12 Rose Street (4 page)

“On a mission of mercy,” I said, trying to lighten the mood. “Margot’s daughter had a three-alarm diaper, and Brock went back with her to the condo to give Lexi a quick bath.”

Dr. Goetz was coldly furious. “Charming,” he said. “But Brock’s always ready to help the widow Hunter in every possible way.”

“Meaning?”

“I’m sure he’s fucking her.”

“I think you’d better leave,” I said.

“Because you don’t want to hear the truth?”

“I know the truth. Margot is pregnant. Brock was her sperm donor.”

Michael Goetz’s laugh was harsh. “The original plan was for a procedure called intrauterine insemination. A catheter is used to place washed sperm directly into the uterus. But Brock and the widow Hunter chose to insert Brock’s sperm into her vagina with his penis.”

When I saw the hurt in his eyes, I knew he was telling the truth.

“I’m sorry,” I said.

Dr. Goetz’s smile was a rictus. “So am I,” he said. “For the record, I’m not the son of a bitch Brock believes I am. I’m just a guy who’s caught in a trap. First I’m forced to leave the man I love. Now I’ve got the cops at my door
asking if I’m involved in some kind of plot to wreck the opening here today.”

“Are you?”

He looked away.

“You knew about the plan, didn’t you?” I said.

Michael Goetz raised his chin defiantly. “Indirectly. There was nothing I could do to stop it.” Before I could pursue the point, he turned on his heel and walked away.

When I found Zack again, he handed me a plate of food. “The potato salad was going fast,” he said. “So I am selflessly donating my share to you.”

“You’re a giver,” I said.

Zack frowned. “You don’t look like a woman who’s just about to chow down on a double portion of potato salad.”

“My encounter with Michael Goetz was disturbing,” I said. “He seems like he’s falling apart, Zack.”

“I gather he’s made a number of lousy decisions lately.”

“Michael said he was forced to leave the man he loved.”

Zack ripped off a chicken leg. “That’s bullshit. The guy’s a psychiatrist. He must have a few insights.”

“None that are doing him any good,” I said. “Oh, and something else. According to Michael Goetz, Brock and Margot got pregnant the old-fashioned way.”

“Brock’s gay,” Zack said.

“He and Margot both wanted a child. Obviously, they worked out the technicalities.” I took a forkful of potato salad. “Cumin,” I said. “I love potluck. There are always surprises.”

“So did the good doctor have anything more to say?”

“Just that the police have been to see him.”

Zack bit into his chicken and nodded approvingly. “The chicken man knows his stuff.” He snagged a tomato from my plate. “I’ll bet having the cops show up at his door was a shock for Goetz.”

“I’m sure it was,” I said. “Zack, I know Michael Goetz treated Brock badly, but I felt sorry for him today.”

“You have a tender heart,” Zack said. “But at the moment, we have more pressing concerns than Michael Goetz. The fireworks start in an hour. They last thirty minutes. If we make it through the fireworks, we’re home free.”

My nerves twanged. “Bite your tongue,” I said. “Ninety minutes can be a lifetime. I’m not going to exhale until every single child here is safely on the way home.”

The truck with the fireworks had arrived on the green and the sun was beginning to set when the speeches began.

The program opened with a prayer from Ernest Beauvais, the elder who had been with the Racette-Hunter working team since it began a year and a half earlier. A temporary stage had been set up on the north end of the green for the speeches. As Ernest approached the microphone and his deep bass rumbled out the prayer he used to start all our meetings, I relaxed. Ernest spoke in Cree, but I knew what he was saying. “Great Spirit – Grant us strength and dignity to walk a new trail.”

Margot was the first speaker, and from the moment she stepped onto the stage holding her freshly bathed nine-month-old daughter, the crowd loved her. She spoke briefly and movingly about our collective responsibility to the next generation and the role Racette-Hunter hoped to play in giving all the children and adults in our city a chance to realize their potential. The audience was rapt.

Then Margot introduced the mayor, and it was immediately clear that something was wrong. Scott Ridgeway
always bounded on stage to show that he was pleased as punch to be wherever he happened to be. That night, he hung back. Finally, an exasperated Slater Doyle all but frog-marched the mayor up the accessibility ramp and pushed him towards the microphone.

