were out and didn’t know when you’d be back. Tough job, eh?” He made the huge effort of looking at me from under one eyebrow.

“Fieldwork,” I said.

He took a few leisurely steps toward me, plucked a piece of dried seaweed from my hair and held it in front of my eyes. “Gives fieldwork a whole new definition.”

“Well…uh…we are an ecological organization, Mr. Halliwell. We actually get out there and check up on the ecology.”

“I can see you’re really making…head way. Get it?”

“Can I see the brochures, please?”

“Over here.” He oozed over to some shelves and picked up a pile of glossy green-and-white papers. “Still have to be folded.”