The Cardinal Divide (5 page)

“What's the timing on this?

“Not much time, as usual.”

“As usual,” he muttered.

“Barnes came by the house last week and told me they plan on bringing forward a preliminary proposal for the community to comment on in about a month. Then, based on the feedback from the locals, they'll redraft the environmental assessment and submit it to the province by the end of June.”

“Less than two months from now.”

“Don't I know it!”

“Not much time. Who's doing the assessment?”

“I can't remember the name, isn't that funny?” she laughed. “It's someone I've never heard of before. From Calgary. Wild Rose or some flower name like that.”

Cole sighed. “I know them. I think they're new, but they have some good people working with them.” Cole mentally crossed Wild Rose Consulting off his list of two options to put food on the table this month.

“Cole, that's why we need you.”

“Right,” he said, sounding cynical.

“No, really, Cole. Look, I know this is sort of, well, beneath you right now. I'm sure you've got all sorts of jobs for the big groups, but this is important.”

Cole Blackwater was silent. He felt like laughing, sitting in Mary's empty chair, or maybe weeping. “Well,” he finally said, “you're right to think you're not going to win this by challenging the environmental assessment, though that'll be part of the strategy we might use to delay things. We'll likely have to put together a strategy that takes this to the public and makes them think about those ducks, buried under all that overburden.”

Peggy laughed. “Sounds like you're interested. I heard you say
we
twice.”

Cole silently cursed his eagerness. Desperate to earn enough money to pay the rent on his office and his home, and to take care of Sarah. And his eagerness to put the screws to the jokers who wanted to cut a slice out of some of the greatest country in Canada. It weakened his negotiation power. But then he thought of something his old friend Sid Marty once wrote: “Hunger makes the hunter.”

Finally he said, “Yeah, I'm interested. It would mean having to drop a few things here in Vancouver to take the job.”

“We can pay for this one,” said McSorlie.

“Good,” Blackwater said matter-of-factly.

“The first thing I did when I heard that this had popped up again was call Papa Grizzly and he offered some money to develop a strategy.”

“He's still alive?”

“And kicking. We can offer you $5,000 for a month's worth of on-the-ground work, plus some expenses.”

Jesus, thought Blackwater. Middlemarch and Stevens could burn that in a week working against him on a project, and sleep at night thinking that they kept enough harlequins alive to breed and maintain a viable population.

“What do you think?” asked Peggy.

“Can you fly me out?”

“I think so. But just to Edmonton.”

“I'll need to rent a car for the time I'm there.”

There was a silence. “I don't know that we can cover that, Cole.”

“I'll need to get around the community, get up to look at the proposed mine site. Talk to this Barnes character and all that rot.”

“Can you drive out?”

Cole thought of his aging but eager 1988 Toyota
SR
5 with its rusted sideboards and cracked windshield, and its trusty but clearly taxed engine with half a million kilometres to its name. It was falling apart, but still roadworthy, and familiar and comfortable. “Yes,” he said, “I can drive out.”

“We'll need to get started soon,” Peggy said. “There isn't much time.”

“I know,” said Cole. “I'll tie up a few loose ends over the weekend, drive out on Sunday night, maybe Monday morning at the latest. That
OK
?”

“That's great, Cole. I know that we can stop this thing, if only we can find the right lever.”

“I know we can too, Peggy.” But he really wasn't all that sure. He'd been up against Goliath before, and while he relished the image of David flinging stones at the enemy, he knew things rarely turned out as they did in the story, even if it was the Bible.

Sensing Cole's mood, Peggy added, “It will be good to work together again, Cole.”

“Yes, it will,” said Cole. And of that he was certain.

One of the loose ends showed up first thing Saturday morning. Suffering the miasma of a pounding hangover, Cole stood in the shower, one hand pressed against the tiled wall, and let the hot water drum the ache from his head and neck. When he stepped from the shower he heard the doorbell ringing, and could tell by its impatient tone that it was Jennifer Polson, there to drop Sarah off for the weekend. He went to the door in a robe, let Sarah in, and smiled crookedly at Jennifer.

