“Sure.” Flattery will get you everywhere. Almost. Ward knew the reporter wasn’t really doing a benign personality profile. And the reporter probably knew Ward knew. But it was part of the game. Ward was learning. The reporter was looking down at his notebook now, his pen poised above it. Ready.
“What’s surprised me the most about this job?” Repeat the question, make it seem as if that’s what you’ve been pondering. “Well, Patrick . . .” Ward had learned to call reporters, even the older ones, by their first names. It seemed friendly enough, but it also established the power relationship; the reporters called him Mr. Minister or Mr. Justice. “I guess the thing that surprises me most about this job is that I have it.” He smiled his best self-deprecating smile.
There were so many things Ward could tell him . . . that he couldn’t. He could dazzle the reporter with details about the perks of office. Ward, for example, had “borrowed” ten thousand dollars from the Winners’ Fund for the down payment on the Atlantic Street house, and then another fifteen thousand to renovate the kitchen. The mortgage had been arranged by Junior Eisner through a company he owned. “Prime minus prime,” he’d said and winked. Zero percent interest! “And if you need to skip a payment, let me know. It can be arranged.”
One of the other things that surprised Ward was just how many people wanted to help you out when you were a Cabinet minister. There was the Halifax real estate developer who needed Cabinet approval to buy a large block of government-owned land just outside the city to turn into a housing development. He took Ward out to dinner one night and, at the end, slipped him an envelope “for your re-election campaign.” It contained ten fresh, crisp one-thousand-dollar bills. Ward was surprised at just how many campaign contributions came in the form of untraceable, unaccountable cash. It was almost as if the donor might be suggesting the recipient keep a little for himself. Ward, in fact, did just that, but never more than 10 percent. That seemed a reasonable amount for his troubles. And his needs.
Ah, yes, his needs. How could he tell Patrick about Rosa?
“You want to know about surprise? Well, let me tell you just how surprised I was when I fell in love with a black woman.”
“How interesting, Mr. Minister. I’m sure my readers would like to know all about that. How did you two lovebirds meet?”
“Well, you see, I was cruising Gottingen Street one night and I picked up this hooker, and I didn’t know she was black, and she fucked me and I fell in love with her.”
“How romantic, Mr. Minister. And then what happened?”
Then? How could he put this? He’d become obsessed. Two nights after that first night, he’d been driving home to his wife and family and his life when he felt this magnetic pull on his heart, and his groin, tugging the car’s steering wheel back to the stroll. He drove around the block three times, staring at the women in their short skirts and skimpy tops, watching them wave, listening to their come-ons. None was Rosa. Finally, he’d pulled up beside a young woman in hot pants who seemed slightly less pushy than the others. He rolled down his window, waited for her to approach.
“. . . can I do you for tonight, mister?” she said. She was chewing gum.
“Nothing,” Ward said. “Uh, I’m just looking for somebody, girl named Rosa, she works up here sometimes.”
She leaned in through the window. He saw her reach into the top of her low-cut top, fish something out of her bra. It flashed. It was a badge. “Mr. Minister,” she was whispering urgently now, “Tanya Smits. Vice. You just walked into the middle of a sting operation. So I suggest you get the hell out of here right now. This is no place for you.” She slipped the badge back into her bra, stepped back and shouted at him, “You fuckin’ perv! I don’t do that shit for nobody so get the fuck out of here.”
Ward didn’t wait to roll up the passenger window, just gunned it down the street. After that, he didn’t stop to ask questions. But he did continue to drive past the stroll several times a night every night, looking but not finding her. Finally he branched out, tried the two other downtown areas where prostitutes hung out, the one outside the lieutenant-governor’s mansion on Barrington Street and the other in the park across from the Nova Scotian, the big railway hotel down near the docks, which is where he finally saw her. She was getting into someone else’s car as he drove by. They drove away. He didn’t follow, just drove around for fifteen long minutes until the car finally returned and she got out, waved, smiled at the person inside. Ward was jealous.
