Depth of Field

by Michael Blair

“Now that you mention it,” she said, dissolving into a fit of giggles. With some difficulty, she composed herself. “You had me worried for a second.”

  “Sorry,” I said. “I have a neighbour, a sweet old guy, but barking mad. Lectures me on the dangers of scalar-beam weapons every chance he gets.”

  The waitress came to take our order, two pints of Granville Island Lager.

  “About Bobbi,” Jeanie said after the waitress left. “If we have to put off the calendar shoot, I’ll understand. I want you to know that.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “Wayne and I should be able to handle it. If that’s all right with you, I mean.”

  “Of course,” Jeanie said, but I sensed a little hesitancy in her voice.

  “Mary-Alice can come along as chaperone,” I added.

  “What? Oh.” She smiled. “Well, all right, if you think you and Wayne need protection …”

  Our beers arrived in tall frosted glasses. “Cheers,” I said. We touched glasses and drank.

  Beer always tastes better when shared with an attractive woman. Everything does. And Jeanie was extremely attractive, dark and compact and muscular, with a brilliant smile and an infectious laugh. I’d been a little concerned about mixing business with pleasure when I’d accepted her invitation, worried that she might have designs on my virtue, such as it was. I wasn’t afraid that she’d make a pass at me, just what I might do if she did. Besides being more than ten years younger than me, I didn’t need that kind of complication in my life right then.

  I needn’t have worried.

  “Relax, Tom, for heaven’s sake,” she said. “Maybe when the calendar’s done I’ll let you take me to some place nice, ply me with fine wine, and take your best shot. Assuming you’re not spoken for. Are you?”

  I wasn’t sure how to answer that.

  “In the meantime,” she said, “you seemed like you could use someone to talk to and I’m a good listener. I’ll even talk shop, if you want.”

  “That won’t be necessary,” I said.

  “Would it be all right if I visited Bobbi?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Her eyes were an odd shade of blue, like the flower of the chicory plant, and looked almost as though they were lit from behind by LED Christmas lights. They were in startling contrast to her dark complexion and coal-black hair. Although she undoubtedly spent a lot of time outdoors, the skin of her face and neck was smooth and fine-grained. She didn’t appear to be wearing much makeup. Her hands were small, blunt, and strong — shaking hands with her had been a humbling experience. Her fingernails, though short, were painted a bright Chinese red.

  “How did you hear about Bobbi?” I asked.

  “Your sister told me,” she said.

  “You and Mary-Alice are still on speaking terms, then.”

  “Sure.” She smiled suddenly, releasing almost as much wattage as Bobbi did. “Say, it turns out we have a mutual acquaintance.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “Walter Moffat.”

  “Not sure I’d call him an acquaintance exactly. He is — or was — a potential client. I’ve never met him. Mary-Alice knows him, through his wife, I think. How do you know him?”

  “I guess I can’t really claim to know him, either,” she said. “I only met him once. He wangled himself an invitation to speak at our annual general meeting last month. He’s running in my riding in the next federal election. I’m not sure what he was hoping to accomplish. We’re not a big organization. Or likely to endorse a candidate who seems to know as much about the forest industry as I know about, um, scalar-beam weapons. When I talked to him afterwards he seemed to have a hard time believing I was a logger.”

  He’s not alone, I thought.

  “He was quite charming,” she went on, “and very good-looking, but he was, well, artificial, like he was just mouthing words written by someone else. No great surprise, I suppose. Many politicians are just sock puppets, aren’t they? Now, Mr. Moffat’s campaign manager, Woody Getz, he’s another thing altogether. A real piece of work.”

  “How so?”

  “Imagine a used-car salesman with a two-thousand-dollar suit and a bad comb-over.”

  “I know the type,” I said, thinking of Blake Darling.

  “It’s weird,” she said, with a mischievous chuckle.

  “What is?”

  “A lot of women would call Walter Moffat drop-dead gorgeous,” she said. “He’s not my type, but he had quite a few of our members all girlish and gooey-eyed. ‘Creaming in her jeans’ is how one of them put it.”

