Flush

by Sky Curtis

  “Of course you drink. You have four children. And your husband was murdered. It’s called survival.”

  “He wasn’t murdered, Cindy,” I corrected.

  “Hit by a drunk driver? That’s murder if you ask me.”

  “You are so political, Cindy,” I sighed.

  But Cindy was not to be deviated from her path. “And you’re not a failure, Robin. You’ve held a job at the paper through thick and thin. Many people have been let go over the years, that last recession was a killer, but you are a good and solid employee. You are successful in a very difficult business.”

  “Well, thanks, but reporting on garden shows is hardly Booker Prize winning material.”

  “First of all, you report on more than garden shows. There was that great piece about that corrupt land developer last year. That was true investigative reporting. But whatever, maybe you’re bored with your section, but that doesn’t mean you’re a failure. Anyway, let’s write this story up together, okay? Get it on the front page. That should make you feel better.” Cindy was eyeing a tall, striking woman who’d entered the Starbucks. She lowered her voice, “She would make ME feel better.”

  I rolled my eyes. “What, you think this is a front page story?”

  Cindy dragged her leer away from the lovely young Amazon, “Sure it is. This guy thinks he’s such a hot shot? Wait ’til he sees what we can do to his little project.”

  “You think I can write a good piece?”

  “Don’t be a baby. Of course you can. You can do whatever you want. Besides, you already caught the major flaw in the whole project.”

  “Well…. There’s another one.”

  “There is?” Cindy looked truly surprised. “What? What did I miss?”

  I took one last gulp of my iced cap for fortitude. “You know your question? The one you asked during the conference about whether or not there are any energy savings because of the energy it takes to run the pumps?” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. Cindy, the woman who was always so politically correct had terrible table manners so I nearly fell off my chair when she handed me a napkin. I dabbed my lips.

  “How could I forget? What a jerk he was to put me down. Big mistake.”

  “Well, it may save some energy once it’s up and running, sure, but what about constructing the project? Think about it. Five kilometers of pipe alone, well, actually three huge pipes. How much energy do they take to build? And then to get a boat of some sort to put them down on the lake bottom. Something that took months and months. Not to mention building all the pumps? There’s a huge one at the bottom of the lake. Another below the Metro Convention Centre. What sort of energy do they take to make and transport?”

  “Gee partner, you were really thinking. You’ve been wasted on tulips and chrysanthemums.”

  Wait a sec. I liked flowers and they deserved attention. But she was giving me a compliment, and not putting down my years of garden reporting, so I motored on. “We should research this, find out what’s really going on, and then present the information to the public. Maybe the math will show that it would take thirty years for the energy investment in the project to equal the daily savings.”

  Cindy was full of admiration and sat back, assessing me. “I can’t believe you came up with all this.”

  Why not? Did she think I was stupid? No, again she meant it as a compliment. I needed to let go of being vigilant for criticism. “Well, you can research the math. I’m not so hot at that and I know you’re good at research and figures.”

  Cindy waved her phone in the air, “Not me, the technology!”

  “So, can you think of anything else?”

  Cindy looked at her notes. “Well, he keeps referring to the project as being ‘green.’ One of my jobs is to make sure that word isn’t used flippantly, and I am pretty sure ‘green’ doesn’t apply to this project. Maybe the final result is greener than the initial way of air conditioning downtown buildings, but for a project to be truly ‘green’ it has to meet certain criteria, including using natural products that don’t harm the environment among other things. I could take a look at the stability of the plastic used to form the pipes. I could take a look at the type of oil that’s used to lubricate the pumping machines. The one that’s under the lake could be seeping out toxins on a daily basis.”

  I offered, “You could also investigate where the pipes were made and how far they had to be transported.”

  “You got it. Now we’re hopping. You are no way near a failure, Robin MacFarland. Between you and me, we’ll turn his green project into a bright red stop sign!”

  I laughed and held my cup of cap in the air in a toast. Then I put it down and looked somberly at my good friend. “But I do drink and I have to stop.”

