The Brutal Heart (27 page)

The next morning was not as chaotic as our leave-takings from the lake often were when the girls had school. It was the May long weekend, so we dawdled over breakfast, took the dogs for a long walk, then paid a last visit to the miraculous waterway. The long-term weather forecast was for continuous rain, an ominous prospect for a structure made of sand, but neither Zack nor I mentioned that to Maddy and Lena. Ginny and her daughters came over to help us load the cars, and walked to the gate to wave us off. Despite everything, we’d enjoyed one another’s company, and when I told Ginny they could go back to the guest cabin after E-Day and stay as long as they wanted to, I meant it.

Taylor rode back with Zack. He was anxious to talk to Blake, and Taylor was keen to talk to Gracie. I dropped off the dogs, then drove to UpSlideDown. There were at least a dozen kids on the outside play structures and a dozen mothers at Crayola-coloured wooden tables, sipping coffee and watching their children. It was quiet inside, but the smell of brewing coffee and fresh baking was welcoming. When Mieka came out of the kitchen, Maddy and Lena ran to her.

Mieka knelt and held out her arms to the girls. “Did you ladies have a good weekend?”

“Really good,” Maddy said. “We dug up a hill, went for three boat rides, and ate onion rings and milkshakes.”

“Sounds like a full schedule,” Mieka said.

Lena wandered off towards the castle. “Charlotte died,” she said over her shoulder.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Mieka said. She turned to me. “Were they good?”

“They’re always good,” I said. “So how was your weekend?”

Mieka frowned. “Perplexing. Sean called and invited me to dinner.”

“That sounds promising. So what happened?”

“In a word – nothing,” Mieka said. There was a dust-up between two small boys who had divergent ideas about who got to go down the curvy green slide first. Mieka scanned the situation until the mothers of the adversaries separated them, then she turned back to me.

“I can’t believe I’m telling you this, but I have to talk to somebody. It started out to be one of those enchanted evenings, and I was beginning to rethink my theory that Sean was just a post-divorce crush. He brought me a bouquet of white tulips, some truly great champagne, and a box of truffles – ‘for afterwards,’ he said. We ate out on the deck, we watched the sunset, then we went into the house, fell onto the couch, and made out like people who were more than just friends. Everything was moving in the right direction and then it wasn’t. I’ve reconstructed this a few thousand times since Friday night: all I can think of is that everything went off track when we went up to my room and Sean saw that picture of the girls on my night table.”

“Did he say anything?”

“Yes. He said, ‘I can’t do this.’ Then he straightened his clothing, apologized, mumbled that he hoped we could still be friends, and beat a hasty retreat.”

“Do you think he felt guilty because of the girls?”

Mieka rolled her eyes. “This is the twenty-first century, Mum. People don’t feel guilty. I think maybe he just didn’t want to get involved with a woman who has children.”

“Well, it’s his loss,” I said “Are you okay?”

“My pride’s a little dented. I’m ticked that I spent all that money on new underwear, but I’ll survive.” She wiped the surface of an already-shining tabletop. “Mum, the ladies and I have a very good life. I don’t need a prince charming, even if he is a really good kisser and has the sexiest smile besides Val Kilmer’s.”

Election day dawned chilly and drizzly. Spring was withholding her favours, and those who took politics seriously were not surprised. No matter what the weather on E-Day, it was bad news. Sunshine and tree-riffling breezes sent voters to golf courses and picnic grounds; rainstorms kept them parked in front of their
TVS;
blizzards brought road closures. It was a universally acknowledged political truth: one way or another, the weather would screw you.

There was another truth: no matter when the writ was dropped, E-Day was always the longest day of the year. Suddenly, the campaign was whittled down to now or never. The time for strategizing was over; people had either made up their minds where to put their X or had decided to close their eyes, hold their nose, and let fate guide their hand. All the professionals could do was control their own voter turnout. That meant scrutineers in every polling station striking off names of party members as they voted, and runners who took the marked sheets to safe houses where other workers called to harangue supporters who hadn’t voted. Busy work, but at least it was work.