  If all female forestry workers were even remotely like Jeanie Stone, I found it hard to imagine them getting all “girlish and gooey-eyed” over anyone, never mind the cruder allusion. What was Jeanie’s type? I wondered, as she went on.

  “He probably could have had any one of half a dozen women for the night, just for the asking,” she said. “One of our out-of-town members even claims she slipped him a note with her hotel room number on it. But he was a complete gentleman, polite and just attentive enough to make you feel like he cared, but not that he wanted to get into your pants. Woody Getz, on the other hand, practically drooled on the floor the whole evening. Despite being downright homely, he hit on just about every women who came within range. He even hit on me, for Pete’s sake.”

  Don’t say it, McCall, I told myself, but I wasn’t listening. “And why not?” I said. “He might be a piece of work, as you say, but at least he exhibited a remarkable amount of good taste.”

  “Um, thanks,” she said, squirming uncomfortably.

  I was an idiot. I didn’t want her to think I was hitting on her. Not only because I was more or less “spoken for,” but I didn’t want to be placed in the same category as a used-car salesman with a bad comb-over. We chatted for a while longer — I tried not to say anything else too stupid — until we’d finished our beers. Jeanie asked if I wanted another. Although I was tempted, if only to prolong the pleasure of her company, I said, “It’s getting late, and we’ve got a lot to do to get ready for the movers on Saturday. I think I’d better call it a night. Sorry.”

  “Don’t be,” she said, signalling the waitress. “I should get some sleep, too. I’m meeting with my thesis advisor tomorrow.”

  “Thesis advisor?” I said stupidly.

  “I’m doing a masters in geology at UBC. My thesis is called ‘Movement on the Cascadia Subduction Zone and Liquefaction: Risk Assessment in the Metro Vancouver Region.’ Catchy, eh?”

  “Very. If it means what I think it means, it makes me glad I live in a floating home.”

  “As long as you’re home when the Big One hits,” she said with a smile.

  chapter eight

  Friday began as just another perfect day in paradise. The early morning rain was warm and soft and sweet, scrubbing the air until it smelled like new wine, and washing the dust off the huge blue-and-white ready-mix trucks that rumbled in and out of the Ocean cement plant as I skipped along the glistening cobbles to the Aquabus dock by the Public Market. I may be overstating the case slightly, the skipping-along-the-cobbles-part, anyway, but I felt pretty darned good that morning. Better than I had in a long while. Whether it was a “hangover” from my late-night beer with Jeanie Stone or the result of having unconsciously arrived at some conclusion about the future of my relationship with Reeny, of which I was still consciously unaware, it had been just what the doctor ordered.

  When I got to the studio, Mary-Alice and Wayne were already there. The movers were due in less than twenty-four hours and there was still a lot to be done. We got down to it. About half an hour later Mary-Alice threw an empty film canister at me.

  “Will you please stop that,” she said.

  “Stop what?”

  “That bloody humming.”

  It looked impossible, but between us, we managed to get everything done. It took all day, and by four o’clock we were dirty, grumpy, and tired. Well, Wayne and I were dirty, grumpy, and tired. Mary-Alice was just grum
py and tired. Somehow, even though she had worked just as hard as Wayne and I, she had managed to stay immaculately clean despite rooting through years of accumulated dust and grime. After Wayne and I cleaned up as best we could, I took us all downstairs to Zapata’s, the Mexican restaurant on the ground floor, for a much-deserved beer or three and a plate of nachos. The beer and nachos improved our moods, but by five-thirty we’d run out of conversation and were almost falling asleep in our chairs. I paid the tab, leaving a fat tip for Ping, the waitress. I then exchanged hugs and kisses with Rosie, the owner and chef, promising to deliver her best wishes to Bobbi, then followed Mary-Alice outside.

  “See you at seven,” Mary-Alice said as I walked her to her car.

  “Pardon me?”

  “Our cocktail party,” she said. “For the Children In Peril Network. You promised you’d come.”

