by Mark Lisac
He arrived at the office in mid-morning next day. He began by arranging for defence counsel for Roberto Morales, then surveyed what he had waiting on his desk and decided in what order he should tackle it. Concentrating on work helped him calm down further after a fitful night. Early in the afternoon he received a phone call inviting him to the premier’s office next morning at ten. Henry Waschuk was on the line, saying only that the meeting involved both the Morales and Ostroski situations. On an impulse, Rabani asked if he could bring Asher, who had taken part in the previous night’s events. Waschuk asked if that was really necessary. He said it was not absolutely necessary but highly desirable.
Early in the evening he visited Adela again. She told him Rosa and Ginny would like to meet him at a nearby café. He went there and saw them seated at a table over coffee. Ginny had inquiring eyes. She told him a story of two powerful men in government both wanting something out of the old photo collection but both wanting something different and working at cross purposes.
“I get along with Becker but Frank Jeffries gives me the willies,” she said. “There’s something about him. He can say something ordinary to you and it can sound like a threat.”
Rabani was intrigued at the way she half-laughed at points while telling a serious story and the way she looked at him as if he were interesting. He said his thanks and went home to fit together all the pieces of information, the ones he had so far.
In the morning he and Asher were shown in immediately to the premier’s office. Morehead and Waschuk were there. So was John Becker. More surprisingly, so was Arlene Becker. After introductions, Morehead said he realized that Jack Ostroski had an interest in the matter as well but he and Waschuk had decided not to bring him in because of the possibility of unexpected reactions. At ten on the dot, Frank Jeffries entered the room. He hesitated at the door, scanned the faces in the room, lifted his chin, walked in, and sat in the chair that Waschuk indicated for him. It resembled all the other chairs in the room except for the leather work model behind Morehead’s desk—well padded, upholstered in a thick fabric coloured with subdued candy-striped pastels.
Jeffries sat back in it, legs crossed, corners of his mouth turned up sardonically. He had heard about the shooting incident and suspected his attempt to put pressure on Ostroski by threatening the Morales woman with deportation was somehow linked to it. That had been unfortunate. He had been sure his plan would work and now was extremely worried that the scheme might fall apart. He had spent the early part of the morning convincing himself that he could find a way to salvage it. He had spent years salvaging bad situations—the unrecognized and unappreciated guardian. The most important thing by far was to keep the entire controversy out of public view. He had to keep everything out of public view—the reasons behind the incident, the Tindall photos, and himself. The public gaze was uncomprehending and pitiless. It burned like the sun.
Morehead made sure names were exchanged, then moved briskly to the point of the meeting. “Frank, there’s been a lot of trouble about the Ostroski photo collection.”
“There certainly has.”
“It’s going to end today. I know you’ve had a hand in the situation. You also seem to have your shorts in a knot over a few pictures that you think were in the collection and that you want back.... Well, is that right?”
“Inelegantly expressed, but substantially correct. I should add my concern is not personal. It’s for the good of the province.”
“We’ll get to that. Was it also for the good of the province that you asked an old friend in Ottawa to lean on a brother and sister named Morales for some phony immigration violations? And that the purpose was to put pressure on Ostroski to cough up the pictures you wanted?”
“You seem to know the answer to that already,” Jeffries said. He was almost thrown off balance by the unexpected question but recovered in a split second and offered a condescending smile. Morehead grimaced in exasperation. He was smart enough to know, however, that Jeffries was deliberately provoking him, hoping to trigger an outburst that would throw the meeting off track and perhaps even end it early and in confusion.
Waschuk’s dried-paper voice, much louder than a whisper this time, intervened: “We know you did it. We know who in the immigration executive in Ottawa you’ve had past dealings with. What we don’t know is why you’re rocking the boat over a few pictures, apparently of Hesperia Tindall. Half the population doesn’t even remember her. She was just another lieutenant-governor. What’s your interest in old photographs of her?”
“Rocking the boat?” Jeffries leaned forward, his mouth tightening and eyes gleaming behind the wire-rimmed spectacles. “You, all of you, have no idea. No idea what’s at stake. You’ve heard—or have you heard?—could you be so oblivious?—the rumours about Hesperia.”
Waschuk had heard, but wanted everything in plain view. “What rumours?”
“You know what rumours. That she was a lesbian. Scurrilous certainly. True? I have no definitive proof although I’m almost certain of it. But I know she was sometimes careless in the way she acted at public events. She offered displays of affection, physical contact, that could easily be interpreted as supporting or even confirming the rumours. And I know that an official photographer hovering around the fringe of most government events would have captured some of those moments. Inadvertently at first, no doubt. Perhaps deliberately and mischievously for some time afterward. He may even have photographed moments she thought were private, perhaps even a kiss, for example. Do you know what letting such photographs out in public would do to our reputation? We would become a national laughingstock. Our image has been one of people who are rough and ready, not effete and confused. We can’t allow a scandal that would make us lose our standing, that would have people question who we are. Not to mention what would happen to the government’s support among religious communities.” Asher stifled a comment he was ready to make about the way a lesbian of notoriously starched manners could enhance a “rough and ready” image.
