The website opened with the sweep up toward the main steps of the House, after establishing the postcard-perfect front view. The front door opened and the computer stilled. Across the bottom of the screen appeared the words: Welcome to Rutherford House. At the foot of the open door appeared the word: Enter.
Marni beckoned to me.
“I would like to turn over this preview tour of the site to our researcher/coordinator for the virtual museum project, Randy Craig.” There was polite applause as I got up and went to take over the mouse from Marni. I smiled nervously at my small but important crowd. These people held my livelihood in their hands this evening.
“Good evening, folks. What you are seeing is a mock-up of the eventual site. There is still quite a long way to go to get all the information seeded and bells and whistles operating. That said, what we do have so far is a pretty fair rendition of where the project is headed.” I pointed at the screen at the end of the room. “This is the splash page. The viewer clicks the open door to enter and finds him- or herself in the foyer. It’s an intuitive approach tied to the physical reality of a tour of the House, which is the reason most people come to the site.”
I clicked Enter, and the screen dissolved into the foyer of the House, with the magnificent staircase as the focal point.
“However, here is where the choices of the site begin to happen. I didn’t want to limit the person coming to the site to be just looking for directions to us or to hours listed. Alternately, I didn’t want it to sit there as just a repository of data. In order to be useful and of additional value to the experience, a website needs to be kinetic, rather than static, and it has to be multi-faceted. So, we have a marriage of the two.”
I moved my cursor from left to right, showing how the view on screen did a 360-degree tour of the foyer.
“Click on any of the entries you pass in this circuit, and the screen will take you into that room. This is modelled on the principles of computer game movement, so it should be intuitive to the majority of viewers under the age of forty coming to the site. I am still determining whether or not to label this function for other visitors’ ease. As you can see, just a slight touch of the mouse or your laptop thumb pad would generate movement, so it wouldn’t take much for anyone to be conversant with the method.
“Meanwhile, at any time during our tour, there are ways to move out of the physical tour and into a more educational aspect.” I clicked on the picture of Premier Rutherford hanging in the study. The screen changed to a page with a lot more script, interspersed with photos from the Archives, detailing Alexander Rutherford’s biography.
“A back-click will take you back to the room you left to continue your tour, or you can always start at the beginning again, by clicking the little House in the top right of the screen. There are at least three Easter eggs, the term used for hidden information accessed by a click or a rollover, in each room. As well, if you roll over the stairs in the foyer, from top to bottom, you access the menu to all the paths.” I ran the mouse downward, revealing the scripts tidily written on the riser of each step.
There had been some oohing and aahing, and now I received a small burst of applause. This was going far better than I had feared, and Marni was beaming at me from the other end of the dining room.
“I also have a section built in for your board to use for your own convenience.” I clicked on the right newel post and a user ID box appeared. “Entering this restricted area, you can put up your mandate and vision documents, list your meetings, record and store your minutes, and set your upcoming agendas.”
Mr. Karras looked very impressed with this section, as did the woman next to him taking minutes. I was thinking I had things pretty well in the bag when I saw Greta Larsen move her hand up. I nodded to her cautiously.
“And where is the information most people would be coming for? The times the House is open to the public, the address, the parking information? It seems to me with all the fancy elements you’re playing with here, you’ve forgotten the essentials.”
Mutely, in the face of her obvious antagonism, I moved my mouse to the doorway, where a smiling, costumed Roxanne stood by the guest book. I clicked on the sign next to the guest book, and the dates, times, and applicable fees appeared. I clicked the guest book itself, and an online feedback box, with two or three questions that would net interesting demographic statistics, was found. I back-clicked and hit the 100th Anniversary sign that was framed and sitting on the shelf behind the table. This opened up to a full history of the House, with a timeline running along the left side of the essay you could scroll through. Hyperlinks in this essay stood out in blue, linking back to places in the virtual tour, essays specific to each person important to the House, and in some cases, to outside sources. Not all of these were active, as the site was still housed in the intranet sandbox of the Black Widows. I didn’t want to hover here overmuch, but felt it should be noted by those willing to vote with Greta Larsen that the ordinary aspects of a historic site website had not been ignored or overrun. Instead, we had incorporated them into a more dynamic design, which could add to the interest.
Greta Larsen looked nasty when thwarted. I had a feeling she wasn’t done yet. That sense of animosity made me stumble a bit over my next words, but I covered it with a cough.
“So there you have the sneak preview into the centennial site. I hope it excites you as much as it does me, and that you will continue to support this project. I think this effort will put Rutherford House solidly into the top ten things to see when coming to Edmonton, making it an easy sell for travel agencies, Travel Alberta representatives, and self-researching tourists. And of course, for those closer to home, this site will also highlight the Arbour Restaurant and Tea Room.” I clicked into the restaurant area, and then clicked on the menu in the server’s hand. Up came a list of dishes and prices, along with the hours of the tea room and telephone number for reservations.
