On the drive back into the city, they began to see the humour in it. Shondelle stopped at a U-Pick farm, where they gathered more bags of apples and pears than they could possibly eat in a winter.
“Ever have my pear pie?” Shondelle asked.
“Can’t say as I have.”
“Well, you will. Tonight. I make a spectacular pear pie, so just consider yourself a lucky man.”
Uhuru did. Even more so after Shondelle grilled steaks for them on the deck of her second-floor flat near the university. They ate on the floor of the living room in front of the fire while the pie baked in the oven. One thing led to another and soon they were naked.
“The pie,” she said freeing her lips and tongue from inside his hungry mouth. “The pie’s going to burn.”
They ate it standing naked in the kitchen—the pie was as spectacular as advertised—and then moved on to the bedroom. Uhuru had been dreading this moment. It seemed like forever since he’d had sex with anyone he cared about, and almost that long since he’d been able to perform with any woman. The latter, though, was not completely true. He’d only failed to manufacture an erection on demand twice in his entire life—the last two times he’d picked up a woman in a bar. Both women, of course, had been white and blond, and both incidents had occurred just before he’d met Shondelle. Which made him even more nervous about going to bed with her. He’d waited for her to make the first move. And she had. Finally. After a year of working together, flirting, fighting, fighting the force of it. Still, it was almost as if she’d planned out the day in advance. Had she? Standing beside the bed that night, their bodies pressed together, feeling his own hardness pressing against her belly, Uhuru gave up trying to answer that question, or questioning whether he would be able to perform.
The only question then was: what did it mean? “I think I love you,” he told her when his breathing finally began to slow down.
“Shhh,” she said. She was right, of course. It was too soon. They were still telling each other the stories of their lives. And learning how to disagree without walking away.
He’d told her about his father and Africville and the fire, about living with his brother in Toronto and the process of becoming a radical, about coming back to Halifax and his growing disillusionment with the politics of Black Pride, about Jack Eagleson’s role in his decision to go back to school and become a lawyer and his own continuing ambivalence about Eagleson’s role in his life. He still hadn’t told her about Rosa. She asked about his other girlfriends. “I can’t remember any other girlfriends since I met you,” he joked. She would not be that easily dissuaded, he knew. Sooner or later, he would have to tell her. Sooner or later, he would have to come to terms with what he had done.
Shondelle was the first to see Eagleson’s obituary in the newspaper. “That lawyer guy you talked about,” she said almost off-handedly. “He died. Story’s in the paper this morning.” And she passed him the obituaries.
She was surprised when he said he was going to attend the memorial service. “What for?” she demanded. He wasn’t sure himself. He hadn’t seen Eagleson since that day a thousand years ago when Eagleson had turned him down for an associate’s position with his firm. Their only connection since had been through occasional new clients who’d mention that Eagleson had recommended him.
Telling Shondelle about Eagleson, in fact, had rekindled a long-forgotten impulse to go see the man again, to ask him to explain himself. But now, before he’d had a chance to act on that desire, Jack Eagleson was dead.
Uhuru sat in the church, listening to the orchestrated tributes and memorials being offered up by old men with fading voices: Eagleson’s colleagues, friends from politics, the law, business. They were all white, of course. And none of them answered any of Uhuru’s questions. Perhaps those questions were unanswerable. Perhaps Uhuru should stand up himself and testify. Tell all these white folks about the Jack Eagleson he’d known and they hadn’t. Amen, brother. But this was not a black church. He reached out, put his hand over Shondelle’s clasped hands, squeezed.
Ward Justice closed his eyes, tried to will his breathing back to something that might at least pass for normal. These days, even normal breathing felt like fighting against a fifty-pound weight pressing down on his chest; he had to struggle for every shallow breath. Walking was worse. A few steps. A pause. A few more steps. A longer pause. A few more steps. Sit down. Going out in public was worst of all. He couldn’t have come here today if not for Victoria.