  I groaned, recalling that in a moment of weakness I had accepted an invitation to attend a party Mary-Alice and her husband David were throwing in honour of Elise Bridgwater Moffat. She was head of the Josiah E. Bridgwater Foundation, Mary-Alice had explained, whose main preoccupation was the Children In Peril Network. She was also wife of the ex-Honourable Walter P. Moffat, erstwhile Member of Parliament for Vancouver Centre and would-be MP for West Vancouver — Sunshine Coast — Sea-to-Sky Country, the official name (I kid you not) of the riding that included the town of Squamish.

  “I really don’t think I’m up to it, Mary-Alice,” I said. “I’m beat. And I want to drop by the hospital and see how Bobbi’s doing.”

  “You don’t have to stay all evening,” Mary-Alice countered. “Besides, it’ll give you a chance to schmooze with Walter Moffat. He may have changed his mind about the exhibition catalogue, but he’s still in a position to send more work our way.”

  “Isn’t schmoozing why we took you on as a partner, Mary-Alice?”

  “Believe me, I’ll being doing my share. I’m going to be busy with other duties, though. There’ll be some interesting people there. Who knows, you might even enjoy yourself.”

  “I doubt it.”

  “It will do you good to get out, Tom, take your mind off things. You’ve been moping around for weeks, ever since — well, for weeks.”

  Ever since what? I wondered. “Who else is going to be there?” I asked.

  “Well,” she said, a cunning glint in her eye. “Jeanie Stone, for one.”

  “Oh.”

  “You’ll come?”

  “Yes, I’ll be there,” I said.

  Mary-Alice and her husband, Dr. David Paul, lived in West Vancouver on the north shore of Burrard Inlet, in a big glass-and-redwood house that clung precariously to the rocky slopes above Marine Drive, propped on cantilevers that didn’t look sufficient to support it at the best of times, let alone when it contained at least seventy-five guests and a dozen or so caterers. The view of Burrard Inlet from the living room was spectacular, though, and David’s taste in single malt whisky wasn’t bad, either. I was enjoying both, while keeping an eye out for Jeanie Stone, when David came up to me.

  “Glad you could make it, Tom,” he said in his deep, wet voice. “Are they taking care of you all right?” I presumed by “they” he meant the caterers.

  “They’re being very generous with your Laphroaig,” I told him.

  “I was very sorry to hear about Bobbi,” he said. “I’m certain she’ll be fine. Are the police making any progress?”

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” I replied.

  “Terrible thing,” he said. “Who’s her attending physician?”

  “I’m not sure. I’ve talked to a number of doctors.”

  “No matter. I’m sure she’s in good hands.”

  David was in his mid-sixties, a year or two younger than my father. An inch over six feet, he had a short salt-and-pepper beard and thick, dark-grey hair that made him look very professorial and distinguished. He was, in fact, both, teaching at UBC and lecturing all over the world on things proctological. He could be a bit pompous at times. My father, never one to mince words, called him “that arse doctor.” But he was a decent enough guy.

  “Have you met our guests of honour?” he asked, voice rattling with phlegm. I resisted the urge to clear my throat.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Well, let’s rectify that oversight, shall we?”

  “That’s not really necessary,” I said.

  “As it happens,” he said, as he guided me across the room, “I’m under orders.” I didn’t have to guess whose. “And who knows?” he went on. “You might even find Walter Moffat interesting. Walter certainly does. He styles himself as a real Horatio Alger boy-made-good type, a true self-made man.” David snorted, which sounded like someone inhaling a raw oyster. “Who was it who said self-made men tend to worship their own creators?”

  “Conrad Black?”

  David laughed and gave me a laudatory clap on the shoulder. “He’d know, wouldn’t he? Walter Moffat thinks just as highly of himself.”

  Across the room a small crowd of mostly middle-aged women had gathered around a tall, broad-shouldered man with immaculately coifed dark hair, highlighted with just enough silver to give him an air of maturity without making him look old. Jeanie Stone had been right: Walter Moffat was indeed a handsome man, although personally I wouldn’t have described him as “drop-dead gorgeous.” Nevertheless, he was favoured with just the kind of sincere good looks that television — and television viewers — loved. In his expensive haircut, perfectly tailored suit, and understated tie, he exuded warmth and trustworthiness. You might not have to worry about your daughters around him, but you’d be well advised to keep your eye on your mother.

