The Best Laid Plans Part 6

CHAPTER SIX.

Other than three more near-arrests, courtesy of the two Petes' unorthodox canva.s.sing attire, an editorial critical of Angus and the virtually unknown New Democratic Party (NDP) candidate for their low profiles, and a broken exhaust system in the McLintock-campaign headquarters, the first two weeks of the race unfolded without incident. Relatively speaking, it was smooth sailing, without a dark cloud or a Liberal voter on the horizon. After the initial campus-based stirrings of support for Angus, he now seemed satisfied that there was no McLintock tsunami rolling across the riding. In fact, the Cameron team had taken to calling our candidate "Angus the Invisible." Fortunately, with the election outcome a forgone conclusion, no one bothered to organize any all-candidates meetings in the riding. What would be the point?

Driving through the riding, I was immersed in a monochromatic sea of blue as glossy Cameron signs stood like sentinels on virtually every lawn. Sometimes, having expensive signs featuring photos of the candidate posed a few problems. Some juvenile vandals had drawn garish moustaches and blacked-out teeth on a large and growing number of Cameron signs in several different sections of the riding. The effect was quite comical and earned a front page photo in The c.u.mberland Crier, along with an editorial decrying the a.s.sault on the Cameron campaign. Petra Borschart and her obedient young team of Tory brown-s.h.i.+rts were incensed and, for some reason, suspected the McLintock camp. I looked into it and was able to confirm that we had nothing to do with it. After all, ours was a high-road campaign with a focus on the issues. It was sheer coincidence that the timing and location of the lawn-sign enhancements paralleled the two Petes' canva.s.sing schedule. Some thought we were just jealous because we didn't have signs of our own. The Petes and I conferred privately. Shortly thereafter, the unauthorized artistry ceased. If we were going to be annihilated at the polls, and there was no doubt of that, I wanted to be slaughtered fair and square. Head held high as it's lopped off, etcetera, etcetera.

Muriel, Lindsay, and I sat alone at a table for ten in the River Ballroom of the c.u.mberland Motor Inn for Eric Cameron's luncheon speech, sponsored by the chamber of commerce. Every other table was packed to capacity. There was certainly no shortage of Cameron b.u.t.tons, posters, novelty flags, T-s.h.i.+rts, and the ugliest hats I'd ever seen. Cameron's monotonous campaign theme song blasted over and over from 175 two-inch ceiling speakers in the ballroom's archaic sound system. It had the fidelity of a cheap walkie-talkie just heading out of range. "Cameron, Cameron, he's our man. Cameron, Cameron, takes a stand." (Yes, I'll take that Gravol now, please.) Torture on an endless loop.

We proudly wore our VOTE LIBERAL b.u.t.tons, hence our extra elbow room, not to mention our table's location. We were seated as far from the podium as possible while staying within the same area code. We'd also arrived just minutes before the scheduled start, so I admit that our timing might have been a contributing factor. As I pa.s.sed Muriel a basket of stale buns as hard as lacrosse b.a.l.l.s, I noticed with horror two lines of bouncy cheerleaders from c.u.mberland Secondary, forming at the main entrance to the ballroom. They were singing along to the campaign song, shaking their pom-poms and jumping up in the air, and landing, hands on hips, in the traditional cheerleader dismount pose. I looked around to make sure I knew where the washrooms were.

"What is this, the 1950s?" I asked.

"As a matter of fact, when Tories in c.u.mberland get together, yes, it is the 1950s," explained Muriel. "It's a humiliating period piece, an embarra.s.sing time capsule with Cameron and Borschart at the helm."

"It's just plain creepy," said Lindsay with a s.h.i.+ver as she surveyed the scene. "It looks like they're all drugged or zombies."