  She knew right away what I meant. “How bad is it? Do you drink every day?”

  “I’ve been drinking every day forever, it seems.”

  “No, honey, it’s not as bad as that. Maybe for five or six years? Since Trevor?”

  “I started drinking like a fish after his accident, but I was at it earlier than that. Even while I was married to him I would drink periodically. It wasn’t all a bed of roses, our marriage, you know. I mean, the kids think it was great, and I don’t want to let them know any differently, but he didn’t treat me all that well, you know, and well…” I could feel my voice fading out. How much did I want to give away?

  “What do you mean?” Cindy looked horrified. “Why didn’t you tell me? He didn’t hit you, did he?”

  “Oh no, nothing at all like that. He just degraded me whenever he could, like telling me what a bad writer I was, and that I only wrote about shit, which was often the truth—cow shit, sheep shit, you know—that I didn’t know how to dress, or fix my hair, and other stuff like that. I never said anything because everyone thought that he was such a great guy. Including you, Cindy.”

  “And so you started drinking.” It wasn’t a question.

  “All journalists drink, don’t they?” I tried a laugh but it came out closer to a sob.

  “So, you going to go to AA?”

  “No, I researched them and frankly, I have my doubts. They have a terrible success rate, in the single digits, and I need to get over this so I can start a new life. I don’t have a choice, I have to stop.”

  “I thought AA worked?”

  “AA works? It depends on what you mean by ‘works.’ Even the success stories aren’t successful in my books, Cindy. Most people relapse, as they call it. Plus most people who go to AA pick up another addiction; going to AA meetings. It’s so ironic. That organization has a heavy investment in keeping people alcoholics for life, as far as I can see it.”

  “Not a popular view and pretty radical thinking for an old, fat, alkie.”

  “Well, I don’t want to put down an organization that works well for some people, but me? I’m going to see a naturopath. I think she’ll be able to help me stop.”

  “When are you going? Can we sneak in a night of debauchery before you go?”

  “Sure, I’ll see her next week. Let’s get together on Friday for pizza and wine. I’ll ask Diane to come too.”

  The three of us had been friends for ages. Diane Chu had been a friend of mine for forty years and luckily hit it off with Cindy when I’d introduced them decades ago. Diane was the only Asian kid at what years ago was a very white Harbord Collegiate. Her parents, newly arrived from China, had purchased a green grocer on College Street, and the family lived above the store. Diane was brave against the prejudice she’d encountered and hard working, her diligence shaming me into doing my homework. She was now a successful Crown Attorney with three kids and the only one of us with a steady marriage.

  “Don’t you mean pizza and whine?” Cindy drew out the word “whine” into three syllables.

  I laughed. We often bitched about our work place when we got together
. Cindy and I complained about the Express while Diane grumbled about the politics in the courthouse. “True, true. But listen, there’s one other angle for the story that we haven’t talked about.”

  “Aren’t you the whizz kid. What else have you thought of?”

  “Well, the pump in the middle of the lake…”

  “What about it? It leaks oil into the lake? It took four trillion megawatts of energy to build? It needs 5 billion tonnes of coal to run?”

  “No,” I waved my hand in the air, dismissing these options with frustration, “No, it’s in the middle of the lake. Get it?”

  “So? It’s not in the way of anyone. No one can see it. It’s almost 300 feet below the surface.”

  I put my face right up close to Cindy’s and whispered, “That’s my point. The City of Toronto’s water supply is miles from anywhere, completely unguarded. It’s wide open for sabotage. Terrorism. Did you hear Jack England’s questions?”

  Cindy nodded thoughtfully, and whispered back, “You’re right. Except for one thing.”

  “What?” I murmured.

  “No one knows where it is!” said Cindy triumphantly.