The candidates weren’t so lucky. Since the night they were nominated, the candidates had been putting in sixteen-hour days, in which every block of time was accounted for. Now they had nothing to do but be photographed before they stepped into the polling booth to vote for themselves, then go home to sweat it out.

Ginny’s polling station was at Lakeview, Taylor’s school, and Zack and I had already dropped Taylor off and voted when Ginny came in with Keith, Milo, and her daughters. The Friends of Ginny Monaghan were nowhere in sight. A week ago, people had been elbowing one another to get close to the woman who had a good shot at becoming the party’s new leader, but there’s truth in the axiom that, in politics, a week is a lifetime. Ginny had been in the game long enough to know that even when it’s over, you have to look as if you believe it’s not. She and her girls were dressed for victory: Ginny in a smart pantsuit in her party’s new eco-friendly team colours of teal and cloud white, and the twins in long skirts and shirts with button-down collars.

The girls came over to us as their mother disappeared behind the cardboard shield intended to keep her vote private.

“Good to see you,” Zack said. “You’re doing the right thing. Stay in their faces. Make them know you’re there.”

Em looked at him with interest. “Same as in basketball.”

“Same as in a courtroom. Same as in everything. Don’t let your opponents dominate the game.”

“We’ve adopted a new family motto,” Em said. “It was in that old song we heard at Magoo’s. Remember: ‘You can’t please everyone, so you’ve got to please yourself’?”

“Words to live by. So are you going back to the lake when this is over?”

“Our school is cool with us staying away till next week.” Em swallowed hard. “My dad was cremated today. That’s a weird thought.” She squared her shoulders and pasted on a smile as Ginny emerged from the polling booth, handed her folded ballot to the returning officer, and then, smile broader than ever, faced the photographers.

“It’s worse for her,” Chloe said thoughtfully. “She’s lost everything.”

I looked at the two fresh-faced young women. “No, she hasn’t,” I said.

When Ginny came over to us, I could see the tension in the set of her jaw. “So did I get your vote?” she asked.

“I always vote for our clients,” Zack said.

Ginny cocked her head at me. “And you, Joanne?” Her slate-grey eyes were measuring. “Were you prepared to throw away your vote?”

“I didn’t throw it away,” I said. “But I did vote for you. You were the best candidate.”

“Past tense,” Ginny said. “But thanks anyway. So, are you doing a stint for Nation
TV
tonight?”

“I am. From the times the polls close here till we know who forms the next government.”

Ginny laughed. “Well, better you than me.” She turned to her daughters. “Let’s rent some movies and get you guys settled in back at the condo. I’ve got a day of visiting polling stations and a concession speech ahead, but if it’s all right with the Shreves, we can go back to the lake tonight.”

“It’s fine with the Shreves,” I said. “Stay as long as you want.”

The rain was coming down in sheets when Zack and I left the school. I opened our umbrella and held it over him. “I’ll walk you to your car,” I said. “And then I think I’ll just go home. I was planning to drive to Moose Jaw and trail after Ginny on her last day as a candidate, but that overpass near Belleplaine scares me when it’s raining.”

“Then stay put,” Zack said. “You’ve got a long evening, and you’ve been working hard. Take the day off and do your homework.”

“You always tell me exactly what I want to hear,” I said.

“That’s because I’m not stupid,” Zack said, then the two of us raced through the rain towards his car and whatever future election day would bring.

As soon as I got home I went to our room to change into my jeans.
Firebrand
and
Abstract #1
were still propped against the wall at the bottom of the bed. I picked up the phone, called Ed Mariani, told him that we had two new paintings, and asked for his help in deciding where to place them. When he heard the pieces were by Scott Plear and Taylor, Ed was enthusiastic. “I’ll be over in twenty minutes,” he said. “I’ve got a class at twelve-thirty, but that should give us time enough.”

Ed arrived carrying his tool-case and wearing a bright yellow slicker. As I took them from him in the front hall, water dripped onto the hardwood. Ed kicked off his shoes and scurried to the kitchen in search of a mop. “Sorry, Jo. Barry had that thing specially made because he worries that some driver might not spot me in the rain and plow into me, even though I’m not exactly a slip of a thing like him. I say, ‘Get over yourself, Mary,’ but Barry still makes me wear that football field of tarpaulin every time a drop descends from the heavens.”