Just then, the lights dimmed, and in partial answer to our prayers, the Cameron theme song faded out as the large projection screens on either side of the head table flickered to life. What followed was the most nauseating, gilded video portrait of the Honourable Eric Cameron that I could possibly have imagined. No, check that. I could never have conjured up such a fawning tribute. It included clips of his childhood, the young man going to university, his wedding day, his early campaigns, his inaugural speech in the House of Commons, his first budget address, and his international trips to meet foreign dignitaries. After seven minutes, it closed with shameless cemetery scenes at his wife's gravesite. The whole thing was set against a symphonic soundtrack scored for maximum emotional impact. I had to admit, it was a political tour de force that left many in the crowd weeping even while our table was gagging. A still photo of Cameron hunched over his wife's headstone slowly faded on the screen while the soundtrack moved into a dramatic bra.s.s prelude reminiscent of Copland's "Fanfare for the Common Man," often heard around the Olympic Games. In this case, it felt more like "Fanfare for the Uncommon Sham." A single spotlight pierced the room, touching down at the main doors, accompanied by a voice not unlike that of famed ring announcer Michael "let's get ready to rumble" Buffer.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the c.u.mberland Chamber of Commerce is pleased to welcome the most popular Finance Minister in Canadian history, the long-time Member of Parliament for c.u.mberland-Prescott, and perhaps, just perhaps, our future Prime Minister. I give you our very own local hero and favoured son the Honourable Eric Cameron."

As the campaign song restarted at full volume, the room, as intended, erupted in a rock star reception that I'm sure briefly worried the paramedics standing discreetly at the back of the room. It was quite a performance. Framed by vibrating cheerleaders, a smiling Eric Cameron, taking care to stay with the moving spotlight, worked the room like the master he was. He held one hand high in triumph and stretched the other towards as many enthralled voters as he could reach. Melee was an understatement; frenzy was a slow dance next to the bedlam in the ballroom as Cameron inched towards the podium. Ten minutes later, he reached his destination, and the ovation still showed no signs of abating. By this time, I'd fled to the bathroom, unable to stomach the total Tory orgy of Cameron's entrance.

In the men's room, I b.u.mped into Andre Fontaine there to cover the Cameron speech. He seemed a little agitated. "Addison, I'm glad you're here. I've just seen something very interesting," he whispered, even though we were alone in the bathroom.

"I'm in your hands, Andre." In retrospect, probably not the most appropriate thing to say to him as we stood side by side at our respective urinals. "I mean, I'm all ears."

"I just saw Cameron and Petra get out of his Buick in the parking lot. They were partially hidden between two parked cars and clearly thought they were un.o.bserved. She was yelling at him and stabbing her finger into his chest and was obviously very angry. He just had this hangdog, ultrasubmissive look on his face like he was a six-year-old being chewed out by his mother. It was the strangest thing I've ever seen," he recounted.

"Carry on," I urged. "Then, what happened?"

"Well, then, he nodded his head a few more times while looking at his feet, she calmed down, and they walked into the motel as if nothing had happened. Very odd," Andre concluded.

I doubted it was any kind of prespeech pump-up ritual. Curious. When I returned to our table, Cameron was still trying to quell the clamour so he could actually say something. Eventually, the wild cheering dampened to the point that he felt comfortable starting in on his stump speech.

He spoke for 40 minutes without a single note in front of him. It was a perfectly balanced and nuanced melange of substance, humour, self-deprecation, politics, and drama. He never missed a word, never messed up his timing, and never broke the magic spell he'd cast over the audience. It was the perfect campaign speech. I'd heard him speak before, but he was really at the top of his game this afternoon. The crowd hung on every word, every gesture, every smile, and every pause. He torqued the strings of our emotions until they were taut and tuned then played us like Yo-Yo Ma. Cameron never once mentioned his Liberal opponent. Why would he? Why should he? There was no need.

Throughout his remarks, Petra Borschart stood at the back as stiff as a Buckingham Palace guard and just as stone-faced. I approached her as the post-speech applause continued with no end in sight.

"h.e.l.lo, Petra," I opened, standing next to her. She'd watched me as I approached.

"h.e.l.lo, Danny boy," she replied with the look of someone whose patience was under threat. "I'd heard you were running the Liberal show in town, such as it is. Trying a little infiltration exercise today?"

"I bought a ticket just like everyone else, despite the food. You know what they say, 'know thine enemy.'" I waited but she just stared up at her Minister, who was still acknowledging the ovation. Completely at ease, Cameron pointed to certain people in the throng and pulled the trigger on his finger gun, swelling the chest of whoever was in range.

