12 Rose Street (24 page)

“Consider it done,” he said, and he gave me a smart military salute. “I’ll need your address for the billing,” he said. I gave it to him and started to leave, but Mr. Haney stopped me. “One more thing,” he said. “Was there a good turnout at the funeral?”

“No,” I said. “Just six people.”

“I should have been there,” he said. “Cronus was always decent to the wife and me. But I’m a coward. I’m afraid of death.”

“Most of us are,” I said. “But Cronus wasn’t. I don’t think he had any regrets at the end, and he died bravely.”

When I reached the door to Simply Pho You, I went in. Zack once told me about a former Supreme Court Justice who said practising trial law was like skating. The secret to skating was finding the balance between pushing and gliding; the secret to trial law was finding the balance between action and reflection. Lately, all I’d been doing was pushing. The prospect of reflecting over a bowl of the best spicy beef pho in the city was seductive.

The pho
was
excellent: the vegetables and the noodles had crunch, the beef slivers were tender, and the broth, redolent of cinnamon, star anise, basil, and red chilies, was comforting. It was restorative. So was the chance simply to sit and reflect. That morning had convinced me that Cronus had died because of something that had happened at 12 Rose Street. A private sex club where any fantasy could be fulfilled was fertile ground for tragedy. Slater Doyle’s panicked call on his cell after Zack’s reference to foundations was a slender reed to cling to, but I had an idea about how I could use it.

I’d scheduled a press conference the next morning for Zack and Brock to talk about Peggy Kreviazuk’s allegations that the city’s affordable housing allotment had ended up in Lancaster’s bank account. Our original choice of venue for the press conference was Racette-Hunter. Zack and Brock had spent over a year wheedling, cajoling, appealing, and pressuring the public and private partners that had to come together to make the community centre a reality. They had succeeded, and the financial records of Racette-Hunter were available to anyone who cared to see them. The contrast between the transparency of Racette-Hunter’s bookkeeping and the murky accounting practices at City Hall would have been dramatic.

But I couldn’t shake the image of Slater Doyle’s discomfort when Zack assured Nell Standingready that her house would have a firm foundation. I took a toonie from my change purse. It was time for a coin toss. Heads was Rose Street; tails was Racette-Hunter. When I saw the Queen’s profile, I phoned Milo and asked him to move Brock’s Wednesday morning press conference to the sidewalk outside Number 12 Rose Street. One of Milo’s many strengths was that once a decision was made, he never questioned it. That day, he simply said, “Got it,” and broke the connection.

I’d just finished paying my bill and picking up Simply Pho You’s takeout menu to add to our family’s collection when Peggy Kreviazuk called me. Her voice was controlled, but I could hear the tension. “Joanne, I’ve called the police, but I thought you and Zack should know I’ve been the victim of a home invasion.”

“My God, Peggy, are you all right?”

“Shaken, but I’m fine. It all happened so quickly. The doorbell rang. I answered it and four men wearing ski masks pushed into the house and began wrecking things. When one of them picked up that photograph of Tommy Douglas on the mantle, I grabbed it out of his hand. He raised his arm. He was going to hit me. One of the other men stopped him. He said, ‘Don’t hurt her.’ Then the first man said, “We were supposed to beat the crap out of her, remember?” Then the man who saved me said, “Fuck that. Let’s get out of here.” And as quickly as they’d come, they were gone.”

“I’ll be right there,” I said. I stepped outside. I had two calls to make. Zack’s phone went straight to voicemail, so I left a message. Jill Oziowy answered on the first ring. Clearly she was anxious to talk, but I didn’t give her a chance. “I’ve got a story for you,” I said. “Some goons just broke into Peggy Kreviazuk’s house. They smashed her
furniture and threatened her. Peggy told me you were at her house this morning trying to find out the name of her source about taxpayer money going to Lancaster.”

“Peggy didn’t tell me the name.”

“That’s because Peggy’s an honourable person. She protected a friend. But you told Graham Meighen that Peggy wouldn’t reveal her source, didn’t you?”

“Jo, I never meant for anything like this to happen. You have to believe me.”

“Why? Why do I have to believe you about anything? Just get a crew from Nation
TV
to Peggy’s house
ASAP
. You know the address, and I’m sure that, thanks to you, Graham does too. Show the world what your new beau is capable of when he doesn’t get his way.” As I ended the call, I was shaking with fury.