  “No, that’s not true. Here, look.” I leaned back and scrolled down my iPad. “A few people know: Todd Radcliffe, the president of Everwave; Richard van Horner, the vice prez; plus the captain of the vessel that was involved in the installation of the water intake system. And all those guys who laid the pipes. No wait,” I read on my screen, “Radcliffe said that the labourers didn’t know where they were. All they knew was that they were surrounded by water. So a few people. Plus the government record. But people at city hall can be bought. Also, I don’t know about van Horner or the boat captain, but that Todd Radcliffe? There’s something about him that’s a little off. He’s awfully good looking, maybe that’s it, hard to trust a Greek God. England might be on to something.”

  We began to gather up our things. We had to get back to the paper to file the story before the afternoon deadline. I stuffed my iPad, phone, wallet, and calculator back into my purse.

  “What do we know about van Horner?” asked Cindy.

  “Not much,” I grunted as I heaved my purse over my shoulder. “Except that I am van horney for his tight little butt.”

  “Butt butt butt he’s a man,” hooted Cindy as she strutted past the beautiful Amazon, winking at her suggestively.

  5.

  BY AFTERNOON THE PRETTY SUMMER MORNING had disintegrated into a muggy thunderstorm that seemed to boom for hours. I dashed through the downpour up the path to my house from my beat-up Nissan Sentra, purse banging against my thigh and umbrella threatening to blow inside out. I mined through my bag for my house key by balancing the enormous satchel on my raised knee and shaking the contents to one side as if I were panning for gold. I finally found the bright metal key peeking out from the coal black depths and inserted it into the lock. I stepped over the battered wooden door stoop and entered my domain.

  Finally, I was home. What a day.

  At least the story had been filed on time. No thanks to Cindy. I’d worked like a demon all afternoon with a backdrop of thunder vibrating the triple-pained glass of the building. All Cindy’s promises of calculating this and researching that had been usurped by a great story about the mayor of the city being videotaped smoking a joint. I emailed the Everwave article to her right before the three o’clock deadline and she sent it to her editor, probably without even reading it. Despite this, the Everwave story was submitted “with files from Robin MacFarland” under Cindy’s byline. Not really fair, I thought, but whatever, at least my name would go on the front page if it were twinned to Cindy’s. It was all good.

  I kicked off my shoes and bee-lined straight to the fridge, peeling off my coat as I went. I flung the fridge door open to a clattering of condiments, grabbed the still clanking bottle of wine from the door and poured myself a huge glass of a dry Reisling white into my fake crystal wine glass. A goblet really, almost a small jug if I were honest. I glugged the whole eight or maybe it was twelve ounces back and then heaved a great big “Ah-h-h.” I thumped the empty glass on the counter and poured myself another. Then I got down on my haunches to pat Lucky who had bounded down the stairs when he’d heard the front door open.

  “What were you doing up there,” I crooned into his curly-haired neck, “were you on a bed? You know you’re not to go on a bed, you silly thing.” I scratched behind his ears and under his chin while he made little Yoda noises, his version of purring. “You want some dinner, sweetie-pie? Me? I’m starving. But first I’m sure you have to go out.”

  I opened the back door and laughed as Lucky eyed the rain and looked back at me in disbelief. I nudged him out with my foot and watched from the shelter of my doorway as my little dog lifted his leg on my herb garden, soaking the oregano with a thin stream. I’d have to remember to wash that before making my next batch of spaghetti. He scrabbled up the stairs and yipped around my feet as I started gathering ingredients from my fridge for dinner while talking to myself. “You have to eat vegetables you fatso, lots of vegetables.” I started tossing things onto the counter beside the fridge. “Zucchini. Carrots. Red pepper. And maybe a tiny potato. Some chicken breast, but nothing larger then a deck of cards. I read that somewhere, Lucky. Lots of lettuce. That’s what you need. Lettuce. Not you Lucky, me. With, ta dah, low fat dressing.” I stood up triumphantly with the dressing in hand and plopped it on the counter.