"He gave an inspired performance, Petra. You must be pleased," I said, filling the s.p.a.ce between us. She turned to face me and put her index finger on my sternum, hard. I looked into the cold eyes of the most single-minded person I think I'd ever met. I was unnerved by what I saw.

"Danny boy, you ain't seen nothin', yet." With the kind of sneer normally reserved for professional wrestlers, only this one wasn't faked, she turned and headed up the side aisle to hustle Cameron out of the room. He was preaching to the choir, and it was time to go.

Muriel and I could see through Cameron's eloquent political theatre, but Lindsay had never witnessed one of his speeches. I could see it in her face. Shock and ahhhh s.h.i.+t, are we ever in deep trouble. We left right after Cameron did and before the lunch was served. None of us had managed to salvage any appet.i.te.

I dropped Muriel back at Riverfront and armed her into a chair with a great view of the water while Lindsay stayed in the car in a loading zone to fend off c.u.mberland's lone but zealous parking officer. I slipped back behind the wheel, eased into traffic to drive Lindsay home, and then on a whim, pulled up in front of c.u.mberland's only Starbucks.

"Feel like a latte?" I asked with my heart rate slightly elevated.

"I do, in fact. Good idea."

My heart rate burst through the "slightly elevated" threshold and entered the frenetic zone.

Lindsay snagged a table flanked by two soft and deep easy chairs the kind you don't get up from without a good reason. I headed to the counter to order. I had my usual tall, no whip, 2 percent hot chocolate while Lindsay went with a grande, nonfat latte. Seven dollars and three minutes later, I handed Lindsay her cardboard cup and sank into the chair opposite her.

"Thanks."

We sat in silence for a few moments, and I feared we were heading for conversational purgatory. Then, she started us off. "So Professor Addison, how did you get so wrapped up in politics?"

"Hmm, how long do you have?" She smiled. "I was actually born into politics. But until about 12 years ago, I was firmly in the clutches of the Tory Party thanks to the 20-year indoctrination I suffered at the hands of my well-meaning but ultimately misguided parents."

She smiled again. "So you broke with the family and crossed the floor to the Liberals?"

"Something like that. What about you? When were you bitten by the bug?" I probed although I felt I already knew the answer.

"Do you really have to ask after spending time with Parkinson the partisan?" she asked, chuckling.

"She is amazing, isn't she? I just wish I'd known her when she was our candidate."

Lindsay paused and looked far beyond the walls of the Starbucks. "If she'd run in pretty well any other riding in the country," she said, "she'd have already had a stellar career in public service. As fate would have it, she was born and raised in precisely the wrong town for a Liberal set on serving. She was a wonderful candidate. She believed in public service for all the right reasons, and ran for office for all the right reasons. She lost all five elections because of geography and history, not because she was ever the lesser candidate. I doubt I'll ever forgive the people of this town for denying Muriel, and all of us, her dream." Lindsay looked wistful and almost angry.

"In a democracy, we tend to get the government and the politicians we deserve. Eventually, the voters of c.u.mberland-Prescott will come around," I commented, trying to look thoughtful without spilling hot chocolate onto my crotch. "What are your plans after you complete your master's?" I asked.

"Well, funny you should ask. I've been giving it a great deal of thought lately, and yesterday morning, it finally hit me with crystal clarity I haven't the faintest idea what I'm going to do. In fact, I sometimes think I'm pursuing the graduate degree because I don't know what I want to do. A master's seemed like a worthwhile stalling tactic."

"In my humble, PhD-addled opinion, staying in school is seldom a bad idea regardless of the reasons. I don't think I really started to appreciate the university experience until halfway into my master's," I replied. "Perhaps you'll consider a stint on Parliament Hill when you're done?"

"I may give that a shot but would likely stay only for a few years. I worry about staying too long and becoming jaded and jaundiced for life. No thank you." She gave a little shudder at the end.

"Been there. So much depends on for whom you work. If you managed to land a position in the office of a progressive, highroad, policy-oriented Minister on his or her way up, it could be a life-changing experience. Conversely, if you're stuck on the staff of a cynical, political opportunist, who sees his seat in Cabinet as a throne from which to serve his own political interests, that could also be a life-changing experience of a different kind. You'll grow old, withered, and tired well before your years. You'll also distrust any random act of kindness that falls your way. I've seen it transform perfectly normal, intelligent, nice people. They see Trojan horses in their sleep. It's not pleasant," I concluded.

