The High Road (3 page)

Enough reminiscing. We’d both finished the
Globe
and the
Crier
and really had no excuse left for still being in bed at that hour. Lindsay leapt up first, newspapers flying everywhere, and threw on a T-shirt and sweat pants. A minute later she was standing in the centre of the living room holding her new Duff sketch and eyeing each wall in turn.

“How about over the bookcase?” she proposed, holding it up against the wall.

“Done!” I replied. “Much better than the poker-playing dogs I had in mind.”

Long a believer in using the right tool for the job, I jumped up to swing a heavy saucepan to embed the picture hanger in the drywall. It took me nine swings to make contact once with the nail. I had a much higher batting average hitting my thumb. As for location, I’d have let her suspend it from the refrigerator door if she’d wanted to. Hanging her Christmas present from Angus on the wall, on our wall, seemed to codify that we were actually living together. I liked that too … a lot.

We spent the rest of the day squished together on the couch reading, except for about forty-five minutes late in the afternoon when we were squished together on the couch not reading. I was immersed in my signed first edition of
Leaven of Malice
, marvelling at how Davies strung together so many luminous sentences. Lindsay was engrossed in Rohinton Mistry’s
A Fine Balance
.

At 6:00-ish, I kissed her on the forehead, descended the boat-house stairs, and ambled up the snowy trail to Angus’s front door. I figured he’d spent enough time alone over his first Christmas break without Marin. I knocked.

“You ready?” I asked as he opened the door.

“Aye, but are you?” He let me pass and closed the door on the winter wind.

He was wearing denim overalls above a bright orange Buchanan tartan flannel shirt. It took my eyes a moment to adjust. I’m not kidding. In concert with the chaos of his hair and beard, it put him in the running for the eighth wonder of the world. He took his place at the table next to the window with the frozen Ottawa River only just visible in the fading light. I sat opposite and palmed a black pawn in one hand and a white in the other beneath the table. He chose and I handed him back his black pawn. I much prefer playing white anyway.

Angus seemed distracted but was a skilled enough player to brood on some other subject while still dismantling me on the chess board, whereas I needed to devote all my cerebral energy to the game to avoid spectacular blunders that often spelled defeat in fewer than ten moves. We settled into a standard
opening and the familiar rhythm of the game. Time to focus.

“I know I warned you about the ice on the porch, laddie, but I may not have mentioned that there is in fact a spare key to the apartment hanging beneath the railing opposite the door,” Angus said, his face expressionless, his eyes trained on the board, but with a twinkle germinating.

I sighed.

“Fantastic. That’s just great. How much did you see?” I asked, mortified.

“Oh, I didnae come upon the scene until your hindquarters were lodged in the hall window with your legs windmillin’ out of control like a … well, like a windmill out of control. An uncommon, even startlin’ sight at dawn’s first light, it was. It fair put me off my oatmeal.”

“You might at least have tried to help me. I might have been hurt,” I whined.

“Aye. Well, you also might have worn pyjamas. They’re all the rage these days. Even I wear them. Och, calm yourself, professor. I was halfway out the door to render assistance when you managed to wriggle through.” Angus was smiling now, but still staring at the board. “I might have come to your aid sooner but it took me a moment or two to find my camera. But damned if I could lay my hands on the tripod. I almost had you in the lens when your flappin’ feet disappeared through the window and I heard you thump to the floor, even from this distance. So of course I retreated discreetly, as you would have done for me.”

He was enjoying this a little too much so I said nothing, not wanting to encourage him.

“Mate in three,” Angus announced.

Great. I confirmed his claim in an instant and toppled my king in surrender.

We played four games. Three decisive McLintock victories, but I managed a draw in the fourth game. Angus refilled his single malt and handed me another Coke before draping himself on the chintz couch. I reclined as much as I could in my
extraordinarily uncomfortable arrowback chair at the chess board. It’s no wonder I lost, the seat was so hard I’d had no feeling in my legs since halfway through our second game.

“So you know what happens tomorrow, I suppose.” I inched towards the issue.

“I still read the papers. I see our feckless leader has sent the NDP packin’. I held out little hope for a coalition but it would have been interestin’. I’m just not sure it would have been good for the country.”

“Well, I figure it’s a moot point now. The GG will probably drop the writ tomorrow and it’s back to the polls we go, whether the voters like it or not,” I said. “What I still don’t know for sure is who will be the Liberal candidate in Cumberland-Prescott.” I took in a breath and held it.

“Well, laddie, if you’ve no big plans tomorrow, let’s have Muriel over for lunch and we’ll put an end to it all.” He swept his hand over the
Globe and Mail
on the floor, opened to André’s article. “We can meet with the university later in the week, but I think they’ll be fine if we both return. I foresee no problems.”

I exhaled, relieved. It seemed I really was slipping out of the noose. His demeanour suggested I should drop the subject. I’ve learned the hard way to go with his demeanour. My mind flashed to the university life about to welcome us back.

When I returned to the boathouse, Lindsay was already asleep. I find confirmation in my feelings for her when I watch her sleep. It’s hard to explain. A face at peace – free of stress, joy, angst, or happiness. A face at rest. Perhaps it’s knowing what the face can reveal and convey when awake that holds my eye and my heart. I was still watching her sleep when I heard Angus slip into the workshop below.

I found Muriel Parkinson sitting with her coat on in the main lounge of the Riverfront Seniors’ Residence. That morning, she looked every one of her eighty-one years. Politics takes its toll, and Muriel had given herself completely to the Liberal Party, running in five consecutive elections in a riding that had never, ever gone red. That is until three months ago.

