The Further Investigations of Joanne Kilbourn

by Gail Bowen

  That night I seemed to be beyond both luck and reason. As the torrent of hate and fear poured through my earpiece, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from lashing back. I kept wondering where Jill was with the cut-off button. But as the red light went black, and we were finally off the air, I had to admit that, as exhausting as it had been, the panel on homophobia had been good television.

  Jill came down from the control booth almost immediately. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a hounds-tooth jacket, and she didn’t look happy.

  I unclipped my mike and went over to her. “I thought you were going to keep the mad dogs at bay tonight. But maybe you were right to let them yelp and foam. It was an exciting show.”

  Jill gave me a tight smile. “Do you have time for a drink?”

  “Sure,” I said. “Angus is with Taylor. He has plans, but I’ve got time for a quick one. I wanted to ask you about Keith. Did he quit or what?”

  “Let’s talk about it later,” Jill said.

  It was a mild night, but when I told Jill I’d left my car at home and suggested we walk downtown to our old standby, the Hotel Saskatchewan, she said she’d rather drive to the Chimney. It was an odd choice. The hotel bar was a place for grown-ups to unwind: elegant surroundings, deep soft chairs, and discreet bartenders. The Chimney was a family restaurant in a strip mall not far from where I lived. They made good pizza, and my kids liked the open fireplace, but it wasn’t Jill’s kind of place.

  As we drove up College Avenue and turned onto Albert Street, she was uncharacteristically quiet. In fact, she didn’t say anything until we’d found a table and ordered two bottles of Great Western.

  When the waiter left, Jill glanced around the room as if she were seeing it for the first time. “This is nice, isn’t it?” she said absently.

  “I’ve always like it,” I said. “But it must be thirty degrees in here tonight. Somebody should have told whoever’s in charge of the roaring fire that spring has sprung.” I leaned towards her. “But listen, I’ve been dying to know what happened with Keith. I know he’s been busy since he moved back to Ottawa. Did he just have too much on his plate?”

  “It was more of a mutual decision,” Jill said. “We’ve been looking at the demographics – thinking we should try to hook a younger audience.”

  She wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I knew the truth without asking. “And so you decided to replace Keith with Glayne Axtell.”

  “She did a good job tonight,” Jill said defensively.

  “Keith’s done a good job ever since the show started,” I said, and my voice was so loud the people at the next table turned and looked at us.

  Jill winced. “Jo, please. Don’t make this any worse than it already is.”

  The waiter brought our beer, and I took a long sip. The heat in the restaurant and the turn in the conversation were beginning to make my head spin.

  Jill’s voice was guarded. “I know Keith’s done a good job, Jo. The panel just needed – I don’t know – a fresh look.”

  “Spring cleaning?” I said. “Jill, we’re not talking about a piece of furniture here. We’re talking about a friend.”

  Suddenly, Jill looked furious. “Christ, Jo, it’s never easy with you, is it? All right, here it is. We think it’s time you considered other options, too.”

  I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. “You mean I’m out as well? What about Sam?”

  Jill was icy. “He’s staying. Sam has an avuncular quality. We thought he’d be a nice mix with Glayne and … the other new panellist.”

  “Who is it?” I asked. And then, I knew. “Oh fuck, Jill. Is it Tom? Are you getting rid of me so you can hire your boyfriend?”

  She didn’t say anything. I stood up and grabbed my coat. As I pulled it on, I knocked my beer over. I was beyond caring. It had been a long time since I’d made a scene in a restaurant. I headed for the front door, but before I opened it, I turned and looked back at Jill. She was sitting, looking numbly at the mess I’d left behind.

  The Chimney was less than four blocks from my house. Even in the state I was in that night, I was home in less than ten minutes. The Chimney’s proximity to my house was, I suddenly realized, the reason Jill had chosen it in the first place. Once we had been as close as sisters. I guess she figured she owed me an easy exit. But I wasn’t grateful; the thought of her planning the logistics of my firing made me sick to my stomach.

