“Don’t sit there smirking at me!” snapped the apparition. “I tell you, the Western Grain Stabilization Act simply will not do!”
“Oughtn’t you to be weighted down with a chain forged of old ballot boxes or something?” asked Milton mildly.
“Nonsense! You’re confusing me with a U.S. president! Several, in fact.”
“Very possibly. At any rate, you’re confusing me with someone else as well. I can’t vote in parliament. I’m a graduate student.”
The late prime minister pointed to Milton’s coffee mug. “M.P.-there it is, sir, plain as day!”
“My initials,” said Milton diffidently.
There was a short silence. “Oh.” Another pause. “Isn’t this twenty-four Sussex Drive?”
Milton consulted his wrist. “Twenty-four Wessex Drive,” he announced.
“Oh. I haven’t got the hang of this yet. It was easier when I was on your side. Just sit at the table and stay alert: one rap for yes, two for no. Now I’m expected to navigate. Higher plane indeed! Oh well, sorry to have disturbed you. Carry on!”
The figure walked into the wall and began to fade from sight, its features mingling with the roses on the wallpaper. Milton cleared his throat. “Actually, though, there isn’t anything wrong with voting for the Western Grain Stabilization Act…”
The figure ceased to blend. It seemed to seep outward from the wall again, taking on a distinct, even portly form, which began to walk back toward him. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said: ‘There’s nothing wrong with voting for the Western Grain Stabilization Act.’ It will stabilize the whole economy of the region without costing the taxpayers anything. Because, you see, you have to consider the multiplier effect, which in the case of a farmer is a factor of three; therefore-”
“No! No! Don’t give me twaddle about multiplier effects. Have you talked to the farmers? Have you asked them what they want? You have to approach this in a spirit of compromise, to-I thought you said you weren’t in politics.”
Milton drew himself up. “I’m a graduate student in Canadian history. Naturally I follow politics,” he said, warming to the topic.
The apparition smiled complacently. “Quite an opportunity for you-talking to me!”
“Uh… well…” Milton hedged.
“Politics. I can certainly set you straight about that.”
“Er-the fact is-”
“Have you read my book? Industry and Humanity?”
“I find it most helpful at times,” said Milton carefully.
“Should think you would.” The late prime minister nodded.
Milton forbore to mention that he found Industry and Humanity most helpful when his worries about course work had reached such a pitch that he was unable to sleep, and found himself speculating on whether there was an alternate universe in which he had returned a copy of Ursula Le Guin’s Malafrena to the university library. About the time his musings turned dark and he began to wonder whether one could be digested by one’s bed, he would flip on the light with shaking hands and lose himself in the soothing monotony of William Lyon Mackenzie King’s prose style. This treatment never failed to work: soon he would awake to the clanging of his alarm clock, the book still in his hands. As an alternative to sleeping tablets, Mackenzie King was without equal. As a political mentor-Milton Palmerston, contemporary Liberal, questioned his value.
“… probably know more about politics than anyone else alive,” the apparition was saying.
Milton blinked at this. “But you’re not alive,” he pointed out.
“Do you think the voters would hold it against me?”
Milton considered the members of parliament presently in office. “Probably not,” he conceded. “Er-you weren’t thinking of standing for North Waterloo again, were you?”
“What? After I got the Industrial Disputes Investigation Act passed and the ingrates voted me out in 1911? I should hope not! I was thinking of my other old job-prime minister, you know.”
Milton nodded, wondering if perhaps reading Mackenzie King had not, after all, been safer than tranquilizers. It seemed to produce its own hallucinations.
“I suppose they still need me,” mused the late prime minister. “How are things going with labor? And the French-are we getting along better internally now? I suppose I’m sorely missed among the Liberals?”
Milton’s instincts toward courtesy to deceased heads of state battled with his pedantic desire to make political pronouncements. God knows he didn’t have much of a chance to do either, but the urge to make political pronouncements proved stronger. With the dim suspicion that he might be following in Cassandra’s dainty footsteps, Milton spoke.
