Condemned to Repeat

by Janice Macdonald

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  The next morning, Steve was still up and away before me, though my inner alarm clock woke me closer to my normal time. It was just as well, as I had a long day ahead of me. Besides, the phone would not stop ringing.

  The board meeting was to begin at seven. Marni had suggested we meet for supper at five. Steve had called right before Marni to tell me I was allowed to re-enter my apartment, so I figured I would do some cleaning at the apartment before joining her at the High Level Diner. I got ready for a day of grunt work, but packed my satchel full of the sort of talismans I needed to feel professional at the board meeting, along with the flash drive and the laptop the Widows had loaned me. As for a professional-looking outfit for later, I hoped there were some elements of my wardrobe passable for the meeting, and that not everything had been damaged by the intruders.

  I was in luck there. Though they had pulled and ripped clothing off the hangers in my closet, it was all in a pile on the floor below. I also had a box of winter clothing still under my bed, which I had been meaning to change out the week before but had been too lazy to do so. I left it where it was, so that I could clean up the feathers and detritus outside the closet first.

  The mess at Rutherford House had been nothing compared to this, but at least I was prepared for the pervasiveness of the fingerprint powder. “Experienced at crime scene cleanup” —another useful thing I could put on my resume. It took three hours of back-breaking, non-stop work, but by early afternoon I had nine black garbage bags filled and tied by the door, the floor scrubbed, and the laundry humming down the hall, and had called some rubbish removal workers to come and wrestle the broken chesterfield off to the dump. I had put some of my CDs back in their cases, setting aside a pile that seemed too scratched to save. I would test them when I wasn’t quite so fragile myself. Books had fared better, but only because most of them had been well-used by me already. It was hard to tell whether their spines were cracked due to being flung on the floor, or because they’d spent a week spread-eagled on the arm of a chair. I had gathered them up into piles, but was considering sorting them alphabetically since they were all in need of re-shelving anyhow.

  Although it didn’t seem as if I’d made much of a dent in things, barring removing most of the feathers and kapok, I decided to call a halt around three o’clock, since I needed to shower and change in time to meet up with Marni. The bathroom smelled strongly of the new soft plastic shower curtain I had hung earlier, which was just as well, because otherwise it would have reeked of bleach. I unwrapped a new bar of soap and hopped into the tub.

  I wasn’t sure how I felt about being back in the apartment. It was unnerving to be stuck behind the opaque shower curtain, for one thing. The curtain they’d slashed and tossed into the tub had been clear plastic with cartoon fish swimming across it, and my minor claustrophobia had been assuaged by being able to see out. This replacement had been purchased quickly at the Safeway, along with the bleach and rubber gloves, and grocery stores weren’t known for their home-decorative sensibilities.

  It wasn’t just the shower curtain, though. I had been edgy all morning, closing and locking the door every time I went out with the laundry basket just to head ten feet down the hall. A car revving on its way down the alley startled me as I washed dishes, causing me to gouge my hand with a potato peeler. This ground-level apartment was not a secure place, and it had been violated. I knew I didn’t want to stay here on my own tonight. I wondered if and when I was going to get over that feeling.

  I dressed as well as I could for the board meeting. A blue trouser suit with just a thin thread of pinstripe hinted at, a rust tank top with a touch of lace at the hem, and an orange, brown, and blue scarf tied loosely around my neck made me feel businesslike and mature, which I would have to be to sway any naysayers on the board. I wasn’t sure how many people would be there this evening and, of those who showed up, how many were opposed to the website project. Still, armour was useful for building self-confidence and deflecting all but the most singular attacks. And boy did I need some confidence.

  Marni was already at the restaurant when I got there, which wasn’t much of a surprise since I had gone back to the apartment twice to make sure all the window latches were secured and that the front foyer door was pulled tight and locked. She waved at me from her table by the east window.

  I sat down heavily, realizing in that way one does only after finishing a task that I hadn’t stopped in too long. Marni lifted her eyebrows.

  “Hard day?”

  “Hard couple of days.” I filled her in on the break-in at my apartment and my efforts of the day.

  “God. Are you going to stay there tonight? Or are you still dealing with the cleanup?”

  “I have to buy a new mattress before I can actually stay there again. They slashed up both my sofa and bed. The box spring is still okay, but I’m not sure they sell those separately.”

  “Have you considered one of those daybeds, the sort that pull out to a full-sized bed?”

  “I’m not entirely sure there would be room to pull it out to full size in that room,” I laughed. “I honestly have no idea what they were thinking when they built those apartments. The ones in the front are bigger, and the rooms are proportionately larger all round. Then you get in the back six apartments, and it’s as if they decided they’d be housing skinny spinsters.”

  “Well, some of those daybeds have drawers underneath them, meaning you wouldn’t necessarily need a dresser in the room. That might make the footprint a bit smaller.” Marni obviously knew her Swedish furniture.

  I shrugged.

  “I am still not certain I will ever feel comfortable staying there again. What wasn’t vandalized was stolen. I might move.”

  Marni look concerned but not surprised.

  “You might want to visit a counsellor, just for a session or two, you know. I’ve read that the violation felt by this sort of invasion can be pretty devastating if you don’t tackle it.”

