12 Rose Street (12 page)

Zack watched as Milo made his exit, reaching out to beat on every surface his hand touched. “Milo is one weird dude,” Zack said.

“Politics makes strange bedfellows.”

“Speaking of,” Zack said, “have you ever wondered whether there’s a bedfellow in Milo’s life?”

“Nope,” I said. “Milo is smart, devoted, and loyal – that’s enough for me. My guess is that having sex with Milo would
be like having sex with a woodpecker – a lot of rat-a-tat-tat and not much more.”

Zack and I were still musing over Milo’s private life when Howard Dowhanuik called.

Howard had never mastered the art of preamble. “Do you have any idea what was going on with that last caller on
Quinlan Live
?”

“She was giving us a warning,” I said.

Howard was withering. “Thanks. I would never have picked that up on my own. I’m assuming Zack’s not going to heed the warning.”

“You’re right. He called Debbie Haczkewicz about it, but we’re just going to play through. Milo O’Brien, our numbers guy, says the response on social media has been overwhelmingly positive. A lot of people who were on the fence or indifferent are supporting us now.”

“Good,” Howard said. “And more great news. I’m bringing dessert tonight.”

“You’re turning on your oven?”

“I didn’t say that. I said I’m bringing dessert. Be grateful.”

“I am grateful, but you’d better double your order – Mieka and her girls and Angus and Peter and Maisie are coming over. And a surprise – Jill Oziowy’s coming to town.”

“God, I haven’t seen Jill in years,” Howard said.

“You saw her at the gathering Zack and I had after our wedding.”

“I didn’t stick around that day. Remember?”

“I remember. You didn’t approve of the groom. Anyway, it will be good to see Jill again.”

“I’ve always been surprised that you and Jill stayed friends,” Howard said.

“Why wouldn’t we stay friends?”

Howard harrumphed – an invariable tip of his hand when
he didn’t want to answer a question. “Just – you know – people drift,” he said.

“Well, Jill and I didn’t, and you and I didn’t. See you at six.”

Jill’s plane was arriving in Regina at 5:35. Mieka lived five minutes from the airport, so she and the girls were picking Jill up and coming straight to Halifax Street.

Zack had just finished mixing a pitcher of martinis and putting on a Bill Evans
CD
when Mieka and the girls arrived with Jill. I’d wanted our condo to be particularly welcoming and it was. The hearty beefy fragrance of brisket filled the rooms. Taylor had set the table with linen and china in the warm hues of Tuscany: terra cotta, saffron, dark green, and pomegranate. I’d filled a drabware vase Taylor found at a flea market with sunflowers for a centrepiece.

Jill and I spent our first few minutes in a blur of hugs, half-sentences, and more hugs. Jill looked terrific, but she always did. Our local paper had done a profile of her not long after she became Ian’s press secretary. The profiler had opened his piece with the sentence: “Jill Oziowy is not a conventionally pretty woman, but she is not without appeal.” She had enlarged the first paragraph of the article and taped it to her office door. When I’d first met Jill, she had untamed shoulder-length carroty-red hair, freckles, startlingly gold-flecked tawny eyes, and an open smile. The freckles, the smile, and the tawny eyes were the same, but Jill’s hair was now auburn and it was cut very short with a diagonal line in the bangs. Her form-fitting leather jacket was the same shade as her hair and she was wearing slim-cut black pants and fashion boots. In the early days, Jill got much of her wardrobe from Value Village, but I suspected the outfit she was wearing that night owed more to Holt Renfrew than to VV.

Jill had brought gifts: for Madeleine, Lena, and Taylor, sports shorts and pretty shrugs; for Zack, six elegant
blown-glass martini glasses with hand-etched palm fronds and delicate stems; and for me, a six-pack of Moosehead and a giant bag of Cheetos. My heart leapt when I saw the beer and the garish orange-and-yellow Cheetos bag. There had been many election nights when Jill and I sat at my kitchen table, sipping a Moosehead and waiting with orange sticky-crumbed fingers for early election results. On those nights it seemed that Jill’s heart and mine beat as one. We were two women whose lives centred on Ian Kilbourn, and in those moments we knew there was nothing we could do to alter his political fate.

When Zack handed us our martinis in the new glasses, I was still happily clutching the Cheetos bag. Jill came over and hugged me again. “I’m so glad you liked my present,” she said. “You have no idea what it means for me to be with all of you again – especially today.”

