by Kate Hilton
“You don’t understand. I’ve felt more normal since I left than I’ve felt in years.” I was gulping for air, making a scene.
“Let’s go home, Avery,” said Hugh.
“This isn’t my home,” I told him.
It is astonishing, really, the actions you can justify to yourself.
“You had a starter marriage?” said Will.
“I had the comprehensive package,” I said. “A starter marriage and a starter divorce.” Why was I telling him this? I rarely spoke about Hugh. I was mortified to be a statistic, to prove everyone right who had said that I shouldn’t tie myself down, that I didn’t know what I was getting into, that he was too old for me and I was too young for him. The mere fact of the divorce said it all. Res ipsa loquitur, Matt would say: the thing speaks for itself.
“I’m sorry,” said Will unexpectedly.
“Thank you,” I said.
“He was completely wrong for her,” said Matt.
“No doubt,” said Will. He topped up my glass of wine. “How are you liking law school, Avery?”
“I love it,” I said. “At least, so far.” It was true. I loved the focus and discipline of law school, so at odds with any of my other efforts at higher education. I liked the linearity, the short-term objectives, the endless tide of reading, and the emphasis on logic instead of emotion.
“Keep me posted,” said Will. “Maybe we’ll lure both of you to New York when you’re finished. Anything’s possible.”
Matt and I walked back to his apartment from the restaurant, holding hands.
“I like your friend,” I said.
“I do too,” said Matt. “He’s done a lot for me.”
“He doesn’t see it that way,” I said.
“I know,” said Matt. “It’s funny about Will. He has an idea of himself as a lightweight.”
“He’s a Wall Street lawyer,” I said.
“Yeah,” said Matt. “It doesn’t add up. He’s a brilliant guy, funny, good-looking . . .”
“I hadn’t noticed,” I said.
Matt laughed. “And he’s decent. I saw him protect younger lawyers when we worked together. I saw him take undesirable assignments so other people didn’t have to miss vacations. But that’s not how he sees himself.”
“Putting on my MFA hat, we all have origin stories,” I said. “Narrative is powerful. Not even reality can shake it.”
“Hmm,” said Matt. “Deep thoughts. Speaking of which, I realized tonight that you never talk about Hugh.”
“No,” I said.
“I didn’t know you felt so guilty about him.”
“I’ll always feel guilty about him,” I said.
“Do you blame me for that?” he asked.
I was surprised. It was a good question; Matt was a fine lawyer and he knew how to ask them. I didn’t immediately know the answer, and Matt didn’t press me as we walked. The September days were still warm, but in the evening the heat didn’t linger. There was no stickiness between our linked fingers. In a few weeks, there would be frost at night.
“No,” I said, “I don’t. I used to blame Hugh, but I don’t anymore. Now I blame myself.”
“He wasn’t the right person for you,” said Matt.
“I know,” I said. “But still. I never want to disappoint someone like that again.”
“You won’t,” said Matt.
But I knew that I might. Because I knew, now, that I was not entirely a good person. I had hard proof.
“Avery,” said Matt. He sounded tentative. “They may insist that I go back to New York, no matter what I want. And if that happens, I’m planning to resign.”
“Matt,” I said. “You shouldn’t do that. The job market’s brutal. Please don’t do that for me.”
“It isn’t all about you, Avery. There are lots of reasons to stay in Toronto. It’s my hometown. I love it here.” He squeezed my hand. “And I love you. And I want to make a commitment to you, and staying in Toronto will let me do that.”
“Matt,” I said. “I’m not ready for a commitment. That’s too much pressure for me. I don’t want to let you down.”
“Let’s talk this through,” said Matt. “In six months, I’ll find out one way or the other about staying in the Toronto office, which is my strong preference. My family is here, most of my friends are here, you’re here, and I like living here better than I like living in New York.”
“Okay,” I said. I was trying to slow my breathing, without drawing Matt’s attention to my efforts.
“Stop hyperventilating,” said Matt. “Breathe.”
I exhaled. “I’m scared.”
“I understand.”
“You think you do,” I said. “But you can’t, not really.”
“Do you love me?”
“Yes. I do,” I said. “I love you.”
“That’s all we need.”
“Matt,” I said. “Let me put this in law terms. Love is a necessary but insufficient condition.”
“Do you think it’s sufficient to make a plan to move in together, once I sort out my job? That’s the only commitment I’m suggesting now.”
“No other expectations?”
“None,” he said. “Just a rental apartment. Can you handle that?”
I took a cautious breath in and out. My shoulders dropped. My belly unclenched. “I think so,” I said. “I think I can handle that.”
“Okay,” said Matt. “Okay.” He pulled me into a hug. “This is going to be great. We’re going to do this at your speed, Avery. However long it takes.”
{CHAPTER 15}
Sunday, July 16, 2017
My cellphone rings. It’s Tara. “Is everything all right?” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. “Why?” I’ve been at the office for hours now, and her call is disorienting.
“We all rolled out of bed late this morning and went looking for you. Martine said you and Matt had left at the crack of dawn.”
“Not quite that early,” I say.