I hung the slicker on the hall tree and slid one of the dogs’ towels under it to catch the drips. “Zack makes me carry my cellphone when I run Willie and Pantera,” I said, “in case I slip. I guess we should be grateful we’re loved.”

“I am grateful,” Ed said. “As the poet says, when we love, we give hostages to fortune.” He rubbed his hands together. “Enough of this. Take me to your prizes. I’m an ardent admirer of Plear. In my opinion, he’s one of the great contemporary colour field painters, and as for Taylor, well, Barry and I are very proud of our collection of her early works.”

“You were smart to get in on the ground floor,” I said. “This is Taylor’s first abstract. I think we’re all going to be glad we can say we knew her when.”

“That good?” Ed said.

“Come see for yourself.”

Ed followed me down the hall into the bedroom. When I flicked on the overhead lights, the large flat areas of colour on the two paintings roared to life. Ed was one of life’s great celebrators, and when it came to praise, he didn’t stint.

“Talk about a feast for the eyes,” he said as he approached
Firebrand
. “Plear layers those reds, golds, and oranges as if he’s laying on the colours for the dawn of the world. And the textures … If I touched that paint, I wouldn’t be surprised if it came off on my fingertip.” He leaned closer to Taylor’s piece. “Her silvers and blues are sublime and that little wash of black at the top of the canvas – genius. How did she know?”

“Instinct?” I said. “I guess that’s what makes Plear and Taylor the ones who paint and you and me the ones who are grateful, and I am grateful. Those pieces are perfect together.”

“That’s because they belong together,” Ed said. “The colours, the technique. Taylor was working off what Plear had done.”

“She worried about being derivative,” I said. “But she needed to learn.”

“And she did,” Ed said. “They’ll be spectacular side by side. You’ve got that huge wall.
Firebrand
is vertical and – what does Taylor call her painting?”

“Abstract #1,”
I said.

“Delicious,” Ed said. “And
Abstract #1
is horizontal. This is going to be such fun. Now let the humble craftsman do his part.”

In fifteen minutes the paintings were hung. “Satisfied?” Ed said.

“Completely,” I said. “The last few days have been rough, and there’s such joy in those paintings.”

Ed’s attention had been drawn by a framed illumination over Zack’s dresser. He read the words. “ ‘The lyf so short, the craft so long to lerne.’ ” Ed raised an eyebrow. “I wouldn’t have guessed Zack was a Chaucer man.”

“It was a gift from an old lawyer friend who obviously believed Zack had a few things to learn. He treasures it.”

“As well he might,” Ed said. He turned back to Taylor’s painting. “Let’s raise a figurative glass to your daughter. May she have all the time she needs to perfect her skill.”

“That’s a nice thought,” I said. I flicked off the light and started back up the hall, with Ed and the dogs padding after me.

“So, are we going to be raising any glasses tonight when the election results are in?” Ed asked.

“Depends who you voted for.”

“I voted for Ginny,” Ed said.

“That surprises me,” I said. “I thought you’d written her off.”

“I had,” Ed said. “But only because I thought Jason had withdrawn his custody suit to protect his daughters. Then it turned out the only one he was protecting was himself. His business dealings with prostitutes don’t exactly bolster his reputation as a solid citizen.”

“So you believe the rumours.”

“I know they’re true,” Ed said. “Saturday night, Barry and I had drinks with our friend David, the one who has a condo in the same building as the murdered woman. He says Jason Brodnitz was a frequent visitor.”

“Not a customer?”

“Not unless Jason needed satisfaction several times a day,” Ed said. “Now I’d better be on my way.”

I helped Ed on with his slicker. He checked his reflection in the hall mirror and shuddered. “God, I look like a giant Smartie.”

