by Gail Bowen
In fifteen minutes the paintings were hung. “Satisfied?” Ed said.
“Completely,” I said. “The last few days have been rough, and there’s such joy in those paintings.”
Ed’s attention had been drawn by a framed illumination over Zack’s dresser. He read the words. “ ‘The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.’ ” Ed raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have guessed Zack was a Chaucer man.”
“It was a gift from an old lawyer friend who obviously believed Zack had a few things to learn. He treasures it.”
“As well he might,” Ed said. He turned back to Taylor’s painting. “Let’s raise a figurative glass to your daughter. May she have all the time she needs to perfect her skill.”
“That’s a nice thought,” I said. I flicked off the light and started back up the hall, with Ed and the dogs padding after me.
“So, are we going to be raising any glasses tonight when the election results are in?” Ed asked.
“Depends who you voted for.”
“I voted for Ginny,” Ed said.
“That surprises me,” I said. “I thought you’d written her off.”
“I had,” Ed said. “But only because I thought Jason had withdrawn his custody suit to protect his daughters. Then it turned out the only one he was protecting was himself. His business dealings with prostitutes don’t exactly bolster his reputation as a solid citizen.”
“So you believe the rumours.”
“I know they’re true,” Ed said. “Saturday night, Barry and I had drinks with our friend David, the one who has a condo in the same building as the murdered woman. He says Jason Brodnitz was a frequent visitor.”
“Not a customer?”
“Not unless Jason needed satisfaction several times a day,” Ed said. “Now I’d better be on my way.”
I helped Ed on with his slicker. He checked his reflection in the hall mirror and shuddered. “God, I look like a giant Smartie.”
CHAPTER 15
In a TV studio on election night, the real pitched battle is not between political parties: it’s between television’s need for scripted precision and the stretches of blank time when nothing happens except the counting of votes of citizens who live in five and a half different time zones. That year, NationTV’s strategy for goosing the interest level during these wastelands was an innovation the network called “The Pulse.” On election night, the atrium of the shining glass building would be open to the general public whose reward for staring at large screens filled with an endless procession of politicos would be the opportunity to offer on-air comments when nothing better was going on. When I arrived at five o’clock, the joint was already jumping. I picked my way over the cables snaking across the atrium floor and entered the doors that led away from the public space into the working studios and the makeup room.
Like a six-year-old awaiting an unwelcome haircut, Keith Harris was poised on a stool, staring glumly at his mirrored reflection while a bored young woman tucked a towel into his collar to keep makeup off his shirt. I positioned myself on the couch behind him so we could see each other in the mirror.
“I didn’t know you were part of tonight’s festivities,” I said.
“I’m a last-minute substitution,” Keith said. “The officially sanctioned spokesperson for the party is sleeping off a massive bender.”
“How’s it going?” I said.
“Our turnout in the Maritimes is heavy – good news for us this time out – because our party has actually treated the Maritimes decently. Quebec is Quebec. We can’t count on much there. Voters in the 905 belt around Toronto are trooping out, and the clowns we have masterminding our campaign are convinced this gives us cause for celebration. They’re wrong. There are more tract houses than century homes in the 905 area these days. Besides, living in a century house is no longer a guarantee that you vote the way grandpa did. Too soon to tell abut the 416 vote, but there’s no reason to think we’ll do well. Torontonians think our rhetoric is stale, and they don’t get the social conservatism. That puts them in step with many other Canadians. If Ginny were leader, it would be a different story, but as it stands, we will not do well in the Greater Toronto Area.”
“You really think Ginny could have brought in the GTA vote?”
“I do,” Keith said. “But it’s a moot point, isn’t it?”
The young woman with the pancake makeup was working magic. Keith’s pallor was gone; he looked as if he’d just come back from two weeks in the sun. “Stop talking, please,” the young woman said. She patted under his eyes, dusted his shining pate with powder, ran a comb through what was left of his hair, and whipped off the towel. “You’re done,” she said.
Keith smiled at her pleasantly. “You have no idea how right you are,” he said.
The young woman motioned me into the chair, and within minutes the crow’s feet around my eyes were barely discernible, my cheeks glowed with health, and my lipline was smooth. Miracles all around.
“Want to go out in the atrium and take the pulse of the people?” I said.
Keith shook his head. “Nah. Let’s sit in the green room and eat NationTV’s Cheezies.”
The evening began slowly, as election nights always do for Western Canadians. Until the polls closed in Saskatchewan and Alberta, our role was to watch and wait. But during the watching and waiting, some intriguing patterns were developing. As Keith had predicted, his party was doing well in the Maritimes, and Quebec, as usual, was carving out her own destiny. A heavy vote in the 905 was usually good news for the Tories, but tonight significant numbers of voters were apparently shifting to the middle. The Tories weren’t losing seats, but their margins of victory were razor-thin. People in the area surrounding Toronto were voting like the Torontonians many of them had been until they moved to the burgeoning towns that ringed the city.