  When I got home, Taylor was already in bed, and Angus was so full of news about an ’85 Camaro he’d seen for sale up the street that he was oblivious to my mood. Leah, who was sensitive to emotional currents, looked at me with concern, but I told her it had been a tough show, and she said that she had tuned in for the phone-in segment and she understood.

  When she and Angus finally left for the late movie, I felt the relief an actor must feel at the end of a bad performance. The audience was gone. I could wail, rend my clothing, or gnash my teeth to my heart’s content. But as I walked into the living room and began searching aimlessly through my CDS, I was overwhelmed with self-pity.

  I wanted to talk, but the three people I counted on most were busy with their own lives: Alex was out at Standing Buffalo; my friend Hilda McCourt was in Europe with her new beau; and, as the old saw had it, Jill was no longer part of the solution, she was part of the problem.

  I selected a disc Keith Harris had once given me: Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations. As I listened to the shimmering precision of Gould’s performance, I felt my pulse slow, and, for the first time since I left the restaurant, I found myself able to think. Being fired from the show was not the end of the world. I still had family. I still had Alex. I still had friends and my job at the university. Summer was coming. Without the show, there would be no reason to be in town on Saturdays. We could rent a cottage and drive out there on weekends. Taylor could use the extra time with me. I could teach her to canoe. We could get Benny a life jacket. I had just convinced myself that it was all for the best, when the phone rang. I leaped to answer it. I was certain it was Jill, apologizing and making everything right again.

  But the voice on the other end of the line wasn’t Jill’s. It was a man’s.

  “Is this Joanne Kilbourn?”

  “Yes.”

  “Joanne, it’s Ed Mariani. I just wanted to thank you for the things you said on your show. They were all the things I would have said, or I hope I would have said, if I’d been there. Barry and I were very moved.”

  “Your timing couldn’t have been better,” I said. “I just got fired.”

  “Not because of what you said tonight?” His voice was full of anger.

  “I wish that were the reason,” I said. “At least that would have a little dignity.”

  “What was it, then?”

  “Ed, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said anything. I’m just upset.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?”

  “No. I’ll handle it. I’m a big girl.”

  “Even big girls need a chance to vent once in a while.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “I’ll be okay.”

  “I know you will,” he said. “But let’s speed up the process. Come for dinner tomorrow night. Barry’s making paella. It’s his best dish, and he loves to show it off. You’re welcome to bring whomever you like: significant other, kids, pets … Barry’s paella is endless.”

  “All right,” I said. “I accept. But there’ll just be my youngest daughter and me. My son has a basketball game tomorrow night.”

  “We’ll send you home with a doggy bag for him. Six-thirty?”

  “Six-thirty would be great. And, Ed, thanks.”

  When I hung up, I felt better. Then I remembered the scene in the restaurant and I felt worse. I put some ice cubes in a glass, took down the Glenfiddich, poured myself a generous shot, and went back into the living room. Glenn Gould was still playing. I kicked off my shoes, collapsed on the couch, and took a long sip of my drink. It was terrific. As someone who had once been a good frien
d had told me not that long ago, there are times when nothing but single-malt Scotch will do.

  CHAPTER

  5

  At church Sunday morning, we used the old Book of Common Prayer. When Angus pulled out a pencil and began drawing basketball strategies on the back of the bulletin, I opened the Prayer Book to the Service for Young People and pointed to the line “Lord, keep our thoughts from wandering.” But my thoughts were wandering too: to Jill, to the end of my work on the political panel, to the scene I’d made the night before at the Chimney. When the rector read out, “Come unto me all that labour and are heavy laden, and I will refresh you,” I knew it was the best invitation I’d had all week. An hour later, I left church, not yet in a state of love and charity with my neighbours, but at least in a state where I could contemplate the possibility.

  The weather was so warm by noon that we took our egg-salad sandwiches and iced tea out to the deck. Angus, who was always quick to spot a mellow mood, asked if we could drive out to the valley after lunch, and I agreed. Alex had been letting him take the wheel for almost a month now, and it seemed churlish not to take my turn.

