The Best Laid Plans (13 page)

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.

“Hello, Petra,” I opened, standing next to her. She’d watched me as I approached.

“Hello, 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 space 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 shit, 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 appetite.

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 Cumberland’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 Cumberland’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 Cumberland-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 shifted 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 class 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 relationship did end in a rather spectacular fashion. 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 relationships 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 gods before slipping behind the wheel.

It’s likely obvious by now, but for the sake of clarity, yes, I was officially reconsidering my relationship 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 assignment, 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. Mitchell’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.

“Hello, Leonard, it’s Professor Addison calling you back. You’ll find
Who Has Seen the Wind
under M for Mitchell, not O for
O’Mitchell. 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 finishing 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 document 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 assignment, 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 canvass 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 cockpit through thin metal arms, cables, and guide wheels. The dashboard and steering wheel made the cockpit 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 assumed 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 damnably 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 pawn ahead two squares.