Standing under the streetlight, she looked so beautiful—more beautiful than any of the others—he was afraid someone else might try to pick her up, so he drove up beside her immediately. She recognized his car.
“Well, look who it isn’t!” she said, opening the door, squatting down to see inside. Her smile said she was pleased to see him. “What can I do for you tonight?”
“Talk. Just talk.” He hadn’t planned that. “I’d just like to talk to you, that’s all. I’ll pay you. For your time, I mean. Don’t worry about the money.”
“I’m not worried,” she said, slipping easily into the passenger seat. He had paid her for the “full deal,” and then offered her more at the end when she joked that she’d never had a trick who’d lasted as long as their conversation. She’d put the extra money back into his palm, closed her hand on his. “That’s okay,” she said. “It was nice. Maybe I should pay you.”
Later, when he tried to remember what they’d talked about, he couldn’t. Only that it had been good, wonderful, better than fucking. That night had been the beginning. Within a few months, he’d convinced her to give up prostitution. She was only doing it, she said, to support her son.
“I can support him. You too.”
He wanted to set her up in an apartment downtown, but she said no. “No fancy apartment’s going to rent to me. A black woman’s bad enough, but me with a kid and no father . . . I’d rather stay where I’m comfortable. Besides, one of those apartments downtown would cost way too much and I’m taking enough of your money now.”
Ward wanted to tell her the money didn’t matter, that there was more where that came from. But he didn’t. He also wanted to tell her how dangerous it was for him to visit her in the abandoned warehouse near the waterfront where she and little Larry lived. What if someone saw his car? What if the police decided to chase the squatters and he happened to be on the mattress on the floor in her place, making love to her when they came busting through the door? He didn’t say that. He just wanted to be with her, and that was worth any risk.
He didn’t think anyone knew. Except maybe Jack. Jack knew everything. One night at Monique’s, Jack and Whitey and a few of the boys were sitting around the kitchen table playing cards when Jack asked, “Okay boys, a contest. What’s the worst career move a politician can make?” Ward wasn’t playing, just watching, and listening.
“That’s easy,” Whitey answered. “Calling a press conference and announcing you’re a fucking homo. Bang. That’s it. No more fucking career.” Laughter, murmurs of agreement.
There were other suggestions too: having sex with animals or little girls, but not a word about the usual political scandals over money.
“What about getting caught in my house?” Monique asked. “Nah,” Whitey answered. “That’d probably get a man fucking votes. At least it fucking well would with men.” He looked at Jack. “What about you, Jack? You asked the question. What’s the worst fucking career move?”
“In Nova Scotia?” Jack glanced at Ward, back at Whitey, didn’t look at Ward. “I’d say the worst thing a politician could do in this province is to shack up with a coloured girl. Voters will forgive a man a lot, but not that.” More murmurs of assent. Ward said nothing. And Jack said nothing more.
Was that why Ward had told those stupid jokes at that dinner last month? Because he knew Jack was right? So he’d . . . he’d what? Played to the crowds? Tried to shock them out of their bigotry
? Or maybe throw them off the scent?
He hadn’t planned it. It had just been a bad day. Every day was bad, and getting worse. Junior and Jack were squeezing him. For a change, Ward was squeezing back. They didn’t like that. And Victoria was complaining that he wasn’t spending enough time with the girls. Not with her. Just with the girls. “Maybe you should start spending more time at home with your daughters instead of . . . doing whatever you do,” she’d said. So she did know. Or at least she suspected.
And she was right. He did prefer the company of Rosa and her son to his own wife and daughters. His own daughters! Why? He wasn’t sure. Was it because Meghan and Sarah seemed more like extensions of Victoria than his own flesh and blood? Was that because Victoria was always with them and he was never home? He loved his daughters, but he liked being with little Larry more. Perhaps because Larry was a boy, or because he needed him in ways his daughters did not. There were no kids his own age in the warehouse. And his mother had no other friends who’d visit, certainly none with children. No wonder Larry’s eyes would light up whenever Ward would come over. Ward would sometimes bring presents—toy cars, plastic soldiers, a kid’s bat and ball—and play with him on the floor. Those were the best moments. But they didn’t last. He would look up from their game and see Rosa sitting on the sofa. Guilt. He’d go home to his wife and daughters. Guilt.