  “I might,” I said, picking up my menu. “I am so lucky to have Steve to turn to in situations like this. He says I can stay with him as long as I want, which is not exactly the way I wanted us to move in together, but for the moment I am extremely grateful.”

  The waitress arrived to take our orders. While I was longing to order an alcoholic ginger beer, I figured it would be best to have my wits about me this evening, so I asked for a large glass of water with an order of their black bean chili. Marni opted for their veggie burger, saying she was a sucker for their homemade relish and ketchup. After we placed our orders, she excused herself to use the washroom, and I took an opportunity to check out the new artwork hanging about the restaurant.

  An artist with a bold eye for colour and line had created a series of architectural studies of Edmonton. I was especially taken with an entry to the High Level Bridge on a narrow, wide canvas. A series of stained glass pieces hung from the middle beam of the restaurant, creating a glittery half-wall between the tables on either side. The waitress brought my water and Marni’s coffee just as Marni reappeared.

  “So, I gather we have a mock-up presentation for this evening to show the board, anyhow, right? The robbers didn’t get that, as well?”

  I shook my head.

  “No, they didn’t get that. Hard to steal something off an intranet. I have a link to the site I can open, and we can present to them if you have the technology.” We discussed the various ways we could provide the best means of showing the website to the board to gain their buy-in to the project. While some of them were older, this didn’t necessarily mean they were unversed in computer usage. On the other hand, the fear of looking awkward might set them against the site if they were asked to reveal their less-than-stellar skills in front of the others.

  Marni suggested that I link her laptop to the projector in order to show the overall site to the board as a whole, and that we could set my loaner from the Widows up on the sideboard for individual members to tap on for a one-on-one experience. />
  It should work. I was still worried about the antagonism to the project from Greta Larsen, and asked Marni if she thought it had spread to others.

  “From what I can tell, most of the folks are not against the idea of a website or of attracting more traffic to the House. There is a quirk in some historic boards and societies, though, which is the hope to gain funding to preserve a place or artifacts but not allow access to the general public. That’s a tendency I keep having to fight against here to greater or lesser extents.”

  “You sure you don’t mean Greta or lesser extents?” I grimaced and Marni laughed.

  “Finding that happy medium between preservation and education is what we’re all about. And for the most part, this board feels that way. However, there are two or three people who value peace and tranquillity more than rubies, and they will bend to the path of least resistance in order to prevent any disagreements on the board.”

  “And how do you approach them? Do they side with the person being an oasis of calm, or do they vote with the louder, abrasive person in order to placate her and bring back the calm?”

  Marni laughed. “There’s the million-dollar question. Good luck figuring that one out tonight!”

  Just then our food came, and I realized as the aromas wafted under my nose how hungry I really was. I pushed aside the cilantro garnishing the swirl of chili, guacamole, and sour cream, and stirred the cheese into the beans. Alternating bites of toasted cornbread with big spoonfuls of chili, I nodded appreciatively to the waitress and then to Marni, who was attacking her burger and home-cut fries with equal gusto.

  The restaurant had filled up while we were eating, and after paying the bill, we edged along a substantial line of people waiting to get in. The Diner didn’t take reservations, and people obediently lined up for the chance of eating there. More original art hung along the line-up wall, and several local entertainment newspapers and brochures were stacked near the door. I nabbed a small, folded version of the Nightlife poster that showed concerts and plays a month in advance.

  Once we were on the sidewalk, we turned left and took the sidewalk hidden from the High Level Bridge traffic by the large caragana hedges still in full leaf. In just another month, they too would be bare, though still thick enough that an observant driver would only catch a glimpse of a colourful parka, unable to discern who was walking there.

  The sidewalk met up with the stairs from the bridge, which opened onto the keyhole start of Saskatchewan Drive as it wound down along the campus. A block of private residential houses led to a block of university-owned buildings, ending with my old office from my teaching assistant days. We crossed the street and strolled along the side of the Humanities Building and there, in the setting sun, was Rutherford House, gleaming.

  “It must have been amazing to see it here, before the Tory Building or Bio Sciences were ever built, standing on its own on the side of the river valley. I mean, I know that there were houses along here where Humanities now sits, but they were double lots and wider apart.”

  “Yes, if you walk along the HUB parking lot a block south of here, you can still see the stairs going up to the individual paths for the houses that used to be there, and they’re farther apart by far than houses sit today. When it was being built, of course, the thought was that it would eventually become the premier’s home, looking across the river at the Legislature, each building majestically claiming a bank. But by the time it was done, Rutherford was no longer premier, and he had turned to the university as his major interest.”

  By this time, Marni had unlocked the front doors. We had a half-hour head start on the earliest bird of the board, but she had already set up the dining-room table with pens and blotting pads at each place, so that no one would scratch the oak. I busied myself by plugging in her laptop where she suggested and opening up the projection screen at one end of the room, while Marni went off to get water pitchers and glasses for the centre of the table.

