by Gail Bowen
“I know,” I said. “That’s why I didn’t ask.”
CHAPTER
8
When the phone rang the next morning at a little after seven I was lying in bed, mentally sorting through the rubble left by Slater Doyle’s news. I’d told Brock I was feeling less than great and he had taken Willie and Pantera on their run. Taylor and her friends were throwing a surprise birthday breakfast for a classmate at a café near Luther, and Zack was in the kitchen making breakfast, so I was alone.
Given the scarring events of the previous day, I assumed the call was from Mieka or one of her brothers. I was wrong. My caller was Liz Meighen. Her tone was both urgent and apologetic. “Joanne, I realize this is terribly early for a phone call, but I have to see you this morning.”
I was running on empty, but I was relieved to hear Liz’s voice. “I’ve been trying to get in touch since we had dinner with you,” I said. “Are you all right?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not, and I need to see you.”
Reflexively, I turned to prop myself up on my elbow. The pain that shot through my shoulder was sharp, and I wondered if Zack and I had been premature in our athleticism the day before. “Would it be possible for you to come here?” I said. “I was involved in a car accident a while ago, and I’m having a bad day.”
“I know about your accident,” she said. “It was on the news. And I know about your late husband’s affair with his press secretary. I can only imagine how hurt your children must have been to learn that their father had been involved with another woman.”
I was incredulous. “How did you know about the affair, Liz? Was Graham involved in Slater Doyle’s scheme to get Zack to withdraw from the race?”
“That doesn’t matter,” she said. “All that matters is that you know what’s going on. I’ll be there at ten, and, Joanne, what I tell you must remain private.”
Given everything that was happening, it was impossible to stick to the house rule about keeping mealtime conversation light. When Zack handed me my scrambled eggs and toast, I took a few bites, murmured appreciatively, and waded right in.
“Liz Meighen’s coming over,” I said. “I tried to dissuade her, but she was determined. Zack, Liz knew about Ian and Jill.”
“So Graham’s involved in this.”
“Apparently. Liz feels the situation is urgent.”
“Do you want me to stay until she comes?”
I shook my head. “Liz wanted our meeting to be private.”
The buzzer from the lobby sounded, cutting off further discussion. “That will be Milo,” Zack said. “Jo, I’ve already filled him in on the situation with the tapes. I figured you might not want to go through all that again.”
“You’re right. Thanks.”
Zack wheeled over, buzzed Milo in, and turned his chair back to face me. “Slater has already posted a couple of steamy tapes of Ian and Jill.”
“Did you listen?”
“Yes.”
“And?”
“Audio porn just doesn’t do it for me.”
“Let’s hope the public shares your preference.”
When he heard Milo’s distinctive seven rhythmic raps on the door, Zack braced himself. He knew Milo was invaluable, but he found Milo’s kinetic energy jarring. Zack had snorted when I’d tried to explain Milo by quoting Thoreau’s words about those who hear a different drummer. Whatever the explanation, Milo certainly kept step to music he alone could hear. That day he bopped in and took his place at the kitchen table.
“Sorry about that crap Slater pulled yesterday, Joanne. I know it hurt your family, but it hasn’t affected our campaign. Nobody cares about audios of a dead politician getting it on with his lady friend.”
Zack narrowed his eyes. “Joanne was married to that politician, Milo – maybe try to be a little more delicate?”
Milo blew off the warning. “Joanne didn’t hire me to be delicate. She hired me to get the job done. So here’s what I know. Slater’s extortion scheme would have worked if Joanne had caved. She didn’t, so thanks to her we’re still in the game. Time to lace up our skates and hit the ice.” Milo pulled his laptop out of his satchel, turned it on, and tapped away. “Get ready to be the first kids on the block to see the new Ridgeway ads.”
“Have you seen them?” Zack said.
“Nope, we’re all virgins here. A buddy of mine at Serpent’s Tooth, the company that did the post-production, thought we’d be interested in checking out the files. He gave me the password for the FTP.”