“Are you guys okay?”
“We’re fine,” I say, wondering if it is true. “Peter called. There was a problem at the office, a political one. And it was my file so I had to come down and brief him. I’m at the office now.”
“Oh, that’s good,” says Tara. “I thought you and Matt seemed off last night.”
“We are,” I say. “We are a bit off. Matt wants to get married.”
“Ah,” says Tara. I give her a lot of credit for not saying what most people would in these circumstances.
“And have babies,” I say. “Or maybe just one baby. I haven’t really pursued that line of inquiry yet.”
“That’s an interesting development.”
“Do you have an opinion?”
“Many,” says Tara. “But my opinion is irrelevant. It’s your opinion that matters.”
“You’re no help.”
“Do you want help?” She waits a beat, and says, “Let me know when and if you do. In the meantime, I have some bad news to report.”
“Join the club,” I say.
“I spoke to Hugh,” Tara says, “in person, no less. He didn’t buy the cover story. He said, and I quote, ‘If Avery wants a favour, she will have to ask for it herself.’”
“Fabulous,” I say.
“Are you surprised?”
I sigh. “Not really,” I say. “Thanks for trying.”
There is a knock on my door. “Come in,” I call.
It’s Gloria, my assistant. She’s getting paid overtime to work this weekend and is therefore only mildly cranky. “Rick Wozniak is on the line for you,” she says. “Do you want me to tell him you’re in a meeting?”
“I’d better take it,” I say to Gloria. “I’ll be off in a second.” To Tara, I say, “I have to go. I’ll call you later tonight. I hope you had fun at your party.”
“I loved it,” she says. “And I love you. Bye.”
“Put him through,” I call to Gloria.
“Avery,” says Rick, “How ar
e you today?”
“I’m well, thank you,” I say. “City hall never sleeps, as you know.”
“Indeed I do,” says Rick. “Which is the main reason for my call. My father, as you may know, is concerned about the environment.”
It is fair to say I do not know this, Roger’s enormous SUV being a fixture in the city. I’ve lost count of the number of times he’s declared an end to the war on cars while voting against a bike lane, or questioned the return on investment of our recycling program, or tried to pave a paradise to put up a parking lot. But instead of mentioning any of these debates, I go with a noncommittal hum of support.
He continues. “My father has been contacted by a representative of the Mother Earth League. Are you familiar with them?”
“Yes,” I say. I am extremely familiar with them. I have spent the past three hours researching and writing a memo on them. Melanie is in the office but is, apparently, unavailable to assist me with the memo, having been recruited by Peter for a special project.
“I must say that I was surprised to learn of their interest in our little waterfront development,” says Rick.
“So was I,” I tell him.
“It seems,” says Rick, “that there is some connection between the local chapter of the Mother Earth League and the Artists’ Cooperative Council.”
“Oh?”
“Yes,” says Rick. “It seems that there is a gentleman involved in both organizations.”
“Let me guess.”
“I doubt that will be necessary. Mr. Crawford is a very engaged citizen.”
“Thank you for letting me know.”
“You are most welcome,” says Rick. “Oh, and Avery? How is that other project coming along? The literary project?”
“I haven’t forgotten,” I say. “In fact, it is on the top of my list for tomorrow morning to follow up.”
“That is most appreciated,” says Rick. “Most appreciated.” He clears his throat. “May I ask your advice?”
“Yes, of course.”
“I found yet another folder of poems in my dad’s archive. They seem to be from a later period.”
“Oh?”
“These ones are more . . . sensuous, I suppose is the word I’m looking for. I’m not sure the quality of the verse is higher, necessarily, not that I’m an appropriate judge of that. But I thought you should see an example of a later poem in case you thought it would make a more compelling submission to The Beak.”
“Did you want to send me the whole folder?”
“No,” says Rick. “Thank you for offering, but I don’t think so. There’s only one that seems suitable for our project. Could I read it to you, so that you could share your opinion?”
“Yes,” I say. “Sure. Right now?”
“Yes,” he says. “Why not? I have it right here.”
“Okay, then,” I say. “I’m listening.”
He reads:
I didnt’t want perfection.
I didn’t want a doll,
Or a woman who could parallel park,
Or spend wisely at the mall.
I wanted a companion
Who knew me through and through,
And the first time that our eyes met,
I knew that it was you.
When did we stop trying
To turn each other on?
When did you pack up your lace?
Your fishnet stockings are long gone.
And so too are the midnight hours
We spent together in love play.
Now we just lie side by side
In silence ’til the break of day.
Could it be the case that while art moves us, terrible art moves us terribly? I grip the edge of my desk. I am aware that I might cry.
“Do you know what?” I say, after a few moments. “I think we should submit both of them. I think they are equally strong.”
“I’m so glad that I called you,” says Rick. “Thank you so much.”
“I’m happy I could help,” I say. “Writing is a rare gift.”
There is a pause. “Hello?” I say.
“I’m here,” he says. “I was thinking about how to say something to you.”
There is another pause, and this time I don’t fill it.
“I’m not a politician, Avery,” he says. “I admire directness. I admire hard work and loyalty and service. I see those qualities in you.”
