Image Decay

by Mark Lisac

  He went back to the capital immediately after the wrap-up on the last day. He could have stopped in to see who was around the executive suite after being dropped off but he walked to his car and drove home instead. Only the dogs were there to greet him. He checked to see they had been fed and had water in their bowls. He closed the gate to their area and walked to the house.

  There was leftover stew in the fridge. He was down to his last two forkfuls and had just opened a bottle of ale when the phone rang. He answered and heard Morehead’s familiar soft drawl. He used to wonder if the drawl had once been broader and been clipped by years here in the north, or if it had always been understated, the product of a man who had decided at a young age that he would be part of a larger world and should sound like he belonged.

  “You did a great job out there,” the premier said. “That show could have turned bad on us if we’d sent someone out there who fumbled it. You projected authority and confidence. Exactly what was needed. Made the best of the situation. I think it will fade fast. We just have to make sure we don’t replace it with some other disaster.”

  “Thank you. It helped a lot they got the damn thing capped reasonably fast.”

  “Helped in more ways than one. We were getting grief about not using a local crew. The in-province guys will have to admit the Texans got the job done pretty efficiently.”

  “Not that they made any friends out in Broken Pines. But yes, they did their job. Will you need a summary at cabinet?”

  “Naw, I think everyone watched the whole thing unfold on TV. I’d like to see you in the office tomorrow, though. Say 9:30?”

  “Certainly. I’ll be there.”

  “I’ve been rethinking the cabinet posts. You showed a lot of strength out there. A lot of poise under pressure. We’re not getting that in every portfolio, including some where it’s needed. Henry agrees with me. The Culture ministry leaves too much of your talent going to waste. Would you be willing to take on a bigger file?”

  Becker calculated the odds and the recent performance of fellow ministers and decided Energy was the mostly likely spot where a new face was needed. The risk was that Morehead was talking about Social Services. Energy was much more likely.

  “I’d be happy to serve wherever you think is best,” he said.

  “That’s fine. Just what I was hoping to hear. See you in the morning.”

  “At 9:30. Thank you, Premier.”

  He walked back to the table and finished the stew standing up as he carried the plate to the sink to rinse it before putting it into the dishwasher. Then he picked up the bottle and carried it into the den. This was a football night on television. He watched football infrequently but tonight watching a game seemed a good way to wind down after days of tension. Producing a few seconds of authoritative reassurance for the cameras was simple enough in its way. The words flowed easily. He had mastered the look of relaxed intelligence long ago. He hadn’t realized until after the fact that grad school had been good training for getting the right look and sound while talking at least as much as for learning about economics. What wore a person down was the knowledge that every second on camera was a walk through a field of bear traps. Any stumble in delivering the words, any choice of words that hinted at confusion, any expression betraying weakness, anything that could be misinterpreted in a damaging way—any of those mistakes would be sure to end up in front of hundreds of thousands or even a million people, some of them tolerant and some not. He watched a Winnipeg running back brought down by a gang of tacklers after struggling for a gain of two yards. Like that, he thought. Everything is a grind and there are many more tackles than touchdowns.

  He sipped at the beer occasionally, savouring the taste rather than just drinking. He thought about trying to look up some Pabst Blue Ribbon. He had become used to Canadian brands but remembered that he used to like Blue Ribbon. The announcer and colour man kept up an engaging excitement about the game. The colour man, an old quarterback, was especially good, Becker thought. He marvelled again at how the pros could spot patterns instantly, point out subtle things about how the players moved or how tactics were set up on individual plays. Maybe that’s like politics too, he thought.

  He had nearly finished the beer when he heard Arlene coming up the driveway and into the garage. He waited on the couch rather than getting up. The back door opened and closed. The sound of hangers being moved along the rack and boots being put into the closet came faintly over the sound of the game. She walked into the den and he looked up with a patient smile and said, “Hi.” She strode to the couch, sat beside him, put an arm around his shoulders, gave him a short kiss and said, “Hi.” He saw her hair neatly in place and her eyes apparently smiling along with her lips.