Milo uploaded the files and the screen was filled with a black-and-white mug shot, side-view and front view, of a sullen Aboriginal man. A soft female voice identified the man as Bernard Iron. A rapidly scrolling list of Iron’s prior offences played over his face. More black-and-white footage: this time of Zack and Iron emerging from the Regina courthouse. They were both smiling. Then Iron spotted the TV camera and began shouting obscenities, snarling and shaking his fist. It was a mad dog moment and the camera captured it and froze the image. The soft female voice said, “Zachary Shreve worked every angle of the law to set this man free. Two weeks after Shreve convinced a jury Bernard Iron was innocent, Iron raped and killed a young mother. Now Zack Shreve wants to be your mayor. Can he be trusted to make decisions that will affect your family?”
There were three more commercials. They were standard length – thirty seconds – and the format was the same for each. The mug shots; the priors; the moment of triumph as Zack and his client left the courtroom; the soft female voice recounting the subsequent carnage wreaked by a man Zack had set free. The three of us watched silently. The commercials were devastating and we knew it.
Zack turned to me. “So what do you think we should do?”
Milo unwrapped a Crispy Crunch bar and munched. “My pal at Serpent’s Tooth thought our campaign might want to reconsider the happy-happy joy-joy spots we’re planning to run. They’re not in the can yet, so it will be easy enough to go negative.”
“No,” I said. “Let’s not panic. We’re taping the first commercial of Zack and Mieka talking about his support for small business this afternoon at UpSlideDown. We agreed to tape one ad a day next week. Let’s stick with the plan.”
“So we’re not going to answer this?” Zack said.
I turned to Milo. “When are the Ridgeway spots going to air?”
“October 5 and then every day till the election.”
“Time is not on our side,” I said. “We can’t let Ridgeway’s people drive our campaign, and I don’t like attack ads.”
“Well, I do like them,” Milo said. “I like them because they work.”
“Not always,” I said. “Milo, see if you can book Zack on Quinlan Live again on Monday morning.”
“Because we’re going to get hit with some negative shit?”
“No, because we’re going to get hit with negative ads based on a false premise. Quinlan’s a lawyer. He understands that you can’t find a person guilty of a crime he didn’t commit because somewhere down the line he might commit another crime. He and Zack could have a nice lawyerly chat about the law.”
Milo cocked an ear. “What’s that I hear? Why, it’s the sound of radios being turned off all over the province.”
“I’m all right with that,” I said. “If Zack goes on Quinlan Live, he’ll show that he deals with problems head on and doesn’t let the opposition call the shots.” I checked my watch. “It’s nine-thirty, you guys better get out of here. My guest might be early.”
“Don’t worry if you can’t make it to UpSlideDown for the taping,” Zack said.
“You’d better check with Mieka,” I said. “If Slater dropped off the tapes, she may not be up to doing the ad.”
“Slater really is a piece of work,” Zack said. “We can reschedule if Mieka’s not ready. I’ll call you and let you know where things stand.”
“Good. I don’t imagine my guest is going to stay long, and I still have to find your blue Viyella shirt. Periwinkle is a
good colour for TV, and you look seriously hot in that shirt.”
As soon as the men left, I filled the kettle, arranged the tea things on a pretty tray, and waited. At 8:30 I called UpSlideDown. There was no answer. At 9:00 I called Mieka’s cell. It rang repeatedly. When I tried her again just before 10:00, she finally picked up. “I listened to one of the tapes,” she said. Her voice was cold steel. “I heard what Ian and Jill said to each other, how they were with each other. Fifteen years. How could they do that to us?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Do you want me to come down there?”
“I’m all right.”
“At least let me get Zack to tell the agency to cancel the shoot this afternoon.”
“No,” she said. “I told Zack I’d do the ad and I will. Zack is family, and unlike Ian, I keep my promises.”
It was the first time Mieka had ever referred to her father as “Ian.” It was a significant moment and a painful one. “I love you,” I said, but Mieka didn’t hear me. She’d already broken the connection.
