by Glenn Dier
Peter, what started out as a simple ribbon cutting ended up being a public relations disaster that has offended the overweight, the underweight, and everyone in between.
“She looks poised, don’t you think?” said Roxanne. Sebastian picked a cuticle off a thumb.
Janice’s taped report rolled. Peggy sat at the kitchen table with a pile of crumpled tissues by her side, her eyes puffy and red. She wore a blue top and grey bottom.
“She’s wearing shrunken sweatpants,” jeered Sebastian.
“They’re called cargo capris. Be quiet.”
Peggy Brown has trouble standing up sometimes. She suffers from bad knees. But today, she stood up for herself like never before. And in doing that, she took down a bully.
“I’m plus-size, I’m big, I’m fat. That still doesn’t give her the right to make me feel small.”
The video switched to inside the cafeteria.
The ‘her’ is Scarlett Unger, Peggy’s boss. Unger was the food service manager in charge of a multimillion dollar renovation. The cafeteria’s menu also got a makeover. Fat was out. Apparently, Unger forgot that she should have stopped with the food.
Back to Peggy in her kitchen. The fridge hummed in the background. Two gigantic bags of chips sat on the counter.
“She called me into the office, and said something had to go—me or the weight. She said, ‘You’re an embarrassment.’ I couldn’t believe it. I’ve tried to lose weight lots of times, but I can’t give up the chips.”
Roxanne sat still. “That poor woman.”
Sebastian sighed and gulped his wine.
Peggy’s humiliation didn’t stop there. That’s because the cafeteria she was about to be thrown out of is named after her.
“That’s outrageous,” shrieked Roxanne.
“When they said they were going to name it Peggy’s Place, I was so happy I cried. It was the proudest day of my life.”
“Cue the tears,” said Sebastian. The camera gently zoomed in to capture one rolling down Peggy’s cheek.
“I’m fed up with people telling me to lose weight. It hurts. It’s like a knife in my heart.”
Roxanne whimpered. Janice appeared live on the screen again. Street lamps illuminated the hospital behind her.
Peter, just a short while ago, hospital CEO Carla Gallo spoke to reporters. She offered her sincere apologies to Peggy Brown. She said the new cafeteria is most definitely Peggy’s Place, not Scarlett’s Place. And that Scarlett Unger has resigned to pursue other opportunities. Janice Stone, CBC News.
“Peggy should still sue,” said Roxanne.
“Fat chance,” said Sebastian, picking up the bottle. “More wine?”
Roxanne laid her glass down on a coaster. “I’m going to bed.”
•
Sebastian stopped outside the entrance to Bannerman Park. The air was muggy and he felt sweat running down his back. Stately trees inside offered shade from the melting sun, but he hesitated in stepping under the wrought-iron arch.
“Couldn’t I just grow a moustache in November?” he asked. “That passes for philanthropy at the CBC.”
“You can’t back out now,” said Roxanne. “People are counting on you. Besides, it’ll be fun. And if you’re really good, I’ll buy you an ice-cream afterwards.”
“What am I—six?”
“Sometimes. Come on, there’s already a crowd.”
“Nothing like an execution to bring out the mob.”
Sebastian and Roxanne rambled through tulip beds.
“You know,” said Roxanne, “your father would enjoy this.”
“I’m sure he would. What father doesn’t love to see his son publicly humiliated?” He let Roxanne’s hand go.
“I don’t think he’d get the sarcasm. I’m simply suggesting that you should take advantage of these chances.”
“Life is not a Norman Rockwell painting, Roxanne. Stop trying to paint one.”
“Amazing how words can be coated with frost when it’s twenty-eight degrees.”
Sebastian exhaled audibly. “I’m sorry. I know you’re only trying to help. It’s just… some things are better left alone.”
The mob had gathered near a shaking bouncy castle; the kids’ caterwaul made Sebastian grateful for birth control. Parents ignored the pandemonium, seeking solace in cups of coffee and conversation. A man on stilts outfitted in red pants, black tails, and a top hat giant-stepped through a plume of barbeque smoke. Whiffs of grilled kielbasa sausages tormented Sebastian’s taste buds.
