by Kerry Clare
“Well, I don’t know what my plans are,” said Brooke. “I’m still just kind of taking stock.”
“Setting up a meeting would be a good start,” said Jacqui, gesturing toward her card on the counter. “Listen, do you have a card?” She looked around for a pile on the desk, but Brooke didn’t have that kind of job, nothing business card–worthy. “Why don’t you give me your number,” Jacqui said. “I’ll keep you in mind, let you know if something comes up. Ow, Jared.” The kid on her back was pulling her hair. She said, “I’ve got to get him to the babysitter. Here.” She plucked a brochure of library programs from the pile on the counter. “Write your number here. Maybe we can get together? Have coffee.”
“Looks like you’re pretty busy,” said Brooke.
“I could swing it,” said Jacqui. “It’s great you’re back. You were down in the city, right? Before? You’re not on Facebook, are you?” Brooke was on Facebook, but her account was hidden, except to a handful of close family and friends. Jacqui said, “There’s this group for young women, professionals. I could add you. For networking.”
“I’ll give you my number,” said Brooke. Maybe a little networking wouldn’t be so bad. So she wrote it down, with her email, pushed the brochure back, and Jacqui stuffed it into her crowded bag. Her kid was really squawking now, pulling on her hair again, and Jacqui rolled her eyes playfully, like this was adorable. Brooke knew only a few people her age who were having kids already, and this was her first instance of seeing it in real life. To be honest, it just looked cumbersome. Marianna, whose daughter she babysat, was perpetually exhausted.
“I’ll be in touch,” said Jacqui. “And keep my card around. You never know.” Prying her son’s fingers out of her hair again. “Good to see you!” she called out over her shoulder as she hurried out into the world.
An hour later, Lindsay came back to the circulation desk, and Brooke went to straighten the periodicals, which were mostly as straight as they’d been first thing that morning. Someone had taken down the day’s papers but, instead of reading them, they’d fallen asleep under them as though the papers were a tent. The sleeping man was a regular—Brooke recognized his boots—and one of the blessed few who didn’t snore. As she walked past him, she checked out the headlines again, the paper rising and falling gently with each of the man’s breaths.
When Morgan arrived for the afternoon shift, Lindsay and Brooke got to take their lunches—a half hour each, one after the other. Brooke hadn’t brought anything to eat that day, having been lacking in both time and groceries, but after four months at the library, she’d learned there would always be leftover cake in the staff room. This one, with gaudy blue frosting, was from the birthday celebration of one of the women who worked in the Tourist Information Bureau—they shared the library building, along with the Downtown Business Improvement Association—and it was only vaguely stale. Brooke slapped two slices on a plate and then stretched out on the couch to eat them, the plate balanced on her chest as she scrolled on her phone. If anyone was coming, she’d hear them on the stairs with enough time to sit up and look civilized.
Derek hadn’t replied to her texts. She thought of reaching out again, just in case her other texts had been lost in all the hubbub since the story broke, but she wisely resisted the urge. She had sent him three texts in five minutes, and she regretted it now. There were no circumstances in the world under which that would seem cool.
But Derek probably wasn’t thinking about her at all, she knew, so instead she used this time to get caught up on the latest. Nothing had been released since the memos of his team’s resignation, the party trying to act as though it hadn’t just been sunk by a torpedo, and that everybody wasn’t headed for the lifeboats. “Our party is not just about one man,” someone was saying, as though the situation was still salvageable. “We were a party before Derek Murdoch, and we’ll still be a party after he’s gone.” Having finished the cake, Brooke felt a bit ill, but blue icing will do that. She thought about how willing the party had been to make it all about one man back when it seemed that man could deliver an election victory. Derek’s face was everywhere, huge and imposing, on billboards, pamphlets, internet ads. There was relief in the prospect of not having to stare into his eyes all the time, and everywhere, that face she knew so well, and loved, but in images so bland and unseeing.