  My son was already in the driver’s seat when Taylor and I came out of the house.

  “Hurry up,” he yelled. “I want to open up this old junker and see how fast she can go.”

  “Don’t even think about it,” I said, as I buckled up.

  I turned to make sure Taylor had her seatbelt on. She did, but she looked grim.

  I tried to sound confident. “T, there’s nothing to worry about. Alex says your brother’s a good driver, and I know that Angus is going to be especially careful with you in the car.” I looked hard at my son. “Aren’t you?”

  He gave me a mock salute. “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and we were off.

  He was as good as his word. I was boggled by the transformation that took place the minute the key was in the ignition. Angus drove through the city streets as prudently as the proverbial little old lady who only took a spin on alternate Sundays. Alex had obviously been an inspired teacher. It was as pleasant an uneventful a drive as a mother could expect from a fifteen-year-old with a learner’s permit. Lulled by the absence of catastrophe, Taylor began to read aloud the roadside signs: “Big Valley Country”; “Stella’s Pies, We-Bake-Our-Own”; “Langenegger’s: All-Vegetarian/All-U-Can-Eat.” As we turned off the highway and drove through the Qu’Appelle Valley, I felt my nerves beginning to unknot. In a month, the hills would be green, and the valley would be filled with birdsong. Other years, the demands of the political panel had kept us in town on weekends. A summer of freedom to enjoy these hills would not be hard to take.

  We turned at the cutoff for Last Mountain Lake and drove till we came to Regina Beach, at the heart of cottage country. Regina Beach is one of those towns which spring to life on the May long weekend, rock all summer, and sink back into quiescence after Thanksgiving. That balmy March day, the town was still sleeping: the streets were empty, the playgrounds were forlorn, and the beach was deserted. Taylor ran down the hill to the playground, took a few desultory swings, then caught up with Angus and me. We walked out on the dock, and as we sat on the end, with our feet dangling over the edge, and watched the seagulls swooping towards the sun-splashed water, I tried to figure out how I could stretch our budget to include rent for a cottage. Then Angus took Taylor to the beach and showed her how to skip stones over the surface of the lake, and I knew that, even if I had to take in laundry, I’d find a way to get us all out here by summer.

  When Taylor began skipping her stones farther than his, Angus realized he needed to rest his arm for basketball that night, and we walked back up into town. It was too early for Butler’s Fish and Chips to be open for the season, but there was an ice-cream stand with waffle cones and a dazzling variety of flavours and toppings. We got cones and walked up one side of the town and down the other till we discovered a little shop that sold crafts and homemade jams and jellies. Angus zeroed in on a lethal-looking hunting knife in a hand-tooled leather sheath, but we settled on a basket of preserves: saskatoon berry, choke cherry, and northern blueberry for Taylor and me to take with us when we had dinner with Ed Mariani and Barry Levitt that night.

  As we started up the hill, the Volvo’s engine began to cough. I looked at the gas gauge. “Cruising on empty there, Angus,” I said. “I hope you’ve got your credit card handy.” He gave me a withering look. “I’m just trying to prepare you for the realities of life with an ’85 Camaro.” I said.

  There was a station at the top of the hill, and we sputtered up beside the gas tank. The station was a low-slung Mom-and-Pop type of place with a garage on one side and a café on the other. What appeared to be fifty years’ worth of hubcaps had been nailed into the wooden face of the garage, but except for two curled and faded cardboard photographs of ice-cream sundaes, the front of the restaurant was bare. It was not, however, without adornment. Suspended by chains from the frame of the café’s front window was a jumbo-sized plaster wiener with the words “Foot Long” written in mustard-coloured script along its side.

  Angus gave me the thumbs-up sign. “Check it out, Mum – wheels and weenies.”

  “You’d better hope wheels and weenies is open,” I said. “Otherwise, you’re going to have to haul out the gas can and walk.”

  Angus drew up next to the gas tank and turned off the ignition. “Relax, Mum. It’ll be open. You always say I was born lucky.”

