The Best Laid Plans (4 page)

“Daniel, I’m sorry about your recent breakup. That’s never pleasant. And I regret your search so far has been fruitless. But do not despair. It sounds to me like you’ve done everything humanly possible to draft a sacrificial Liberal lamb. Lord knows, Mr. King was wrong about many things, but he was not wrong about fate honouring good people just when they’re dangling at the end of their rope.”

I smiled – the genuine article this time – placed my hands in prayer, and looked heavenward. I waved good-bye to the others in the room and noted return waves from all but the two residents in wheelchairs jousting to be first into the dining room. I headed for the main door, just in time, as the lunch bell rang, unleashing the midday rush. Like a running back with a very bad offensive line, I dodged and deked the stampeding residents while holding my breath against the encroaching aroma.

With Muriel’s parting comments still fresh in my mind, I walked over to the bank, eyeing passers-by and half-expecting one of them to walk right up and tell me it was my lucky day. None did – although in the preceding weeks, I’d struck up quite a friendly rapport with one of the bank tellers and wondered whether she might be interested in becoming this riding’s Liberal. I needed to certify twelve postdated rent cheques to convince my new landlord that I was, indeed, solvent. Apparently, a tenure-track position at the same university that employed him wasn’t adequate assurance. The friendly bank teller handed me the certified cheques with
nary a whisper of a latent interest in federal politics – so much for Mackenzie King’s axiom. I picked up my car in the public lot where I’d parked it earlier that morning, twice, and headed back to my still-new digs.

I’d really lucked out on the apartment front. I’d always wanted to live on the water, and through some shrewd maneuvering, laced with luck, I’d landed the upper floor of a boathouse built mere metres from the Ottawa River – hence, the term
boathouse
. My landlord’s workshop occupied the first floor, and I occupied the spacious, one-bedroom apartment on the second floor. The apartment was nice enough to call a suite, but saying “suite” and “boathouse” in the same sentence just didn’t ring true. My living room, with hardwood floors and a wall of built-in bookshelves, was much nicer than the downtown bachelor apartment I’d left back in Ottawa and only cost two-thirds the rent.

In my mind, nothing furnishes a room like books, and I had plenty. A raft of non-fiction – Canadian, American, and European politics and history – betrayed my ideological predisposition. An extensive collection of comedic novels – mostly Canadian, American, and British – rounded out my inventory. A chocolate brown leather couch and two matching armchairs guarded the perimeter of a small, family hand-me-down Persian rug. An old wooden desk bought at an Arnprior auction filled the far corner of the living room and supported a desk lamp, a green blotter, and my Fujitsu Lifebook laptop computer. A picture window offered an unobstructed northern view across the Ottawa River. Very soothing. The Parliament buildings were about an hour’s boat ride upstream – just far enough for me. Out of sight, out of mind.

The galley kitchen was large enough and well equipped to meet my modest needs. At this stage in my budding culinary career, I had mastered the kettle and was well on my way to conquering the toaster. For me, making dinner usually meant making a phone call. I could already make Kraft Dinner and spaghetti carbonara and was poised to add beef stroganoff to my burgeoning
repertoire thanks to the August
Reader’s Digest
I’d nicked from my dentist’s office.

The refrigerator was one of those side-by-side units, which initially left me flummoxed. When you’ve spent the first thirty-two years of your life with the freezer on top and the fridge on the bottom, switching all of a sudden to the left/right configuration required some acclimation.

The bedroom was a good size with a view up the hill to my landlord’s house. My queen-sized bed took up most of the space along with a bedside table, a small dresser, and a chair that held as much of my wardrobe as the closet in the corner. Finally, the bathroom had all the traditional apparatus save for a bathtub. I preferred to shower, anyway, so the glass-doored stall suited me just fine. My lonely toothbrush stood on the shelf over the sink. I’d retired the Rachel-toothbrush in several pieces before vacating Ottawa.

Two ceiling fans, one each in the living room and bedroom, kept the summer air circulating while the Ottawa River moderated the occasional heat wave. No need for air conditioning. When the temperature dipped, a small gas furnace stationed on the ground floor of the boathouse delivered warmed air to my apartment above via a generous network of ducts and vents.