“Thank you,” I say. Surely he knows that I have a partner, I think. Please let him not be asking me out right now. Please let that not be happening.
“But I’ve come to appreciate that these traits are not always rewarded in the political sphere,” he continues, “and that, in fact, the people who represent these values—people like you, Avery—are vulnerable in times of crisis.”
“I have to ask: What crisis?”
“I don’t know yet. It isn’t coming from us, from our campaign.”
“Rick,” I say, “you aren’t giving me much to go on here.”
“I know. And I hesitated to say anything at all. But forewarned is forearmed. Watch your back, Avery.”
“I’ll try,” I say.
I hang up the phone. Where is our enemy, if not in the Wozniak camp? Jim Crawford seems the most likely candidate, but why now, when I’m literally writing a memo on how to bring him joy, or at least how to decrease his pathological level of malcontent?
The phone rings, and “Unknown Caller” flashes up. It’s a sign. I pick up the phone, smothering a giggle. I must stop allowing myself to be drawn into paranoia. It is an occupational hazard of politics, but I know that it clouds judgment. Not everyone is an enemy.
“This is Avery Graham,” I say.
“This is Jim Crawford,” he says.
And on the other hand, some people are the enemy. “Hello, Jim,” I say. “What can I do for you today?”
“I’m calling you in my capacity as the president of the local chapter of the Mother Earth League,” says Jim. “And I would like a meeting with the mayor to discuss the waterfront redevelopment.”
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” I say. “But in the meantime, could you share with me some of your concerns?”
“Lack of consultation, obviously,” says Jim.
“There were a number of environmental consultations done during the design planning process,” I say. “But it seems that MEL was not involved in those meetings. Can you tell me about your group?”
“MEL is an organization with international standing,” says Jim. “It has instigated some of the most influential environmental protests of our time. Have you heard of the Marigold Standoff ? The Aquaworld Freedom Blitz? The Test Animal Uprising?”
“I’ve heard of all of them,” I say. “But none of them happened in our city or even our country. And I wasn’t aware that MEL was operating here, or we would have invited them to participate in our discussions about the waterfront, because, as I’m sure you’ll appreciate, it is easier to incorporate feedback at the early stages of planning than it is after the plans have been approved.”
“I must say I expected this kind of resistance from the mayor’s office,” says Jim.
“You shouldn’t interpret my questions as resistance,” I say. “I am merely asking for information, which will help me advise the mayor, among others.”
Jim harrumphs. The harrumph, rarely experienced in real life, is a triumph of human communication: contempt, irritation, righteousness, indignation, and self-love all in one exhalation. Jim’s version is impressive. “MEL moves into a jurisdiction when the need for their wisdom and activism becomes evident. Up until recently, other cities had greater need. But now one of the treasures of the Great Lakes is threatened by political whims. We will not sit idly by and let our birthright be polluted so that Mayor Haines can have his precious legacy.”
I take a hit of coffee. It is revoltingly cold. “Jim, let’s slow down here. It’s just you and me on the phone. What I hear you saying is that the local chapter was set up recently
.”
“That is correct,” says Jim.
“How many people are involved in the organization? Locally?”
“Twenty or so,” says Jim.
“And how many of them are also members of ArtCo?”
“I resent the implication,” says Jim.
“What implication?” I say.
“That our environmental concerns are not extremely serious. That our organization is some sort of shadow operation whose only purpose is to bolster ArtCo’s agenda.”
“I completely did not say that,” I say, although it is a nice summary of my feelings.
“You didn’t have to,” says Jim. “I can see that we are going to have to take this to eleven to get a proper hearing.”
“There is no reason whatsoever to take this to eleven,” I say. What “eleven” might be in MEL terms, I can’t fathom. It won’t be a cause for celebration, this much I know.
“We’ll see,” says Jim. “You set a meeting, Avery, and you make sure the mayor is there. And then we’ll consider our options.” And he hangs up.
Absently, I take another slug of coffee, choke, and spit it back into the Styrofoam cup. I make a mental note not to have Styrofoam cups at the meeting with MEL. I make a mental note not to drink any more of the coffee, but I don’t trust myself to remember, so I pick up the cup and walk out of my office to the kitchen and pour it down the drain. I reflect on the plight of indigent coffee workers whose labour I have disrespected. I reflect on my failures as a spouse, a daughter, a friend, an employee, and a human being, which seem in this moment to be manifold.
Bonnie appears in the doorway. There is no place to hide from this woman.
“Where’s Gloria?” I ask.
“A good question,” says Bonnie. “Not at her desk, to pick up an urgent call from Doris Renaud, that much I can tell you. I came to see if you were in. I see that you are, so I’ll put her through.”
“Thank you,” I say, and return to my desk, where the phone flashes malevolently. I pick it up. “Hi, Doris.”
“Avery,” says Doris, “I would like, no, I demand an explanation.”
“An explanation for what?” I ask.
“For the outrageous, underhanded collusion that is occurring between Jim Crawford and the mayor’s office, which is a clear effort to undermine the rights of women in this city.”
