by Edward Riche
The short of it is that the trust accounts are frozen, so we won’t be getting our monthly allowance. I can’t imagine this will be an immediate concern for you as you live so modestly, but it is going to be very difficult on Susie, who has to maintain that Rosedale monstrosity. And Bips has made a habit of spending all of it and more as he gets it. He’s in London with no means of paying his hotel bill. Susie says he’s got some sort of prescription-narcotic dependency.
I guess we thought we were part of the 1 percent, but it looks like we probably never did better than the top 2 or 3, ha ha.
I am glad that Daddy isn’t around to see this. I think of him often.
Perhaps it won’t be so painful for you. You always said the money held us back, so in a way this sets you free.
It is urgent that you call me, Natalie.
Martha
Fifty-Eight
Matt called the Council meeting to order.
He was relieved to see that Alessandra was not in attendance. He had no idea what he would say to her. He had no idea what there was to say to her. “Alessandra, this is . . .”? What? What was it? He didn’t know how to describe the situation in which they found themselves. He was racked with guilt over their tryst, felt it was horribly wrong. But could he say that he would not do it again?
Adoption of the agenda and the minutes of the last meeting.
“Business arising?” said Matt.
Councillor Neary was on his feet. Another resolution to amend the development regulations so as to accommodate a development of the sort the original regulations were designed to prohibit. Maybe there was no point in bothering to regulate anything, thought Matt. That was a school of thought. Best-laid plans and all that. Maybe chaos was a force of nature and trying to stop anything a futile waste of energy that would merely, at best, delay the inevitable. Why should there be rules if not to check something that wanted, that was compelled by some fundamental law of the universe, to happen?
Matt looked up to the gallery. A few of the usual cranks in attendance, retirees with nothing better to do than fret about the bylaw concerning the keeping of laying hens or the naming of new streets. There were four reporters already near sleep. Jaysus, thought Matt, this really is the small-time.
Discretionary-use application for a hydroponic project to grow lettuces on Mullock Street and someone wanting to use their house on Cornwall Crescent as a yoga studio with the written approval of the neighbourhood. All on Council were in favour and said aye.
Planning Durnford was now answering a query about dramatic increases in the cost of providing water service to some new housing developments on the old Lucy land.
Matt checked his email.
From: [email protected]
To: [email protected]’s.ca
Subject: wtf
Mom called to say she wanted me to move out of my apartment because it’s inappropriate for an “unmarried woman” to be under the same roof as men? Is this for real? She was serious. I don’t know how to respond. What is going on?
Indeed, thought Matt, what was going on.
Now Councillor Jardine was reporting on a public meeting he had attended on behalf of Council concerning the expansion of a high school in Cowan Heights. Planning Durnford was putting some drawings on an easel for Council to see. The proposed addition was breathtakingly ugly. But a school, thought Matt, soon to be neglected and covered in graffiti, what odds.
Alessandra entered. She made wide, hurried strides to her place, files clutched to her chest. Sunglasses up on her head. Her dress, coral-coloured and patterned with indigo stars such as a child might draw, was sleeveless, the scalloping of the neckline showing Matt places he’d so recently kissed. His cock stirred.
Alessandra looked to him and smiled. She gave him an ill-judged wave, thrice closing her fingers to her palm. Planning Durnford saw this and scowled. Matt remembered feeling Alessandra’s heels digging into his ass. She’d said things in Italian he supposed she’d dare not say in English. Dear God, he thought. Alessandra glanced at the drawing on the easel and made a face showing her disgust for the new school’s design.
Proposal for the expansion of the dog park at Mundy Pond. Dog-lover Wally O’Neill speaking in favour and a vote. Passed unanimously.
Councillor Shea was on about storm sewers. Storm sewers were a municipal issue; if Matt were in Ottawa he would not be hearing about storm sewers. Ottawa was an opportunity but it was also a sanctuary.
Councillor Wendy Kennedy, looking solemn, expressing the City’s sadness over the death of Royal Newfoundland Constabulary Inspector Gary Mackenzie in the line of duty. She has drafted a letter. Planning Durnford saying something. Matt heard that the policeman was likely knocked down by a truck he pulled over, a vehicular assault. Before the meeting Planning Durnford had taken Matt aside to share what he knew. Heavy rain that day meant the investigators couldn’t get a conclusive tire track from the scene. They somehow gleaned it was a pickup and suspected that Mackenzie had unwittingly pulled over a vehicle with drugs aboard or with a driver on an outstanding warrant. There was a new class of villain in town, feasting on the boom-town bucks. The cops knew who they were and linked them to Mackenzie’s death. Why Planning Durnford should be in the loop Matt did not know. Durnford was a card-carrying Conservative and they were thick with the Constabulary. Was it bullshit? Did Durnford know Matt had been recruited to run for his team? That would so piss Durnford off. Unless Durnford was in on it. Could that be?
Councillor Neary was on his feet. Matt glanced at the agenda on his tablet. He thought they were done.
“The deer problem in Bowring Park,” Neary said. “Could I move that it be added to the agenda?”