A police car was already parked in front of Peggy’s when I arrived. It wasn’t long before the Nation
TV
truck rolled up; it was followed shortly by two media vans and a car with a reporter and photographer from our local paper. All journalists are aware of the first principle of tabloid reporting: “If it bleeds, it leads.” There had been no bloodshed at Peggy’s, but the destruction wrought on her pretty home was sobering, and Peggy’s account of how one of her assailants said they had been instructed to “beat the crap out of her” was chilling.

Despite her ordeal, Peggy was careful to position herself so that during her interviews the camera caught her flanked by the portraits of Tommy Douglas and Woodrow Lloyd on her mantle. Peggy had been involved in politics long enough to understand the usefulness of the soundbite, so she answered questions succinctly. Her message was simple: “People in this city should be able to ask questions about where their taxes are going without being physically attacked.”

After the police and the media left, I stayed with Peggy to wait for the insurance adjuster. She seemed fine, but I was
relieved that I was able to convince her to join us for dinner that night. When the insurance man arrived, Peggy walked me to the door. “The struggle continues,” she said. As I always did, I replied, “And so do we.” Over the years, we’d said the words a thousand times, but standing in the rubble of Peggy’s living room, the exchange had a special resonance. Peggy felt the intensity too. She embraced me. “We can’t let them intimidate us, Joanne. If we back down, they win, and nothing changes.”

“I know,” I said. “We can’t allow that to happen.”

As I started down Peggy’s walk, I felt strong and determined, and then I saw Jill. She was coming towards Peggy’s, but as soon as she spotted me, she turned. Her cowardice unleashed something ugly in me. I ran to her and grabbed her arm roughly. “Those thugs threatened her, you know. Peggy heard one of them say their orders were to ‘beat the crap out of her.’ ”

Jill was very pale. “But she’s all right. Our reporter said Peggy’s fine.”

I was livid. “How the hell could she be ‘fine’? She’s eighty-two years old, Jill. She was sitting on her sofa listening to the news when goons broke in and tore her house apart. And they would have torn her apart too.”

“Jo, you have to believe me, I didn’t know there would be retaliation against Peggy.”

“That’s because you never thought about Peggy at all. She was just a tool to set the wheels in motion so you could get a story.”

“Jo, please. Peggy’s a friend. I would never sacrifice a friend—”

I cut her off. “You’d never sacrifice a friend to get what you wanted? Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? I was your friend, but that didn’t keep you away from my husband.” I tightened my grip on her arm. “And while
we’re on the subject of my husband. Was the baby that you aborted Ian’s?”

She crumpled. When she responded, her voice was a whisper. “Of course. From the moment I met Ian there was never anyone else.”

“That’s a coincidence,” I said. “Because that’s the way it was for me too.”

Except for the morning after the abortion, I had never seen Jill cry, but she was crying now. “Jo, you’re not the only one who suffered. After the abortion, Ian was very tender with me, but we never had vaginal intercourse again. He said he didn’t want to put me through the pain of another unwanted pregnancy.”

I was incredulous. “Jill, have you lost your mind? I don’t want to hear how tender my husband was with you. And I don’t want to hear that, out of concern for you, he denied himself the pleasures of vaginal sex. Actually, Ian and I conceived two children during that period, so obviously he didn’t deny himself totally.”

Jill hung her head like a whipped dog. “I’ve never known you to be cruel.”

“Then get away from me. Go back to Toronto.”

I was relieved Zack wasn’t there when I got home. He was always sensitive to my emotional temperature and I was feverish with anger. I stripped off my clothes, turned the shower on hot and high, and tried to wash away the last two hours.

I had limited success. I’d arranged with my new best friend, Harold Haney, to have a SPOT-LESS crew clean up Peggy’s house as soon as the police and the insurance company gave the go ahead. The house could be restored, but I wasn’t so sure about me. After I towelled off, I wiped the steam from the mirror and looked at my reflection. Jill was
right. I had never been a cruel person, but when she told me about Ian’s tenderness to her after the abortion I wanted to hurt her and I wanted to hurt him. Ian was beyond pain, but Jill wasn’t, and remembering the pleasure I felt in wounding her, I was sick at heart.