"How are you finding your faculty responsibilities so far?" she s.h.i.+fted gears.

"Well, I'm a little surprised that they're not more onerous than they've turned out to be," I replied. "I'm only teaching one cla.s.s this term first-year English for Engineers. It's a little like force-feeding ballroom dancing to sumo wrestlers. They don't understand it. They're not very good at it. They don't like it. And it's not pretty. Other than that, I keep office hours four hours each week and will soon submit my research proposal to the English department. As soon as it's approved, I'll need to get started on that. I have three courses to teach next term. All in all, it's been a rather smooth transition, notwithstanding the minor distraction of a federal election."

And then, she hit me right out of the blue.

"Grandma told me on the sly that you'd broken up with your girlfriend recently and had sworn off women." She gave me a look that might have been sympathy, but my powers of perception had been temporarily knocked off line.

"Really?" I softened my initial deer-in-the-headlights countenance. "Well, I just told her that so she wouldn't think I was coming on to her when I really was just looking for her help on the campaign."

"Right, good idea. She's always getting hit on by young, eligible English professors."

"That's the last time I bare my soul to an older woman," I said with mock indignation.

"She actually told me out of concern for your well-being. She was worried about you living by yourself in a new town with no family nearby. That's how Muriel is. If she likes you, she looks out for you. And she likes you, for some reason."

I admit it, I was touched. I really regretted not having met Muriel earlier. "Well, I do appreciate her concern I think. My last relations.h.i.+p did end in a rather spectacular fas.h.i.+on. I walked in on my girlfriend and her boss when they were engaged in what was clearly not just a meeting of minds."

"Ouch. I'm so sorry."

"Actually, in hindsight, I'm not sorry it happened. I regret I walked in at that precise moment. It is not the kind of image that fades with time. But I certainly don't regret finding out about it. It gave me the gumption to break out of the rut I was in and try something new. Okay, now that I'm exposed and vulnerable, what about you?" I asked, more than a little interested in the answer.

"Nothing too exciting on my end. I've been so busy studying and keeping an eye on Grandma that relations.h.i.+ps seemed to have fallen off my radar. Besides, living at home saves money, but it isn't exactly on Cosmo's top 10 list of turn-ons for single men." She sighed.

We talked for another hour about our families, what we liked to eat, what we liked on TV, what we liked in political leaders, and what we liked in economic policy and other similarly romantic notions. I didn't really care what we talked about, but our discussion seemed to migrate to semiserious subjects that required the coordinated firing of synapses in the brain to sustain the kind of positive impression for which I was aiming. Fortunately, mine seemed to be firing well enough to keep me in the play. I drove her home without any major gaffes, provided you don't count shutting the car door on her foot. She was spared major injury, and I, major humiliation, by the rusted-out door panel that simply collapsed around her well-padded leather shoes, almost without her noticing. I offered silent thanks to the corrosion G.o.ds before slipping behind the wheel.

It's likely obvious by now, but for the sake of clarity, yes, I was officially reconsidering my relations.h.i.+p moratorium. We Liberals do have some experience being flexible about our commitments.

The time was nearly two-thirty in the afternoon. I drove to campus for my scheduled office hours to permit my eager young flock of engineering students to ply me with questions about their a.s.signment, provided they didn't ask "will this be on the exam?" The Taurus backfired as I pulled into a parking spot adjacent to the arts building. The noise sounded like a Howitzer, and several students and a few faculty members took cover.

My office, such as it was, overlooked the main quad from the fourth floor. It was small by any standard, measuring about nine feet by eight feet. The walls consisted of painted concrete block. Replace the desk and bookshelves with a cot and a sliding barred door and you'd have Alcatraz circa 1949. Nevertheless, I was quite happy with it and felt a rush of pride as I turned on the lights, unloaded my laptop, tried unsuccessfully to adjust the Venetian blinds, and settled behind the green metal desk. I checked my voice mail and found only one message. The message was from one of my engineering students, who was having trouble locating W. O. Mitch.e.l.l's Who Has Seen the Wind in the library. After replaying his message a few times and listening carefully, I diagnosed his problem. I called the sad sack back, getting his voice mail.