“If we want, online reservation booking can be connected right here.”
Mr. Karras cleared his throat, which seemed to be his understated answer to using a gavel.
“Thank you, Randy, for a most informative tour of the site. I am very impressed with all the work you have done to date, as I am sure we all are. I also appreciate your putting this together ahead of time, to answer the questions of those of us who couldn’t quite imagine the scope of where you were taking the project. We will be discussing this further as a board, and will be getting back to you very shortly with our decisions about the future of the project.”
It was obvious that I was to be dismissed. Thankful that I hadn’t bothered to set up the laptop I’d brought, I headed to the back of the room to pick up my coat and satchel. Marni saw me to the door.
“I will call you with a full report later. I could tell they were very impressed.”
“But if Greta sways people to her side, I could be out of a job by the end of this meeting.”
Marni looked pensive. “I will remind them of the kill fee on the project. They would have to pay you for everything you had already completed, plus 20%, and have nothing to show for it. I don’t think most of them would like that, just to satisfy Greta. She still hasn’t made a case for why she doesn’t want Rutherford House to join the twenty-first century, either. Anyhow, don’t fret.”
28
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Marni promised to call any time before midnight, and I left for the bus terminal at the other end of HUB Mall. I was going back to Steve’s condo to await the results.
As I walked along the path outside the three-block-long covered mall and housing unit, I wondered what the heck I would do if the board decided to drop the project. When I had first come to this campus, I had been sure I was going to enter academe and come out the other side as part of the system, teaching undergraduates and writing thoughtful chapters about interesting research. It had looked like such a decent and satisfying world.
It still looked like that to me, though it was obviously not a world th
at wanted me as part of it. I had scrabbled to get sessional classes to teach, but the stress of never knowing how many courses you could count on, coupled with the lack of a pension or security, had worn me down. I had hoped that my last job would have been turned into a permanent position, but the Department of Ethnomusicology, which was housed across the quad I was passing, in the old Arts Building, had drawn in its horns and decided it couldn’t afford a permanent web researcher.
This gig for Rutherford House was a temporary and finite one; I had known that going into it. However, I couldn’t deny that I had been harbouring the sort of pipe dream that if it made a big enough splash, I could parlay that sort of success into a steady gig with either the university’s public relations department or the provincial government’s tourism section. Now, if that sour little bad fairy had her way, all my work to date, and all my chances of advancement, would be scuppered.
Once I made it to the bus line, I texted Steve, letting him know I was going to catch the bus to his place. He messaged back that he was en route, and why didn’t I wait in front of St. Stephen’s College where he would pick me up. I texted back my appreciation and headed around the corner to where he would be able to pull his car in and retrieve me.
Aside from Rutherford House, St. Stephen’s was the only other designated historic site found right on campus, though I seemed to recall that Emily Murphy’s house had a plaque on the outside and student housing on the inside. Between the two samples of nineteenth-century grandeur lay HUB, which embodied a late-twentieth-century idea of the future, the sort you see in Tom Baker-era Doctor Who shows. It was a wacky juxtaposition, but I sort of liked the jumble of buildings that comprised the U of A. I especially liked the dignity of St. Stephen’s College. While no tours ever took place there, the chapel in which Mr. Maitland’s funeral had been held was open to the public, and the two main floors of the building and the basement housed government offices.
The upper three floors were no longer accessible, I’d been told. Once upon a time they had been dormitory rooms for nurses and Methodist theologians, with a basketball court on the top floor, but apparently the government had determined it would be too costly to haul everyone out of the building to revamp all the floors, so instead the doors to the upper areas were locked and bolted.
I paced along in front of the green area, trying not to look like I was eager for a ride. Three taxis idled in line, and another car sat darkly at the end, likely a kindly mother waiting for a teen doing a night course. It would be nice if they would fix up the upper floors of St. Stephen’s. That way, there might be light behind the lovely stained glass windows up at the top. I couldn’t figure out for the life of me why the architect had decided that stained glass would augment a basketball court, but so be it. Maybe he had originally envisioned the chapel up there, and someone else determined it wouldn’t do to make all the dons and profs climb five sets of stairs for morning prayers each day.
Steve pulled up and blinked his lights at me. With the talent of a long-time detective, he quizzed me about the board meeting, while deftly weaving between the waiting cabs, turning back out past the Timms Centre for the Arts, and out of the university area. Although his condo wasn’t far in terms of crow flight, with one-way streets and such, it took some maneuvering to get us into his underground garage.
When we were finally upstairs and safely locked in, I could relax. I took the beer he handed me and walked out onto his balcony in my sock feet. For a late October night in Edmonton, it was still quite balmy. This was the sort of Hallowe’en season children in Alberta dream of, where they can wear shoes with their impressive costumes and venture all through the neighbourhood seeking anonymity, candy, and praise—instead of rushing and huddling in snowsuits in front of doors that slam shut as quickly as possible. I hoped the weather would last till the end of the week.