  It was true. When it came to the vagaries of day-to-day life, my youngest son always had seemed blessed. But as the minutes ticked by and no one who worked at the gas station appeared, I was beginning to wonder if Angus’s run of luck was over. I was just about to remind him of the location of the gas can when Taylor pointed towards the station and said, “Look, here comes the gas boy.”

  His fine-chiselled features were grime-covered, and he was wearing greasy coveralls, not GAP, but there was no disguising the angular grace or the smile.

  “What are you doing out here?” Val Massey asked.

  “Looking for a summer cottage,” I said. “At least, we’re thinking about looking for one.”

  “We are?” Taylor asked.

  “Yeah,” I said, “we are.” I turned to Val. “I didn’t know you worked out here. Is it a weekend thing?”

  He looked down at his feet. “Unfortunately, no. This job is permanent. It’s the family business. I live back there.” He gestured over his shoulder towards a small bungalow behind the station. As if on cue, the door opened and a squat muscular man wearing the twin of Val’s coverall stepped outside. The man had a cigarette and an attitude.

  “Step on it, Valentine,” he shouted. “I don’t pay you to charm the customers.”

  Val flushed. “Yes, Dad,” he said softly. He tried a smile. “Well, Professor K., what’ll it be?”

  As Val filled the tank and wiped our window, his father smoked and watched, alert to any possible transgression. It was only after Val took my credit card inside that the older man seemed to relax. When his son was out of sight, he threw his cigarette down, ground it into the cinder path, and headed back to the bungalow. Val’s face was stony when he came back to the car, and his hands trembled as he passed me my receipt. “I apologize for my father,” he said, and he turned away.

  Angus rolled up the window and started the engine. “I’d go nuts if I had a father like that,” he said. “Why does he put up with it?”

  “No option, I guess.”

  As we waited for a camper to pass, I glanced out the back window. Val hadn’t moved, but his father had come out of the bungalow and started to walk towards him. When his father got close, Val said something to him; then, without breaking stride, the older man raised his hand and cuffed Val across the side of the head.

  I was the only one who saw. Angus was busy checking for traffic on the road, and Taylor was back to looking for signs. Suddenly, she crowed with delight. “Hey, there’s one I missed.” The sign she’d spotted was handmade, an arrow pointing back t
o the station from which we’d just come. Taylor read the words on the arrow carefully. “Masluk & Son, Gas, Food, Friendly Service.”

  We got home around 4:00. There were no messages on the machine, and given the chaotic state of my feelings about Jill, I was unsure whether that was good news or bad. Angus took the dogs out for a run, then went off to the 7-Eleven, pregame hangout of choice among the sportsmen in Angus’s circle. Taylor got out her sketchpad and drew pictures of Regina Beach for a while, then she wandered off to choose her outfit for the dinner party. When she came up to my bedroom for inspection, I was stunned. Left to her own devices, Taylor was a whimsical dresser, but that night she was right on the money: a plaid ruffle skirt, a white pullover with a plaid diamond design, dark green leotards, and her best mary-janes. She’d even brushed her hair. It was obviously a rite-of-passage day.

  Ed and Barry lived on a quiet crescent near the university. Their house overlooked the bird sanctuary and the campus, and it was clear when Ed shepherded us inside that they had designed their split-level to take full advantage of the view. The house was built into a rise so that you entered on one floor, but immediately moved up a short flight of stairs to the airy brightness of a large room that seemed to be made up entirely of floor-to-ceiling windows.

  Ed led us down a short corridor to the kitchen. Barry Levitt was waiting for us. He was a small man with a receding hairline he made no effort to hide and a trim body he obviously worked hard to preserve. Ed had told me that he and Barry were the same age, forty, but Barry had the kind of charm that would be described as boyish until the day he moved into the seniors’ complex. That night he was wearing an open-necked sports shirt the colour of a cut peach and a black denim bib apron. He didn’t look up when we came in. All his attention was focused on the steaming pot of seafood he was dumping into a mixing bowl of rice.

  When the pot that had held the seafood was empty, Barry stepped back and gestured for us to move closer so we could peer into the bowl.