"h.e.l.lo, Leonard, it's Professor Addison calling you back. You'll find Who Has Seen the Wind under M for Mitch.e.l.l, not O for O'Mitch.e.l.l. He's Canadian, not Irish. Looking forward to reading your book report."

I sat for my requisite two hours, trying not to think about the campaign. I focused on finis.h.i.+ng the academic research proposal I owed Phil Gannon. I planned to continue my work in the study of Canadian comedic novels, a relatively untouched area. I laid out my research intentions, indicating what academic papers might flow from my work and what journals might be targeted for publication. I considered noting my intention to write a book as well but felt it was a bit presumptuous at this stage. By five o'clock, I was satisfied with my doc.u.ment and e-mailed it to Professor Gannon.

In the entire two hours I stayed in my office to serve the needs of my young engineering charges, nary a student darkened my doorway. This concerned me, as their first a.s.signment, a book report, was due within the week. As the deadline loomed, I felt sure there'd be a lineup for my sage advice or, at least, a couple kids explaining why their reports would be delayed. But no. Disquieting, to say the least.

I picked up the two Petes on campus, and after they devoured two large pizzas, I dropped them off as planned in poll 14, conveniently located within walking distance of their punkhouse. They would canva.s.s till nine o'clock and then walk home, saving me a trip. I arrived at the boathouse at around eight o'clock, tired and replete. I'd snuck a few pieces of pizza for myself.

Angus saw me from his workshop as I mounted the staircase and waved me in. The hovercraft was really taking shape. He claimed he was still weeks away from any meaningful testing but was happy with his progress. The skirt was fully attached all the way around the craft's perimeter. The decking was very nearly done, closing in the hull, and the vent thingies that traversed the hovercraft from front to back on either side looked finished to my untrained eye. The small rudders in each vent opening were now linked to the c.o.c.kpit through thin metal arms, cables, and guide wheels. The dashboard and steering wheel made the c.o.c.kpit look not unlike that of a car. There was no seat, yet, but two mounts seemed ready to bear a bench across them. I could also see what I a.s.sumed were two foot pedals one on either side on the floor under the dashboard.

"It's looking great, Angus," I said and meant it.

"Aye, she's comin' along. But I'm at a d.a.m.nably tedious part of this business and am lookin' for a break. Fancy a game?" With eyebrows arched, he pointed through the large, opened doors to an old and battered chessboard that was supported by a small table on the dock, jutting into the river. Dusty chess pieces were set up, poised for play. He'd obviously been waiting for me, and I confess, it made me feel good.

"So how goes the great campaign?" he inquired jovially as we sat down at the board and started the game. He took white, and I took black.

"Well, two weeks in, we've hit about 2 percent of the houses in the riding. At this pace, I expect the two Petes to be able to knock on maybe 5 percent of the doors by E-day. So all in all, I'd say your chances of victory have improved from 'don't make me laugh' to 'you must be kidding.'"

Angus tilted his head back, giving me an excellent view of his cavernous nostrils, and laughed long and hard. "Splendid! Well said. That puts a tilt in my kilt," he chortled and pushed his king p.a.w.n ahead two squares.

"Yes, I thought you'd be pleased," I responded, pus.h.i.+ng my queenside bishop p.a.w.n up two squares. Sicilian again.

"What about my fledglin' campus support? Is anythin' likely to come of it?" he asked, I think genuinely.

"Your ties to the university will undoubtedly score us some support, and as your chief scrutineer, I may even be forced to take off my shoes and socks to tally your vote total," I replied. Angus just giggled and shook his head as he slid his bishop into the fray.

"We went to hear the enemy speak today at some chamber-of-commerce love-in. If I had to take every meal with a side order of Eric Cameron, I'd waste away to nothing. Kills a Liberal's appet.i.te cold," I reported.

"Aye, he's an enigma, that one," commented Angus. The sun had set by now, and our game was lit only by the light spilling onto the dock through the workshop doors.