Jeffries had been talking directly to Morehead. Now he stared around the room, gazing into each face with an acid certainty that he was dealing with people too slow or too careless to understand the gravity of this crisis.
Morehead said, “Let’s take this slow, Frank. You’re talking about photographs taken at public events. Nothing like a private detective peeping in through a window at a bedroom. How damaging could anything be?”
“You are in this office in part because you know how to manipulate public opinion. And you ask me how damaging a mistaken impression about a serious matter could be? Besides, until I see those photographs, I have no idea how innocuous they are.”
“And who would really care aside from a small fringe of people? We’re not in the Fifties anymore.”
“This is not something that can be written off with cheap talk about decades and their supposed character,” Jeffries said. “You have no idea what you’re dealing with. God help me.” His breath was starting to heave. His eyes glittered behind his spectacles and he began darting glances at the impassive faces around the room.
Morehead watched the signs of stress building and said, “Let’s try to keep calm, Frank. You’re still determined to get your hands on that handful of photographs?”
“I certainly am. There is no one else I can trust. None of you appears to have a full grasp of how much is at stake. Are you all imbeciles? Don’t you know? It’s bad enough to have Hesperia Tindall exposed as having relationships with other women. The worst is her relationship with Mrs. George Manchester.”
He looked again at all the impassive faces staring at him. “Do you not have any conception what that would mean? Scandal. Laughter across the country. Who knows what kind of reaction from Manchester himself. All our standing and self-respect destroyed. The world is full of little minds waiting to grasp any excuse for the pleasure of belittlement and scorn. You have no idea of the degradation. Or do you not care?”
Jeffries leaned back in the chair
again, gasping, looking around at the apparently uncomprehending tormentors and waiting for the next assault.
Waschuk’s voice rustled across the room: “One of the reasons we wanted to get the Ostroski collection in hand was that we had a lot of trouble resulting from the purchase of the Briller collection. It was badly handled and overpriced. Frank, did you have a prior relationship with Anthony Briller?”
They saw Jeffries slightly tilt his head back as he focused on Waschuk. “I knew him, of course. He was a leading figure in the province’s cultural community.”
“That’s not the kind of relationship I’m talking about. Did you have a personal relationship with him? One that might even be called intimate?”
Jeffries coloured now, the pastiness of his face oddly coming close to a normal flesh tone, and a vein began to bulge on his forehead. “What are you insinuating?”
“I’m asking a question. Since you seem uneager to answer that one, how about this? When you were a professor at the university, did you have a relationship with any of your students, particularly a student named Melnychuk, who later killed himself?”
Jeffries snapped his gaze to his left and glared at Arlene. “You,” he said in a hoarse gasp. “You’re behind this.” He was hissing now. “Is this your idea of revenge?”
“No, Frank. Management.”
Jeffries stood up and took a step toward her. Asher had been standing next to the wall beside a seated Rabani. He sauntered toward Jeffries, who was saying, “You think you know about management. Someone who would marry a nobody American economist. You’re as blind as the rest of these malicious fools. Worse. You’re a traitor.” He looked around again. “I’m the only one who really belongs here. You are all traitors. Now you want to be assassins too. You want to destroy me.”
His last words rose in pitch as if asking if something unbelievable could be true. His breaths were coming even faster now. “But you of all these people are the most brutal and treacherous,” he said to Arlene, taking another step toward her. He saw Asher ranging within reach. “Who are you? What do you want?”
“I’m just a junior lawyer who works with George Rabani,” Asher said. “But I’m an old hockey player. I played in bantam with two young guys, good guys. They became alcoholics. One died a couple of years ago in a car accident. The other still lives here, going to AA meetings when he isn’t falling off the wagon and scraping by when he could have had a good life. He told me last year why the two of them began drinking. He said he still blames himself for what his coach did to him and our dead friend.” “Get back from me, you thug.”
Asher whacked him on his left ear with an open hand. Then he whacked him on his right ear with a closed fist, hard enough to hurt Jeffries and cause him to stagger but not hard enough to knock him down.
Becker stood up looking as if he might intervene.
Rabani shouted, “Harry.”
Asher turned and said, “Don’t worry, George.” He walked slowly back to the wall, looking at it as he said, “Two hits. One for each. It isn’t much but it’s some measure of justice.”
Jeffries shuddered and sank back into the chair. His formerly reddened face was rapidly turning pale. He looked at Morehead. “Is this why you brought me here? To be assaulted?”
“I didn’t see any assault, Frank. I doubt that anyone here did. I brought you here to explain why you were making trouble for two innocent people. That’s going to stop. I also brought you here to tell you I expect a letter of resignation on my desk by noon. A short one. One of the security staff will accompany you to your office in case you need anything. If you need any boxes to pack personal belongings you can call building maintenance, but that’s the only call you will make.”
Jeffries’ face was crumpling now. Tears welled up in his eyes. The others watched him, wondering whether they were tears of frustration or of mortal anger.
