Trial of Passion by William Deverell

eh?”
    He slaps the hood of an elderly Dodge pickup that sits beside his workshop.
    â€œIt’s gotta new engine. Well, sorta reconditioned.”
    The beast is painted purple where the rust doesn’t show through. The passenger door is held closed by a rope. The windshield is decorated with a large spiderweb crack. It is a fine traditional vehicle ofGaribaldi Island. I will not be ashamed to drive it.
    The engine starts with a throaty, mufferless growl, and I take to the road, riding high and proud upon the truck’s springy seat, and I wind down the country roads to the general store.
    â€œPostcard here from a lady friend of yours working at the opera in Seattle,” says Mr. Makepeace, the postmaster. A photograph of Mount Rainier. A scrawled sentence or two from Annabelle, telling me she is swamped by her work, but enjoying herself. “Warmly yours, Annabelle.” Warmly yours. How passionate, how wanton. Was it too difficult to telephone?
    â€œAnd Margaret Blake dropped off this double-registered for you. Summons from Small Claims Court. Over that pig you hit.”
    George Rimbold arrives at my house at five a.m. and is surprised to see I am ready — a Thermos of coffee at hand, armed with pole and line, ready to do battle with the cunning codfish. “That’s the spirit, old son,” he says. “You’ve got to get them when they’re hungry. Are you joining the club?”
    â€œThe club?”
    â€œYou look to be growing a beard.” Rimbold strokes his own beard, grey and stringy beneath his thin face.
    I ponder this. “I’m not sure . . . well, yes, I think I am.” Do I not recall artistic Annabelle giving her blessings to this hair-raising project? I, Beauchamp, who have never spent two continuous days without shaving, now wear an itchy symbol of my new-found freedom. “I see you are healing, George.”
    He is no longer encumbered with an arm sling, and his head bandages have been removed.
    â€œTo be sure, I have felt the touch of Jesus, and cast away my dressings.”
    At the dock, he looks at his former boat with such melancholy that I am racked with guilt. But he insists that I pilot the craft and directsme out to the middle of the bay. There are reefs below us here, he says, good fishing grounds.
    The engine is stilled and we drift, and Rimbold teaches me the simple tasks of jigging for cod. The air is cool, but our bodies are warmed by cigarettes and coffee, and by the first rays of a sun approaching the solstice.
    I am curious about the history of my companion, but too polite to broach the subject. A former priest: a plunging leap from grace?
    After a while, Rimbold pulls a plastic bag from his pocket.
    â€œWould you be liking a little puff of this?” he says, crumbling a small dried portion of green plant material into a cigarette paper.
    â€œGeorge, I am shocked beyond words.”
    â€œLast summer’s crop, lost some potency, I’m afraid. It’s grown all over the island, Arthur. Biggest industry here, actually.”
    I turn down his offer, but watch fascinated as he expands his lungs with smoke and holds it in for at least half a minute, then coughs a little.
    â€œGaribaldi Gold, they call this. Hard on the lungs, but easy on the soul. Or what remains of my soul. Still, I’ve read nothing in the scriptures about pot.” He becomes garrulous. “Not on the list. ’Thou shalt not covet thy neighbour’s wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass.’ I coveted my neighbour’s ass — that was my sin.”
    He does not elaborate. One must assume he refers to an episode with one of his female parishioners. He is thoughtful for a moment, rhythmically bobbing his fishing rod.
    â€œWhat matter, I was losing my faith anyway. It is far easier not to believe. And I am one for the easy road. Ah, there’s nothing better to be doing than to laze about with a