By the time the Saskatchewan and Albertan results started coming in, the three national networks were declaring that Canada was headed for a minority government and that the party controlling the government would be decided in the West. Alberta would be in the Tory column, but Saskatchewan and British Columbia were question marks. It was a night for caffeine and chewed fingernails, but there’d be no chewed fingernails in Palliser. By early evening, it was clear that Ginny Monaghan had lost the riding to the NDP’S sacrificial lamb, Evan Shattuck.
Ginny didn’t prolong the agony. When word came that she had arrived at the Pile O’ Bones Club and was about to concede defeat, the network producer signalled me over. The network was picking up Ginny’s speech live and wanted commentary.
As always, one picture was worth a thousand words. Tonight, there was no need to pull back the divider between the two banquet halls. Milo had done his best to cluster Ginny’s supporters in front of the cameras, but defeat has a way of thinning a crowd.
Keith and I were seated side by side watching the monitor, and as Ginny came to the podium flanked by her slender, long-limbed daughters, his breath was ragged. I shot him a worried glance, but we were both wearing lapel mikes, so his only reassurance was a companionable wink before we both turned back to the monitor.
Ginny’s speech was short and gracious. She thanked all her opponents on a hard-fought race, congratulated Evan on his victory, and then launched into her remarks.
“Winston Churchill once said that the Chinese ideogram for ‘crisis’ is made up of two characters: one means ‘danger,’ the other ‘opportunity.’ When the final votes are counted, there’s a strong possibility that Canada will have a minority government and we will not head that government. The danger for our party is all too apparent. This crisis could bring out the worst in us. We could waste the next months in recriminations, accusations, and backbiting. That’s one option. But as Churchill reminds us, there’s another response to crisis. We can see this crisis as an opportunity – a chance to rebuild, to reach out to all Canadians: people of colour, people who are white, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, straights, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, ag
nostics, atheists, those who are pro-choice as well as those who are pro-life. We can say to all Canadians, ‘We are the real party of the people.’ And we can mean it. Thank you for allowing me to represent you all these years.”
The applause at the end of Ginny’s speech was perfunctory. The red light on the camera in front of Keith and me came on. In my earphone, a disembodied voice said, “So, Joanne, is this the end for Ginny Monaghan?”
“No,” I said. “That was a thoughtful speech – people will remember it.”
“You don’t believe her husband’s murder has put an end to her political career?”
“No,” I said. “Jason Brodnitz’s death was a tragedy. Tragedies happen. Obviously, Ginny’s first priority now is her family. But when she’s ready to make plans, there’ll be many options open to her.”
“Including politics?”
“Including politics,” I said.
“You think the electorate will forgive her?”
“There’s nothing for them to forgive.” I said.
The next question was directed at Keith. It was a reworking of the question about Ginny’s future, and Keith’s answer was articulate and incisive.
When the red light went off, I gave him the thumbs-up. “Nice answer,” I said.
“Remember what Eugene McCarthy said about politics?”
“Eugene McCarthy said a lot of things about politics.”
Keith nodded. “True enough,” he said, “but I’ve always had a particular fondness for this observation. McCarthy said ‘Politics is like coaching football. You have to be smart enough to know how the game is played and dumb enough to think it’s important.’ ”
“And you’re fond of that quote because…?”
Keith’s laugh was short. “After all these wasted years, I’m still dumb enough to think it’s important.”
For the next hour, Keith and I sat on the set, waiting. He made some phone calls and took some phone calls – notably one from Ginny. Before he rang off, he said. “Well, if I don’t see you before I leave, take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.” Then he turned to me and said, “Ginny and the girls are going back to the lake. She’ll call you in the morning.”
“Sounds like you’re not going to be around much longer either,” I said.
“I’ve got my ticket for the three-fifteen flight tomorrow afternoon.”
“That was sudden.”
“Not really. My job here is done. I wasn’t successful, but there’s nothing I can do to change the results. Besides, there’s a big meeting tomorrow night in Ottawa.”
“Are you going to be in trouble?”
“No. You were right about Brodnitz’s death. Tragedies happen. Besides, what are they going to do, fire me?”
“You don’t seem very worried.”
“I’m not.”
When it finally became clear that the answer to the election would come in Alberta and British Columbia, the network producer thanked us and waved us off.
“The party’s over,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”
“We’re still wearing pancake makeup.”
“Everyone will assume we’re people who matter.”
“We are people who matter,” Keith said.
He took my arm and we ran through the rain to my car. Keith was breathing heavily by the time we got there.
“So where to?” I said. “We could go back to our place for a drink, or would you rather get back to your hotel?”
“Let’s just sit here for a moment and enjoy the peace,” Keith said.
“Fine with me,” I said. “Give us a chance to talk.”
“About what?”
“About what’s next for you. Ginny’s speech was stirring, but we both know the knives are already out for your leader. In the next couple of weeks, the boys and girls who want to replace him are going to be knocking on your door.”
“I won’t be answering,” Keith said. “This was my last campaign, Jo.”
“Finally going to let the big guys buy you off with a Senate seat?”