"Enigma?" I repeated, not quite understanding.

"Aye, I've known a few politicians in my day through my wife, and though many of them seemed slick and shallow on the surface, when I got to know 'em, they turned out to be good, hard-workin' folks who really seemed to care about their country. But our Mr. Cameron is a paradox. He seems humble, honest, and genuine at first glance, but underneath it all, he is a self-absorbed, conceited, and contemptible blackguard," Angus observed.

I'd never considered this perspective, and as I turned it over in my mind, I decided Angus might well be right. Before I could respond, Angus stepped in again.

"Aye, the man's an a.s.s with the Midas touch. His luck has to turn sometime. He's led too charmed a life until now. I know his wife pa.s.sed on, but theirs was a loveless marriage, sure as guns. What's more, he seems to have done well enough as a widower, may G.o.d forgive me."

While I was mulling this over, Angus forked my queen and bishop with his knight. s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t, s.h.i.+t. My chess-playing skills and I use the term loosely simply could not support a second train of thought while the game was in progress. I looked three moves ahead and saw his unstoppable checkmate, so I toppled my king in surrender. It was the only honourable thing to do. With magnanimity absent without leave, Angus leaped to his feet and clapped his hands together, accompanied by what I can only describe as a war whoop.

I confess I've never really been comfortable in close proximity to a naked man. So when Angus stood in the darkness on the dock and pulled off his clothes, I thought his victory celebration was a bit over the top. When his staid striped boxers. .h.i.t the planks, the full moon (in the sky) made his stout, pale body seem even whiter than it already was. He gave me a wink and trotted off the end of the dock into a reasonably competent shallow dive. In a few, strong strokes of front crawl, he was lost from view, except when he occasionally glided through the narrow, s.h.i.+mmering trail the moon had draped across the river.

I waited until I saw him heading back to the dock before I put away the chessboard and pieces and moved the table back into the workshop. I left him standing on the dock, still naked and unabashed, studying the stars. I brushed my teeth, tossed my clothes on the chair, and slid between the sheets. By this time, Angus had returned to the workshop, where I could once again hear him mumbling in one-sided conversation. I listened for the now-familiar descent from talking to weeping, but it never came.

DIARY.

Friday, September 20

My Love,

It's a beautiful, clear night, and I've just taken a plunge in the river the way we used to. Dr. Addison, whom I just whipped in chess, seemed a little uncertain as I doffed my clothes, but he'll get over it. My whole body shrank as I hit the clean, cool water. As I swam out into the river, the moon illuminating my path, I swear I could hear you and feel you next to me. If only I could see you. Is that too much to ask? After a time, Daniel left us alone and retired to his loft. I'm now wide awake thanks to our dip. When I finish this entry, I'll spend another hour on Baddeck I before trying, against all odds, to sleep without dreams.

Chess tonight was grand. Daniel was clearly distracted by trying to carry on a conversation while playing. I was merciful and put him out of his misery in short order. Notwithstanding his lapse in concentration tonight, he plays methodically, like an engineer. I can see him weighing the implications of every move I make before considering and making his own. He is patient when he must delay his own strategy to defend against mine. A worthy opponent. A satisfying win.

The c.o.c.kpit, dashboard, and control systems are all finished though untested. However, there remains much to do as the boring and the mundane overtake me. I must remove the engine, flip over the hull, and apply three coats of marine antifouling paint so that Baddeck I at least tends towards watertight. Given my inferior carpentry skills, this will be an ambitious endeavour with limited chance of complete success. With paint brushes already dirtied and the air choked with fumes, I plan to paint the rest of the craft at the same time so that I only have to clean up once. Neither my laziness nor my distaste for painting has diminished since you left.

Daniel reported today that the campaign is just the exercise in futility I had hoped. He attended an Eric Cameron luncheon speech today. I know what you're thinking. I shouldn't use Eric Cameron and luncheon in the same sentence. You're right. Daniel confirmed that the three lonely Liberals in attendance completely lost their appet.i.tes. Little wonder. Cameron is a buffoon suave, smooth, and debonair but a buffoon just the same. But what am I, with my name on the ballot in an election I cannot, dare not, win?