The Best Laid Plans (5 page)

“Are you feeling all right? Can I get you a glass of water or something?” I offered.

“Water won’t cure what’s ailin’ me. But three fingers of Lagavulin would be a start.”

I wasn’t much of a drinker, but my father’s dedicated exploration of single malts made Lagavulin a familiar name. Pleased to have something to do that took me a little farther away from him, I poured a generous portion of the peaty-scented scotch and placed the glass within his reach on the coffee table. I waited until he’d taken a few swigs to take off the edge before I lifted my head above the trench.

“Did you just receive some bad news?” I said, gesturing to the letter. He fixed me with a steely gaze as if contemplating bringing me into his circle.

“You’re a young English professor. Have you ever taught English to engineers?” he asked.

“Never. The closest I’ve ever come to engineering students was when a group of them swarmed me one day early in my freshman year. Apparently, I had set off some kind of artsy alarm by walking too close to the metal lab,” I replied with little or no thought. “Ah, no offence,” I blurted.

To his credit (and my good fortune), he seemed nonplussed by my moronic response. In fact, he was looking at the ceiling and almost seemed to be somewhere else at the time. He turned his head so that I was again in his field of view.

“Every five years or so, I’m sentenced to a term of teachin’ introductory English to first-year engineers. I did it last year, and it near finished me. What sustained me through the unbounded ignorance of me young charges was the knowledge that I’d never have to do it again. By the time my number was to come up again, I’d be retired.”

“Surely, it can’t be that bad.”

“For a man of letters, it’s utter torture!” he spat. I thought he was a man of wrenches. But putting this conversation together with Google’s biographical offerings, I clearly saw that Professor Angus McLintock was one of a rare breed of Renaissance engineers who actually read outside of his field. “These kids are so fixated on engineerin’, beer, and nurses that they wouldn’t know literature if they threw up on it. Their idea of a pleasin’ read is
Kinematics and Dynamics of Planar Machinery
. Such myopia I cannot again endure. I cannae do it again. I won’t.”

“But you did it last year. Are you not off the hook for a few more years?” I inquired.

“I was until that infernal missive arrived.” With purpose, he extended his middle finger towards the letter.
“A
bizarre confluence
of life-threatenin’ illnesses, ill-timed sabbaticals, and retirements in our department has put me very firmly back on the hook,” he moaned. “I cannae do it again. I just cannae.”

I feared we were seconds away from a crying jag. “Just your luck that you didn’t contract a life-threatening illness.” Had I actually expressed that last thought out loud? Think, then speak.

His icy stare was remarkably intimidating, but eventually, his face softened to an almost plaintive countenance. For the second time that day, I felt the need to change the subject. I stood up to eye the books on the east side of the room. The six-shelf bookcase harboured what looked to my amateur eyes to be a rather comprehensive collection of feminist theory, literature, and criticism, both popular and academic. Betty Freidan, Susan Brownmiller, Kate Millet, Simone de Beauvoir, Gloria Steinem, Andrea Dworkin, and many others in the pantheon of the women’s movement, were all represented. I even saw what looked like a first edition of John Stuart Mill’s
The Subjection of Women
. The entire bottom shelf showcased the dozen or so books of Marin Lee, including, coincidentally, the classic I’d seen in Muriel Parkinson’s lap earlier that morning. I was puzzled, which is not an infrequent condition for me.

“Impressive collection. I didn’t think engineers were allowed to have feminist literature.” Out loud again. Clearly that whole “think before you speak” mantra really wasn’t working for me that night.

“Kind of you to promulgate a popular but not universally valid stereotype,” he intoned, eyes closed, from his horizontal position of authority on the couch.

I winced. Damage report, Mr. Scott. “I apologize. I simply meant that engineering students have a very onerous course load with few academic opportunities to expose themselves to more enlightened and progressive social attitudes.”

He smiled. He actually smiled. Then, he chuckled; at least, that’s what it sounded like. With his brow at last furrow-free, he took on a completely different appearance.

“A clunky but well-meanin’ recovery, Dr. Addison, but you should choose yer words more carefully. No one in their right mind when talkin’ about engineering students would use the phrase ‘expose themselves.’ It strikes a wee bit too close to home.” He took a long draw on the Lagavulin then continued in a more sober vein.