“Rather more a matter for the private meeting, don’t you think, Councillor Neary?” said Matt. “The unfortunate gentleman’s privacy is an issue, is it not?”
“We’re past that,” volunteered Councillor Mercer.
“Indeed,” said Planning Durnford from his seat.
“It’s public. It is,” said Councillor Kennedy.
“There are those who would argue that the idea of privacy is outmoded,” said Alessandra, though to whom Matt could not guess.
“I thought the police had taken care of the matter,” said Matt, “but I had heard he was back.”
“He was detained and held for a psychiatric examination,” said Planning Durnford, standing. “Obviously he was released and has returned to the park. The situation has to be dealt with, Your Worship. We have tourists going up there to see if they can get a look, and Miss Devereaux, who is the acting director at Parks, has been getting some truly bizarre mail.”
“Catch and release,” said Councillor Jardine.
“He’s got a lot of support in the community,” offered Councillor Mercer.
“Says who?” asked Neary.
“Facebook, I s’pose,” said Mercer.
“This is one of those stories that’ll . . . whaddaya call it? Go viral.”
“Deer has ticks, right?” Wally asked no one in particular. “Deer ticks.”
“Deer aren’t native to Newfoundland,” said Jardine.
“We talked to some of the supporters,” said Alessandra.
“Whasit called? Lymes disease?” said Wally.
“Who ‘talked to some of the supporters’?” asked Councillor Jardine.
“They came to see the mayor and myself after a meeting of the Parks and Public Spaces Committee,” said Alessandra.
“I’m on Parks and Public Spaces. First I’ve heard of this,” said Councillor Neary.
“You were absent from the meeting, Councillor Neary,” said Alessandra, “and not for the first time.”
“I considered it a trivial matter at the time and I’m still not sure it isn’t,” said Matt. Neary’s hand was up. “Order everyone. Councillor Neary has the floor.”
�
��Thank you, Your Worship. I want to go on the record in saying that not everybody supports this deer man. I have been contacted by some of my Ward 3 constituents who are very concerned about the example this sets for youth, especially those very young children who might like pretending they are some sort of animal.”
“The park is in Ward 5, Councillor Neary, my ward,” said Wally.
“I appreciate that, Councillor O’Neill,” said Neary. “That’s not the issue. It’s that parents are concerned that their kids might see the lifestyle as an option.”
“What are our options?” asked Jardine.
“Can we not get a peace bond?” Matt was losing patience.
“Better be careful,” said Wally. “People are going to say it’s hes’ right to be whatever he wants to be. He could have been born dat way.” Wally did a chair-bound dance, his raised hands open and flat, his shoulders pumping to a beat in his head.
“A doe?” asked Neary. “Or is it a buck?”
“Doe a deer, a female deer,” sang Jardine.
“No, a fawn,” said Councillor Kennedy. “You are born a fawn.”
“I was born a buck bayman,” said Wally.
“Buddy could always get a job as a service animal, I suppose,” said Jardine. “No one has any problem with a Seeing Eye dog doing whatever it likes. Who complains about shit from a police horse?”
“Can we all agree,” said Matt, “that we have no quarrel with the man’s wish to act like a deer?”
“To be a deer — that’s really important to the supporters,” said Mercer.
“Diversity, right, we supports diversity,” said Councillor Dunn. “Takes all kinds, right?”
“And biodiversity.” Councillor Jardine was almost cackling. “That’s a plus. This is like, diversity and biodiversity. We have a man who is a deer resident in the urban forest. Eleven out of ten. Spark up the sweetgrass.”
“I cannot believe you said that, Councillor Jardine.” Councillor Kennedy was, as Matt had never before seen her, in a lather. “There is nothing to joke about! Mockery serves no purpose. You think it puts you above things but it’s merely your way of avoiding responsibility! This is about accepting people for who they are!”
“But he’s not a ‘person,’ is he?” Jardine’s humour, good or ill, had left him. He was barking at Kennedy.
“Order, please. Order,” said Matt. “Okay. Let’s say the City of St. John’s is willing to go so far as to acknowledge Mr. Davenant is a deer. Can we move on from there and say the deer is trespassing?”
“Can an animal be charged with an offence?” asked Jardine.
“In the old days a problem animal would be destroyed. Now they’re much more likely to be relocated,” said Neary.
“Tranquilizer dart, right in the arse,” said Wally.
“Call him an invasive species,” said Jardine. “Then he’s the feds’ problem.”
“In Invermere, British Columbia,” said Planning Durnford, “deer overpopulation is a serious issue. They carry disease, are a hindrance to traffic, and when they proposed a cull they were met with a lot of opposition.”
“Christ sakes,” Matt let slip, turning staff heads and stirring the gallery. He looked up and saw that the men and women of the press were scribbling furiously. They were fewer in number and younger all the time and gasping for content to fill ever more platforms. They were loving this. Bow-tied bastard from the Telegram had a shit-eating grin. Missus from CBC looked to be giggling.
“Maybe he’s one of those animal rights extremists,” said Jardine, “in deep cover.”