Keith took out a pack of Rothmans and placed one, unlit, between his lips. “Even the Senate beats what’s ahead for me. I’m dying, Jo. I only have a couple of months left. The other carotid artery is almost blocked. I’ve decided against surgery – the outcome is uncertain, and what happens after the surgery is hell. My cardiologist, who happens to be an old poker buddy, said if he was in my spot, he’d just enjoy the time he had left.”
I took his hand and we watched the raindrops slide down the windshield. “I’m so sorry,” I said finally.
“Don’t be,” he said. “I’ve had a good life, and I don’t have many regrets. I’ve missed some chances, notably with you, but even that worked out for the best. You and Zack appear to have caught the brass ring.”
“We did,” I said. “And I wouldn’t have had the confidence even to reach for it if it hadn’t been for you.”
“How so?”
“You were the first man in my life who didn’t make me feel I was a disappointment.”
“Did Ian make you feel that?”
“He didn’t mean to, no more than my father did or Alex did, but they all had a way of making me aware of my shortcomings.” I rubbed Keith’s hand. “Somehow you managed to convince me that I was worth being with. And I hung on to that when I met Zack.”
“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” he said.
“It was for me.”
By the time we pulled up on the street beside the hotel, the rain had stopped. When Keith got out of the car, I did too. He looked at me questioningly. “I’m going to walk you to the front door,” I said.
The steps leading to the lobby were brightly lit and a doorman was waiting to spring to attention if a guest approached. Halfway up the block, I stopped. Keith stopped too. We moved towards each other and embraced. Our kiss was deep and lingering – a farewell kiss, sweet with unexpressed words and deeply felt emotions. “That was nice,” Keith said.
“It was,” I said. “I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow.”
“That would be nice too,” Keith said.
I touched his cheek. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I said. Then I turned, walked back to my car, and drove home, weeping, to my husband.
Zack was in our bedroom watching the election results when I came in. He beamed when he saw me. “Hey, you were terrific, but you weren’t on air enough.”
“Did you call the network to complain?” I said.
“Better than that – I phoned in a bomb threat.”
“That’s my boy,” I said.
“Can I get you anything?”
“No, thanks. It’s been a long night.” I started undressing. As I took off my dress, Zack saw that I was wearing a black slip that he particularly liked. He wheeled close to me and rubbed my arm. “What is it about you in that slip?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “But as soon as I realized the effect it had on you, I ordered two more exactly like it.”
Zack gave me a searching look. “Let’s call it a night, Ms. Shreve.”
“Want me to leave on the slip?”
“You bet.”
I went into my bathroom, creamed off the pancake makeup, brushed my teeth, and tried a smile. It wasn’t convincing. I got into bed and moved close to Zack. “So what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Keith’s dying,” I said.
Zack flinched. “Jesus. How long does he have?”
“A couple of months. Apparently, he could have surgery, but even his cardiologist says it’s not worth the agony.”
Zack kissed my hair. “I’m sorry, Jo. Really. Keith seems like a good guy.”
“He is,” I said. “And I’m grateful to him. He taught me a lot.”
Zack’s grip tightened. “Then I’m in his debt.”
“So am I,” I said. “Let’s make the most of it.”
When I turned on the radio the next morning, it was clear that much, including which party would govern us, remained
undecided. There would be many, many recounts. For days, the air would be filled with talk of uncertainty and chaos. Hand-wringing economists would muse about financial repercussions, and earnest academics like me would fret over the long-term implications of political uncertainty. Once again, we were on the brink. But as the dogs and I started along the levee beside the creek, I knew that nothing essential had changed. The creek still flowed, the ducklings still swam behind their mothers, the birds still sang. My morning would unfold as all my mornings did – in a secure world with people I loved. Then I thought of Keith, waking up alone in a hotel room, catching his flight back to Ottawa and the chrome kitchen where he never had a meal, missing this glorious day, missing so much, and my throat tightened.
Zack was on the front porch taking the morning papers out of the mailbox when we got back. “The porridge and the coffee are ready, but you had a couple of calls you might want to return before we eat: Mieka called – everything’s fine, but she needs a favour – and Jill Oziowy called – nothing’s fine and she needs a favour.”
“Give me five minutes,” I said.
Zack undid the dogs’ leashes and looped them over the hook by the door. “How does Jill function with that level of anxiety?” he said.
“She works in network television. I think her level of anxiety is a requirement.”
I went into the kitchen, poured myself a mug of coffee, and dialed Mieka’s number. “How’s everything in your kingdom?” I asked.
“So far, so good,” Mieka said. “Madeleine found that hideous rapper hat that I hid at the back of her closet, so she’s happy. Lena invented a new kind of cinnamon toast, so she’s happy, and Sean invited me out for dinner at the Creek Bistro Friday night, so I’m happy.”
“I thought cinnamon toast had already been invented,” I said.
“Ah, but Lena used chili powder instead of cinnamon. She also used about a cup of organic brown sugar.”
“Sounds tasty,” I said. “And you’re giving Sean a second chance?”
“Why not? I like him, and he asked very nicely. He said this would be a dinner between friends to celebrate his junior partnership. Mum, he’s so excited. He just worships Zack.”