by Bill Turpin
“There’s no such thing as provincial security,” the City Editor says.
“There is if you’re in the loop,” Max says and disappears into his office.
The day’s off to a good start, he thinks.
1961
The Yellow Pencil of Doubt,
Second of Two Parts
MAX IS WATCHING the Canadiens on television with the Father the night before his confirmation as a United Church member. He suddenly remembers his sixth birthday, when God failed to arrange for his Sunday school pencil. He recounts the story, making sure there’s an edge to his voice.
“I’m not sure you’ve got the right interpretation when you say it means there’s no God,” the Father says.
Max has another problem: during his final Confirmation class, it emerged that the New Testament is supposed to be true. Max thinks the stories are clever, but they seem made-up to him. “I thought they were more parables,” he says.
Before his father can field that issue, Max produces another.
“What about Communion?” Max asks. “If Jesus and the Disciples drank wine at the Last Supper, why do we drink Welchade at Communion? And why do we want to drink someone’s blood?”
“We drink grape juice because United Church members are not supposed to drink alcohol, even though they do when they’re not in church,” the Father says. “It’s called hypocrisy — you say one thing and you do something different. And it’s not actual blood; it’s a symbol.”
“I thought it might be something like that. But if we can have Welchade instead of wine for Communion, why can’t we have Ritz crackers instead of bread that someone squeezed flat? And if grape juice and squeezed bread are symbols, doesn’t that mean we would drink Jesus’s blood and eat his flesh if we really could? I mean, the French kids actually believe that’s what they’re doing, like it’s some kind of magic. Does that mean they’re cannibals?”
“So,” the Father says, “I get 12 weeks of silence from you about Confirmation classes and, the night before the big day, with the whole family coming, you come up with this. Actually, including the pencil business, that’s six years of silence from you on your own religion.”
“I needed to think it over.”
The Father looks around to ensure they’re out of earshot. He scratches his head, then looks to the Habs for salvation, but the game’s in intermission.
“When you didn’t get your pencil, what did you think?”
“I thought the whole thing was just a bunch of bullshit,” Max says angrily.
“Watch your language. And what do you think now?”
“The same,” Max says. “And I don’t like making crappy plaster praying hands at Sunday school. That’s for morons.”
The Father sighs. “I guess we’re making progress. It took a war for me to figure it out, but you got it without firing a shot.”
“It?”
“Yeah. It is all a bunch of crap, Max.” The Father pulls his wallet from his back pocket and produces a five-dollar bill, a small fortune. “Here’s something for all the Confirmation classes you endured.”
“And I don’t have to say a bunch of things tomorrow that I don’t believe?”
Max’s father pulls out another five: “This five is yours if you do everything on cue tomorrow and look like you’re excited. It’s very important to your mother and her family.”
“You want me to lie in front of everybody?”
“Do it, and we’ll never bother you about going to church again.”
Max vows to himself that after tomorrow he will never again darken the doorway of a church.
1995
The Campaign:
"Pilot" Is "Plot" with an "I"
A private pilot from Maine whose engine failed over Nova Scotia says he owes his life to a runway under construction near Kejimkujik National Park.
The amateur aviator was certain he would crash into the woods when he spotted the runway, where he was able to land and repair the plain . . .
Coincidentally, Max is circling the typo when the City Editor, wearing a yoga outfit, walks into his office.
“I just got off the phone with some guy at the flying club. He says no way there’s a runway where that pilot says.”
“That’s because it’s new, right?”
“He says no. If there was a runway under construction, the flying club would know,” she says. “Apparently, pilots are big supporters of runways, so they’re consulted before one goes up.”
“It could be private.”
“Doesn’t matter. Their members are everywhere. They would know.”
The provincial election campaign is on and Max has 52 ridings to cover with fewer than 20 reporters, not to mention all the bullshit stories associated with the leaders’ race. He does not have the resources for a wild goose chase.
“Sorry,” he says. “No sale. Maybe after the election. Nobody’s available right now.”
“How about the News Weevil?”
Max is aghast. In this newsroom, calling in the News Weevil is the equivalent of diving off the edge of a quarry without checking the depth of the water below. You could get killed or have an invigorating swim, but once you jump your fate is out of your hands.
“Please, Max,” she says. “I’ll triple check everything he turns in.”
“Oh, I’m not worried about accuracy. It’s just that while getting the story he’ll find a way to piss off every cop, firefighter, widow and orphan in the province — did I ever tell you that on my second day here I had to take an angry call from Desmond Tutu’s office? I mean, we pissed off a living saint.”
“Max, you’ve mentioned that at almost every news meeting for the last 14 years,” she says.
“That’s a gross exaggeration. It was a very stressful incident, though.”
“But the Weevil was still in high school. Put it behind you, Chief. I swear, I’ll take care of every call before it gets to you.”