“The fact is, sir, you’re not considered sound. The modern Liberal consensus is that while we respect your-er-place in history and all that-well-as my professor put it last term: ‘You can follow Mackenzie King just so far.’ ”
Having delivered this pronouncement, he looked up to see the apparition rapidly fading in and out-the spectral equivalent, he supposed, of taking deep breaths. After a few moments, the oscillation subsided, and a very substantial-looking statesman fixed him with a most uncompromising glare. “Indeed!” The apparition began to pace about the room, in the exact spot where Milton’s mound of notes and reference books had been erected; he did not trip on them however, but merely walked through them, as if they, not he, were ethereal. Milton’s eyes strayed to the note posted on his wall: EXAM TOMORROW! He really must study, and since the exam did not cover the Mackenzie King era at all, this interruption could do him no good whatsoever. He wondered at the propriety of evicting a deceased prime minister from one’s room. It wasn’t covered in Robert’s Rules of Order, he was sure of that.
The unwelcome visitor continued to pace.
He glanced at the clock. Two A.M. Exam in six hours. Milton considered exorcism. What would one use to banish the ghost of a Liberal prime minister? He dived for his Diefenbaker text.
Before he could locate a sufficiently inflammatory passage, the ghost discovered a newspaper that Milton had been saving to line his leaky boots. He bent down and studied the front page carefully: unemployment statistics, a picture of an overcrowded nursing home, an article on inflation.
“I see you’re having another Depression,” he remarked.
“Actually, it’s my nerves,” Milton confided. “I can’t sleep, but I’m taking sedatives and considering lightening my class load.”
“I was referring to the country!”
“Oh.”
“There was a Depression during my term as well,” said the ghost. “I got the country out of it, of course!”
Milton nodded. He decided not to mention that Mackenzie King’s solution to the Great Depression was called World War II. There was always the chance that even an oblique reference to the Führer might bring him goose-stepping into the room to join the debate. There were the neighbors to consider.
Mackenzie King plodded to the laundry-laden armchair and sank down on-or rather, through-the pile of clothes. He put his head in his translucent hands. “What a disaster!” he moaned. “I am the only one who can possibly save Canada-and I’m dead!”
Milton considered the problem; perhaps he could profit from providing assistance. If there were such a thing as ghosts, then perhaps spirit-writing was also possible, and he could persuade a grateful Mackenzie King to get his impending exam ghost-written, as it were, by Diefenbaker. Unless, of course, the Liberals’ imprecations had been correct, in which case Dief was now residing in a much more tropical region than Ontario.
“Do you see much of Diefenbaker?” he asked casually.
“What? Old fellow? Rides a unicorn? That’s not important! Pay attention. I am trying to save the country!”
“Well,” said Milton doubtfully, “perhaps you could do it in an advisory capacity. Are any of your favorite mediums still alive?”
“I’ve tried that. I’ve spelled out messages on the Ouija board until my head spun, but m
y contacts couldn’t even get an appointment with-” He waved his hand. “You know-what’s-his-name.” The apparition shook his head dolefully. “Once I even appeared at a government reception. They mistook me for Larry Reynolds.”
Milton sighed. He supposed that he would have to help: saving the country took precedence over passing History 604, but he didn’t expect any gratitude for it. Nothing ever went right for him; he’d known that at the age of six, when he bit into his chocolate Easter Bunny and broke out in hives. How could the Dominion of Canada possibly be saved by a shortsighted, mild-mannered, pedantic, mediocre-He looked again at Mackenzie King. Then again…
“Could I suggest a compromise?” he ventured.
The ghost brightened visibly upon hearing the magic word. “Compromise?” he said eagerly.
“Yes. I was thinking that instead of meddling-er-intervening directly in domestic policy, you might tell your ideas to me, and I could see to it that someone in Parliament hears them.”
“You have influence?”
“A certain amount.” Milton smiled, wisely deciding not to mention that his parliamentary contacts consisted of his presence on the mailing list of the M.P. from Moosejaw.