“The books you’re lookin’ at belonged to my wife. She succumbed four months ago to breast cancer.”

“I’m so sorry. I knew you were widowed but had no idea it was so recent,” I said, hoping I sounded as sympathetic as I felt. “It must still be a very difficult time.”

“Aye, it is and I fear always will be,” he conceded.

The conversation was losing altitude fast. I thought another abrupt topic change would be inappropriate, so I tried at least to ease back on the stick and slow our descent. “I see she was a fan of Marin Lee.” I motioned towards the shelf full of her works.

Angus smiled. “Yes, my wife seemed to agree with everythin’ she said and wrote.”

“I actually heard Marin Lee speak at a student conference,” I babbled. “She certainly made a compelling case for equality. And she graciously signed my copy of her last book.” I watched the ground racing up to meet me.

“She would be pleased to know that a fan was livin’ in the boathouse,” he concluded.

On instinct, I nodded in sympathy and then proceeded to process his last sentence. I hit Rewind and played back his comment. It still seemed like a non sequitur to me.

“Sorry?” was all I could manage. His smile then turned wistful.

“I was married to Marin Lee, and she loved that boathouse. You’re lookin’ at her bookcase. Mine is over here,” he said, pointing.

I was thunderstruck. Stunned into silence, I searched for a thoughtful and respectful response. I found it but, instead, went with, “No shit! That’s amazing!” Damn.

“Yes, Dr. Addison, it was – for nearly four decades.”

I was relieved that he seemed almost chuffed by my reflexive enthusiasm. “Forgive me, I just had no idea. I’m very sorry for your loss. She was a remarkable woman, who made an enormous contribution,” I said with due reverence, enunciating as well as I could around the foot lodged in my throat.

“Kind of you to say.” Angus seemed to be enjoying my discomfort yet, at the same time, seemed clearly pleased that I was familiar with his wife’s work. Most men weren’t. Eventually, he showed mercy.

“Dr. Addison, enough of this depressin’ talk. I propose the tonic of chess.” At that moment, I would have given him a foot rub had he asked, so playing chess seemed like a big win to me.

We sat down at the chess table. Angus shuffled one black and one white pawn under the table and presented me with two clenched fists. I chose his left and was handed the white pawn. I opted for the standard Bobby Fischer opening (e2-e4), moving my king pawn up two squares. Angus responded with c7-c5, and we were off with the standard Sicilian defence. I won’t bore you with a move-by-move analysis of my expedient demise though it wouldn’t take long. Let’s just say I was clobbered and leave it at that. Actually, by the third game, I was holding my own, and we stalemated the fourth (which I considered a well-earned victory under the circumstances). I seemed to pass this initial test, as there was talk of future matches.

I was reasonably pleased with my performance on the board after a slow and embarrassing beginning. I was, and still am, quite capable of stringing together several solid moves in something resembling a strategy before executing a spectacular blunder and losing my queen. But there’s nothing like playing a superior opponent to elevate your own game. We talked about chess for quite a while after we finished playing. Angus spoke in hushed and reverential tones. He’d been bitten by the chess bug at the age of 12 and had played ever since. The advent of Internet chess had resolved a perennial problem for the avid player – lack of opponents.

“I’ve played over five hundred games of chess online in the last four months,” said Angus. “Modesty aside, I think the concentrated game time has made me as good as I’ve ever been. But it certainly was refreshin’ to have an adversary before me in the flesh. Chess is a mind game, and it’s hard to read yer opponent through cyberspace.”

“Delighted to be your punching bag,” I replied, hoping to shift the focus away from my lacklustre play. Angus had a different view. He was not yet finished with the postgame show, though I was certainly ready to roll the credits.

“In that last game, you brought yer queen out too early, you crippled yer pawns, you marooned yer knights on the edges, you castled too late, and you split an infinitive when I took yer bishop. Other than that, you were flawless,” he decreed.

“Thanks, I think. I’m a little out of practice. Give me a couple of days, and we’ll line them up again.”

“Aye, we will,” he concluded.

