The Mural Gazer

Introduction

Buddy Hope tried to ignore the yellow footprints stencilled onto the sidewalks of Chemainus. He snorted and made a snide remark about gimmickry, and the forensic evidence of mass stupidity.

Nobody heard him. That didn't matter. Even if his disdain proved how sophisticated and smart he might be, it couldn't prove it in a way that made any difference, nor could it weaken the psychic undercurrents determining his state of mind. I'm screwed, he tried not to think. He was so preoccupied with avoidance that he barely noticed the famed wall paintings that have given Mural Town its name. Focus on practicalities, he recited his mantra. Like where am I going to live? And how? Don't ask the why questions. Don't go there!

It wasn't his first visit to Chemainus. He, Leanne and the kids had detoured down Henry Road, off the Trans-Canada Highway, once before – must have been fifteen years ago. They had fun, the kids taking adult strides and laughing as they raced from one mural to the next, following in the yellow footsteps. They had indulged in ice cream, which was another specialty of the place; taken pictures of each other, posed in front of the wall paintings; had a bite to eat at the Willow Café; then carried on up-Island. Memories of that day were preserved somewhere in the family albums – forensic evidence of a different sort.

This time Buddy was on his own, and in no mood to play tourist. Alone, he figured, letting the word expand in consciousness so he could examine its true dimensions, might be my new normal. He wouldn't be surprised to discover, at some future date, that Leanne had peeled the pictures of their happier times out of the family annals and ripped them up - at least any that he showed up in. Hell hath no fury that compares to hers, he figured. She could fry the devil himself in the fierce acetylene torch of her anger. He imagined Satan crumpling like an insect under a magnifying glass... an exaggeration, perhaps, but not by much.

Maybe he was being unfair, but it was no time for ceding ground. He had wounds of his own to lick, wasn't ready for equanimity. Even if he deserved her condemnation, she had no right to dish it out. She was as much to blame as him... more to blame, he recalibrated.