“You’d let those photographs end up in who knows whose hands? When they’re already in the hands of someone who’s shown he’s willing to indulge in blackmail. I’m innocent. I’m innocent. You aren’t merely condoning thuggish behaviour. You are, you are ... you are conspiring to drag me through the mud, to drag this whole province through the mud. The province and all the people who love it and understand it and are truly part of it, those who have always remained true to it. Not like any of you. For something that couldn’t be helped. A minor lapse. Something contrary to our true character. It’s an outrage. It’s indecent.”
“No one will publish any photos, Frank,” Morehead was keeping his voice steady, trying to calm the situation. “And no one will talk about you. We’re clear on that, right?” he said as he gazed around the room, the question sounding more like a warning. “We’re trying to run a scandal-free administration here. There won’t be any scandal because of any photos, and if I see your letter of resignation by noon there won’t be any scandal in your leaving. I’ll issue a statement thanking you for many years of fine and loyal service. Don’t look for another job, though. Take up golf.”
Jeffries pushed himself out of the chair, his mouth hanging open. He closed it, glared around the room half-blinded by tears and walked unsteadily to the door. He opened it and left. Morehead said, “I think that concludes our business here. I have a delegation coming in to see me in a few minutes. Thank you all.”
The two lawyers returned to their office together. Asher said, “It’s funny. Jeffries seems to think most of us don’t really belong here. Not even some of us who were born and raised in this province. But now he’s being excluded from his idea of a private club, too. Who really belongs here?”
“Who belongs anywhere?” Rabani said. “After the accident that left him brain damaged, my brother felt that he was something of an outsider. He lived in a different world much of the time. Yet he was a fixture in the lives of people who knew him. He was part of a small family that way. At least he was for me once I’d accepted what happened to him. He was a fixture in that little business community where he sold his smokers. And, I suppose, in the downtown library. He still felt alien. Maybe we all do in a way. We all fit into different kinds of communities, yet we all have a core within us that remains hard for others to know and hard for us to express. And at the same time, maybe most people’s private inner life is much like that of others. Who knows? Maybe that’s what binds us, a common experience of feeling uncommon. Life is movement and change.”
“You’ve got that right. There’s only one place I know of you can find certainty. A grave.”
“I wouldn’t go so far as to count on certainty even there, Harry. You go along thinking you can trust something and one day the bottom drops out on you.”
“No point in counting on that. One thing I learned playing hockey: play like you expect to win until you don’t.”
“And then?”
“Play the next game.”
Asher was silent for a moment, then said, “Do you think that old stick Tindall was really getting hot and heavy with Manchester’s wife?”
Rabani answered, “There are some pictures I’d rather keep out of my head. Anyway, Tindall is dead now and Manchester’s wife is so forgotten she may as well be. For that matter, Manchester liked to keep the spotlight on himself so much that she was hardly ever more than a rumour. I wonder what it’s like practically being a ghost before you’re dead.”
They walked up a hill from the legislature, anonymous grey office buildings several storeys high around them. The dreary sameness was interrupted here and there by parking lots and a Smitty’s restaurant.
By the time they reached the top of the hill, Jeffries was in his office. He pulled aside the vertical blinds on his window and looked out at the bridge. It was a short walk, he thought, and a short climb over the railing. He could fall like an angel.
He looked at the papers on his desk. He did a quick mental inventory of the personal belongings inside the drawers. No, he decided. They would not win that way. There should still be a way to redeem the situation, to contin
ue protecting what needed protecting. Ending his life would be seen as an admission of guilt. “I’m innocent,” he breathed.
The Beckers were sharing a quick coffee in a corner of the nearly deserted legislature cafeteria. John was looking at Arlene as if they had just met. He noted small things about her: a few creases at the corners of her eyes, two lines across her brow, finely manicured fingernails shiny with a clear polish, the just-right look of her navy blue suit, a blank expression that yielded nothing but that seemed built on something immovable rather than masking emptiness.
“Did you tell Morehead about that kid, what was his name, Melnychuk?”
“Yes. I telephoned him yesterday while you were outside fixing up Gretchen and Heidi’s grave.”
“You seem to know a lot about Frank Jeffries.”
“I know what he was. I know what he is now. He was ambitious and successful and often dangerous before. He was insidious and immoral in ways I somehow did not recognize. Or perhaps I simply refused to recognize it, couldn’t believe it. Now he’s still those vile things but he will no longer be successful. And he will no longer have enough power to be dangerous.”
“What did you mean by management? Not revenge, but management, you said.”
“Growing up on a cattle ranch you learn to face realities, John. A spring blizzard comes along and kills some of the stock. Newborn calves get scours and some don’t survive. A cow gets sick or badly hurt by something out on the pasture and has to be put down. Horses are worse. They’re surprisingly fragile for an animal that size, always getting sticks puncturing their hooves. Or they get their skin torn on a loose wire or nail and develop an infection. You want to save them all but some you can’t. The ranch is better off if you close the book on them.”