Now done, Angus hoisted himself from the board and left the room to write out a receipt for my rent cheques. While he was gone, I headed over to his bookcase. You can learn a lot about people from their books. The overflowing shelves confirmed that this engineer was cut from a different cloth. Yes, he had science and engineering books, many of them on the topics of fluid mechanics, thermodynamics, and something called finite element analysis – whatever that is. But he also had many more volumes from many more fields – philosophy, history, art, politics, and an excellent complement of novels from around the world. Easily a better collection than mine. I also saw a special shelf dedicated to Alexander Graham Bell. The library of Angus McLintock revealed a man of culture, science, intelligence, and sensitivity with an enlightened world view. At that moment, an earthshaking fart, long, loud, and almost melodic, ripped through the house. On instinct, I buried my nose inside the neck of my shirt. Angus didn’t just break wind, he tortured it first.

“Blast that damn turnip! I’m swearin’ off it!” Angus offered from two rooms away.
Blast
, indeed, seemed the appropriate term.

When Angus eventually returned to the living room, my rent receipt in hand, I saw his eyes fall again on the coffee table and the letter bomb that had detonated an hour and a half earlier. He stopped short and groaned. I watched him slide back down into his couch and his blue funk. “There’s not much I wouldna’ do to let this vile cup pass me by,” he breathed in a voice so low I barely heard it.

Idea approaching at ramming speed. I don’t know why I didn’t think of it before. It all came to me in a matter of moments. It seemed fated. I don’t even remember how I broached it with Angus, but I knew that if my idea were to fly, I had to move quickly. I didn’t know how long his descent into the depths of despair would last. The man was desperate, and so was I.

Within twenty minutes, the deal was done. Pending the university’s approval, I had an extra class on my teaching schedule, to which I gave barely a thought that night. More importantly to me, Cumberland-Prescott finally had a Liberal candidate – at least in name – no doubt to become yet another forgotten footnote in the political history of the safest Tory seat in the land.

Angus McLintock was a tough negotiator, and with three days until the gun would sound, I wasn’t exactly in a strong bargaining position. Secure in the knowledge that a Liberal could never win this riding, Angus agreed to let his name stand with the following stipulations:

• He would make no campaign appearances.
  

• He would do no media interviews.
  

• He would do no door-to-door canvassing.
  

• He would attend no all-candidates meetings, debates, information sessions, coffee parties, or individual voter meetings.
  

• He would take no phone calls from anyone other than me.
  

• There would be no Angus McLintock lawn signs.
  

• There would be no Angus McLintock campaign Web site, blog, or podcasts.
  

• There would be no Angus McLintock campaign song (I just threw this in as a freebie to soften him up. I had no plans for a campaign song, anyway – just good, old-fashioned, shrewd bargaining).
  

• He would have no contact with the campaign workers (either of them).
  

• Finally, he would not even be required to be in the country, let alone in the riding, throughout the campaign.
  

In other words, he had to do absolutely nothing, diddly-squat, nada – other than sign his nomination form to put his name on the ballot. But rest assured, this was not a lopsided, one-way negotiation. No, siree. He gave up stuff, too. Here’s what I negotiated:

• We could produce one inane pamphlet for soft-drops.
  

Yes, I know. It was hardly worth a bullet point. Finally, Angus did accept that while defeat was assured, we needed to preserve at least the pretence of an active campaign. Or as my former colleagues on Parliament Hill might have put it, we needed to ensure the “optics” were good. I, at least, owed my party good optics.

We signed the napkin on which I’d written up our little agreement and shook hands to etch it in stone. Though poker-faced during the negotiations, Angus looked ecstatic now that the deal was done. He kept walking around, saying, “I cannae believe this is happening. Free at last, free at last, thank God Almighty, I’m free at last.” Or words to that effect. To my chiropractor’s great dis appointment, Angus stopped just short of locking me in a bear hug and waltzing me around the room. I managed to maintain a calm and dignified demeanor befitting a junior faculty member and limited myself to two loud “woo-hoos” and a little end-zone touchdown dance of my own creation – win-win personified.

After three games of chess and the excitement of the deal, I was exhausted. The events of the evening seemed to have the opposite effect on Angus. He continued to pinball around the room, sporting a face-fracturing grin that was clearly beyond his control.