I loved that apartment. Nothing before or since has lulled me to sleep like the tranquil rhythm of the flowing river an arm’s length away. On the flip side, the lapping water completely bamboozled my bladder. The bathroom beckoned every two hours. Yep, I loved that apartment and was lucky to have landed it. I’d learned from an initial phone call to the off-campus-housing office that I had some competition, so I’d resorted to the kind of tactics that drove me from Parliament Hill just to ensure I’d be the chosen tenant. I wasn’t proud of my subterfuge, but I really wanted that boathouse.

My first step was to Google my prospective landlord. In a matter of minutes, I had learned that Angus McLintock was a widowed, 60-year-old mechanical-engineering professor. He’d written esoteric papers on affordable third-world water-filtration
systems as well as a number of articles on innovative propulsion systems for small, recreational air-cushion vehicles, more commonly known as hovercraft. Interestingly, he had contributed a number of book reviews (mostly, on works of fiction) to the university newspaper and had even appeared once on a book panel on the local cable station. McLintock was no typical engineer. I also dug up a letter to the editor in the
Ottawa Citizen
wherein McLintock decried the decline of proper English usage in the newspaper and cited several recent heinous affronts to the language. Finally, on an obscure Ottawa-area chess-club Web site, I found a reference to his stellar play in an open tournament three years earlier. Beyond a passion for war on the battlefield of sixty-four squares, I could find nothing else about his personal life. He was an engineering, book-loving, chess-playing grammarian – a rare bird, indeed.

Twenty minutes later, I’d elevated my knowledge of hovercraft from nothing to next to nothing, which I hoped was enough. I needed no remedial grammar work as I, too, was, and remain, a stickler for proper usage, courtesy of my father. Some people contend that the English language is a living, breathing organism wherein the definitions of words and rules should change to reflect their mass misuse. I contend that English is already an extraordinarily difficult language to teach. Monkeying with English to legitimize common errors would not make the language easier to learn and love. English should not stoop to embrace the lowest common denominator. Rather, society should step up and grant the language the respect and reverence it deserves.

Finally, I played several games of chess online to reacquaint myself with the ancient board game. I’d played a lot of chess in my youth. In fact, I was quite obsessed for several years. Chess can do that to you. In any event, I discovered to my satisfaction that I could still play without embarrassing myself. I felt ready for my interview with Angus McLintock, landlord in waiting. I love Google.

I showed up in his office on campus with the most recent issue of
Chess Life
magazine rolled up in my back pocket, the title
conveniently facing out for the world to see. As I had planned, he didn’t notice it until I was leaving the interview, and by that time, I figured I had it in the bag anyway.

Angus McLintock looked like the quintessential engineering professor – an archetype. A Scottish émigré, he was of middling height but solid build. His longish, wavy, grey hair was not burdened with a part, a style, or even the slightest trace of organization. His hair looked as though he’d gone to the Ontario Science Centre, put his hand on the Van de Graaff generator’s shiny silver ball, shaken his head, and accepted the result as permanent. In succinct terms, his hair looked Einsteinian. Combined with his unruly grey beard, McLintock looked like a stunt double for Grizzly Adams. Something about him, however – perhaps his clear, blue eyes – suggested deeper waters.

Angus McLintock was articulate, if a little gruff, and clearly took delight in the English language as his letter to the editor foreshadowed. Even though he’d been at U of O for the last twenty-five years, his Scottish brogue decisively won its daily battle with the dull, flat Canadian tongue.

In the interview, I talked about my faculty appointment in the English department. I mentioned that I was a nonsmoker and that I spent most evenings in the company of my beloved books. I noted, only in passing, that reading the newspaper daily had become a habit while on Parliament Hill though I lamented the sad decline in writing standards. With a deft push of his button, he was off. Fifteen minutes later, we were kindred spirits, united in the preservation of the English language. When he mentioned his interest in hovercraft and told me he was actually building one on the ground floor of the boathouse, I casually offered, “Ah, Christopher Cockerell’s contribution to the world.” Home run.