  “It’s good to have you back,” she said.

  “Good to be back. Good to have a chance to rest and have homemade food.”

  “I’ll bet. I had to put up with so-so chicken with two of the board members tonight at The Ferns. Not up to snuff. Their regular cook must have the night off.” She drew back a little and looked at him as if discovering something new. “I watched the evening news every night. You did a great job. No sense of crisis and very understandable explanations.”

  “Thanks. The premier seemed pleased, too.”

  “Well he should be.”

  “Everything okay at the symphony?”

  “Oh, the usual. There’s never enough money. There are always complaints that the conductor is uninspired. He is, but his contract runs another year. We’ve started looking for a replacement. A fresh face may help ticket sales and sponsorships.”

  Becker turned off the television. He looked out the window at the silhouette of the big poplar across the side yard. The moon must be bright tonight, he thought. He looked at his wife and watched for her reaction as he told her that Morehead had called him into the office next morning, probably to offer a bigger cabinet post, probably as energy minister.

  She beamed at the news. Unfeigned happiness, he thought. “Oh, John. Really?”

  “Just an educated guess, so far. He’s going to offer something. The worst case would be Social Services but I’m pretty sure it’s Energy.”

  “That’s wonderful.” She gave him a quick hug, stood up and almost whirled before sitting down again and taking one of his hands. “I knew they’d have to offer you more. You’re too valuable. Especially compared with the others. The way you handled Broken Pines showed that.”

  “I suppose so.”

  She turned to look at him. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

  “I’m happy to have something more meaningful to do. A portfolio like that will add weight to what I say in cabinet on other matters, too. I’m worried that I got the job by being an actor. I hope they let me do more than be a reassuring face on the evening news. Being on television these last few days ... I feel like there’s a bigger image now but less of me.”

  “But you will be more. You’ll do more. Once you’re energy minister you’ll be more able to set your own agenda. You won’t have final say but you will have real authority. And staff you can direct to draw up plans.”

  “I wonder,” he said. “I wonder how much of it is real. Maybe most of it is show. The department can probably run itself three hundred and fifty days of the year.”

  “Then make the other fifteen count. John, it won’t be like that.

  Haven’t you figured out what’s important after all these years here?” She turned back to the window and gazed at the moonlit trees, imagining the vast land stretching in all directions, to the pastures and dry croplands in the east and south, the dark but life-filled forest in the north, the scrub-filled farms edging up toward the foothills in the west and finally the mountains, the “shining” mountains.

  “Sometimes I think it takes an inordinately long time for people like you and Billy Morehead and others who come here to understand. You all grew up in a different world. You think consultants and television images determine everything. They don’t.
Do you know we didn’t have TV on the ranch until I was ten years old?”

  “I think you’ve mentioned that once or twice.”

  “I suppose I did,” she said without smiling, still looking out the window. “My sister and I were lucky. There were hardly any stations to watch in those days. That didn’t much matter to us. We knew what counted. The land. The land was the only real thing. The thing everything else came from, depended on. The land and our memories. They aren’t ephemeral like an evening news show or another poll result. The land and everything our family experienced with it is part of us. It’s what we grew up believing. That knowledge never got encapsulated in an hour-long documentary and then filed away after it was broadcast once or twice. It’s always been there and always will be.”

  He kept himself from asking whether it was the land that counted more or the social position of those who owned the biggest pieces of it. He said instead, “I grew up on a farm. Remember?”

  She turned back to her husband. “I know that. This is more. Don’t you see what being energy minister means? You’ll have a direct relationship with everything here. With the people here. You’ll finally be a part of this place. Not part of the passing parade in the legislature or one of the office workers who come and go in downtown buildings that come and go. Really a part of here, really belonging.”