“Looking sharp this morning, Cole,” Jennifer said. “Tough night?”

“I'm not getting into it with you this morning,” said Cole, his smile slipping from his face.

“You able to look after my daughter right now?”

“Our daughter.”

“
Our
daughter,” said Polson, gritting her teeth.

“See you Sunday,” said Cole, closing the door and tousling Sarah's hair.

After his conversation with Peggy McSorlie, Cole had walked from the Dominion Building to the Stadium SkyTrain station and caught the train one stop to Main Street station. It was 11
PM
, and the streets were quiet, the train almost empty. He transferred to the Number 3 bus and rode it twenty blocks up Main Street. His intent was to walk home and go to bed early, but as he ambled past the Coach and Horses Pub the raucous sound of merrymaking and the clamour of a live band roared out into the street. He was pulled toward it like a moth to a flame. “Why not?” he reasoned. He was celebrating. He had a new client. He had
a
client.

Inside the bar, people were in a celebratory mood. He pushed his way into the bar and scanned the crowd for friend or foe. Finding no familiar faces, and feeling the need for company to celebrate his success, he called Denman Scott.

“We're celebrating. Get your butt down here,” yelled Cole over the ruckus in the bar.

“Cole, it's eleven-thirty.”

“So? It's not a school night.”

Cole liked to drink with Martin and Dusty just fine, but when he wanted someone who understood him, someone that he jived with in the same way, it was Denman he called on.

It was midnight when Scott showed up.

“What are we drinking to?” asked Denman, ordering a pint of John Courage at the bar. Cole was drinking Jameson Irish Whiskey.

“New client,” said Cole, close to his ear. Cole had to lean down to make himself heard. While Cole stood six feet tall, Denman Scott was five eight. And where Cole had gone soft as he approached forty, Denman Scott had maintained the narrow, angular body he had enjoyed since youth. His Chinese-German heritage provided him with a timeless, handsome face, stout legs, and muscled arms.

Denman asked about the work and Cole filled him in on the details, Denman nodding. “Sounds like a good job, Cole,” he finally said.

“You don't think I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel?”

“No, I think you can help these people.”

“Just seems like I can't fall much farther,” Cole said, shaking his head.

“You can, and you will if you keep thinking like that. I should know; I see it every day.”

“Another tough case?” asked Cole, yelling over the din of the pub.

“Every case is a tough one,” said Denman, finishing his pint of Courage and ordering another.

“I don't know how you do what you do,” said Cole, shaking his head. He was leaning on the bar, looking into Denman's angular face, his dark eyes. Denman Scott had a clean-shaven head and a small, neat goatee. He wore a dark, patterned shirt, the top two buttons open, his small, muscular body pushing out of it in the shoulders and across the chest.

“We just do it,” he finally said.

It was after 2
AM
before Cole stumbled from the bar, leaning on Scott for balance. Then he wandered the five blocks to his second-storey apartment atop an aging character home on a tree-lined street. He always felt better after talking with Denman, so despite his stagger he had a bit of a bounce in his step. He capped off the night with a short pull from a bottle of Jameson, just to wash a couple of Advil down, and crawled into bed.

Morning had come so swiftly.

Cole closed and locked the door before Jennifer had turned to walk down the stairs. He went to the bedroom to change. Instead he fell back into bed. He woke and heard Sarah rattling around the kitchen. He moaned.

“Are you awake, Dad?”

“Unfortunately,” he groaned.

“I've made coffee,” she said.

“You are my angel.” He slowly opened his eyes. He sat up in bed and rubbed a hand over his hair and his face. Despite the shower he still smelled like beer and whiskey.

“I'm coming in, Daddy,” said the voice from the kitchen.

“You'd better have a cup of coffee in your hands!” he said. The bedroom door opened. Sarah entered wearing a blue sweatshirt and jeans, her sandy blonde hair tied in two pigtails that swayed as she carried, with great concentration, a tray with cup of coffee, a plate of toast, and a jar of jam. “Breakfast in bed,” she announced.