* * *
—
This was the story she’d been telling herself, and to anybody who asked: the library was a good place to work—there was no overtime, the tasks were not exacting, and it gave her the same experience of public service she’d enjoyed in her last job. It was a similar opportunity to effect change, to make a difference in people’s lives—except now she was being trained on how to deliver naloxone to prevent overdose deaths of vulnerable patrons, and helping new immigrants format their resumes, plus making conversation with frazzled new mothers whose trips to the library saved them from isolation. And there were books, which had once been such an important part of Brooke’s life—her mother had taught high school English and was an avid reader, recommending title after title to her daughter, the downside of this being that Brooke had never learned how to discover books on her own. And then, when Brooke went away to school and got so busy with work, she became estranged from books altogether. She’d fallen out of the habit of reading, and didn’t understand how to fit books back into her life, so now she appreciated her encounters with them here at work, accepting returns, shelving those copies, retrieving others, rearranging the out-of-order titles so that the next person who needed a book would be able to find it. In politics, she’d discovered that so few systems worked—but libraries did. The world was not yet wholly bereft of things to believe in.
But this was still a demotion, the end of a career path that had led nowhere. Her skills and experience didn’t count here, and maybe they never would again, never mind the humiliation of returning home to Lanark cloaked in a shame she could not delineate to Jacqui Whynacht, or anyone. “It was time for a change,” she’d explained to her family and to her friends, but ever so vaguely. Everyone waiting for her to properly account for her situation, but she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, not when she was still waiting to see what might happen next, because there had to be a resolution. And in the meantime, she was waiting, seemingly endlessly some days. The pace at the library could be so slow, she missed the adrenaline rush, and nobody ever went out for drinks after work. The job wasn’t fun, not the way that politics had been fun, and the stakes weren’t as high—but at least it was meaningful. And it was better than working in an open-plan office with meetings all day long, somebody always looking over her shoulder, no place to hide. It was better than having no job at all. Brooke had been counting her blessings, even though by the time her four o’clock home-time came around, she’d been waiting forever, and she’d have to go through the whole routine again tomorrow.
But before tomorrow, she headed down the street to Jake’s Pizzeria, whose proprietor was her father, who’d inherited the business from his father (neither one of them called Jake), and where she’d worked as a waitress all through high school, which is where Derek Murdoch had known her from before he knew her name. To lots of people in town, Brooke was “that girl from the pizza place,” cute enough with a swinging ponytail, but part of the scenery, basically. She’d served Derek several times throughout her teenage years, but he had never paid her any special attention until that night at Nellie’s—but she’d always been able to count on him for a decent tip.
The restaurant was deserted tonight, maybe because of the drizzle, but it was also early. Brooke’s dad was wiping down the counter. He said, “I wasn’t expecting you.”
“One great thing about having a daughter who has no friends left,” said Brooke. “You get to see me all the time.”
He said, “You’ve got friends.”
And she let him think so, because it made him feel better. Back in the city, all
the people she’d once called friends had forgotten her, and up here there was Jacqui Whynacht. “Let’s just say I’ve got room in my calendar.”
“Your mom’s been texting you,” said her dad. “How did it go today?”
“At the library?”
“With Derek and the news.” Brooke’s parents adored Derek, the way everybody in their town did, and once she’d gone to work for him, it had become personal, their feelings about Derek a reflection of their love for their daughter.
“I guess everyone’s seen it,” said Brooke.
Her dad said, “He never should have let you leave there.” Her dad was a famous overestimator of Brooke’s talents and was convinced she’d been the brains in the whole Murdoch operation. “If you’d been there, you might have given better direction. Like telling him not to start crying. Did you see that? Did you see the way he ran away?”
“Three flights of stairs,” said Brooke. Professionally speaking, she would not have made any difference, not to the optics at least. She had good ideas, but nobody was obligated to listen, and her relationship with Derek usually meant they made a special effort not to.