“I know what I’m having for lunch,” he said.
“Mom,” yelled Roxanne, waving.
Hesitation blossomed into outright regret. Bad enough he had agreed to a public affront, but Prudish Penelope would witness the burlesque show. Her adulation of all things Sebastian could only balloon and there’s only so much hero worship a future son-in-law can handle.
Mother and daughter kissed and embraced. Sebastian dutifully hugged Penelope and gave her a fluffy kiss.
“Sebastian,” she said, clasping his hand, “this is so good of you.”
“It was Roxanne’s idea. Penance for being a contrarian.”
“Roxanne, you’re too hard on him.”
“Just mending fences, Mom. Showing the CBC that he really does have a soft side.”
“Mr. Hunter,” said a man fast approaching and carrying a purple T-shirt. He shook Sebastian’s hand as if he were shaking a martini. “Thank you again for doing this. The Alzheimer Society really appreciates it.”
“There’s nowhere else I’d rather be on a hot Saturday,” said Sebastian. Roxanne gave him the eye of death.
“We’ve done up special T-shirts. All our celebrities are donning purple. That’s our colour.”
“What do you think, Penelope? Should I make this a proper wet T-shirt contest?”
Penelope tittered and dropped her eyes.
“No need to be bashful.” Sebastian peeled off his own T-shirt, exposing sheen skin. Droplets of perspiration drizzled down firm pectoral muscles.
“Mercy,” said Penelope, fanning herself with an open hand.
Sebastian donned the purple T-shirt and modelled for the two women. They nodded to each other. Roxanne touched the letter C on the T-shirt.
“I like the font,” she said. “CELEBRITY DUNK.”
“Maybe it should say CELEBRITY HUNK,” teased Penelope.
“Mom,” said Roxanne, turning one syllable into three.
Sebastian rolled his shoulders back, swelling his chest. “Do you have matching shorts,” he joked.
“Yours are just fine,” said Roxanne. “You don’t want to be arrested.”
“You’re incorrigible,” said Penelope, smiling.
The organizer checked his watch. “We should go. It’s almost show time.” He led his troop to the upwind side of the barbeque. A round dunk tank sat on the grass, awaiting the first dunkee. A city worker topped up the water with a garden hose.
“Nice and chilly,” he said.
“At least it’s clean,” replied Sebastian, peering through the plastic window.
“That cage is made of steel,” said the organizer, pointing at the chain-link wire surrounding the seat. “There’s no danger from a wild pitch.”
The organizer picked up a bullhorn to wrangle the crowd. “Our Celebrity Dunk is starting and the first victim of the day is Sebastian Hunter of CBC. So come on over folks and dunk the TV star. Three balls for five dollars.”
Roxanne gave Sebastian a good-luck kiss and held up her phone. “I’ll capture every sopping minute for Facebook.”
Sebastian circled to the back of the tank, slipping off his sandals before climbing a short ladder and mounting the seat hanging over the water.
“Don’t hold the seat,” advised the organizer. “You could nip your fingers when it falls. And lean forward a bit.”
Sebastian rested his hands on his lap. He noticed a stir in the crowd. A path opened. Premier Susan Robinson and her entourage swaggered through.
/> Just when I thought it couldn’t get any worse.
“We asked the premier to be one of our celebrities,” said the organizer. “She said no, but when she heard you’d be here she insisted on throwing the first balls.”
“Morning, Sebastian,” said Robinson. “Don’t you look good in a cage.” The premier’s minions laughed.
“Bet you throw better insults than pitches, Premier.”
“There’s nothing wrong with this girl’s arm.”
Robinson held the ball with an underhand grip, as if it were a softball. She set her feet shoulder-width apart, slightly staggered. She bent at the hips as her throwing arm shot straight up, like a missile ready for launch. The premier took an explosive stride, her arm whipped in a vicious circle, her body twisting sideways as she uncorked the ball. Sebastian never saw it leave her hand; he only heard the clank when it hit the target. His seat collapsed and water filled his nose. Clapping and jeers greeted him and his coughing jag when he stood up.
“Strike one,” sang the minion glee club. An obsequious aide handed the premier another ball.
