12 Rose Street

by Gail Bowen

  April’s Place was a café/play centre that Mieka and her business partner, Lisa Wallace, had opened in North Central. It was the twin of UpSlideDown, the original centre they had opened in the Cathedral District four years earlier. UpSlideDown was an uncomplicated gold mine. April’s Place was proving to be neither.

  Mieka listened intently to the conversation. “Okay, I’ll be right there,” she said.

  She broke the connection and groaned. “After three days on the job, our new manager just resigned. Mum, I hate to leave you, but I really have to stay on top of this.”

  I sat up. “I’m fine, Mieka. I have food to eat, tea to drink, and I’ll bring the dogs in to keep me company. I’ll lock up when I leave.”

  Mieka bent down and embraced me. “I worry about you,” she said.

  “Don’t. Take care of the problem at April’s Place and let me luxuriate in a morning off.”

  After Mieka left, I poured myself a second cup of tea and gazed at the impossibly delicate cup that held the Earl Grey. My marriage to my late husband, Ian, had taken place in the time of cup-and-saucer showers. The cup in my hands had a narrative that I’d always found difficult to unravel. The focal point of the cup is a dark-haired Victorian lady in a full-length blue gown with a rose peplum. She appears to be doing nothing but enjoying the tranquility of her world, but the setting of her world is perplexing. A fragment of a building that appears to be the Palace of Westminster in London is prominent. Big Ben is easy to identify, but the river that flows past the palace is seemingly the Yellow River of China, and the illustrations on the teacup place the dark-haired lady in a land of Roman columns and Oriental paper lanterns. The handle of the cup is a beautifully rendered blue and yellow butterfly whose name I once knew.

  I gazed at the serene lady. With the Yellow River flowing past Big Ben and all those Roman columns and paper lanterns, her life must have been complex, but she seemed to be handling it. I envied her.

  I carried the tray back into the kitchen. Through the screen door I saw that rain was coming down, soft and dense – the kind of rain that would last awhile. I let the dogs in, went back to the living room, turned on the gas fireplace, stretched out on the couch, and covered myself with an afghan. The house was fragrant with the scents of memories: morning pancakes, marigolds, wet dog fur. It wasn’t long before I drifted off to sleep.

  My dream had no beginning and was quickly over. I was holding on to an old rubber inner tube – the kind children used to float on at the lake when I was young. In the dream, I was an adult and I wasn’t floating. A rope attached the inner tube to a slick red speedboat that was moving so quickly that the inner tube to which I was clinging was periodically lifted out of the water. The ride was exhilarating but terrifying. On the shoreline, cottages and docks sped by in a blur. People on shore were waving, but I couldn’t let go of the inner tube to wave back. Finally, the red speedboat turned towards the centre of the lake, and the driver opened the motor full throttle. The water in the lake’s centre was black and deep. There were weeds there that I knew could ensnare me and pull me under. I couldn’t hold on any longer. I let go of the inner tube and the red speedboat kept on without me. The ride was over. I was safe. I could swim back to shore, but I was overwhelmed by an existentially deep sense of loss. When I awakened, I was still numb with grief.

  I pulled the afghan close. Always sensitive to my moods, Willie moaned beside me. I reached down and stroked his head. “It’s all right,” I said. “It was just a dream.”

  If, as Carl Jung believed, dreams offer solutions to problems people are facing in their waking lives, the message in my dream was simple to interpret. All I had to do was let go of the rope that tied me to the red speedboat. But I knew that, in the curious logic of dreams, Zack was the driver of the speedboat. And I knew that, no matter what, I would never separate myself from him.

  I picked up my cell and hit Zack’s number on speed-dial. His voice was deep and warm. “Hey, telepathy,” he said. “I was just about to call you to thank you for the pictures of the girls.”

  Still caught in the web of my dream, I couldn’t speak. “Is everything okay?” Zack said.

  “Everything’s fine. I just wanted to tell you that I’ve loved you from the night we went to the Stone House and looked down on the valley together. I don’t want a different life, Zack.”

  “Has something come up?