Solely because of the City Editor’s excellent instincts, Max approves taking on the News Weevil as a freelancer. The City Editor clasps her hands in front of her chest like she just got the best Barbie accessory ever, and almost skips out the door.
“Hey!” Max shouts. “Remember, if he fucks up, you wear the whole thing.”
“I know, I know!”
Of course, they both know who’ll really wear it.
“And don’t call me Chief!”
• • •
No one knows how the News Weevil got his name. The Proofreader thinks it’s because his ax-shaped head resembles Diaprepes abbreviates (citrus root weevil) and he once provided a picture to prove his point. Max thinks it’s because, if you find a weevil in your pantry, you might as well set the whole place on fire.
The Weevil was once assigned to write a story on the province’s progress against racism. In the process, he alienated minority leaders so much that Max had to convene a meeting with them with the help of mediator. But no one at the meeting could think of anything the Weevil said or did that would explain the problem. The mediator finally concluded that the Weevil’s eagerness and intensity were coming across as prosecutorial. The story was re-assigned and Max paid the mediator to coach the Weevil on his tone.
The Weevil is standing before Max now, his thin shoulders supporting two bags of hardware. He’s young — raw — and his face does in fact seem to terminate in a fine edge running from his forehead to his chin. Thick blond hair sprouts from the centre of his scalp like ornamental grass.
“A pilot let you take all that gear up with you?” Max says.
“Yeah, but I had to leave most of it in the rear compartment. That’s why I couldn’t call you.”
The gear includes two cameras, one of them a large-format Hasselblad, with two to four lenses for each.
“You don’t think the Hasselblad is over the top?”
The Weevil’s kitbags also contain a pager, walkie-talkie, light metre, range-finder, portable police scanner, waterproof pen and notebook, waterproof film canister, and a cellular telephone the size of an army surplus field radio.
Max wants to know what he found.
“Chief, it’s just a black strip at the edge of a circular clear cut. The pilot estimated the length at 8,000 feet — I’ll know for sure once I soup the shots from the Hasselblad because I know the altitude and the focal length of the lens, so then it’s easy to calculate . . .”
“Let’s cross that one when we come to it,” Max says. He begins herding the Weevil out of his office toward the darkroom.
“You’re right. Sorry about that. But 8,000 feet is longer than the Halifax airport. And here’s the thing: the pilot figures it’s only 50 feet wide.”
“So what?”
“Well, that’s really narrow.”
They’ve made it as far as the darkroom door.
“Hmm. What do you think it is, then?” Max asks.
“I think it’s the Hell’s Angels. They’re building a landing strip for drug shipments.”
Max points to the darkroom: “Well, we won’t know anything until you get your film souped.”
The Weevil pivots and is gone. Max turns to the City Editor. “I thought we agreed you would run interference for me.”
“Sorry about that, Chief,” she says, grinning evilly. “I thought I had him pinned down and then the Batphone rang.” The Batphone has a secret number that bypasses the Paper’s switchboard and goes straight to City Desk. It’s for important calls, newsroom staff only.
“Well, there really is a landing strip,” Max says. “The Weevil thinks it’s an airport for drugs.”
The City Editor snorts. “The mainland is bristling with defence radar. Why would you build a landing strip in the hope you can get past it when you have 4,500 miles of poorly guarded coastline to work with?”
Max smiles. “Maybe it’s for one huge shipment, like a 747. You unload it and get out before the cops arrive.”
“The wing span of a 747 is about 200 feet. How wide is the runway?”
“Okay, it might be a little narrow for that,” Max says. “Let him work on it, though.”
Max suspects that everyone, including him, is secretly fond of the News Weevil. He’s a comic-book expression of their inner news-geeks.
• • •
Max and the Wife are spooning contentedly in the marital bed. Max is considering whether to execute one of his masterful foreplay moves when the phone rings. Given the hour, it has to be a wrong number, a death, or the biggest news story in a generation. Heart thumping, Max grabs the phone.
“Chief?” a hushed voice says. “It’s me.” That would be the News Weevil.
“Why is it you?”
“I’ve been going over the Hasselblad photos and saw something I missed earlier.”
“Why are you whispering? Is the SS outside your door?”
The Weevil pays no attention and continues whispering. “Chief, you can see people on the runway.”
“You couldn’t see them with your eyes? I mean, you were in a Cessna, not a reconnaissance jet.”
“It was cramped in the passenger seat and it’s a big camera, so I kinda snapped the shutter without looking.”
“Okay, but so what?”
“Chief, the blow-ups show they had tools — they’re still building the thing.”
The Wife reaches behind her back and begins searching for something. She finds it. “Hmmm.”
“Can’t this wait ‘til tomorrow?” Max says.
“I don’t think so,” the Wife says.