Was that why he’d slipped away to the Victory Lounge that day after work, before the dinner? He couldn’t remember how many double Scotches he’d had. Five? Six? By the time he got to the press gallery dinner, he was hammered, and beyond knowing enough to know he’d had more than enough. By the time he stood up to speak, he was piss-eyed with alcohol. But he knew exactly what to say. He’d been planning it since his first drink at the Victory nearly four hours before.
At the podium, he took out the bland speech with its lame jokes that Norah Radcliffe, the Premier’s speech writer, had prepared. “Save you the trouble,” O’Sullivan had explained when he’d handed it to Ward the morning of the dinner. Ward had noted that the speech included a few pledges of loyalty to the Premier—Seamus O’Sullivan had heard the rumours, too. He smoothed out the folded pages on the podium, reached into his breast pocket, removed the Victory napkin with the notes he’d scrawled on it and placed the napkin beside the official text of the speech. It was amazing the number of nigger jokes bartenders knew. He’d intended to segue into the jokes earlier but put it off when he noticed there were black servers clearing the plates. He followed the prepared text while he waited for them to leave. Which meant he’d officially declared his loyalty to “my Premier and the man to lead Nova Scotia into the future” twice before he looked around the room and gave himself the all-clear.
By the time he’d dropped his second one-liner, they were throwing buns at him. He pressed on. What was he trying to prove? That he could be as racist as the next guy? Finally, Whitey tackled him, pushed him away from the mic and through the door to the kitchen. Over his shoulder, he could hear Jack doing his best to smooth things over, to pretend that what had happened hadn’t.
A cone of silence quickly dropped over the whole affair. No one reported a word; it was, after all, off the record.
What about this guy he was talking to now? Was this reporter there? Probably . . . Oh, yes, Patrick. Here. Now. What was he on about? Surprised? Yes, surprised. Ward felt outside himself, looking down on another Ward Justice explaining to this reporter how surprised he’d been by the many complexities of the fishing industry, the starkly different views of the offshore and the inshore industry, the various bizarre jurisdictional tug-of-war battles.
“Even though I grew up in this industry,” the other Ward was saying, echoing the line Jack had encouraged him to emphasize, “I have to admit I’m surprised at just how complex it is.” He paused. How much longer before the reporter moved on to the question he really wanted answered?
“The good news, of course, is that Ottawa has finally agreed to declare the two-hundred-mile limit. On January first, we’ll finally have control over our own fishing zones. We’ll be able to manage the resource in the interests of our fishermen and the future of the stocks.” Which was something else he couldn’t talk to this journalist about.
“If we could move away from Fisheries for just a moment, Mr. Minister, to provincial politics.” The segue had begun. “As you know, the government seems to be in political trouble right now. Power rates going through the roof. Offshore oil and gas exploration wells coming up dry. The cruise ship scandal. According to what I hear, internal polls are already saying this government can’t win the next election . . . at least not under Premier O’Sullivan. But my sources say the party has done some secret polling to see how it would do under different leaders, and that those polls show that you’re the only one who could beat the Tories. What’s your comment on that?”
“Well . . .” Ward paused, as if to gather the thoughts for the lines he’d rehearsed in his head. “Well, Patrick, I’m not sure I have any comment on that. You have an awful lot of hypotheticals in your question and I don’t think it’s wise for a politician to speculate about things that haven’t happened.”
“But would you be interested in the job?” Patrick persisted.
Ward smiled. This was all going just as Jack had predicted. “I have a job, Patrick, and I’m very happy serving the people of Nova Scotia as their Minister of Fisheries in the government of Seamus O’Sullivan. I’m happy to do that as long as Premier O’Sullivan wants me to.”
