The Best Laid Plans (22 page)

Before hanging up, she passed along a message from Muriel. I was not, under any circumstances, to jump to conclusions on any matter unfolding that evening.

Suddenly, CTV Cameron Watch made a change in their reporting format that left me less than calm although I resisted the temptation to jump to any conclusions.

I registered new respect for Michael Zaleski as his spoiled-ballots theory blossomed before my eyes. Muriel’s reference from that very afternoon also echoed in my mind then settled in the pit of my stomach. I’d never considered spoiled ballots to be a
factor of any significance, but I obviously should have. The CBC political panel was debating the significance of the rising spoiled-ballot count in C-P. With so much time to kill, no topic was too small. The CBC research team had been burning up the Internet and reported that as a share of votes already counted, the spoiled ballots were higher in C-P than they’d ever been in any riding in Canadian history. At this pace, they could approach 15,000. As a student of democracy, it troubled me that the winner of this race might be elected on the strength of 3,000 votes out of some 24,000 ballots cast or spoiled – not exactly a strong local mandate, but such is our imperfect electoral system. First-past-the-post strikes again. I wondered how Angus might feel about winning a seat in the House of Commons, knowing that less than 10 percent of his constituents had voted for him. Then again, I doubt his vote count would top his list of concerns. I somehow think he’d be stuck for quite some time on the part about his winning a seat in the House of Commons.

By this time, Ontario results were rolling in. In the national seat count, determining which party would form the Government, the Tories and Liberals were very close. With western Canada historically arid territory for Liberals, we had to make our numbers count in Ontario. In the first couple of hours after the polls closed, we were where we were supposed to be. My fellow eastern-Ontario campaign managers had all pulled out Liberal victories, adding two unexpected seats courtesy of Cameron’s sex-slave sideshow.

Shit. I started chanting “Jane, Jane, Jane” at the top of my lungs. Well, it might have worked. I lost my rhythm when the TV issued that annoying chime, signaling that some producer with a calculator, nerves of steel, and testicles to match, had decided to declare a winner even though thousands of ballots had yet to be counted. It was a point of pride among the networks to be the first to project winners and losers. Such a mentality also ensured it was a point of ignominy among networks when premature projections had to be withdrawn or corrected. I turned up the volume:

I switched channels. Within ten minutes, all three Canadian networks had buried Cameron, eulogized him, and then, for good measure, conducted gruesome autopsies to analyze and animate his political demise. As the pundits picked through Eric Cameron’s steamy entrails, it was brought home to me once again just how cruel, ruthless, and brutal we are in the treatment of our politicians. Decades of tireless service, always putting the public interest first without even the whiff of impropriety, is just so much dust in the wind if you happen to be caught just once with your hand in the cookie jar – or in handcuffs, as in the case here. Don’t misunderstand me. I’m not talking about Eric Cameron and am certainly not defending him. I always suspected he was not what he seemed. But our history is littered with other outstanding public servants whose human frailty in a single moment of weakness erased entire careers of dogged devotion and selfless service to Canada and its citizens. For Cameron, the trip from revered to reviled was painfully short.

We wonder why we’re unable to attract to public life the calibre of people we’d like to see. Well, we pry into their private lives,
put their every move under a microscope, and subject them and their loved ones to the most invasive and penetrating scrutiny imaginable. Then, when we find the slightest little thing that even remotely resembles an infraction no more serious than leaving the toilet seat up, we eat them. We get the government we deserve. Yes, we want honesty, transparency, and decency in our politicians. To attract such qualities, we need understanding, sensitivity, and sometimes forgiveness in our voters.

I’m not sure how I got onto that. It was likely a self-defensive instinct to distract me from what was unfolding in the election. The west was now reporting, and the Tories were cleaning up. The margins were so high that winners were declared early. The polls in British Columbia had not closed, but CTV and Global had already declared a minority government for the Progressive Conservatives. Based on our slate of B.C. candidates, I was surprised CBC was holding off making it unanimous. Cumberland-Prescott was one of the few seats outside of B.C. still undeclared. It was almost over but oh, so close.

I knew without looking but checked anyway. Yep, it was just a formality now. I shut off the television, stripped down again, and slipped off the end of the dock. I didn’t even register the cold this time. I had no shock left in me. I stroked strongly out into the river about 80 metres or so from shore. I bobbed in the water there for about 20 minutes. The lights in the boathouse looked so warm and welcoming. On the return trip, I swam for as long as I could underwater, reveling in that foreign world. I felt strangely at peace when submerged. But then, I’d surface again, and my nightmare would take over.

I stood naked on the dock, letting the cool night wind dry me. I was trembling with cold but stood there, anyway. In time, I pulled on my clothes, grabbed my car keys, and locked the door behind me. In the moon’s dim wash of light, I could just make out the silhouette of Angus’s beloved Baddeck
I
through the window as I passed by on the stairs. The Taurus started, eventually, and I pointed its front end towards Ottawa.

I met with the head of airport security, explained my situation with unvarnished honesty, and implored him on humanitarian grounds to grant my request. After two phone calls to his superiors and a mercifully cursory search (really, just a quick pat down), I was given a dummy boarding card. I passed through the metal detectors and climbed the stairs to the arrivals level. The flight from Chicago, bearing Angus, landed safely and on time, ripping away my last shred of hope. I felt oddly detached from the evening’s events as if I were merely an observer rather than a very real participant with much at stake.