The curved wall of windows overlooked the frozen reaches of the Ottawa River where a windless day lent the scene the stillness of a photograph. Her eyes were glued to the TV in the corner where the top CBC news anchor and the parliamentary bureau chief were killing time before cutting live to the Governor General’s residence.

Muriel sensed me behind her and held up a trembling index finger to preempt me, her eyes still fixed on the screen. I reached for her hand, and we both focused on the talking heads.

“Well, Peter, the negotiations went irrevocably south a few days ago. The two leaders emerged awash in a sea of bitterness and recrimination. Our backroom sources quote the Liberal Leader describing the NDP Leader as a ‘washed-up Marxist with forty-year-old ideas’ before he stomped to his waiting car,” the bureau chief commented.

“And what did the NDP Leader have to say for himself?”

“Well, he was much more succinct, Peter, declaring the Liberal Leader to be ‘an imbecile.’”

I sighed at the deep and insightful analysis of live, unscripted
television. But wait! There was more compelling news to break.

“Peter, while we have a minute or two to fill, there was a related story on the wire this morning. Apparently, the Sado Masochism Association of Canada, known as SMAC, has just issued a news release naming the Honourable Eric Cameron, the disgraced former Finance Minister, as their Naughty Boy of the Year, bestowed annually on a Canadian who brings honour and glory to what they call the ‘S&M cause.’”

Muriel just rolled her eyes and shook her head.

Beside her, an old man, wearing a full suit and cravat, in a wheelchair took great delight in the Cameron story.

“And long may he spank!” he cackled, his shoulders pumping up and down like pistons.

I was struck that the Cameron story was still news after so many weeks and so much political drama. But I suppose I shouldn’t have been. The volatile combination of extreme sex and highprofile politicians always made for good ink.

There was a brief but awkward silence before the news anchor finally found a way of filling the dead air.

“Well, um, er, our congratulations to Eric Cameron, wherever he may be, on yet another, um, noteworthy distinction.” He then furrowed his brow and nodded his head in sage acknowledgement. Eventually, he looked down, giving us a good view of his growing bald spot and placed his index finger on his earpiece. A moment passed. Composed again, he lifted his eyes once more to the camera. “Well, let’s now go live to Rideau Hall where the Governor General is expected to announce the dissolution of Parliament, sending Canadians back to the polls for the second time in four months.”

Muriel squeezed my hand as a sombre GG read a very brief statement, lamenting that the House of Commons could not come together to sustain a government and calling an election for Monday, January 27. I did a quick count in my head, arriving at a thirty-one-day campaign, shorter than the standard affair. The GG had invoked a rarely used provision in the Elections Act
that gives her the latitude in extraordinary circumstances to abbreviate the campaign period. Obviously, she considered asking Canadians to endure a second full campaign, so soon after the last one, to be cruel and unusual punishment.

Shortly thereafter, CBC cut back to regularly scheduled programming.

“And so it is done,” Muriel intoned as if presiding over a funeral, although a hint of a smile circled, as if seeking clearance to land. “And it certainly adds some drama to our imminent lunch.”

She reached for my arm to begin the sometimes difficult ascent from her chair to a position somewhere between stooping and standing. It is a cruel coincidence that Muriel Parkinson lives with a disease whose name she shares. Muriel clutched my arm as she performed what she called the Parkinson’s shuffle out to my battered, aging Ford Taurus. The slow but steady progression of her disease meant growing bouts of tremors and shakes, and restricted her to assisted walking only.

“Just what exactly do you mean, that the election call adds drama to our lunch?” I asked as I eased her into the front seat.

“I mean I don’t think Angus is inviting us over just to showcase his culinary prowess.”

“Muriel, stop. There is no way Angus is going to run again. It’s not happening. Being the accidental MP for a few months was a pleasant little distraction but I think his fifteen minutes are up. He as much as told me so last night. And that means I can finally say goodbye to Parliament Hill and good riddance to partisan politics.”

Muriel just smiled and watched the river as we drove out of Cumberland to the McClintock house. In her lap, her index finger rubbed back and forth against the pad of her thumb, unbidden.

“Come on, Muriel, you’re supposed to say ‘Yes, of course you’re right, Daniel. Angus has served Cumberland-Prescott well but it’s time he headed back to the engineering faculty.’”

“Daniel, if I believed that I’d say it. But I don’t, and because I want to arrive safely for lunch, I’m keeping quiet about it.” She
turned her gaze to the trees lining the road. “I think I just saw a cardinal.”

We drove in silence for a time before she piped up again, ever cheerful.

“I understand my granddaughter and you are now living together in sin in the McLintock boathouse.” She was still gazing casually out the window.

I still wasn’t used to her directness. News travels fast in small towns.

“I was going to tell you. We were going to tell you,” I stammered. “We had such an amazing time in Quebec City. And, well, one thing led to another, which led to her moving her stuff in when we got back. I hope you’re okay with that. You are okay with that, aren’t you?”

She reached over and patted my arm.

“I couldn’t be happier.”

I unclenched.

Not another word was exchanged for the rest of the drive, giving me plenty of quiet time to wonder why I thought I might finally be free of politics. I reviewed the evidence again and again, and convinced myself that Angus could not and would not seek re-election and the world would return to equilibrium. I really didn’t think I had the stomach to return to politics yet again. And I was eager to resume my delayed re-entry to the academic world. When Angus won the seat, the University of Ottawa had agreed to hold open my teaching position in the English department so I could accompany the new Cumberland-Prescott MP to Parliament Hill. Working with Angus had been fun, fresh, and even exciting. But like skydiving, I wasn’t sure I could do it every day for the next four years, even if Angus could somehow win this seat again without the gift of his new Tory opponent self-immolating just before the vote. It felt like I was done.