“So you’re saying there’s no truth to the rumour that you’ve set up a secret campaign team and are raising money to challenge the Premier at the next annual meeting?”
Ward knew how not to answer questions he didn’t want to answer. “Patrick, Patrick,” he tsk-tsked, smiling. “Where do you come up with this wild speculation? All I can tell you is Seamus O’Sullivan is my leader and I’m loyal to my leader.”
“So is that a yes or a no to my question?”
“That’s a definite no to responding to outlandish speculation.” Ward smiled again, to make it clear this was part of the game, too. But also that the game was over. He looked at his watch. “I don’t mean to cut this off, Patrick, but I’m running late already this morning and I have another appointment waiting.”
“Can I call you? In case I have any other questions.”
“Certainly, Patrick.” He paused, then added quietly, “You might want to hold off on running this story for a few weeks. By then, I might have something more to say about this. And I’d be happy to talk to you first.”
Jack would have been proud.
The officious little man in the blue blazer behind the reception desk was on his feet before Ray could manoeuvre the battered pine table through the entranceway and into the lobby. “Deliveries to the Hollis Street entrance,” the man declared, blocking Ray’s path to the elevator. “Can’t you read?”
Ray had been tired and sweating, now he was angry. He’d rescued this table from the trash outside a South Street house early this morning and dragged/carried it six long blocks through morning rush hour to his new office in the Bell Building on Barrington. And now this pompous prick was telling him to use the service entrance? Would he have done that if Ray had been white?
“I’m a tenant here,” Ray told him, a little too fiercely. He took a breath. “New. Today. Just moving in. Suite 401. Raymond Carter and Associates.” He reached into his pocket for one of his freshly printed business cards.
“Oh right, sorry about that, sir,” the man replied without waiting for Ray to prove he was who he claimed to be. “I heard someone had taken that third-floor suite. Welcome to the Bell Building, Mr. . . . Carter?” Ray nodded. “Can I help you up with that table?”
“Uh, no, but, uh, thanks.” Was the man sincere, or overcompensating, or even condescending? White people, Ray thought. He’d never figure them out.
“Well, you need anything, you
just ask,” the man said, pressing the elevator button for Ray. He seemed genuine.
“Right, thanks very much.”
Upstairs, Ray stood outside the heavy wooden door with the frosted-glass window and admired. “SUITE 401” was stencilled in black block letters in the bottom right-hand corner of the glass panel. Above it, “R. Carter & Assoc.” just as the landlord had promised.
In truth, there were no associates. Not yet anyway. And, except for his new-to-him used table, there was no office furniture either. He hadn’t realized how expensive it would be to set up his own office. By the time he’d paid the first month’s rent and the damage deposit and the deposit for the telephone, he’d used up his meagre savings from articling.
He’d made a mistake, he realized now, showing up in person to order his telephone. The woman at the counter had bustled off to talk to her supervisor, who took a long look at Ray and then went off to consult with his supervisor. Eventually the woman returned. “I’m afraid we’ll require a deposit of two hundred dollars,” she said. “If, after six months, there have been no problems with the account, we’ll return it.” She paused. “It’s standard procedure for first-time business accounts.”
“Is that why you had to talk to your supervisor and he had to talk with somebody else?” Ray asked.
She blushed. “I don’t make the rules, sir. And those are the rules.”
Ray considered asking to speak with her supervisor, but gave up. It probably was written in some rule book somewhere that new clients had to pay a deposit. But, as he’d discovered during his time at Black Pride, those kinds of rules generally applied only to blacks. If he’d been white, the deposit would have been waived.
The woman had told him his phone line would be installed sometime today. So for now he was stuck waiting for the installer in this echoing, empty space with his one table and no chair. Ray had originally planned to make the suite’s inner room his private office. But that would have to wait until he found more furniture. He put the table in the middle of the room. Sat on it.
Reparations Page 31