CHAPTER
15

In a
TV
studio on election night, the real pitched battle is not between political parties: it’s between television’s need for scripted precision and the stretches of blank time when nothing happens except the counting of votes of citizens who live in five and a half different time zones. That year, Nation
TV
’s strategy for goosing the interest level during these wastelands was an innovation the network called “The Pulse.” On election night, the atrium of the shining glass building would be open to the general public whose reward for staring at large screens filled with an endless procession of politicos would be the opportunity to offer on-air comments when nothing better was going on. When I arrived at five o’clock, the joint was already jumping. I picked my way over the cables snaking across the atrium floor and entered the doors that led away from the public space into the working studios and the makeup room.

Like a six-year-old awaiting an unwelcome haircut, Keith Harris was poised on a stool, staring glumly at his mirrored reflection while a bored young woman tucked a towel into his collar to keep makeup off his shirt. I positioned myself on the couch behind him so we could see each other in the mirror.

“I didn’t know you were part of tonight’s festivities,” I said.

“I’m a last-minute substitution,” Keith said. “The officially sanctioned spokesperson for the party is sleeping off a massive bender.”

“How’s it going?” I said.

“Our turnout in the Maritimes is heavy – good news for us this time out – because our party has actually treated the Maritimes decently. Quebec is Quebec. We can’t count on much there. Voters in the 905 belt around Toronto are trooping out, and the clowns we have masterminding our campaign are convinced this gives us cause for celebration. They’re wrong. There are more tract houses than century homes in the 905 area these days. Besides, living in a century house is no longer a guarantee that you vote the way grandpa did. Too soon to tell abut the 416 vote, but there’s no reason to think we’ll do well. Torontonians think our rhetoric is stale, and they don’t get the social conservatism. That puts them in step with many other Canadians. If Ginny were leader, it would be a different story, but as it stands, we will not do well in the Greater Toronto Area.”

“You really think Ginny could have brought in the GTA vote?”

“I do,” Keith said. “But it’s a moot point, isn’t it?”

The young woman with the pancake makeup was working magic. Keith’s pallor was gone; he looked as if he’d just come back from two weeks in the sun. “Stop talking, please,” the young woman said. She patted under his eyes, dusted his shining pate with powder, ran a comb through what was left of his hair, and whipped off the towel. “You’re done,” she said.

Keith smiled at her pleasantly. “You have no idea how right you are,” he said.

The young woman motioned me into the chair, and within minutes the crow’s feet around my eyes were barely discernible, my cheeks glowed with health, and my lipline was smooth. Miracles all around.

“Want to go out in the atrium and take the pulse of the people?” I said.

Keith shook his head. “Nah. Let’s sit in the green room and eat Nation
TV
’s Cheezies.”

The evening began slowly, as election nights always do for Western Canadians. Until the polls closed in Saskatchewan and Alberta, our role was to watch and wait. But during the watching and waiting, some intriguing patterns were developing. As Keith had predicted, his party was doing well in the Maritimes, and Quebec, as usual, was carving out her own destiny. A heavy vote in the 905 was usually good news for the Tories, but tonight significant numbers of voters were apparently shifting to the middle. The Tories weren’t losing seats, but their margins of victory were razor-thin. People in the area surrounding Toronto were voting like the Torontonians many of them had been until they moved to the burgeoning towns that ringed the city.

By the time the Saskatchewan and Albertan results started coming in, the three national networks were declaring that Canada was headed for a minority government and that the party controlling the government would be decided in the West. Alberta would be in the Tory column, but Saskatchewan and British Columbia were question marks. It was a night for caffeine and chewed fingernails, but there’d be no chewed fingernails in Palliser. By early evening, it was clear that Ginny Monaghan had lost the riding to the
NDP’S
sacrificial lamb, Evan Shattuck.

Ginny didn’t prolong the agony. When word came that she had arrived at the Pile O’ Bones Club and was about to concede defeat, the network producer signalled me over. The network was picking up Ginny’s speech live and wanted commentary.

As always, one picture was worth a thousand words. Tonight, there was no need to pull back the divider between the two banquet halls. Milo had done his best to cluster Ginny’s supporters in front of the cameras, but defeat has a way of thinning a crowd.

Keith and I were seated side by side watching the monitor, and as Ginny came to the podium flanked by her slender, long-limbed daughters, his breath was ragged. I shot him a worried glance, but we were both wearing lapel mikes, so his only reassurance was a companionable wink before we both turned back to the monitor.