  I then shook out some Senior Premium kibble into Lucky’s bowl and soon a symphony of his morsel crunching and my chopping and dicing on the wooden breadboard filled the kitchen. I was going to make myself a celebratory feast! Robin MacFarland and Cynthia Dale’s article was going front page! I’d roast vegetables and meat in a large pan all together, drizzled and tossed with healthy, cholesterol-lowering olive oil. I wasn’t actually sure about the properties of olive oil, but I knew it was good for something, so why not? I sprinkled basil and thyme liberally over my dish and then slid the colourful panful into the oven.

  I sat in the kitchen’s comfortable reading chair with my replenished glass of wine in hand and called my naturopath. I was on a winning streak this first day of the first week of my new life, and I was going to take the next big step towards change. I would stop drinking, yes, I would. When the naturopath’s answering machine kicked in, I left a short, hopefully not too slurred message, “Hi, it’s me, Robin MacFarland. Remember me? The almond allergy? Anyway, I was hoping to make an appointment to see you next Monday or Tuesday, a week from now. You can leave the appointment time on my answering machine, that is if you have any free sessions. Thanks very much.” I left my phone number and then hung up.

  I stared off into space in the sudden silence of the kitchen. There was only the sound of the clock ticking slowly and Lucky’s munching at my feet. The refrigerator began to hum softly. If I listened hard I could hear the rain outside. Yes, stopping drinking was the right thing to do. I should have done it years ago. But there was some truth in what Cindy had said; I had needed to drink to survive. The last five years had been a nightmare. And before that? No picnic, that’s for sure. Trevor had been so fucking critical. Anger and love swirled in my heart, a confusing chaos of emotions.

  Sure, I had loved him with all my heart, but thank God he was dead. Oh, what an awful thing to think. But it was so true. Over the years, since his death, I had begun to feel better, without his constant rage and rejection. His negativity. His judgment. Even with my nightly bingeing, I was happier and more relaxed without his sneering at my clothing choices, my haircut, my writing, my cooking. Yes, I missed him daily, and he had been a terrific father, no question about that. He loved the kids. No, all his poison had been directed at me, certainly not the children, who he’d parented like a champ. He hated me and he loved me, maybe, and my spirit had been badly injured by him. But still, I loved him. It was all so confusing. So, I drank. Hard to give a shit when you’re p
ie-eyed.

  And I had survived it all. His degradation. His death. My grief. The kids’ grief. And being a single parent of four through those ghastly teenage years. I gulped my wine. The two girls hadn’t been so bad, once you got over the face piercings and blue hair. Maggie was the hair, Evelyn the piercings. Tattoos, too. I’d survived the girls and they had survived themselves. Dealing with the cleavage everywhere and those raccoon eyes staring at me with angry accusation, God knows what for, were small potatoes compared to the boys.

  The boys? It’s a wonder they didn’t kill themselves or end up in jail. Calvin street-racing at all hours in his souped-up Honda Civic and Bert leaving the house at twelve midnight, dressed in black, a knapsack on his back filled with clinking spray cans of paint. I shuddered to think of them both wrestling the city to the ground every night, one by revving a turbocharged engine, the other by splattering bricks with crazy graffiti. I didn’t know which was worse, Calvin careening towards a high-speed car crash or Bert teetering on a ladder, decorating the side of railway cars. If Trevor had been alive he would have blamed me for that. I could just hear him: “He got the artistic side from you, you know.” It’s a wonder I wasn’t in a loony bin. The drinking helped, oh yes, it did.

  At my last annual physical the doctor had asked me if I had any trouble sleeping. I had laughed, no, no trouble at all, I passed out every night and slept like a lamb, because I drank quite a bit. When the doctor asked my how much alcohol I consumed, they use formal words like that, I replied that I drank as much as I could and laughed again. The doctor didn’t think it was funny. So then the doctor asked me if I had a drinking problem. I had said, no, not at all. I drink as much as I can, fall down, go to sleep, no problem. The doctor didn’t think that was funny either. On the other hand, the doctor didn’t offer any ideas on how to stop this nightly extravaganza. Which is why I had called a naturopath, not my doctor, and don’t get me going on the bloody medical system.