The late prime minister tapped his fingers together. “Well… I suppose you’ll have to do,” he said grudgingly.
“I’m better than nothing,” Milton reminded him.
“Humph! Well, I always did have a fondness for ruins. All right, then. Pay attention. Get a pencil. I shall begin.”
Milton ferreted out a pencil from the debris on his desk, turned to a clean page in his course notebook, and looked expectantly at the speaker. This would be easy. Graduate students in history are able to take down lecture notes in their sleep. Unfortunately, this is what Milton did. The sonorous cadence of the William Lyon Mackenzie King political address was even more soothing than his literary efforts. Milton’s hand diligently jotted down the words, but his mind had warped out to blissful oblivion. Occasionally a phrase like “social credit” or “contra-cyclical financing” would penetrate his stupor and reverberate through his own reveries, producing nightmares of political farce. The Western Grain Stabilization Act became a circus performer from Manitoba who juggled loaves of French bread… The Western Grain Stabilization…
Milton returned to consciousness to see that the late prime minister had indeed worked his way round to that topic. Suppressing a yawn, he forced himself to listen. After much rambling and personal digression, Mackenzie King began to outline his political plan. A few minutes later Milton was wide awake. This fellow’s ideas weren’t so ridiculous after all. Quite sensible, really. But what was this bit in his notes about prostitutes? He must have dreamed that part… What was he saying now? Soon Milton found himself leaning forward, saying excitedly: “Yes! Yes! That would work! What else?”
“Well, it’s quite simple really…”
Milton suddenly noticed that the clock, whose alarm he had forgotten to set, said 7:30. He was due in class in half an hour! It seemed a pity to interrupt such brilliance, but he had his academic career to think of.
Milton ventured to interrupt. “Excuse me, sir,” he said timidly, raising his hand. “I have to be getting to the university now.”
“In a moment,” said the ghost, and went on talking.
Five minutes later, Milton decided that he would have to be firm. “I have a test at eight. I must be going now.”
The great man frowned. “I haven’t finished yet,” he said peevishly.
“Really, I have to leave.”
“Well… I suppose I’ll come along. We can talk on the way.”
Milton got ready to leave, idly wondering whether the rest of the class would be able to see the visitor. Would he be invited to address the class? Perhaps the test could be postponed in his honor. Milton grabbed for his coat, scarf, and briefcase while the ghost continued to lecture steadily; in his present spectral state, it was no longer necessary for him to pause for breath. They left the room together, nodding and gesturing about various political details.
“… Registered Retirement Savings Plan…”
“Yes! Yes! I’ll make a note of it!” Milton scribbled furiously.
“… Temporary Wheat Reserves Act…”
“Of course!”
They continued down the hall, the ghost orating happily, while Milton nodded and noted, until they arrived at the end of the corridor, where a left turn would take them to the stairs. The deceased prime minister, deep in a monologue about taxable income, continued to walk straight ahead, passing gracefully through the brick wall. Milton, attempting to follow, slammed face-first into cold, solid reality. As the last strains of the voice reached him from some great beyond, Milton dabbed at his profusely bleeding nose, and reflected that Professor Paulsen had been right after all: you could follow Mackenzie King just so far…
A WEE DOCH AND DORIS
HE STOOD FOR a long while staring up at the house, but all was quiet. There was one light on in an upstairs window, but he saw no shadows flickering on the shades. Not a creature was stirring, not even a mouse, Louis smirked to himself. Christmas wasn’t so hot if you were in his line of work. People tended to stay home with the family: the one night a year when everybody wishes they were the Waltons. But all that togetherness wore off in a week. By now everybody had cabin fever, and they were dying to get away from the in-laws and the rug rats. That’s how it was in his family, anyway. By New Year’s Eve his ma had recovered from the thrill of receiving candy from Anthony, bubble bath from Michael, and a bottle of perfume from Louis, and she had started nagging again. Louis always gave her a bottle of perfume. He preferred small, lightweight gifts that could be slipped easily and unobtrusively into one’s pocket.