Ginny’s speech was short and gracious. She thanked all her opponents on a hard-fought race, congratulated Evan on his victory, and then launched into her remarks.

“Winston Churchill once said that the Chinese ideogram for ‘crisis’ is made up of two characters: one means ‘danger,’ the other ‘opportunity.’ When the final votes are counted, there’s a strong possibility that Canada will have a minority government and we will not head that government. The danger for our party is all too apparent. This crisis could bring out the worst in us. We could waste the next months in recriminations, accusations, and backbiting. That’s one option. But as Churchill reminds us, there’s another response to crisis. We can see this crisis as an opportunity – a chance to rebuild, to reach out to all Canadians: people of colour, people who are white, gays, lesbians, bisexuals, straights, Muslims, Jews, Christians, Buddhists, agnostics, atheists, those who are pro-choice as well as those who are pro-life. We can say to all Canadians, ‘We are the real party of the people.’ And we can mean it. Thank you for allowing me to represent you all these years.”

The applause at the end of Ginny’s speech was perfunctory. The red light on the camera in front of Keith and me came on. In my earphone, a disembodied voice said, “So, Joanne, is this the end for Ginny Monaghan?”

“No,” I said. “That was a thoughtful speech – people will remember it.”

“You don’t believe her husband’s murder has put an end to her political career?”

“No,” I said. “Jason Brodnitz’s death was a tragedy. Tragedies happen. Obviously, Ginny’s first priority now is her family. But when she’s ready to make plans, there’ll be many options open to her.”

“Including politics?”

“Including politics,” I said.

“You think the electorate will forgive her?”

“There’s nothing for them to forgive.” I said.

The next question was directed at Keith. It was a reworking of the question about Ginny’s future, and Keith’s answer was articulate and incisive.

When the red light went off, I gave him the thumbs-up. “Nice answer,” I said.

“Remember what Eugene McCarthy said about politics?”

“Eugene McCarthy said a lot of things about politics.”

Keith nodded. “True enough,” he said, “but I’ve always had a particular fondness for this observation. McCarthy said ‘Politics is like coaching football. You have to be smart enough to know how the game is played and dumb enough to think it’s important.’ ”

“And you’re fond of that quote because …?”

Keith’s laugh was short. “After all these wasted years, I’m still dumb enough to think it’s important.”

For the next hour, Keith and I sat on the set, waiting. He made some phone calls and took some phone calls – notably one from Ginny. Before he rang off, he said. “Well, if I don’t see you before I leave, take care of yourself. I’ll be in touch.” Then he turned to me and said, “Ginny and the girls are going back to the lake. She’ll call you in the morning.”

“Sounds like you’re not going to be around much longer either,” I said.

“I’ve got my ticket for the three-fifteen flight tomorrow afternoon.”

“That was sudden.”

“Not really. My job here is done. I wasn’t successful, but there’s nothing I can do to change the results. Besides, there’s a big meeting tomorrow night in Ottawa.”

“Are you going to be in trouble?”

“No. You were right about Brodnitz’s death. Tragedies happen. Besides, what are they going to do, fire me?”

“You don’t seem very worried.”

“I’m not.”

When it finally became clear that the answer to the election would come in Alberta and British Columbia, the network producer thanked us and waved us off.

“The party’s over,” I said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“We’re still wearing pancake makeup.”

“Everyone will assume we’re people who matter.”

“We are people who matter,” Keith said.

He took my arm and we ran through the rain to my car. Keith was breathing heavily by the time we got there.

“So where to?” I said. “We could go back to our place for a drink, or would you rather get back to your hotel?”

“Let’s just sit here for a moment and enjoy the peace,” Keith said.

“Fine with me,” I said. “Give us a chance to talk.”

“About what?”

“About what’s next for you. Ginny’s speech was stirring, but we both know the knives are already out for your leader. In the next couple of weeks, the boys and girls who want to replace him are going to be knocking on your door.”

“I won’t be answering,” Keith said. “This was my last campaign, Jo.”