Until that morning, I’d handled the situation as well as anyone could have. When Slater Doyle broke the news, my first thoughts were about how I could lessen the blow for Mieka and her brothers. I had laid out the facts as I knew them, without embellishment and without anger. It appeared to have worked. I had vowed that I was not going to let a past betrayal ruin future happiness, and that appeared to be working too.

Incredible as it now seemed, I had never once pictured Jill and Ian tangling limbs and exchanging juices in the act of love. Jill’s admission that in the years after the abortion she and Ian never had vaginal sex changed all that. Now my mind was filled with a kaleidoscope of images of the two of them engaged in discovering all the strokings and penetrations that aroused their lover: Ian tonguing Jill’s clitoris until she climaxed; Jill sucking Ian’s nipples as he moaned with pleasure; Ian sliding his erect penis into Jill’s anus as she ecstatically urged him to go deeper.

I shook my head to clear my mind, then I dressed, dried my hair, and put on moisturizer and lipstick. I still had one photo of Ian. It was of the two of us the night our party won the unwinnable first election. I’d hung the picture in the corner of our family room that I used as an office. I went into the family room and took down the photo. It was a nice picture of a happy moment. I was nine months’ pregnant with Mieka and I was beaming. Ian was beaming too. According to Valerie Smythe, Ian and Jill had begun their affair a few weeks before E-Day. I walked out into the hall, dropped the framed photograph down the chute our condo
reserved for non-recyclable garbage, then went back inside, hung the portrait of Cronus in the place where the photo of Ian and I had been, and made myself tea and toast.

By the time Zack came home, I was on my second cup of Earl Grey and I was able to pass for sane. When I bent to embrace him, Zack drew a deep and appreciative breath. “You smell good.”

“Thank Taylor,” I said. “That’s my birthday body lotion. How was your day?”

“Very informative. But you first. How’s Peggy doing?”

“She’s amazing,” I said. “She was brilliant with the media. When I left, she was dealing with the insurance adjuster.”

“How bad is the damage?”

“Bad enough,” I said. “The dining room chairs and the end tables in the living room will have to be replaced, and they smashed the mirror over the mantle and Peggy’s mother’s collection of Royal Doulton figurines. Peggy was sanguine. She said that at her age she’s learned to let go of things, but I’d like to keep an eye on her for a while. She agreed to come out for dinner with us, and I’m hoping I can convince her to stay in our guest room tonight.”

“Good idea,” Zack said. “Where do you want to eat?”

“Peggy told me she likes the new vegan place on Cornwall Street – the Wheat Grass Smoothie.”

Zack grimaced. “Does she have a second choice?”

“Well, she raves about the black and bleu burger at Bushwakkers.”

“Bushwakkers it is. It’s close so nobody has to drive, and we can sample the brews to our hearts’ content.”

“Now tell me about your day.”

“I spent most of it with developers and Chamber of Commerce types.”

“Enemy territory,” I said. “That can’t have been much fun.”

“Actually, it was. Peggy’s revelation that large sums of city money have gone straight into the Lancaster bank account has really pissed them off. A lot of them are Lancaster’s competitors. As long as the city threw them a meaty bone now and again they were fine, but learning that while they’ve been playing nice, Lancaster’s been raking in the tax dollars has raised their ire. They won’t vote for me, but they say they’re not giving another cent to the Ridgeway campaign, and I believe them.”

“And nobody from Ridgeway’s campaign has approached them to discredit what Peggy said.”

“Nope, apparently the information Peggy passed along was solid. Milo’s getting one of our supporters to launch a social media campaign demanding a public investigation.”

“So some good has come of Peggy’s ordeal,” I said. “She’s certainly paid in hard coin for telling the truth. I ran into Jill outside Peggy’s house this afternoon. She said she didn’t know there would be retaliation against Peggy and that she would never sacrifice a friend.”

Zack scowled. “I bet that went straight to the bone.”

“It did.” I took a deep breath. “I lashed out, and Jill said she’d suffered too. She told me that the baby she aborted was Ian’s, and that after the abortion she and Ian never had vaginal sex again. Apparently, he wanted to spare Jill the pain of another unwanted pregnancy.”

Zack was the master of the unreadable expression, but that afternoon he made no attempt to hide his disgust. “What a prick,” he said.