Her dad said, “Babe, I’m sorry.”
“For what?”
“For you, for him. I don’t even know.” Her dad threw the cloth in the sink. “I read the story,” he said. “What those women are saying—you don’t know anything about that, right? I mean, he was never like that with you?”
“Oh, gross, Dad.” Brooke was peering into the cabinet to see which slices were out under the heat lamp. As far as her parents were concerned, Derek had been like her big brother, the family forever in his debt for the opportunity he’d given Brooke in her career. They didn’t know that he’d met her downtown at Slappin’ Nellie’s. And if they’d heard the rumors, they never mentioned it. Brooke said, “It’s all a hit job. Don’t even think about those stories.” This was her father; she couldn’t have him thinking about those stories. She nodded at the pizza in the display case. “These are fresh?”
“Of course they’re fresh,” said her dad. Brooke gave him a look. “No, really.” Public health was really laying into local restaurants—just another example of the government interfering in people’s personal business, her dad would complain. Some people liked buying a slice of pizza that had been sitting out so long the cheese had turned to rubber.
About Derek, her dad said, “You really didn’t see this coming?”
“I did and I didn’t,” said Brooke. She slapped the cheese slice onto a paper plate and packed a pile of napkins beneath to soak up the grease. “I’m really out of touch up here.”
“You haven’t talked to him?”
“He’s busy,” she said. “Damage control.”
A group of customers came in, and the evening waitress wasn’t in yet, so her dad showed the group to their booth, Brooke sitting at the counter, eating slowly, savoring the texture of the stringy cheese. Even hours old, her father’s pizza was delicious. The twenty-four-hour news channel was playing on the TV on the wall, and there he was again, Derek, tears in his eyes, ducking from the microphones and running away. One last shot of the stairwell, and the back of his head, and Brooke wondered again where he’d been running to. Down the corridor was the entrance to the parking garage—she could draw a map on the back of a napkin. She hoped the sprint had paid off, and that Derek had made it out into the night with nobody on his tail. Heading home, maybe, back to the safe haven of his condo a few blocks away.
At Derek’s condo, all the shelves were bare and there was nothing on the walls, the place barely lived in, which used to make Brooke feel like part of the couple in the photo that comes with the frame. Wall-to-wall white carpet, marred only by a red-wine stain from where she’d tipped her glass one night when they were up late arguing about religion. That was the kind of thing they’d talked about, the conversations she’d been missing all these months. Like no one else she’d ever met, Derek had ideas, and he relished the opportunity to be challenged on them. That night, she’d been saying that Jesus was alienating in a secular world, while Derek maintained he was still an inspiring teacher, and his insistence was infuriating. His composure turned her into the emotional one. Made her start waving her hands, too emphatic, knocking her glass off the coffee table, and the lush white carpet soaked the red up.
In the end, the only answer was to move a chair over the spot, but the stain was there, and Brooke knew it still bothered him. That night was the first time she’d ever seen him lose his cool—he liked to be able to fix things, but the stain was indelible. She’d tried to assure him that it really wasn’t such a big deal, but everything—her voice, her touch—just made him angry, so she shut right up. There are tricks for getting wine out of carpets, and he was looking them up online as the stain got deeper, and at least they knew not to touch it, not to rub it in. But the tricks required items like salt or baking soda from the kitchen, and Derek’s cupboards, as usual, were empty, save for wet-naps and ketchup packets. They’d only ever had takeout at his place, Brooke remembered now, picking up her napkin and dabbing at her mouth.
“Murdoch hasn’t made a statement since his dramatic exit at last night’s press conference,” said the television anchor. “Since then, his entire staff have resigned.”
Her dad was back by her side, staring up at the screen. “You think he really did it?” he asked. “All those things they said?”
“Of course not,” Brooke told him, hoping she sounded sure. But now Blaine McNaughton, Derek’s political nemesis, was on the screen. “It’s an open secret,” he said. “We’ve all been hearing the rumors for years.”