Thank God he’d finally told her. Over dinner at Valentino’s, ostensibly to discuss the divorce settlement “like two civilized adults,” as she’d put it. “Without lawyers.”
He’d forgotten Valentino’s was on the second floor.
“My God, you look awful,” Victoria had said when he’d finally made it to their table. How late was he? How many times had he had to stop to catch his breath? “What’s wrong with you?”
He hadn’t had to say much. Just sketch in a few details. Doctor. Tests. Prostate of a much younger man, ha, ha. More tests. Lung. Cancer. Inoperable.
They hadn’t discussed the divorce settlement that night. Or again. Divorce was suddenly off the table. Instead, Victoria had moved back into the house—“Don’t you ever vacuum?” was the extent of her criticism of his skills as a homemaker—and become his nurse.
Ward did not flatter himself that this changed anything. Victoria had been casting about for something to do post-divorce; Ward became her new project, her new high-fashion boutique for post-menopausal women, her new genealogical family tree. The difference was that this was a pre-death rather than post-divorce project. Ward was fine with that.
Perhaps, though, it was more than just that. For the first time in years, they could recall the times before the times had changed without rancour or regret: that first party at her parents’ place where they’d smoked a joint on the widow’s walk; those wild nights of drugs and sex in his first apartment; their wedding “on the rocks”; the first time he’d mangled the pronunciation of zabaglione; the day Meghan was born and Ward fainted (“One second you were standing beside the doctor at the end of the bed and the next you’d disappeared”); and the night Sarah was conceived (“Remember, we had lobster and two bottles of wine,” she said, then laughed. “You do know I planned the whole thing”).
But that was where the drive down memory lane still came to a gear-grinding halt. By the time Sarah was born, Ward had been appointed Cabinet minister. He’d been in meetings in Ottawa and missed the whole thing. His secretary sent flowers. And then, of course, there was Rosa, and all that that implied. Ward wanted to explain, if explanations were possible, his relationship with Rosa. He couldn’t. He’d divided his life for so long into discrete compartments that he was incapable of opening doors between them. Perhaps that was for the best.
When he got the call from the young woman at McArtney, Eagleson—another compartment best left closed—to inform him, “as per Mr. Eagleson’s last wishes,” that his mentor was dead, and inviting him to the memorial service, Ward tried to beg off. Very busy . . . May be out if town that day . . . Meetings . . .
Victoria convinced him he should go. “He was a very important part of your life.” Victoria had never liked Jack or his schemes; that she would encourage Ward to go to his memorial service seemed—well, perhaps he really should try to talk to her about Rosa. Or, perhaps not.
She let him off at the corner of Barrington and Spring Garden, half a block from the church, so he could maintain the illusion that he was still capable of walking. “I’ll find a place to park and meet you inside,” she said.
Luckily, he saw Ray—Uhuru. Would he screw up his name during the trial? Would he even be alive? Uhuru was standing at the entranceway to the church. It gave Ward a reason to stop at the top of the steps. To say hello. And catch his breath. And, oh yes, to plant the seed.
“Mr. Melesse,” Ward mouthed in his dire
ction.
“Your Honour,” Melesse replied, approaching to shake his hand. Ward saw Ms. Adams was with him. He’d wondered about that. He’d met her during scheduling conferences. Ward had been impatient to get the trial underway. Uhuru had been okay with that, but Ms. Adams seemed suspicious of his motives. In the end, they’d agreed to begin the trial in late April, five months from now, which was the first open date for the prosecutors. The defence had already filed a pretrial motion, asking to be allowed to mount a defence of justification. That would be interesting.
“It’s good to see you outside chambers for a change,” Ward said lightly after Ray had shaken his hand. He wasn’t sure why Ray was there. He remembered Jack had mentioned him a few times, but usually as “your friend, Ray.” He’d called him a bright young man, but then he called everyone that.