He also preferred not to have endless discussions with his nearest and dearest over whether he was going to get a job or enroll in the auto mechanics program at the community college. Neither idea appealed to Louis. He liked his schedule: sleeping until eleven, a quick burger for brunch, and a few hours of volunteer work at the animal shelter.
Nobody at the shelter thought Louis was lazy or unmotivated. He was their star helper. He didn’t mind hosing down the pens and cleaning the food dishes, but what he really enjoyed was playing with the dogs, and brushing down the shaggy ones. They didn’t have a lot of money at the shelter, so they couldn’t afford to pay him. It took all their funds to keep the animals fed and healthy; the shelter refused to put a healthy animal to sleep. Louis heartily approved of this policy, and thus he didn’t mind working for free; in fact, sometimes when the shelter’s funds were low, he gave them a donation from the proceeds of his night’s work. Louis thought that rich people should support local charities; he saw himself as the middleman, except that his share of the take was ninety percent. Louis also believed that charity begins at home.
Christmas was good for the shelter. Lots of people high on the Christmas spirit adopted kittens and puppies, or gave them as gifts, and the shelter saw to it that they got a donation for each adoptee. So their budget was doing okay, but Louis’s personal funds were running short. Christmas is not a good time of year for a burglar. Sometimes he’d find an empty house whose occupants were spending Christmas out of town, but usually the neighborhood was packed with nosy people, eyeballing every car that went by. You’d think they were looking for Santa Claus.
If Christmas was bad for business, New Year’s Eve made up for it. Lots of people went out to parties that night, and did not plan on coming home until well after midnight. Being out for just the evening made them less security conscious than the Christmas people who went out of town: New Year’s party-goers were less likely to hide valuables, activate alarms, or ask the police to keep an eye on the premises. Louis had had a busy evening. He’d started around nine o’clock, when even the tardiest guests would have left for the party, and he had hit four houses, passing on one because of a Doberman pinscher in the backyard. Louis had nothing against the breed, but he found them very unreasonable, and
not inclined to give strangers the benefit of the doubt.
The other four houses had been satisfactory, though. The first one was “guarded” by a haughty white Persian whose owners had forgotten to feed it. Louis put down some canned mackerel for the cat, and charged its owners one portable television, one 35mm. camera, three pairs of earrings, a CD player, and a collection of compact discs. The other houses had been equally rewarding. After a day’s visit to various flea markets and pawnshops, his financial standing should be greatly improved. This was much better than auto mechanics. Louis realized that larceny and auto mechanics are almost never mutually exclusive, but he felt that the hours were better in freelance burglary.
He glanced at his watch. A little after midnight. This would be his last job of the evening. Louis wanted to be home before the drunks got out on the highway. His New Year’s resolution was to campaign for gun control and for tougher drunk driving laws. He turned his attention back to the small white house with the boxwood hedge and the garden gnome next to the birdbath. No danger of Louis stealing that. He thought people ought to have to pay to have garden gnomes stolen. A promising sideline-he would have to consider it. But now to the business at hand.
The hedge seemed high enough to prevent the neighbors from seeing into the yard. The house across the street was vacant, with a big yellow FOR SALE sign stuck in the yard. The brick split-level next door was dark, but they had a chain-link fence, and their front yard was floodlit like the exercise yard of a penitentiary. Louis shook his head: paranoia and bad taste.
There was no car in the driveway-a promising sign that no one was home. He liked the look of the rectangular kitchen window. It was partly hidden by a big azalea bush, and it looked like the kind of window that opened out at the bottom, with a catch to keep it from opening too far. It was about six feet off the ground. Louis was tempted to look under the garden gnome for a spare house key, but he decided to have a look at the window instead. Using a key was unsporting; besides, the exercise would be good for him. If you are a burglar, your physique is your fortune.
Foggy Mountain Breakdown and Other Stories Page 9