Liz didn’t arrive at ten. As the morning dragged on and there was no word from her, I grew increasingly uneasy. Finally, I called her cell, but it went straight to voicemail. I didn’t leave a message. By quarter to twelve, I faced facts. Liz was not coming, and if I didn’t get a move on, Zack wouldn’t have his periwinkle shirt.
On Saturdays, there was always at least one birthday party at UpSlideDown. This weekend’s party was pirate-themed, and the joint was jumping. In addition to the kids with eye patches and striped shirts, there were kids just dropping in to have fun on a rainy Saturday. Mieka already had permission from the pirate parents to have their children in a political commercial, and two volunteers from our campaign were stationed at the door getting releases from parents of the other kids.
I had learned from the assignments Jill had thrown my way over the years that TV productions have a way of disrupting everything. Because our ads were all going to be taped on location and involve ordinary citizens, we had asked the production company to be as unobtrusive as possible. That afternoon I was relieved to see that the lights and mikes were already in place, well out of harm’s way. The director’s instructions to the kids were straightforward and sensible. “Have fun but watch out for the cables on the floor.” When I caught Zack’s eye, I motioned for him to join me, and we slipped away to a storage room in the back so he could change his shirt. “So what did Liz Meighen have to say,” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “She never showed up.”
“Did you call her?”
“No answer on her cell and I didn’t want to try her at home. I gather the situation is fraught, and I didn’t want to make matters worse.”
Zack shrugged out of his dress shirt and pulled on his blue Viyella. “I love you in that shirt,” I said. I buttoned the top button. “Time to get your bald spot powdered.”
“What bald spot?”
“The one that covers three-quarters of your head,” I said. “Let’s go.”
Mieka was wearing jeans and a turquoise cowl neck sweater I hadn’t seen before. The production company’s stylist had worked her magic. My daughter’s fine dark blond hair was smoothed into a smart ponytail twist and her television makeup was flattering but not overwhelming.
I went over and hugged her. “You look beautiful,” I said.
She chewed her lip. “I don’t feel beautiful. I feel sick.”
“You don’t have to do the commercial today, Mieka.”
“Tomorrow won’t be any better. And I want to do this for Zack. Peter’s right. Zack is one of the good guys.”
The spot opened with Mieka, standing in the corner reserved for quiet play, talking about Zack’s support for neighbourhood small businesses. Mieka was a nervous public speaker, but she was passionate about her subject and she did her segment in three takes. I stood behind the cameraman and watched his screen as he taped Zack with the kids. Only a fraction of the tape would be used in the final one-minute commercial, but it was wise to shoot generously, so when Captain Slappy, a children’s entertainer in full pirate gear, jumped up on a table and began singing a pirate song, the cameras kept rolling. Kids always gravitated towards Zack, and as Captain Slappy sang there were two wide-eyed little boys beside his chair. Zack was a quick learner and when Captain Slappy repeated the chorus, Zack joined in.
I’m a pirate! That I be!
I sail me ship upon the sea!
I stay up late – till half past three!
And that’s a peg below my knee!
When the last notes of “I’m a pirate!” faded, I leaned over and asked the director to make certain I got the footage of Zack singing his pirate song.
UpSlideDown closed at 3:30 on Saturdays, and after everyone left, the space was quiet enough for Zack to talk to the camera. When the lighting was being adjusted, Mieka took my arm. “I have to talk to you.”
“We should get out of here,” I said. “Those microphones are sensitive.” We went back to the room where Zack had changed. The dress shirt Zack had been wearing was still draped over the back of a chair. Reflexively, I picked up the shirt and began smoothing its creases.
Mieka watched me. “I’m finished with the tapes,” she said. “Do you want to listen to them?”
“No,” I said.
“Good call,” she said. “They’re disgusting. And if that wasn’t enough, all the entries are dated. It’s easy to discover where Ian was when he was supposed to be with us.”
I could feel my daughter’s anger. “Mieka, don’t do this.”
“Remember the farewell ceremony we had at the end of Grade Eight? After the ceremony there was a bonfire and a barbecue for the Grade Eights and their parents. Ian had to skip it because Howard ‘needed him at the legislature’?”