“It’s good to be outside, period,” Melesse replied.
There was a silence then as both men tried to sort out what they might say to each other, given the court case hanging over them.
Ward finally began. “Maybe it’s because I’ve been seeing so much of you lately, but I was thinking the other day about, you know, the old days. When we were kids. I know it isn’t appropriate now, but, perhaps after, we can talk.”
“I’d like that,” Melesse replied.
“There some stuff I want to say . . .” Ward began again.
“Me too,” Melesse said.
“Ward Justice. You shouldn’t be standing out here in the cold like this.” Victoria. She looked at the black man standing beside her husband. “He has a bad fiu,” she explained.
“Victoria,” Ward said, “This is my friend . . . Uhuru Melesse.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Victoria extended her hand. Victoria knew who he was. Ward had long ago told her about his childhood friend Ray, so she had followed his career with a kind of vague curiosity.
“We’d better go inside and find a seat, Ward.” Victoria turned to Melesse, smiled. “If you’ll excuse us . . .”
“Certainly.” He turned back to Ward. “Good to talk to you again, Ward. And, yes, let’s get together after the trial. I’d like that.”
Ward hoped he would still be alive then.
“The official citation reads: ‘For gallantry, leadership and devotion to both mission and men during the landing at Normandy,’” the old man in the pulpit said as he held up Jack Eagleson’s war medal. “But those official words don’t begin to tell the half of what Jack Eagleson did that day. I know. I was there.”
Apparently Jack Eagleson had lived his life in compartments too. He’d never talked—at least to Ward—about his heroism in World War II. And Ward had never thought to ask.
Ward had known Jack had a wife, but he could only remember meeting her two or three times, at the most formal of official government functions. She never had much to say. The priest had described her as “the love of his life.” Ward couldn’t picture it. Just as he couldn’t imagine Jack’s two now middle-aged sons. They’d been away at college when Ward met Jack; photos on the mantel. Now one was a university professor in British Columbia, the other a dentist in Toronto. Were they both Liberals? Ward wondered. Or had they run from their father’s obsession? Was that why Jack was always on the lookout for “bright young men”? Ward would never know. He could only see the backs of their heads, sitting in the front pew with what must be their own families.
Compartments. Some had been opened today. Jack’s war record, his success in helping elect Seamus O’Sullivan premier . . . There was no mention of his subsequent attempts to dethrone O’Sullivan. Or the envelopes of cash he kept in his desk drawer. Or the time he’d tried to buy off Ray’s father with cash in a suitcase. Or how he’d arranged Ward’s judicial appointment. Even in death, some things were best left behind closed compartment doors.
Ward wondered what people would say at his memorial service.
“Mr. O’Sullivan, what’s your favourite memory of Jack Eagleson?” Fuck, Moira hated asking these insipid questions. But what choice did she have? Morton wanted a name-dropper. At least she had Eagleson’s first name right.
“Jack was a wonderful man, a good friend and a loving father,” Seamus O’Sullivan said. Moira had nabbed him, along with anyone else she even vaguely recognized, as they left the church. O’Sullivan’s teeth, Moira noted now that she close to the man, were yellower than his hair.
“Any specific anecdotes?” she fished. She already had too much wonderful, good, loving and blah, blah, blah.
“Anecdotes? Ah, I don’t think . . .” he answered, glancing back toward the church as if for inspiration. And found it. “Now there’s the man you want to talk to,” he said. “Ward Justice. He’s a judge now, but he was a Cabinet minister in my second administration. One of Jack’s protegés. He can tell you stories,” He called out to Ward, obviously relieved to have found a graceful exit. “Over here. A young lady here from the paper. Wants to ask you about Jack.”
Ward took his time walking over to where they stood. He was holding on to his wife’s arm.
“Mr. Premier,” Ward greeted him deferentially.
“Your Honour,” O’Sullivan replied in kind.