  He was looking at her not knowing if he felt resigned or flummoxed. He knew he was not angry. And not completely surprised, yet somehow taken unawares.

  “I didn’t realize I was still here on a visa,” he said.

  “You’re going to be like that? Oh, John. Don’t you see what this means to me?”

  “I think I do. I’m starting to wonder what it means to me. A year ago I would have been happy to take a promotion. Now I’m wondering what’s really important in life.”

  “Including me, I suppose.”

  “Don’t let’s start that. It’s late. I’m tired.”

  “So am I. I’m going to bed. If you can’t figure out what’s really important in life, go outside and look at the stars in the sky. Pick up some dirt in the garden and feel how it crumbles through your fingers. You’ll probably want to say goodnight to the dogs anyway.”

  She climbed the stairs, moving neither fast nor slowly, moving as if going upstairs were the same as accepting fate.

  He sat for a few minutes, got up and rinsed the bottle in the sink, then walked to the back door, put on his red plaid flannel jacket and took the empty bottle to the cardboard case in the shed. The dogs watched him in the glow of the yard light. He walked over to their large run, opened the gate and knelt down to rub their ears and pat their backs as they gathered around him. “Hey, Ricky,” he said softly. “Hi Mitzi, Gretchen. Did you all miss me?”

  From deep in the trees beside the long driveway he showed up as a large mass in the telescopic sight. The crosshairs centred on the left side of his head. As he turned to the other two dachshunds the crosshairs dropped slightly and centred on the middle of his back. Roberto held the rifle steady. A hunting rifle, not like the AK-47 he had once used but perhaps better for a single, straight shot. He let out a breath and imagined squeezing the trigger and hitting his target squarely. It would be easy. What was to stop him? He held Becker in the crosshairs for nearly half a minute, gauging how well he could keep his aim centred as his target shifted among the animals. Only a slight squeeze away. A movement of a few millimetres with his finger.

  He saw Becker straighten up and leave the dog run. It was just as well. He had nothing to gain by killing the man, only much to lose. He watched Becker enter the house and he gently laid the rifle onto the litter of poplar leaves, spruce needles and twigs on the ground to his right. He felt safe, knowing the breeze was coming from the direction of the yard. The dogs would not be picking up his scent. He would lie here motionless, making no sound, seeing if he still had the patience and stamina within him to wait in ambush until the time was right.

  It took perhaps an hour. He saw the last of the lights go off in the house. There was still adequate light from the moon. He waited another half-hour to allow time for the man and woman to fall asleep. A sting of emotion ran through him as he wondered if they were really falling asleep. The man had been away for days. No, he decided. If they were making love they would have started sooner. Who cared, anyway? The woman was old, merely an interesting idea. But she had turned him away. People had been turning him away since he had left the jungle.

  He checked his watch and saw it was time. The Doberman was lying still outside the little shelter, apparently asleep. None of the other dogs was moving. He picked up the rifle and looked through the scope. Head or heart, he wondered. The head was a little more of a challenge. No, keep it simple. He lined up the upper part of the dog’s body, certain the bullet would do enough damage even if he did not hit the heart exactly.

  He squeezed the trigger. And stopped as a shadow fell through his line of vision. He froze in confusion for a split second, then realized a leaf had fallen. He looked up at the tree limbs searching for the one that might harbour a malicious spirit. Or was it not a prank but a warning from God?

  Not satisfied but finding no answer, he took two deep breaths and aimed again. He squeezed the trigger. And flinched as the thought of another falling leaf flashed through his mind. The bullet cracked into the wood of the shelter behind the Doberman’s head. The dog jerked up and barked. The dachshunds came to life and barked a few times. None of them sensed an intruder and they quieted down within a few seconds. Roberto had initially thought he may have grazed the Doberman or clipped one of its ears. When the barking stopped quickly he knew he must have just missed. He asked why. Killing a dog should have been easy. Time enough to answer that later. Now he saw a light turn on in the upper floor of the house. He raised into a crouch and began to make his way back to the truck. He had to move fast enough to get away cleanly but carefully enough in the darkness not to arouse the dogs further. He hoped that Becker would clump down the steps of the back porch and talk to the dogs. That might make enough noise to help cover his escape. The truck was about five hundred metres away.