  “Fear,” I said. “But I’ll get over it.” I cleaned up the dishes and went into the hall where Mieka had taken my jacket and the dogs’ leashes. On the cobbler’s bench by the door there were some old photo albums. On special days, like the first day of school, Mieka brought out the albums to show Madeleine and Lena their grandfather, Ian. Mieka had idolized her father, and she wanted her girls to know the kind of man he’d been. I picked up the album on the top of the pile and leafed through.

  I had taken most of the photos. There were a few of Ian and me together, looking impossibly young as we unwrapped presents on Christmas morning or cross-country skied, but most were of Ian and our children.

  I had never doubted that Ian loved our kids, but he was an absentee father. I looked at the picture of Mieka’s Grade Eight farewell ceremony. Ian and I were flanking her, as proud parents do, but Ian had missed the bonfire for the Grade Eights and their parents after the ceremony. There was some crisis at the legislature, and he’d had to go back to the office. I wondered idly if Ian’s absence had hurt Mieka or if she even remembered.

  The second album was filled with photos of Ian and me in the first heady days after we surprised Saskatchewan and ourselves by winning the provincial election. Howard Dowhanuik was premier and Ian had become Attorney General and second-in-command.

  The album seemed to contain another life. In the early days, all of us connected to the new government had been like family, but ambition, time, geography, and mortality had separated us. Most of the people in the photos were now just names on my Christmas card list, but there were two with whom I’d stayed close. Our party had had a good run – almost fifteen years in government, but like most politicians, Howard went to the dance once too often. After we lost the election, Jill Oziowy, the ebullient redhead who had handled the party’s communications during our years in power, stayed around for a while, but when Ian died, she left Saskatchewan and moved to Toronto to work for NationTV. She’d been in New York City or Toronto ever since. Jill had been like a member of our family and I missed her, but over the years she’d sent a number of plum assignments that required a background in politics my way, so we had stayed in touch, albeit mainly electronically.

  Howard Dowhanuik and I had stayed close too. The events of the past twenty-four hours had spooked me. Logic suggested that Cronus’s death was somehow connected to Zack’s campaign for mayor, but I couldn’t connect the dots. Howard had the old politician’s passion for political gossip, and it occurred to me that he might have heard rumblings about what was going on inside Scott Ridgeway’s campaign.

  Howard’s condo was on a cul-de-sac five blocks from Mieka’s. I’d called ahead, and he was waiting at the door for me. During his college days, Howard had boxed professionally. His time in the ring and his time in politics had given him the battered wariness of an aging eagle. I reached out and touched his cheek. “You shaved for me,” I said. “I’m honoured.”

  “You’ve always been worth shaving for,” Howard mumbled, then, embarrassed at his display of sentiment, he shifted his focus to my car. “Why don’t you bring in the dogs? Give us time for a real visit.”

  “Fine with me,” I said. I pointed to elections signs on his lawn. One read SHREVE; the other read GINA BROWN. “Nice signs,” I said. Gina Brown was running for city council in Ward 3. She was a nurse-practitioner with innovative ideas about community-centred health care and a take-no-prisoners approach that I found appealing.

  When the dogs and I came into the house, Howard was already in the kitchen, pouring coffee. I picked up my mug and took a sip. The coffee was good but very
strong. “This should clear away the cobwebs,” I said.

  “I sure as hell need something,” Howard growled.

  “Troubles?”

  “Boredom,” Howard said. “Never get old, Jo.”

  I put my hands over my ears. “Can’t hear you,” I said. “Howard, there are a dozen things you could be doing. Writing that book you’ve been going to write for twenty years. Volunteer work. Teaching. The university would be thrilled to have you teach that class in Canadian politics again next semester.”

  Howard spooned sugar into his coffee. “The kids piss me off,” he said. “Strolling into class whenever the spirit moves them, texting, whining about their grades.”

  “Okay,” I said. “So you don’t want to write, you don’t want to volunteer, and you don’t want to teach. Howard, if you’re really at loose ends, why don’t you come and work on our campaign?”

  “Because I don’t like your husband.”