“But Max, I thought you’d want to know right away,” the Weevil says. Max can tell his feelings are hurt again.
“Let’s deal with it tomorrow,” Max says.
“Okay, if you say so,” the Wife says.
“Not you,” Max says.
“What?” the Weevil says.
“First thing tomorrow,” Max says before hanging up.
“If not me, then who,” the Wife says, having managed to roll on top of Max without letting go of the object in her hand.
1995
Beloved Cleric Treated
to Scenic Tour
“HEY, MAX, HOW’S it goin’, eh? It’s been a long time.”
It’s the unmistakable Ottawa Valley accent of El Mago.
“It has,” Max says. “But I’ve been following your career closely ever since that day when you decided not to dump me in the ocean. How are you?”
“I’m doing great. There’s a lot of money in counter-terrorism and the future is very bright. You should join me here, Max. I’m expanding fast and I could use a guy like you.”
Max finds himself liking the prospect of money, and helping to catch bad guys would be good. But, then, El Mago himself is a bad guy.
“Bring your lovely wife, too,” El Mago says. “She’s an excellent writer. I could use her help writing proposals.”
Max says he’ll think about it, and turns the topic to Father Peter.
“Piece of cake, Max. Your city editor told me all about him.”
“She did?”
“She was very smooth. I couldn’t believe she got past the switchboard to me. Anyway, she told me the whole story.”
“She did?”
“Yes. Luckily I still have connections with my former colleagues in several countries and they had no trouble tracking him down. He’s already been for a helicopter ride.”
Max swallows hard as he pictures Father Peter rocketing into the ocean. His remorse is immediate and powerful. He has started a chain of events that resulted in the cruel death of someone he has never met. Sometimes, he says to himself, you’re just too smartass for your own good.
“Jesus,” he says. “I didn’t want him killed. I just wanted to know where he was.”
El Mago enjoys a hearty laugh. “That’s old school, Max. They just took him up over the jungle so he could see how big it is. It’s vast, eh?”
“Big-time. Not the ocean?”
“The jungle was closer. They took his clothes off, showed him how the helicopter door works and talked about all the animals there and how there wouldn’t be a trace of him left once the beasts found his body. They are confident he won’t be a problem anymore.”
El Mago gives Max the cleric’s phone number and predicts it will be a co-operative interview. He also passes along his colleagues’ gratitude for the tip, along with some of their names and numbers.
“It’s a get-out-of-jail-free card, Max, in case you return to your old beat. How did you wind up in Halifax, anyway?”
“I pissed somebody off.”
El Mago laughs again. “Imagine that! Anyway, come to London and make some real money.”
“I’m making good money,” Max protests.
“I am told you are making poor money, my friend, even for your business. Hasta la vista.”
PRIEST QUIETLY SHIPPED SOUTH AMID ABUSE ALLEGATIONS
A well-known Halifax area priest has been quietly moved to a remote mountain parish in South America after complaints of inappropriate behaviour involving altar boys.
The beloved “Father Peter”, also known as the “pop pastor” for the alcohol-free dances he organized for preteens, among other youth projects, expressed “deep regret” for his actions in an exclusive, detailed interview . . .
• • •
Max begins his day as usual, liste
ning to a litany of complaints from the dayside crew about nightside as he makes his way across the newsroom to his office.
O Max, nightside knows nothing about apostrophes.
Pray for us.
O Max, nightside screwed up my lead again.
Pray for us.
O Max, you won’t believe what Business has done.
Tell me it’s not actionable . . .
“Tell me it’s not actionable,” says Max.
“No. They screwed up the stocks pages again. Geez, you seem kinda jumpy.”
“You know I hate lawsuits before lunch,” he says.
Har-har.
“Any reaction?” Max asks the City Editor.
“A little,” she says. “The Cobra is bouncing off the walls. He told everyone who was here that this means the end of the paper and it’s your fault. Also, you’re an arrogant prick, blah-blah. Nothing new there. Oh, and clean out your desk, you’re fired.”
“The Archdiocese?”
“They’d like you to call,” she says, handing him a message slip. It’s from the Assistant.
Max steels himself for a blast, but the Assistant is icy-calm.
“You know, Max,” he says. “I told his Excellency I was pretty sure you would run that story, but I assumed one of your miscreant reporters would call him for comment first.”
Max knows that ethically he’s on swampy ground with that decision. He tries to block doubt from creeping into his voice.
“Normally, I would have done that,” he says. “But your boss would have called my publisher to have him kill the story. Now he’s just going to kill me.”
Max waits.
“You and all the other so-called journalists are nothing but snivelling shites,” the Assistant says, abandoning calm. “You love to talk about the public’s right to know and comforting the afflicted and all that crap. Well, it’s BULLSHIT! All BULLSHIT!” Max is certain he can hear the sound of spittle hitting the Assistant’s mouthpiece.