  Both the Beckers had awakened with the noise. They agreed they may have heard a cracking sound before the dogs started barking but they weren’t sure. John stepped into his yard boots and pulled his heavier fall jacket over his pyjama top, switched on the yard light and stepped outside, not sure what he might be looking for. He walked slowly to the pen. Ricky greeted him as he opened the gate.

  “What’s up, boy?” he said, leaning down to give a scratch behind the ears. Ricky had been pacing. The dachshunds had quickly lost interest and settled to go back to sleep. John looked around for about half a minute, saw nothing unusual, bent down slightly and said, “Okay, Ricky. Everything’s okay. Did you see an owl or a coyote? Hmmm?” Ricky looked up at him, panting. He said, “Quiet now. Let’s get some sleep.”

  He walked out of the pen and closed the gate slowly behind him. He was in the house, had switched off the yard light and was taking off his boots when a small truck engine started from behind a screen of trees down the road. He did not notice the splintered holes in both sides of Ricky’s shelter until he went out again for the morning feeding. If a bullet had made the holes it could have flown some distance into the woods. A small needle in a large haystack.

  Over breakfast, he told Arlene what he had found. She had a suspicion about what had happened but chose not to tell him right away. He was still wondering as he drove out onto the road why she had not looked more worried or asked more questions.

  20.

  THE MEETING WENT ABOUT AS HE HAD EXPECTED. Morehead and Waschuk both complimented him on his performance at Broken Pines. Morehead said he wanted a strong voice in Energy, one capable of representing authority but also able to present complex matters to the public in an understandable way. That was not to say the current minister was doing a bad job. But some big decisions regarding royalties were coming up. A minister with communication skills as we
ll as solid experience with business issues would be the best choice to handle the likely raft of criticisms. Morehead did most of the talking; Waschuk did most of the reading of expressions and listening to nuances in replies. Becker took in the deep carpet, the broad oak desk, the landscape paintings on the wall that he was sure a protocol officer had picked out and that Morehead likely viewed as a concession to the tastes of official visitors.

  The closest thing to a negative signal cropped up when Morehead said, “You’re a guaranteed star now.”

  Becker answered, “Stars fade. What I see and appreciate is a chance to be of service in a post where I think I can help.”

  Waschuk noted that the nicely modest hint of pleasure at taking on higher status was modified by what sounded like fatalism. The cabinet needed controlled ambition, not a penchant for mumbling “Vanity of vanities, all is vanity.” However, the rest of the fifteen-minute talk went well. Everyone had streaks of the unknown in them. The known quantities in Becker were experience, skill, and an apparent belief in loyalty, to the party and the province if not to the premier.

  Becker left the executive suite and took the three flights of stairs down to his own office to check on what had backed up during his absence. The smooth terrazzo floors and beige plastered walls produced his usual reaction of being trapped in a place built on artificial dreams of solidity and permanence.

  He said hello to Ginny and the other admin assistant, who both seemed genuinely happy to see him. Cary, his executive assistant, seemed relieved. Cary filled him in on the department’s responses to recent action requests, on the more prominent funding appeals and invitations that had come in, and on the preliminary list of items for next week’s cabinet meeting. Becker did not say there was any reason he might not be handling the Culture file there. The routine catch-up and two telephone calls to heads of arts organizations took nearly two hours. He looked up at the clock on the mantel—the body of the clock was a horrible ceramic interpretation of a classic wood timepiece but was too recent a gift from too prominent an artist to dispose of just yet—saw 11:45 and walked to the closet to put on his jacket. He told the admin women he would be back about 1:00 and set off for a walk up the hill and into the ragged, aging edge of downtown.