  “He doesn’t like you either,” I said. “But you wouldn’t be working with Zack. You’d be working with me. I really could use some help.”

  Howard looked at me hard. “Are you feeling okay?”

  “Just too much on my plate.” I gave Howard a précis of the events of the last two days.

  When I was through, Howard said, “Jesus, no wonder you look tired. Aside from joining the campaign – which I’ll have to think about – is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes,” I said. “Tell me what you know about how involved Graham Meighen and Lancaster Development are in Scott Ridgeway’s campaign.”

  Howard added more sugar to his coffee. “Apparently, Meighen has let it be known in the business, construction, and real estate communities that they have to win this one,” he said.

  “We’ve done polling,” I said. “They’re ahead.”

  “Yeah, but they’ve never had a serious opponent before. They know that Zack won’t be a pushover, and they’re nervous about the slate of progressives running for city council. The status quo works for these guys,” Howard said. “But, Jo, they’re honest citizens – at least as honest as they have to be – they wouldn’t be part of a hoax that involved a threat to take a kid. And they certainly would not have had a guy murdered.”

  “Well somebody did,” I said.

  Howard narrowed his eyes at me. “This really is getting to you, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” I said. “And if you’d seen what they did to Cronus it would be getting to you too. We’re all vulnerable, Howard, and in that wheelchair, Zack is an easy target. I just wish I knew what I was up against.”

  Howard put his arm around my shoulder. “Whatever it is, you don’t have to fight it alone,” he said. “Throw in an invitation for dinner the next time you cook brisket and I’ll join your campaign.”

  I leaned in. “Funny, I was just on my way to the butcher to order a brisket. My recipe takes two days. How about Thursday night?”

  “You’re on.”

  When I pulled up in front of Lakeview Fine Foods, my phone was ringing. It was Zack.

  “Perfect timing,” I said. “I was just going in to order a brisket.”

  “Good. I love brisket. How come we haven’t had it lately?”

  “Because it’s been summer,” I said. “Zack, I’ve invited Howard to have dinner with us Thursday night. I want him to join our campaign.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “He doesn’t like you either. But we need him, and he needs us, so I think it’s time you buried the hatchet.” Zack didn’t respond, so I barrelled on. “When Peter and Angus were little guys, and they were sniping at each other, I always made them sit on the couch and hug for ten minutes.”

  Zack chuckled. “Howard has to hug first,” he said.

  CHAPTER

  3

  That day there was a function that I would have given anything to forego. It was a memorial lunch for my friend Beverly Levy, who had died of pancreatic cancer a year earlier. She was thirty-eight years old. Before my retirement from the university the year before, Beverly had been my colleague in the political science department. The purpose of the lunch was to raise money for a scholarship in her honour. I had been very fond of Beverly and remembering her would be painful, but she had met death with a grin and a raised middle finger. The least I could do was honour her by donning my best suit and pantyhose and pumps.

  The luncheon was being held in the Agra Torchinsky Salon of the Mackenzie Art Gallery. The salon was a second-floor space, ideal for receptions because of its proximity to the art but also because the floor-to-ceiling glass of its west wall brought the treed beauty of Albert Street into the room.

  I arrived late and had trouble finding a parking place. I had hoped I’d be able to slip in unnoticed, but when I checked my ticket, I discovered I’d been seated with the university president, a number of the university’s senior administrators, and Bev’s parents. Bev’s father was Graham Meighen. I’d seen her mother, Liz Meighen, often at the hospital. She rarely left her daughter’s side, but until that day I’d never spoken to Graham. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking bread with him, but there was no turning back. The president’s table was directly in front of the podium. I manoeuvred my way through the other tables, slid into my chair, and lowered my eyes.

  The program for the luncheon lay on the bread-and-butter plate. My memories of Beverly at the end were so sharp that it was startling to see the photo of her as she was before her illness. She had been passionate about the outdoors. The photo on the front of the program was of Beverly triumphant at the end of a hike along Vancouver Island’s West Coast trail. The breath caught in my throat. With her spiky black hair, her brilliant azure eyes, and her athlete’s body, she seemed destined to live forever. She was dead before the year was out. Liz Meighen, who was seated next to me, reached over and stroked my arm.