“I used to pitch for the provincial softball team,” boasted the premier. She dug a toe into the ground like she was on the mound.
“They put on the big target. The one they use for kids,” taunted Sebastian. He squeegeed his hair. Water drained from his drenched shorts. He reset his roost and dangled his feet over the water.
The windup, a cannonball pitch, a slam-bang splash, water slopped out of the tank. Sebastian saw hyenas laughing through the bubbles.
“Strike two.” The glee club had picked up new members. Spectators cheered the premier. “Dunk, dunk, dunk,” chanted a few.
Sebastian shivered and wiped water out of his eyes. He assumed his precarious repose again.
“People who live in glass houses shouldn’t throw balls, Premier.”
Sebastian focussed on the premier’s pitching hand. Her spread fingers caressed the ball, perhaps muscle memory searching for seams. He once read that Ted Williams could read the spin on a baseball in midflight. All Sebastian saw was a white streak. Water encased him. He sat cross-legged on the bottom and waved to Roxanne and Penelope through the window. Roxanne put a hand over her heart; Penelope blew him a kiss.
“Strike three,” howled the glee club. “You’re ou-u-u-t-t-t.”
The Premier high-fived her lapdogs. She took a hundred-dollar bill from her pocket and dropped it into the donation jar.
“Worth every penny,” she told the organizer before disappearing into the hullabaloo.
•
Thank God for turfed cabinet ministers. So full of spite for their former boss. So willing to pass along the dirt they would have taken to their own graves before their ignominious exit. Nothing spurs animosity and late-night phone calls like a cabinet shuffle and a good firing. Sebastian couldn’t wait for Zoe to ask if anyone had any story ideas.
“Alright, let’s get going,” said Zoe.
Sebastian sprung to his feet. His announcement demanded theatre. He had a full house; the boardroom was padded with reporters and producers.
“Point of order, Madame Speaker,” he said.
Zoe grinned. She knew the routine. While Sebastian’s antics sometimes aggravated her, she enjoyed playing along in this venue. His political satire just might deliver a climax worthy of a lead story.
“Order, please. The chair recognizes the honourable Leader of the Opposition to Everything.”
“Thank you, Madame Speaker,” said Sebastian with a grandiose air. “As all members of this honourable house know, I don’t spread rumours.”
“Hear, hear,” said some honourable members on Sebastian’s side of the table. They slapped the table in approval; free hands grabbed bouncing coffee cups. Sebastian’s nodding head kept time with the thumping.
“But when it comes to our holier-than-thou premier, I’m willing to make an exception.”
“Shame, shame,” cried honourable members on the opposite side of the table.
“This particular rumour is so delicious, so mouthwatering, that I would be remiss in my job as a purveyor of scandal if I did not share it with my colleagues.”
“Oh, oh!” said honourable members on both sides of the table.
“Madame Speaker, it’s come to my attention that the holier-than-thou premier has a problem of the proboscis variety.” Sebastian snorted while holding his nose high.
“No way,” said Zoe.
“Yes, Madam Speaker, it is shocking to say the least. I’m sure all honourable members in this honourable house, with the possible exception of the Minister of Dignity…,” Sebastian held up a publicity photo of Garrison Hill, “would condemn this outrageous behaviour. The only positive spin I can possibly see, Madame Speaker, is that the premier is so concerned about the welfare of drug addicts in our province that she is personally ensuring they get access to the finest cocaine possible.”
Sebastian sat down amid raucous table-banging.
“Typical CBC, Madame Speaker,” observed Evan. “Negative. Only interested in the negative. And thank God for it.” Evan leaned forward in his chair and rested on elbows. “As entertaining as that was, what can you prove?”
“At the moment—nothing.” The entire room slumped. Eyes turned away. Janice twirled a ring on her finger. Sebastian scrambled to recapture his audience. “My sources are solid, but they won’t go on the record. The premier has had a relapse into imprudent behaviour. And she’s in complete denial, apparently. The knives are out, but only in the shadows. I need time to coax them into the light. I’ve got to pound the phones.”
“Let’s talk after the meeting. In the meantime, not a word leaves this room.”