It was a perfect September evening, warm enough to sit out on our terrace and watch the city. Angus’s contribution to the meal was a dozen chilled Corona Extras; Peter’s girlfriend, Maisie Crawford, brought an antipasto platter; Mieka brought the promised roasted vegetable salad; I’d made latkes that simply needed to be warmed before dinner; and Howard’s mystery dessert was sitting in bakery boxes on the sideboard. There was nothing to do but enjoy our time together. Zack, Jill, and I had martinis; Howard and the kids had ginger ale; and everybody else had beer. When we all had drinks in hand, Jill raised her glass and said, “To Ian Kilbourn – without him, none of us would be here.”

Lena wrinkled her nose. “Granddad would be here,” she said. “So would Taylor and Maisie. We should say their names too.”

Jill accepted Lena’s suggestion with grace. “All right,” she said. “To Ian. And to Granddad, Taylor, and Maisie.”

I’d feared the evening might get mired in Auld Lang Syne,
but the present was chock full, and the future was filled with shining possibilities.

Taylor had brought up the portrait of Margot and her family for us to see. The painting was unfinished, but the canvas was alive with light and colour and the likenesses of Margot, Declan, and Lexi were already filled with life.

Jill was captivated. “That’s an amazing piece,” she said. “And you are how old?”

“Sixteen on November 11,” Taylor said

Madeleine and Lena had fish of their own to fry. Madeleine was trying out for the basketball team, and Lena was trying out for everything, including the Pius X Liturgy Club. When I reminded Lena that she was an Anglican, she said it didn’t matter; besides, the Liturgy Club got doughnuts from Tim Hortons for their meetings.

The local paper wanted to do a feature on Peter’s street-front vet clinic. The clinic was located in the city’s core and clients paid what they could, which was usually not much if anything. Zack subsidized the clinic, and Peter thought Zack’s contribution should be part of the story, but Zack vetoed the idea, saying he didn’t want to politicize a private commitment.

Talk of the campaign dominated the dinner table. Everyone, even Madeleine and Lena, had an opinion about how the race was going. When I suggested that our local Nation
TV
might do a daily political feature from the schoolyard at the girls’ school, Jill was quick on the uptake. “That’s not the worst idea you ever had,” she said. “It might be fun to do a weekly segment from different schools around the city. Find out what kids want for their hometown.”

Mieka shot Zack a significant look. “A wise grandfather would invest in a trip to Dessart with his granddaughters before they’re on Nation
TV
chatting about the choices voters face in this election.”

Zack turned to Madeleine and Lena. “My policy on bribery is flexible. Choose your day, ladies. Sky’s the limit.”

Howard’s surprise dessert turned out to be three-dozen Black and White cookies from a Jewish bakery that had just opened on Smith Street. Howard presented the cookies as if he’d invented them himself, noting the even distribution of black fondant and white fondant icing and announcing that each bite had to contain both black and white icing. The cookies were large, and the perfect bite was almost impossible to manage but we had fun trying.

Willie and Pantera were never shy about letting me know when it was time for their post-dinner run on the roof garden. That night when I picked up my jacket, Madeleine and Lena followed suit. Then, in the way of parties, everyone decided to come with us. We stepped out of the freight elevator into a cool, starry evening. The air smelled of autumn: wood-smoke, wet leaves, and the acrid scent from the heavy heads of the marigolds that still flourished in the roof’s planters. The lights strung on the evergreens made the roof garden seem like fairyland.

As her daughters played a game of hide and seek whose rules only they understood, Mieka watched fondly. “This will be a great memory for them,” she said. She slid her arm through Jill’s. “I’m so glad you’re here tonight. You’ve been part of our lives from the beginning. I want you to be part of the girls’ lives too.”

“Tonight’s a start,” Jill said. “While I’m here I’d like to do something special with Madeleine and Lena.”

“Like that time we went tobogganing on the night of the first real snowfall?” Mieka said.

“I remember every single second of that night,” Jill said. “I’d been watching the snow through your dining room window while we ate. So had your dad. When we were through
eating, your mum started to clear the dishes and Ian took command. “Just leave everything. That’s tobogganing snow. If we get dressed and go now, we’ll be the first ones on the hill.”

“The creek was frozen solid and we slid across the ice and climbed up to the bike path,” Pete said.