  I glanced up and saw that her eyes, too, were filled with tears. “It’s just so wrong,” she said. All I could do was nod and cover her hand with my own.

  We sat with our hands touching through the brief biography of Beverly and the explanation of how the university would match funds donated if the total reached a certain point. Our first opportunity to talk came during the salad course.

  “I asked to have you seated at our table,” Liz said. “I hope you don’t mind. Bev was so fond of you.”

  “And I was fond of Bev. I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you when I sat down, Liz. I’m a little off my game today.”

  “I’ve been off my game since Beverly’s diagnosis,” Liz said.

  “You’re still the finest woman I know,” her husband said. I had seen Graham Meighen only once, and that had been at a distance at Bev’s funeral. I’d remembered him as being attractive, and he was. His features were even; his hair was full and silvery; his tan was deep. Bev had told me once that her father had been on his university’s wrestling team, and the power of his body was still evident. He reached across his wife, extended his hand to me, and introduced himself. “I hope you know how much your friendship meant to our daughter,” he said.

  My eyes stung. “She was an extraordinary person,” I said. “Zack enjoyed her company too.”

  “So many people fall away when a friend is dealing with terminal illness,” Liz said. “Zack barely knew Bev before she was diagnosed, but she looked forward to his visits. She said he never treated her as if she was sick.”

  “They had some spirited conversations,” I said. “They’re both such strong personalities, I wasn’t sure they’d get along, but they did. Bev said Zack was an acquired taste.”

  Liz was the model of patrician civility, but for the briefest moment there was a glint of mischief in her eyes. “Graham, perhaps you and Zack should spend some time together.”

  Graham was smooth. “I can’t imagine Zack and I acquiring a taste for each other’s company, but if you think it’s a good idea, Liz, we’ll give it a try. We could invite the Shreves over for a barbecue.”

  Liz’s laugh, like her daughter�
��s, was full and throaty. “Graham, you are such a bullshitter,” she said.

  Graham laughed too. “It keeps you coming back,” he said.

  The servers came in with the entrée, a chicken breast stuffed with something and bathed in something else. Everyone at our table was a veteran of fundraising luncheons, so no one commented on the food. We ate as much as we could and pushed back our plates.

  When dessert was served, it was time for a segment the program referred to as “Memories of Beverly.” Graham spoke first. After he thanked everyone for coming to the luncheon, he leaned close to the microphone. His baritone was pleasantly mellow.

  “From the beginning, Beverly was her own person,” he said. “When she was four, she asked me where she went after she fell asleep at night. I explained that while she slept she stayed in her bed. She considered my answer, then she said, ‘You’re wrong, Daddy.’ After she’d given the matter more thought, she said. ‘You’re wrong about a lot of things.’ ” When laughter rippled through the audience, Graham raised his hand to still it. “Oh, she wasn’t finished. Beverly never let me off the hook easily. She pondered the question for at least another thirty seconds before she made her final pronouncement. ‘Daddy, maybe you’re wrong about everything.’ And with that she wandered off to find her mother.” Graham smiled at his wife, but Liz’s face remained stony. He paused for a second, then carried on. “All her life, my daughter believed I was wrong about everything. But that didn’t stop me from loving her and it didn’t stop her from loving me.” Graham’s voice broke. He returned to our table, murmured apologies to the president of the university and his colleagues, brushed Liz’s cheek with a kiss that she seemed not to notice, then left. In Margot’s words, a smooth-as-silk performance.

  As the reminiscences continued, Liz and I both kept our eyes focused on the centrepiece of vibrant multihued Gerbera daisies. Gerberas had been Bev’s favourites. We were both fighting tears and our strategy seemed to be working until the last speaker came to the podium to propose a toast. Mary Sutherland had managed the university bookstore for as long as any of us could remember. Mary’s toast to Beverly was brief and graceful. She closed with the Dr. Seuss line: “Don’t cry because it’s over, smile because it happened.”