“Oh, my little girl,” crooned Cole Blackwater.

Sarah placed the tray on the bed next to Cole, carefully removed the cup of steaming coffee, and handed it to her father. Then she climbed up beside him.

“You still smell.” She turned up her nose.

“I took a shower,” he grimaced, raising the coffee to his nose, then his lips.

“Mommy says you drink too much.”

“Mommy has her own issues,” said Blackwater, closing his eyes to savour the flavour of the coffee, and to suppress what he really wanted to say about Jennifer Polson. “This is really good, Sarah. Thank you, sweetheart.”

“You're welcome.”

“Where did you learn to do this? You're only seven years old.”

“I'm almost eight,” Sarah said, as if that explained every-thing. She sat beside and watched him drink the coffee. He relished each taste. Then he looked at her.

They sat in silence for a while. Cole finished his coffee and Sarah twisted her pigtails and looked out the window at the twin peaks of the Lions across the bay, beyond the city.

“It's a really nice day today,” said Cole, squinting into the sun. “What would you like to do?”

She thought for a minute, then exclaimed, “Let's go to Lighthouse Park!”

“Sounds great, sweetheart. Have you had breakfast?”

“Hours ago,” said Sarah, rolling her eyes.

“Right.”

“Eat your toast before it's cold.”

“Where would I be without you?” he asked.

“Still asleep.”

“Don't I know it,” he smiled and tousled her hair, making a mess of the pigtails.

They drove to Lighthouse Park, over Lions Gate Bridge and through West Vancouver. It was a sunny day, full of the promise of spring. The parking lot was crowded, and as they strolled through the grove of ancient trees to the rocky shoreline they passed families with picnic hampers and young couples walking hand in hand. Cole pulled in long breaths of moist air and Sarah ran ahead of him and darted back through the trees. He marvelled at her energy. They found a place on the rocks to sit and look at the ocean, their backs toward the burgeoning city. The sky was a pale blue, the sun warm. Gulls wheeled overhead, and from the forest they heard ravens squabbling over a found treasure – a dead squirrel, or someone's picnic lunch, thought Cole.

“When are you going to get married again, Daddy?” Sarah asked, watching a young couple, each of them not more than twenty years old, hold each other on the rocks not far away.

Cole Blackwater stared out beyond the lighthouse at the inlet. He smiled, “I haven't found anybody that is good enough for you, my little girl.” He leaned down and kissed her on the head.

“That's funny,” she said.

“Funny ha-ha or funny peculiar?”

“Funny ha-ha,” she answered. “Mommy is remarried.”

“That's your mommy for you.”

“I like Roger.”

“Roger,” he said mockingly. It still stung Cole to think that another man was playing father to his only child.

“He's nice.”

“I'm sure he is, sweetheart.”

“You don't like him?”

“I hardly know him. If you say he's
OK
, then he's
OK
.”

“He's
OK
.”

It had been such a long journey from Ottawa, where he and Jennifer Polson had fallen into a steamy romance in the power-hungry centre of the country, only to fall on the rocks amid rumours and realities of infidelity, recklessness, and careerism. He had nearly lost Sarah when Jennifer had picked up and moved to Vancouver. Jennifer's exodus preceded Cole's own forced march from the capital by a few months, and when he came to rest, finally, he found himself on the left coast. Battered and bruised, but still standing. So far.

And a father figure once again; no matter that Polson thought of his role as
father lite
. Maybe he deserved the moniker. But he tried. And he loved Sarah more than anything else in the world. More than everything else in the world all crammed together. Though he had a funny way of showing it, he mused. After this gig in Alberta, he would make more of an effort to be a real dad, rather than allow his daughter to be a mother to him.

They drove back into the city through Stanley Park, past the busy downtown core, and turned up Main Street. They parked the old Toyota in the backyard and then walked five blocks back to Main Street to eat dinner and rent a movie.