Gus Dupin, walking through the stillness of Stony Lake in the growing night, recognized the elegant motor launch pulling up to his dock. A girl in a bright yellow dress jumped up and ran to her mailbox, dropping an envelope before running back. As she waded out into the lake, she yelled “an honest letter to God” over her shoulder.
Gus Dupin was not used to receiving letters or messages of any kind. His cabin lacked Internet connection and phone service, and that was exactly how he liked it. He had retired to Stony Lake to escape the responsibilities of his job as a professor of crime and cyber fiction at the University of Toronto and the throes of her recent divorce from him. Then, as he watched the motorboat carve the water in fine white curves, the filament of human contact receding across the lake, the disappearing craft evoked trepidation and excitement in equal measure.
The envelope smelled slightly sweet and pleasant, and the edges were ragged and uneven. Inside, the invitation was handwritten; the thick, luxurious, handmade paper.
It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of Peggy Firmin, whose contributions to literature have left an indelible mark on the hearts and minds of readers around the world.
As a token of our respect and admiration for his life and work, we cordially invite you to join us in paying our final respects at his funeral, which will take place on August 21 at 17 Colonel Road, Toronto, Ontario. Canada.
There are no black clothes or gloomy faces here. This is a celebration of life, an intimate affair. Peggy Firmin will be presenting her own eulogy, so you know it’s going to be good. Only a select few have been invited. RSVP
For a moment, his mind was blank, Gus couldn’t understand how to feel. He was a Peggy Firmin scholar, but he had been so secluded in her cabin that he had not heard the news of her passing. Learning of Peggy Firmin’s death was like learning of the death of a former lover of hers. It was like the closing of a great restaurant in a city where he lived.
Every year Gus would give a lecture about his work to a new group of students at the university. He had even written a book about his novel, God, Inc. But Gus had never met Peggy Firmin. He would never have dreamed of being invited to her funeral.
He wondered what the invitation of Peggy Firmin giving her own eulogy meant. It wasn’t the first time he’d wondered what Peggy Firmin meant.
Gus used to enjoy the loneliness of being disconnected from the internet and telephone. Suddenly he craved news. So the next morning, he drove his Boston Whaler across Stony Lake, enjoying its smooth surface as the warm sun shone down and the gentle breeze cooled him. His pocket began to buzz: Gus’s phone buzzed every time he went through the line where his phone service was reconnected.
He entered the marina and headed for the Regency Café, which was already packed. With their faces glued to their phones, the peasants barely noticed the white clouds drifting overhead or the acrid aroma of the placid lake water, absorbed in their own bubbles of private information.
Gus sat in a booth, flipped open his phone, and read the first notice that came up when he searched for “Peggy Firmin,” a piece of PC24.
Canadian literary icon Peggy Firmin was found shot to death on a bridge on the Leslie Street Spit, a wilderness area on Toronto’s East Side, on August 14. The location was so remote that there were no witnesses to the crime. Toronto police are treating the incident as a homicide.
According to sources close to the investigation, Firmin was shot in the right temple. No weapons were recovered at the scene. Firmín’s lifeless body was discovered by a group of cyclists at dawn on August 14.
A prominent and influential figure in Canadian literature, Firmin’s sudden and violent death has shocked the nation’s literary community. His agent, Beverly Bookman, issued a statement: “We have no comment to make at this time. The apparent murder of Peggy Firmin should horrify anyone who cares about language.”
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