“I was thinking about it the other day when I saw the picture of the three of us after the ceremony.”
Mieka’s voice was toneless. “Ian didn’t go back to the legislature to see Howard,” she said. “He went back to have sex with Jill. Valerie Smythe was working late, and she heard him tell Jill that he couldn’t get through the night without being inside her.”
I put my arms around my daughter. For a long time we just held each other.
Neither of us said a word. There was nothing left to say.
I was watching Zack finish up his segment when I spotted Howard Dowhanuik outside the door. He was hatless and without an umbrella. Howard had never mastered the art of the inside voice, so I picked up my coat and umbrella, unlocked the door, and joined him.
“You should have come earlier,” I said. “You missed Cap’n Slappy and the pirate party.”
“I knew you were doing the ad here this afternoon, so I thought I’d take a chance. I figured if I came to your house you’d throw me out.”
I touched his arm. “I don’t blame you for what happened. You tried to put a stop to it, which is more than either Ian or Jill did.”
Howard turned towards the street. People were bent against the rain, rushing to get home. I moved my umbrella to cover him. With age the flesh had fallen away from Howard’s face. His profile now was as chiselled as the face on the head of a coin. “Is there anything I can do to straighten this out?” he said. “Jill’s beside herself. She thinks she’s lost everything.”
“Did she send you?”
He nodded.
“You’re wasting your time,” I said. “I want Jill out of our lives. You’re going to have to pick a side, Howard. Either you’re with Jill or you’re with me and my children.”
“I’ve never seen you like this, Jo. You’ve always been so –”
“Stupid?” I said. “Yesterday I discovered that fifteen years of my life were a lie. Until Slater Doyle opened my eyes, I was certain that Ian died believing the most important people in his life were his family. I had a lot of good memories. Now all I have are questions that I don’t want answered. Where was Ian all those times when he missed the kids’ events? Where was he the nights I
scraped his dinner into the garbage because Valerie Smythe called to say he was caught in a meeting? Where was he when I couldn’t get through to him to tell him that I was in the ER with one of our kids who needed stitches or a cast or an X-ray?”
Howard had moved away from me. He was getting soaked, but he seemed oblivious to the rain “It never once occurred to me that Ian was unfaithful,” I went on. “He and Jill must have thought I was such a fool – the gullible wife who’s the last to know that her husband has a mistress. You must have thought I was a fool too.”
Howard turned back to me, his face filled with anguish. “No one ever thought you were a fool, Jo. Ian had a great deal of respect for you.”
I was livid. “Respect! Jesus Christ, Howard. I wasn’t Ian’s favourite sixth grade teacher, I was his wife. He was supposed to love, honour, and cherish me, and goddammit, he was supposed to be faithful.”
“I’m sorry,” Howard said. “I’ve made everything worse.”
I watched as Howard walked off into the rain. His words had been a fresh wound and I was already reeling. Too much had happened. Jill and Ian, the vicious mayoral race. Liz’s desperate call and then her failure to show up. When Howard turned at the corner and disappeared, I closed my umbrella, raised my face to the sky, and waited until the rain cooled my face and cleansed my thoughts.
Filming the ad took longer than I’d anticipated, and it was 6:00 p.m. by the time Zack and I got back to Halifax Street. I’d called Taylor from UpSlideDown and she’d ordered Japanese food to be delivered at 6:30. Zack made us martinis, and we kicked back to enjoy our drinks and listen to our daughter talk about the portrait she was painting of Margot and her children.
Taylor had brought out a book of paintings by Mary Cassatt, the late nineteenth-/early twentienth-century American artist whose best-known works were of mothers and children. She was particularly taken with a portrait called The Bath. As she pointed out Cassatt’s meticulous drawing and the way she used blocks of colour to capture the intimacy between mother and child, Taylor’s excitement was contagious. “I love everything about this painting,” she said. “I read somewhere that Cassatt’s portraits were too accurate to be flattering to her subjects, but I can’t imagine this being more perfect.”