  I counted eleven places, and wondered if Marni had heard whether all the board would be there. If the chair didn’t vote, and two of those places were for Marni and me, that mean that I had to persuade at least five people to continue to support my livelihood this evening. I wasn’t fooling myself that I could win over Greta Larsen; whatever bee she had in her bonnet had already poisoned her against my endeavours. What I had to hope for was that her way of thinking wasn’t contagious.

  I logged onto the Black Widow site and entered my client number into the password box. The splash page bounced up. I hit pause and then maneuvered the timer back so that when I hit the return button, the board would have the full experience of entering the Rutherford House site. Our theory was that, after the meeting, board members who wanted to play with the site could do so on Marni’s laptop or mine, individually.

  Marni had everything set up and was wiping her hands on the sides of her black-and-grey shift dress as the bell signalling the opening of the front door sounded. She smiled at me with a forced gaiety.

  “It’s showtime,” she whispered, and headed out to the foyer to greet the first board member.

  I positioned myself in the back corner of the room, as far from the head of the table as it was possible to be. I didn’t expect to be sitting at the table itself, but Marni had insisted. Still, I didn’t want to be conspicuous. I would be on the block enough this evening as it was.

  People streamed in, greeting each other with familiar pleasantries. It was hard to tell how well anyone knew each other, if they socialized outside this connection or whether they were united only in this context. All of them were polite but slightly puzzled by my presence, so I figured they had all been on the board long enough to know each other by sight. Marni stood in the doorway from the lobby, like a gracious hostess. Greta Larsen came in, glowered at me, and took a seat close to the front, leaving the end seat vacant, presumably for the board chair. He soon arrived, and the air in the room got a little bit more oxygenated.

  Walter Karras had retired from public service years ago, but was still doing his part for the province he loved. He had been the Deputy Minister for Culture back in the halcyon days when the government had recognized the value in supporting the arts. Film production money had flooded in, with everyone from Richard Donner to Ang Lee taking advantage of Alberta vistas. Artists and writers were supported with seed grants, historic sites were saved and sustained, and museums and festivals were born and flourished. Mr. Karras had a park and a theatre named after him, his portrait hung in bronze on the “culture wall of fame” in the Citadel Theatre foyer, and he and his wife were ambassadors for several charitable foundations.

  I had not been aware he was the chair of the Rutherford House foundation till I had begun this project, but I wasn’t in the least surprised. I just wished he, as chair, could have a vote in what happened tonight. He was renowned as a fair-minded and forward-thinking person. I couldn’t imagine him not being in favour of a website celebrating the centennial of the House and luring people to learn more about our history and artifacts. However, unless it was a dead-heat tie, the chair did not cast a vote.

  When the entire board was seated, water glasses poured and clinking with ice, Mr. Karras cleared his throat and brought the meeting to order. The agenda had been emailed to everyone prior, and they each brought a binder or notebook computer along, complete with their own set of minutes from the previous meeting and agenda. This was looking better. Not a single Luddite among them. I wouldn’t have to argue against those who were still pretty sure this whole Internet thing was just a fad that would blow over soon enough.

  The meeting ticked right along, and I watched with admiration as Mr. Karras managed to keep people on track while allowing everyone his or her say. It was a masterful talent at work. My project was number six on the agenda, right before new business, but the discussion of the possibility of a new boiler utilizing the present duct system took no time at all, as did the reflection that hollyhocks for the side bed, while accurate to the time, would not h
ave been indicative of Mattie Rutherford’s own personal style. Lilies of the valley were approved for the front beds as being both representative of the time and adaptable to a north-facing garden. One of the women brought up the fact that their leaves were poisonous but this was shot down by a younger man who maintained that it was the personal responsibility of parents to keep their children from gnawing on foliage in public places. I snorted at the image, but while Mr. Karras twinkled his eyes at me from the end of the table, no one else, even the man who had said it, seemed amused. I shut up quickly and looked down at my notes.

  In no time at all, it was my turn. Mr. Karras introduced the item on the agenda, smoothly overriding Greta Larsen, who seemed about to speak, by handing off the point to Marni.

  Marni stood and walked to the sideboard, where we had positioned her computer that I had synched up to the projector.

  “As part of the centennial celebrations, and in a bid to position Rutherford House as a prime destination when making tourism decisions, we have commissioned a website project that will highlight both the personal and social history, as well as the architectural interest in Rutherford House. To that end, we have hired Randy Craig as the researcher/writer/designer for the project. We are presently at the midway point of the project and hadn’t anticipated requiring a mock-up of the site, but Randy has kindly provided us with a sense of where the initiative is going, to answer questions brought by individual board members regarding the need for the project.”

  She didn’t look in Greta Larsen’s direction, but I noticed that two or three people around the table couldn’t help but do so. I wondered if they were cowed enough by her negativity to vote with her, or whether Marni and I would be able to somehow persuade them to hold their ground against the woman I was beginning to think of as an evil fairy.

  “Rutherford House holds such a special place in our collective conscience, which is represented by its ties to the City, the Province, and the University. What we hope to show through this interactive website is the place it holds for all walks of Alberta life, whether or not we are concerned with the preservation of history or connected somehow to the Rutherford family themselves. We want to show how Rutherford House should matter to all of us.” And with that she hit the “return” key.