As I waited in the small arrivals lounge just a few metres from the door through which Angus would soon appear, I watched as a small army of reporters and cameras amassed on the far side of
the security station. They saw me. I knew immediately that the mechanical-engineering department’s naïve and ever-helpful administrative assistant had been naïve and ever helpful in providing flight information to the dozens of reporters who’d obviously called that day for the whereabouts of a certain Professor Duncan Angus McLintock. I chastised myself for not heading that issue off at the pass. I changed seats, putting my back towards the gestating scrum.

Angus emerged from the jetway in the middle of the pack of passengers. Not expecting me in the arrivals area, he didn’t see me at first. Despite his long and arduous journey, he never looked so light on his feet, so animated, so congenial. The word that sprung to mind was
jaunty
. For the first time, I glimpsed the Angus free of English for Engineers and as far as he was concerned, now free of any political entanglements.

We made eye contact when he was about 20 metres away. I could tell that after taking one look at my weak, insipid, pathetic smile, he knew something was amiss. He dropped his carry-on bag and stood there with his hands in gunfighter, quick-draw position. The other passengers, eager for bed, streamed around him, sending him the odd glare, to which he was utterly oblivious. I watched as his facial colouring morphed from “Panic Pink” to “Raging Red” and then finally, to “Ballistic Blue.” Perhaps Crayola had an opening for someone like me. He knew in an instant. He knew.

“No no no no, you cannae be serious! Yer havin’ me on, aye you are. Yer havin’ a yank on my leg, aye you are. Shit, you cannae keep standin’ there with that look on yer mug.”

We moved to a deserted departure lounge farther down the terminal, although we’d still have to run the reporters’ gauntlet sooner or later, or take our chances on the runway.

I explained exactly what had happened as calmly and clearly as I could while working around a lump in my throat the size of a small grapefruit. I’d brought the weekend editions of the
Globe and Mail, National Post
, and
Ottawa Citizen
with their graphic
images to bring the fiasco to life. It wasn’t a complicated story, and Angus was a quick study. I relayed the final vote count I’d recorded from the car radio and noted the likely futility of a judicial recount. I also pointed out the eight video cameras and about twenty-five reporters waiting at the other end.

Angus remained calm while he read the entire
Globe and Mail
coverage. He asked me a few questions and then seemed to drift into a Zen-like state. He went into the men’s room for what seemed like an hour but was actually only about 25 minutes. When he emerged, he looked composed. He’d wet his hair and, using his fingers, had fashioned at least the beginnings of a part. He’d also meticulously removed all food fragments from his beard.

“Do I always cart around that much nourishment in my chin spinach?” he asked me as he tucked in his shirt and brushed his canvas pants.

“Well … well, yes … yes, you do. It’s part of your charm,” I babbled.

“Actually, it’s part of my lunch, and last night’s dinner.”

I honestly had no idea what was happening. I thought Angus must have been in some advanced state of denial; yet he appeared calm and
compos mentis
. He looked down the terminal to the clamour of reporters, took three deep breaths, and headed their way.

“Whoa, Angus, what do you think you’re doing? Where are you going?”

My endless stream of questions fell on the deaf ears Angus had only recently revealed through his hand-to-hair combat. He just kept striding towards the scrum. I had no idea what to do. Eventually, I fell silent and trudged behind him, bearing his carry-on. As we exited the secure area and confronted the horde, he turned to me. “You set ’em up, and I’ll knock ’em down,” he whispered.

He stood tall – for him, anyway – with his hands behind his back. I seemed to understand Angus, though I didn’t know how or why. I just knew what to do. I stepped into the scrum. The reporters clicked on their sun guns and hoisted their cameras to
their shoulders. They thrust their microphones within inches of my face.

“Dr. McLintock will make a brief statement, but let’s leave the questions until tomorrow, shall we. He’s been flying for the past 19 hours, so please give him a break and let me take him home. It’s Professor Angus McLintock, spelled M, little c, capital L-i-n-t-o-c-k. Angus?” I stood aside and felt my pulse pound. Not knowing what would happen in a tense situation always pushed my maximum-anxiety button. I went to DefCon 1. I was breathing hard but, oddly, also felt a wafer-thin gauze of serenity enveloping me, for which I had no explanation. Angus moved into position, and the reporters closed ranks around him. He bowed his head and closed his eyes for a few seconds, not in prayer but in preparation. He looked up and squinted briefly, adjusting to the glare of the lights.

“I’m new to this, so please bear with me. One hour ago, I was on a plane from Papua New Guinea where I spent the last two weeks installin’ a new water-filtration and purification system for a village that heretofore had only limited access to clean drinkin’ water. That is where I was. That is where my mind was. Like everyone else in Canada, I expected to walk off that plane free of any political encumbrances, as Eric Cameron waltzed back to Ottawa as he always has.

“I freely admit that when I agreed to let my name stand as the Liberal candidate, I had no intention of servin’, and no expectation of needin’ to. I’ve heard my friend Daniel here say on more than one occasion that anything can happen in politics and occasionally does – like tonight, for instance. Rest assured, I’ll not be throwin’ my name around so cavalierly in the future.

“I like to think I’m an honourable man whose word is his bond. I hope my friends and colleagues would concur. I let my name stand on the ballot. Events have conspired to grant me the most votes. Unless someone named ‘Spoiled Ballots’ steps forward, I appear to have been elected for better or worse. And I’m quite convinced it’s ‘worse’ if you want my view on it.