  I wondered what sort of art he collected. I asked David, “Have you seen his art collection?”

  “No. Neither has Mary-Alice. We have it on good authority, however, that it is one of the finest collections of its type in the country.” He smiled, leaving little doubt as to the source of the authority. “Walter can be something of a bore on the subject, so perhaps you would be wise not to bring it up.” He shook his head and smiled ruefully. “Although, of course, that’s the point, isn’t it? Oh, well. Nothing for it, I suppose.”

  “Mm,” I agreed.

  He leaned close and rumbled wetly into my ear. “Oh, and, Tom, be careful of your language. Neither Walter nor his wife care for profanity. She’s become quite religious since she found God.”

  “That’s typically what happens,” I said. “I’ll try to limit myself to scatological or anatomical references.”

  He grinned. “You know, I think they’re both faintly embarrassed by my speciality.”

  “What was she before she found God?” I asked.

  “Something of a wild child, I understand,” he said. “Sex, drugs, and rock ’n’ roll, although in Elise’s case it was a jazz musician, I think. There are rumours of a — well, never mind, it’s just gossip. She settled down after her father died and saddled her with the foundation. Running it suited her. It was she who refocused it on the plight of children in the Third World. Walter is also deeply committed to its cause.”

  David used his bulk to shoulder through the knot of women surrounding Moffat and a slim, severe-looking woman of about forty-five. Walter Moffat’s head seemed unusually large in proportion to his body. So, evidently, had been Albert Einstein’s. In Einstein’s case, the extra size had been necessary to accommodate his larger-than-average brain, which some believed contributed to his genius. I wondered if Walter Moffat was a genius. I didn’t think so. Geniuses did not, in my opinion, go into politics. Politics was a game that attracted only the stupider of the species. The proof, if any was required, could be found in any newspaper or on any television news program, or observed directly during question period.

  “Excuse me, ladies,” David said. The matronly throng melted away. “Walter, Elise. There’s someone I’d like you to meet. Tom McCall, Walter and Elise Moffat.”

  “Pleased to meet you, Mr. McCall,” Walter Moffat said
as he gripped my hand. He had a deep, smoothly resonant voice. Up close, he was still a handsome man, but his age, which I knew to be fifty-five, was beginning to show, particularly in his face, which was starting to sag here and there, under the eyes and his jowls. A quick visit to a plastic surgeon would take care of the dewlap, I thought. It also looked as though he was wearing makeup. You never knew when a news camera might show up.

  “Mr. McCall,” Elise Moffat said as she placed her hand in mine. Her voice was as tentative as her grip. Her eyes were a deep, rich brown and quite lovely despite the complete lack of makeup. I realized as I looked into her eyes that she was a very attractive woman who tried hard to make herself look dowdy. Her complexion was pale but flawless, and her fine, shoulder-length hair was the colour of wild honey. She wore it straight, parted in the middle, and secured at the nape of her long neck. She was dressed plainly but well, in a long wool skirt and matching jacket over a white blouse, demurely buttoned to her throat. The suit didn’t completely disguise what appeared to be a fine figure. She wore a silver brooch of a crucified Christ upon her lapel, a beatific grimace on the tiny face.

  “Tom’s my brother-in-law,” David said.

  “Yes, of course,” Walter Moffat said, feigning interest as only a politician can. “The photographer.”

  “That’s right,” David said.

  “Mary-Alice is a charming woman,” Moffat said. “You must be very proud of her, Mr. McCall.”

  “Indeed I am,” I said. “She married very well.”

  David laughed, a little hollowly, I thought, but Walter Moffat’s smile was as weak as my attempt at humour. Mrs. Moffat didn’t appear to get the joke. She looked as though she wasn’t there at all.

  “Do you live in Vancouver, sir?” Moffat asked.

  “I’m one of your former constituents,” I said. “Except that I didn’t vote for you. Either time.”

  He laughed easily. “No?” he said. “Well, I lost by more than one vote, didn’t I?”

  “Perhaps you’ll do better next time,” I said.

  “Thank you,” he said, with a glint in his eye.