“See, you got to be careful,” said Wally. “Human rights is one t’ing, but if the foolishness surrounding the seal hunt has shown us anyt’ing it’s dat the animal rights trumps human rights every time. Animal rights is nuclear.”
“Wally, you are so stupid,” Alessandra said.
You couldn’t say “stupid” anymore.
Matt saw Wally flinch, like he’d been stung. Mercer and Neary and Jardine and Kennedy were all looking to one another, confirming they’d heard right. One was no longer allowed to call someone stupid.
“I think,” said Matt, “what Councillor Cappello meant to say is that we needn’t be concerned about the animal rights movement in this case.”
“Can dey tag-team like dat?” Wally, for some reason, was putting his question to Planning Durnford, like it was a procedural matter. “It’s a conflict of interest or something, isn’t it? You know, the mayor and Councillor Cappello ganging up on me where de’er an item deese days?”
The chamber went quiet. Matt could hear the whirring of a computer drive, the building’s air exchange system, a sneeze down the corridor outside. He knew he needed to fill the silence fast but found himself struggling to find words.
“Deer? What do you mean ‘deer an item’?” Councillor Cappello was confused.
“‘They are,’” translated Councillor Kennedy. “‘Where they are an item these days.’”
Matt opened his mouth to speak but it seemed the air was rushing in to gag him. Alessandra shrugged theatrically.
“What’s that got to do with anything?” she said.
Matt couldn’t remember much of the rest of the Council meeting. He looked to Alessandra and she met his eye but he could not intuit what she was thinking.
Jardine sensed that Matt was staggered, was stunned, was skating to the bench concussed and had the decency to move that discussion concerning Harry Davenant, thespian, security guard, deer/man of Bowring Park, be tabled.
Jardine then promptly moved they adjourn.
Fifty-Nine
Alessandra saw the reporter from the Telegram standing by her car, an ambush. Matt’s Camry was already gone from its reserved space. He must have sprinted from the meeting and sped away to avoid just the sort of mortifying interrogation she was about to face. Was Matt cannier than she or merely a coward?
She supposed the reporter was going to ask her why she had, not ten minutes earlier, so freely and publicly admitted that she and the mayor were, in the words of Wally O’Neill, “an item.”
More humiliating than the revelation was the fact it wasn’t true. She and Matt spent an afternoon together and there would never be another. Alessandra saw now that she’d let herself imagine there was more to the assignation than there was. It was not love she had mistaken; she’d never dreamed of love. But she had let herself imagine companionship and intimacy. She’d let herself picture the two of them on a weekend trip to New York or Montreal, walking about, having a meal, going to the galleries, fucking with abandon when they got back to the hotel, breakfast in bed with the papers. How silly she was. Matt’s regret over their tryst was nearly remorse; it was written on his face when they’d driven back from the motel.
She liked this fellow from the Telegram but she decided she had no intention of discussing what had just transpired in the Council chamber. Prying into that wasn’t journalism; it was prurience.
“Ms. Cappello?”
“Yes, yes,” she said, her hand reaching for her car door.
“Could you answer a few questions about Kavanagh Court?”
Alessandra stopped and turned to the young man. He was in a cheap suit, the sort Matt could get away with as this kid could not. He wore an older man’s bow tie. He couldn’t look her in the eye, embarrassed, perhaps, by the situation of this middle-aged minx.
“Sure,” she said.
“What’s going on there? I’ve got contradictory information. There is going to be a park built, but you were against that? And the corporate sponsorship is a problem for you? Is that correct?” he asked.
“No. I was against some cookie-cutter park, something out of a box. And the sponsorship was conditional on a lot of unnecessary signage and interpretation that will essentially be advertising.”
“But Jerjuice was going to pay for the costs
of developing the park?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, so you were proposing what instead?” He held a notepad but wasn’t writing anything down.
“Letting it take its own shape,” she answered. “Maybe leaving it be.”
“Okay.”
“Clear?”
“That’s never going to happen,” he said. “Leaving it be.”
“Probably not. They are going to let it break in order to discover what went wrong.”
Alessandra opened the door to her car and climbed in.
Alessandra called out to Jules as she entered the house but it was not enough to wake him. She found him sound asleep in his window-lit chair in the living room, a book in his lap. Drowsiness was a potential side effect of the Reminyl. She didn’t mind admitting to herself she was as happy to find him this way as awake.
She went to his side.
His breathing was slow and steady. He was far away. Did his dreams fragment along with his mind, she wondered. Did there remain tiny islands of lucidity in his unconscious? Could his waking life now be more dreamlike, more nightmarish than sleep?
Jules himself was the author of the volume fanned on his lap. Bristol Intelligence: Aural Accounts of a New-World Fishery and the First Chabotto Voyage. Alessandra had never before seen him return to one of his own books. Was he looking there for knowledge he’d acquired and lost, or for evidence of the person he knew he once was? Did he now pore over his own words with bafflement or with nostalgia? What happened when the reader no longer recognized himself as the author?
There’d been a great stir in Cabot studies some years earlier when a fellow expert in the field, Alwyn Ruddock, had her papers, including what were rumoured to be significant new primary documents, destroyed upon her death.