Sebastian felt exhilarated. He would smack the doubt right off their faces.
You put water up my nose. Just wait until I prove what you’re putting up yours.
•
A plaque by a flower pot read Trinity House. Sebastian stooped to examine the yellow and purple flowers.
“What do you call these?”
“Pansies,” answered Roxanne.
“They’re quite attractive, aren’t they?” Sebastian touched one. “They have blackfaces—a politically incorrect flower. Imagine. Are they annuals or perennials?”
“Annuals.”
She was the most unenthusiastic gardener Sebastian had ever questioned. “We should plant some in the backyard,” he said.
Roxanne laughed.
“What’s so funny?” asked Sebastian.
“Are you the same Sebastian Hunter who stood on the deck and announced to the garden, ‘Live or die, it’s up to you.’ ”
Sebastian straightened up. “I’ve decided gardening can’t be any more painful than visiting my father.”
“It’s just once a month. Sit down and have a chat.”
“I’ll end up doing all the talking, I always do.”
“And that’s hard for a reporter?”
“Just a few minutes. Okay?”
“We’re in no rush,” soothed Roxanne. “Whatever you want.”
The sliding glass doors swished open. A cooking show blared from the TV in the front lobby.
“Careful with the salt or it will end up tasting like the Dead Sea,” joked the chef.
“Must be an in-house channel,” said Sebastian.
Three women slouching in wheelchairs appeared stupefied. Only one bothered to eyeball the visitors.
“Hello,” she said in a frail voice.
“Hello, nice day,” said Roxanne. The grey-haired woman brightened up. Roxanne and Sebastian followed the signs to Oak Wing, passing the cafeteria along the way. The menu promised shepherd’s pie and green peas for supper. The meal was still half an hour away, but several residents had already been wheeled in. Caregivers dressed them in bibs. The men wore sensible, solid colours while the women had happy, bright prints.
“It’s so depressing in here,” moaned Sebastian. “This is what we have to look forward to—zombie television and
gruel for supper. And you end up wearing most it.”
Roxanne sighed. They turned the corner and dodged a speeding snack cart.
“He’s acting up today, Sebastian,” said a woman in a blue smock as she sprinted away from a man shuffling behind.
“Come back and I’ll give you something really sweet,” said Sebastian’s father.
“You’re not allowed to chase the women,” said Sebastian calmly.
“Who are you?” he snapped.
“Sebastian. I’m your son. And this is Roxanne, my fiancée. You’ve met her before.”
“Roxanne? Isn’t there a song about you?”
“A different Roxanne.”
“Are you sure you’re not a hooker?”
“Absolutely.”
He turned to Sebastian. His eyes wrestled to recall the face. “And who are you?”
“Sebastian.”
“I have a son Sebastian. Never see him.”
“Dad, it’s a beautiful day. Let’s go outside and feed the ducks.”
“Ducks! I love duck. Do you think we’ll have duck tonight?”
“No, it’s shepherd’s pie.”
“Are you staying for supper?”
“No, another time. We have plans this evening.”
“Hang on to my arm, Mr. Hunter,” said Roxanne. All three took baby steps down the hall, passing a door with the name Tobias Hunter. A shallow case with a glass front hung on the wall. Inside was a photo of Tobias sitting behind a birthday cake with two lit candles. A six and a zero needed to be blown out.
Tobias squinted. “Is that me?”
“Yes, and this is your room.”
“What do I do?”
“You used to be a lawyer,” said Sebastian.
“Did I make money?”
“So much, it was criminal.” Roxanne elbowed Sebastian in the ribs.
“Where’s Olivia?”
“Mom’s busy today.” The answer was an incomplete truth. His mother was busy alright, busy looking after her new husband. She divorced Tobias five years earlier, after he was convicted of stealing from his clients’ trust accounts. Sebastian always figured his father traded one prison for another when he was admitted to Trinity House.
The door to the garden was locked. Sebastian punched the code into the keypad. Five, two, three, nine—the most open secret on the wing. The bold-font numbers were written on a piece of paper pegged to the bulletin board, available to everyone who could comprehend them. The lock clicked open.