“Finally going to let the big guys buy you off with a Senate seat?”

Keith took out a pack of Rothmans and placed one, unlit, between his lips. “Even the Senate beats what’s ahead for me. I’m dying, Jo. I only have a couple of months left. The other carotid artery is almost blocked. I’ve decided against surgery – the outcome is uncertain, and what happens after the surgery is hell. My cardiologist, who happens to be an old poker buddy, said if he was in my spot, he’d just enjoy the time he had left.”

I took his hand and we watched the raindrops slide down the windshield. “I’m so sorry,” I said finally.

“Don’t be,” he said. “I’ve had a good life, and I don’t have many regrets. I’ve missed some chances, notably with you, but even that worked out for the best. You and Zack appear to have caught the brass ring.”

“We did,” I said. “And I wouldn’t have had the confidence even to reach for it if it hadn’t been for you.”

“How so?”

“You were the first man in my life who didn’t make me feel I was a disappointment.”

“Did Ian make you feel that?”

“He didn’t mean to, no more than my father did or Alex did, but they all had a way of making me aware of my shortcomings.” I rubbed Keith’s hand. “Somehow you managed to convince me that I was worth being with. And I hung on to that when I met Zack.”

“Well, that’s something, isn’t it?” he said.

“It was for me.”

By the time we pulled up on the street beside the hotel, the rain had stopped. When Keith got out of the car, I did too. He looked at me questioningly. “I’m going to walk you to the front door,” I said.

The steps leading to the lobby were brightly lit and a doorman was waiting to spring to attention if a guest approached. Halfway up the block, I stopped. Keith stopped too. We moved towards each other and embraced. Our kiss was deep and lingering – a farewell kiss, sweet with unexpressed words and deeply felt emotions. “That was nice,” Keith said.

“It was,” I said. “I’ll drive you to the airport tomorrow.”

“That would be nice too,” Keith said.

I touched his cheek. “I’m going to miss you so much,” I said. Then I turned, walked back to my car, and drove home, weeping, to my husband.

Zack was in our bedroom watching the election results when I came in. He beamed when he saw me. “Hey, you were terrific, but you weren’t on air enough.”

“Did you call the network to complain?” I said.

“Better than that – I phoned in a bomb threat.”

“That’s my boy,” I said.

“Can I get you anything?”

“No, thanks. It’s been a long night.” I started undressing. As I took off my dress, Zack saw that I was wearing a black slip that he particularly liked. He wheeled close to me and rubbed my arm. “What is it about you in that slip?”

“I don’t know,” I said. “But as soon as I realized the effect it had on you, I ordered two more exactly like it.”

Zack gave me a searching look. “Let’s call it a night, Ms. Shreve.”

“Want me to leave on the slip?”

“You bet.”

I went into my bathroom, creamed off the pancake makeup, brushed my teeth, and tried a smile. It wasn’t convincing. I got into bed and moved close to Zack. “So what’s wrong?” he asked.

“Keith’s dying,” I said.

Zack flinched. “Jesus. How long does he have?”

“A couple of months. Apparently, he could have surgery, but even his cardiologist says it’s not worth the agony.”

Zack kissed my hair. “I’m sorry, Jo. Really. Keith seems like a good guy.”

“He is,” I said. “And I’m grateful to him. He taught me a lot.”

Zack’s grip tightened. “Then I’m in his debt.”

“So am I,” I said. “Let’s make the most of it.”

When I turned on the radio the next morning, it was clear that much, including which party would govern us, remained undecided. There would be many, many recounts. For days, the air would be filled with talk of uncertainty and chaos. Hand-wringing economists would muse about financial repercussions, and earnest academics like me would fret over the long-term implications of political uncertainty. Once again, we were on the brink. But as the dogs and I started along the levee beside the creek, I knew that nothing essential had changed. The creek still flowed, the ducklings still swam behind their mothers, the birds still sang. My morning would unfold as all my mornings did – in a secure world with people I loved. Then I thought of Keith, waking up alone in a hotel room, catching his flight back to Ottawa and the chrome kitchen where he never had a meal, missing this glorious day, missing so much, and my throat tightened.