Professor McLintock called back that night to give me the good news and let slip that he’d cancelled two interviews scheduled for the next day. Grand slam. I moved out of the Cumberland Motor Inn the next day.

Upon arrival at the boathouse, I carefully placed my newly purchased, wooden chess set on the coffee table. Anyone who carries
Chess Life
magazine around in his back pocket must have a board set up and ready to go. The classic Staunton-style pieces stood ready to advance. The set brought a welcome, old-world charm to the room. I was careful to orient the board appropriately, with a white square in the bottom, right-hand corner. I’d seen too many movies, TV commercials, and magazine ads, featuring chess players deep in thought over boards set up incorrectly. Politics teaches you to sweat the small stuff.

I was still thinking about Muriel Parkinson. I looked forward to spending more time with her. She had seen it all during a period of unprecedented Liberal dominance and unparalleled change in Canada and the world. In the Liberal Party, and in society in general, we have a nasty tendency to cast older people aside and then to repeat their mistakes as if we’re exploring uncharted waters. I made a pledge that night to plumb the depths of Muriel’s knowledge as a way of inflicting historical perspective. While Parkinson’s disease may have slowed her down physically, her intelligence, wit, and reasoning seemed undimmed. She also had a heart to balance her brain – my kind of Liberal. Unfortunately, she was not my candidate, but she was my kind of Liberal.

I put the twelve postdated rent cheques into an envelope and ambled up the slope to the McLintock house about 30 metres away. As I raised my hand to knock, I heard from behind the door a pseudohuman cry of anguish that seemed to cross an air-raid siren with a water buffalo in labour. My inner voice suggested a hasty retreat, but curiosity mugged my better judgment, and I rapped on the door. I heard Angus McLintock’s footfalls charging from within, and far too soon for me, the door opened with considerable violence. Note to self: Next time, listen to inner voice, idiot.

“Whaaaaaaaaat!” Angus McLintock screamed as he materialized in the doorway, intimidation incarnate.

“Er, hello, Professor, sorry to bother you, but I … I just wanted to give you my rent cheques for the year if I … I’m not catching you at a bad time,” I stammered, wishing I were at the dentist’s on the wrong end of a root canal.

In his right hand, I saw a crumpled letter on university letterhead that I reckoned had prompted his meltdown. His knuckles were white and his face, well, it was almost purple. The folks at Crayola might have called it “Violent Violet.”

“I’m happy to come back later,” I persevered. Perhaps, much later. He took a moment to collect himself and dialed back his facial hue to “Crazed Crimson.”

Through grinding teeth, Angus grunted, “You’re lucky you’re not the dean of engineerin’ or you’d not still be standin’.” He paused as if deciding what to do and then continued.

“You might as well come in and sit down. I could use the distraction.” With that, he turned and stomped down the hallway as expletives ricocheted off the walls.

I entered the house like James Bond infiltrating Blofeld’s lair – minus the tuxedo and shapely accomplice. I found him flopped on a fluffy chintz couch, hands on forehead, with his eyes – no, it was really his whole face – clenched. The mangled letter, finally free
from his choke hold, convalesced on the coffee table. I placed the envelope of rent cheques next to it and confirmed that the letter was from the dean of engineering. On the couch, Angus sustained a quiet, baritone moan.

I looked around the room as I settled into a matching armchair across from my supine landlord. I saw crammed bookshelves on opposite sides of the room, and a large bay window, opening onto the river. Hardwood floors gleamed. A vintage single malt stood guard over two glass tumblers on top of a small, oak liquor cabinet in the corner. I noticed that an antique chess table with a game in progress was framed in the bay window with two rather uncomfortable looking, arrow-back chairs.

The interior architecture was open concept, so the living room bled into the dining area, which featured a small fireplace, an antique harvest table and eight chairs, a modest chandelier, and a couple of landscape paintings on the pale yellow walls. I couldn’t see the kitchen from my perch but assumed it was off the dining room. I wanted a look at his books, but that would have to wait.

His face-clenching and low moaning abated. I would like to have used the word
stopped
but
abated
was regrettably more accurate. Social convention compelled me to say something, as several minutes had elapsed since I’d sat down.