The two men shook hands. “Now this young lady . . . I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name . . .”
“Moira . . . Moira Donovan.”
“Moira’s writing a story about Jack and she was looking for some anecdotes. I said you’d be the one to talk to.”
“Donovan?” Ward spoke directly to her. “I think I’ve seen your byline. You covered courts, right?” Moira nodded. “Used to be a reporter. Covered the Legislature. Patrick Donovan. You any relation to him?”
“My father,” she said. He seemed to appraise her more carefully then.
“That so. A good reporter . . . Anyway, what can I tell you about Jack?”
Moira wasn’t interested in hearing any more boring, pointless stories about Jack. But was this the place to ask about those other things?
“Well, sir,” she began . . .
Ward’s first reaction had been to say no, but the Chief Justice’s directive last month practically ordered his judges to be more open and transparent with the press. “The media,” David Fielding had written in the puffed-up memo-ese he favoured, “are surrogates for the broader public, so we have a responsibility, within the constraints of judicial probity and independence, to be accountable to the public through the media. I urge you, therefore, to take advantage of any and all opportunities to advance public understanding of our role. especially in these days when, as you know, the judicial role can sometimes be controversial.”
So when Moira Donovan asked him for an interview outside the church last week, Ward Justice felt he had to say yes. That wasn’t true; Ward had his own reasons to talk to this particular reporter, but he’d begun rehearsing his explanations for the Chief Justice, just in case it went wrong.
At first, the reporter reacted as if he’d said no. “I realize you aren’t in a position to discuss specifics, sir,” she continued. “But, as I’m sure you’re aware, this case has generated a lot of public interest. Our readers would be interested in knowing more about the man at the centre of it all.”
“Yes,” Ward said again. “I’ll do it.”
“Essentially, I’m thinking of a profile that would talk about your background and—you’ll do it?”
He couldn’t help but smile. “Yes, Ms. Donovan, I’d be happy to. My schedule is clear for the next few days, so why don’t you name the time?”
Now here they were, sitting opposite each other in an alcove off Ward’s main office that had just enough room for two black leather chairs and a low round table between them. Donovan placed her tiny recorder on the table close to Ward. “I hope you don’t mind,” she said. “I just want to make sure the quotes are accurate.”
“No problem.”
But there was a problem.
Ward had not thought this through.
He’d fixated on the fact that she was Patrick Donovan’s daughter. He’d planned to wait until she asked the question only Patrick Donovan’s daughter would know to ask, and then make the pitch he’d been formulating in his head. He saw it as a dance, in which he would lead.
But she fooled him. She guided him through the predictable biographical questions, to which he gave the predictable answers. But then she circled back, came at him from an unexpected direction. She became the Grand Inquisitor, the Reporter.
It began innocuously. “I understand, sir, that you and Mr. Melesse were friends at one point. Can you tell me about your relationship with him?”
“Ah, that was a long time ago. We were both very young . . . We were friends, you know, like people are when they’re kids, okay? But I haven’t seen Ray—uh, Mr. Melesse—except in the courtroom now, of course, since . . . well, probably since high school.” The more he tried, the more inarticulate he sounded, the more suspect his answer seemed.
“I have a copy of a transcript I’d like to show you,” she said. She took some papers out of her purse, slid them across the table toward him. “This is from a 1970 report of an interview between you and two members of the RCMP’s Security and Intelligence Division. About your knowledge of Mr. Melesse’s political activities. Do you recognize these as your words?”
“Ah . . . let me see.” He stared at the first page, uncomprehending, taking time to think about how to answer. He couldn’t think. “I seem to recall something about being asked to meet with some members of the RCMP at that time,” Ward said, clearing his throat, coughing nervously. “It was right after the October Crisis, I believe . . . and there were some concerns about Mr. Carter’s—Mr. Melesse’s activities. But I’m . . . not sure . . . I was much help to them.”
Reparations Page 34