“And as soon as he got on the bike path Dad took off,” Angus said. “He wanted to be the first person on the toboggan run, and he was. He didn’t even take one of us kids with him.”

“Your dad
was
a kid,” I said, and Jill and I exchanged a smile.

“We stayed out way past bedtime, but it was a perfect night,” Mieka said.

“Not quite perfect,” Jill said. “You kids probably don’t remember this part, but when it was time to go, I decided to have one last ride. I struck a bump, got thrown from my toboggan, and hit my tailbone. God, did that hurt.”

“I remember,” I said. “Ian ran home to get the car so he could take you to the medi-clinic. And the kids and I trudged back to the house with the sleds and the dogs.”

Mieka’s brow furrowed. “It was still a great evening,” she said.

“It was,” I agreed. “But after I got you kids to bed, I had to deal with the dishes. The moral of that story is
carpe diem,
but clean up the kitchen first.”

Mieka was clearly exasperated. “Mum, you just blew away the pixie dust.”

Zack put his arm around me. “Mieka, your mother is the one who sprinkles the pixie dust for us all.”

Jill had had a long day of travel and the next day was a work or school day so we wound down early. Zack and I saw Jill and Mieka and the girls to the door. Jill stood aside as we went through the usual round of family hugs. She seemed isolated and Mieka picked up on her aloneness. “Why don’t
you stay with us tonight, Jill?” she said. “You won’t have to go through the hassle of checking into a hotel, and you and I can get caught up over breakfast.”

Jill brightened. “I would love to help you tuck in the girls, Mieka, thank you. It would be great to be in the Kilbourn house again.”

After the elevator doors closed, Zack turned to me. “That was a lot of fun,” he said.

“Any evening when I get a six-pack of Moosehead and a bag of Cheetos is a triumph,” I said. “Now we should probably offer our help in the kitchen.”

The kitchen crew had everything under control. Angus and Peter were scrubbing pots, Taylor and Maisie were piling dishes in the dishwasher, and Howard was boxing up the rest of the cookies for us.

“You guys are terrific,” I said. “My story about the mess I came home to after tobogganing wasn’t a plea for help tonight, but I really do appreciate this.”

“A great meal deserves a great cleanup,” Maisie said.

The buzzer sounded from the lobby downstairs. I pressed the intercom. Milo O’Brien was on the other end. I shot Zack a questioning look. “He thought he’d have the
Leader-Post
polling results tonight,” Zack said. “Let’s see what he’s got.” He gave his chair a quarter-turn towards Howard. “Jo tells me you’ve decided to become part of our campaign. She’s grateful and that means I’m grateful. If you have a minute, I’d like you to stick around for Milo’s report.”

“All the time in the world,” Howard said. He placed his box of leftover cookies inside the microwave, out of dog range, and shook Zack’s hand. The gesture was significant.

Zack and I had been married during the 10:30 Holy Eucharist service at the Cathedral. Two months before our wedding Zack had cross-examined Howard during a trial.
Zack’s questioning had been brutal, and as far as Howard was concerned, I was marrying the enemy. On my wedding day the handshake Howard shared with my new husband was perfunctory. The handshake tonight seemed like the real thing, and I was pleased.

Milo and Howard had never met, and I watched Howard’s face carefully as Milo bopped across the living room, drumming on every surface his fingers touched. I’d always marvelled at Howard’s ability to make quick, smart assessments of people, but Milo was a cat of a different stripe, and I noticed that Howard was taking his time forming an opinion.

“So we’ve got the poll results,” Milo said. “Out of 1,813 randomly selected voters chosen by age and gender to match the population: 36 per cent of those planning to vote say they’re for Zack, 34 per cent say they’re for Ridgeway, 1 per cent are for the guy who wears the tinfoil hat to keep the government from reading his brain, and 21 per cent are undecided.”

“Whoa!” Zack said. “The first time we’ve pulled into the lead.”

“Don’t cream your jeans,” Milo said. “A 2 per cent lead is well within the margin of error.”

“But it’s an uptick,” Howard said. “And politics is about momentum.”

“The Big Mo,” Milo agreed. “Once you’ve got that going for you, you ride the wave.”

“Right,” Howard said, and he and Milo exchanged a comradely smile.

“So we just keep on doing what we’re doing,” Zack said.

“That’s the plan,” I said. “I can make you a tinfoil hat. Maybe you can pick up some votes from the people who are convinced the government is trying to read their brains.”