“About sexual assault?” asked the reporter.
McNaughton shrugged. “It’s a slippery slope,” he said. “I mean, everyone knew about Derek and girls. And how far it went? I don’t know. But it’s a question of character. In politics, you’ve got to demonstrate that you’re deserving of trust, and your reputation is all you’ve got. He should have been more careful.”
“He’s vowing to clear his name,” said the reporter. “Do you think there’s any chance of that?”
McNaughton was shaking his head. “Listen, I like the guy,” he was saying. “I’ve known him forever. But this is not going to end well. I think it’s probably time to move on.”
Archive: Context Magazine, 2014
“THE DEREK MURDOCH STORY”
UNTIL THE AGE OF ELEVEN, Derek Murdoch was an average kid, eldest son of Jim, a janitor at Lanark Town Hall—“Cleaning up politics is in my genes,” Murdoch quips—and Ann, a medical receptionist and local dynamo, who not only coached her son’s hockey teams, but also played the organ at St. Stephens church on Sundays. A series of photos shows the family over the years on the steps of St. Stephens, a mid-century modern building all angel-stone and sweeping peaks, a sleek white cross in front. First Jim and Ann in their wedding attire, and then each new addition—Derek, his sisters Tracey and Heather, and brother Carl—the children each two years apart, posed in a row, tall-to-small, heads like stair-steps.
“We were a working-class family,” Derek likes to remind people, harkening back to his humble origins even though his early politics were different from those he espouses today.
In the 1980s, Jim Murdoch led efforts to disband the Town of Lanark’s employee union, whose leadership he viewed as corrupt and against workers’ interests. His campaign failed, but many have argued that the union has been powerless ever since. Meanwhile, Jim went on to become involved in local politics, working for candidates who shared his own priorities of fiscal restraint and family values. It was a road his son might have followed him on, but for the harrowing events of April 29, 1990.
His mother still can’t talk about it, and leaves the room when Derek tells the story. It had been one of those summer-like days in April with a clear sky, not a cloud in it. He and his siblings had been playing in the backyard of their mode
st bungalow. “It was warm enough to be wearing just a light jacket,” recalls Derek. They were running in and out of the garage, which was usually out of bounds, but somehow the door had been left unlocked. Ann was in the house, so she didn’t see what her children were up to, and even now no one knows for sure what happened next.
“I heard a bang,” says Derek. He thinks it was probably a gas tank, which they kept in the garage for filling the mower. There were other chemicals too, and maybe one of the kids was playing with matches. “But who was doing what exactly doesn’t matter,” Derek emphasizes. “I heard this noise and realized they were in there, my brother, and my sisters. And I could see flames through the window.” Ann had sewn eyelet curtains for the window in the garage, same as the curtains in the kitchen, and after the fire she had to get rid of those ones, too painful a reminder. “The curtains were on fire, and I remember the way they just burned and fell away like ash,” he says. “And I was scared, but I also knew what I had to do. Everything was in slow motion, and when I touched the doorknob, it was already hot.”
Derek went into the garage, and now shrugs off any suggestion that his action was courageous—“It wasn’t a choice,” he said. “Anyone would have done what I did.”
The next part of the story is told from patched-together recollections. His mother came out to see the garage in flames, Derek emerging from the inferno with her daughters in his arms. And then he went back in to get Carl, only four years old at the time, who hadn’t understood what was happening and had been hiding, afraid he’d get into trouble.
There were stories in the local paper the next day, and in the national papers the day after that: “Fire Boy Hero Saves His Siblings.” This was the first time a photograph of the family on the steps of St. Stephens would appear in the press, a photograph taken just two weeks before, at Easter, Derek looking hearty and strong, ruddy-cheeked, having nearly outgrown his blue suit jacket whose sleeves don’t meet his wrists. By the time his image was all over the wires, Derek had been transferred to the largest burn unit in the region.