The thought reminded me to ask Steve about the Spooktacular at Fort Edmonton. It was one way to get Steve to take a look at the site of what Jasper Peacocke had called “the mess,” the break-in at the first Rutherford House, without there being a hue and cry from his boss about sidelining investigations with my interferences. Besides, what could be more romantic on a date night than wandering around a historic park in the dark in costume?
Steve joined me on the balcony. “Twoonie for your thoughts?”
“Wow, inflation has hit Canada, eh?”
“Well, they’ve discontinued the penny.”
I laughed. “I was just thinking of asking you to go on a date to the Hallowe’en Spooktacular down at Fort Edmonton.”
“On purpose?”
“Does that mean you don’t want to?”
Steve looked out over the dark river valley toward the iconic skyline of downtown across the river.
“Well, I don’t know. I suppose it could be fun. I always thought it was more of a family thing.”
“They promote it as a fun-for-all-ages event.”
“That’s code for ‘no one will mind if your kid pitches a tantrum while you’re there,’” Steve said drily. “Oh heck, why not? Are we going to dress up, too?”
“It could be fun, but I have to see what I still have that might work. I will let you know on that front after my stint at cleaning tomorrow.”
We clinked beer bottles and, after finishing our drinks, headed back into the warmth of Steve’s apartment, sanctuary from the chill of the night.
29
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Marni had called around ten to let me know the board hadn’t reached a decision yet, since Walter Karras had countered Greta Larsen’s motion to have my whole project cancelled with a suggestion that each board member go home and play with the website available through the Widows’ sandbox test site for a day or two. Then he would personally call them and determine their informed opinion.
“Now, this may mean that Greta spends the next two days pouring poison into the ear of everyone on the board, but it could also mean we have a chance. In the meanwhile, I have to get ready for Hallowe’en at the House. Are you in for that?”
I mentioned that we were doing the Spooktacular at the Fort the next evening, but could be available for her event. I was a little surprised at the planning, though.
“I thought the magic evening was supposed to be the only Hallowe’en activity at the House for the season?”
I could almost hear Marni shrugging over the line.
“It was going to be, but you wouldn’t believe the number of people calling to see if there was going to be something happening, so we decided to put together a turn-of-the-century Hallowe’en, complete with carving turnips and other traditions brought over from Scotland.”
We talked a few minutes longer while I doodled in my pink daily reminder book and then hung up. Steve had the electric fireplace going and had brought a pot of tea and two mugs to the low-slung table in the living room. I curled up on his couch, grateful for the sense of relaxation and safety he had conjured, and told him about the Rutherford House event.
“I don’t blame her for cashing in on the interest, but it’s ghoulish interest in the site of a murder, I’m betting, that has people calling and wanting to head over there at Hallowe’en. I doubt you’re going to be luring the brain trust to the house that night.”
I laughed. “No more than we will be consorting with tomorrow down at Fort Edmonton at the Hallowe’en Spooktacular,” I said, allowing the last word to turn into several extra syllables of “oo.”
“That is true, but there you have the added benefit of having gloriously anachronistic Klingons running a blind maze.”
“Klingons? As in Star Trek?”
“Where else would you find Klingons? Faulkner?”
“Well, this should be even more interesting than I was anticipating. Any more ideas on dressing up for this event?”
“On the whole I think we should be comfortable. None of the buildings that will be open will be all that warm, and mostly we will be outside. There are wagon rides, I think, and a lot of wanderi
ng around in the dark streets, dodging the odd zombie and ghoul.”
“You make it sound so appetizing.”
“I know, right? I should really be writing for Travel Alberta instead of case reports.”
Steve let me lean on his shoulder, and I stared at the fire licking the ersatz logs and coals while he leafed through a magazine. Fire mesmerized me, fake or real, controlled or wild. I hated to watch fire acts at the Street Performers’ Festival and walked away immediately if someone lit a torch to juggle, twirl, or swallow. It was something too primal to play with, and I couldn’t even imagine being entertained by the teasing of the flame. But otherwise, I’m hooked. I figured they only invented television for people who didn’t have fireplaces in their homes.
Television had clued into that, too. There was a cable station that, instead of running Christmas programming in December, would devote hours to a film loop of a crackling wood fire, so that people like me could tune in and snuggle up to the hearth. Things like that made me happy to know I wasn’t the only oddball out there.
I had probably nodded off and mini-jolted back awake a couple of times, because Steve suggested we head to bed. He followed me down the hall, turning off lights as we went. I was tired enough that a wooden bench in a railway station might have held some appeal, but as I sank into his high-thread-count sheets, part of me was resisting how easy it could be to just let Steve step in and save the day.
Tomorrow, while sorting out a warm costume to wear for our sojourn in the Park, I would also consider what I was going to do about my apartment. Was I ever going to feel safe living there on my own again? Was it time to find a new place? Was it time to think about moving in with Steve on a permanent basis?
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