I had seen Scott Ridgeway many times. A bland blond with a cheerleader’s smile and a fondness for generalities, he was always smooth, but that evening he looked terrified. He started his speech, lost his train of thought, then froze and stared at the audience. After what seemed like an eternity, Slater Doyle went to the microphone, said the mayor was under the weather, and ushered Ridgeway smartly off the stage. Milo O’Brien, a recent addition to our campaign team, tapped Zack’s shoulder. “Looks like the classroom monitor is going to puke. It’s your turn, big man.” Zack moved swiftly, wheeling up the ramp in his all-terrain chair, adjusting the microphone, and starting in.

Zack’s speech was electric. He pivoted in his chair, displaying it like someone in an infomercial, all the while talking about the features that had allowed him to move over the rough terrain of the construction site during the building of Racette-Hunter. Zack explained that he was now able to get around the centre in his everyday wheelchair, but there was a time when he needed extra help navigating. He ended by saying that at some point in their lives, everybody needs help getting where they want to go, and Racette-Hunter was there to offer that help. “My wheelchair,” he said, “is made by a company called Renegade. Their motto is ‘Blaze your own trail.’ That’s what Racette-Hunter will allow you to do.”

“Nice job,” muttered Milo. “That wheelchair shtick was fucking inspired.” Then he went back to tweeting.

I’d met Milo when Ginny Monaghan, a woman I admired, ran in my federal riding. Ginny lost the election, but I’d been impressed with Milo. Beating Ridgeway was
going to be tough, and Milo was exactly what we needed – a political strategist who loved the game, had no politics of his own, and believed that all that mattered was winning. Our campaign was fuelled by the desire to change the system. Milo would tell anyone who asked that he didn’t give a shit about changing the system, but he did give a shit about winning, and the odds here appealed to him. With his constant texting and tweeting, his machine-gun rat-a-tat-tat phone conversations, and his continuous intake of Crispy Crunch bars, he drove Zack crazy, but the moment Milo came on the scene my spirits soared, and until the last ballot was counted, I was prepared to treat him like spun glass.

Brock Poitras came to the microphone next.

He spoke not as a candidate but as the director of the Racette-Hunter Centre. His speech was short and personal. Brock said that some might believe that growing up in North Central as the gay Aboriginal son of a single mother meant he had not just three but four strikes against him. Yet today, he had an exciting and fulfilled life. His message was simple: realizing your potential isn’t always easy, but it is possible.

Margot’s expression as she watched Brock speak was thoughtful. “Jo, what are Zack and Brock’s chances of winning?”

“It’s early times,” I said.

“Meaning their chances aren’t good.”

“In a clean campaign, they’d have a decent chance.”

“But this isn’t going to be a clean campaign.”

I wrapped my arms around myself. The temperature was dropping. “They’ve already hit us with that ugly rumour about you demanding stud service from potential employees. Now there’s a possible attempt to abduct a child. I’ve spent most of my adult life in politics, but I don’t understand what’s going on here. All I know is that an ordinary civic election feels like it’s becoming a very high-stakes game.
You don’t get a bottom feeder like Slater Doyle to run your campaign unless you’re prepared to break kneecaps.”

Margot was cool. “Graham Meighen has had his way in this town for a long time. A new broom sweeps clean and that’s the last thing Meighen and his cronies at Lancaster Development want. He’ll be slick about it, but he’ll do whatever he has to do.”

“I didn’t realize you knew Graham Meighen that well.”

“I don’t, but I’ve seen him in action. Meighen was the first of Leland’s colleagues to call on me the day Leland died. He offered condolences and then, in a very courtly manner, cautioned me against making any business decisions until the first grief had passed.”

I smiled. “Looking out for your best interests,” I said.

“Which, amazingly, coincided with his best interests,” Margot said. “Graham wanted to make certain I didn’t accept anyone’s offer to buy Peyben until he had time to put together an offer I couldn’t refuse.”

“But you did refuse.”

“Of course. Leland spent a lifetime building Peyben, and he didn’t trust Graham Meighen. That said, Graham’s performance as the concerned friend was smooth as silk. When the occasion demands charm, Graham knows how to turn it on.”

Onstage, Brock was wrapping things up. He thanked everyone for coming, reminded people to keep a close eye on their children during the fireworks display, and said he hoped to see many of the crowd the next morning when the R-H Centre would be open for business. Elder Beauvais said a closing prayer and it was time for the big show.

Fireworks displays have never lost their allure for me – the smell of bug spray, the blankets spread on the grass, the sleepy kids fighting to stay awake, the flash, the whistle, the chorus of oohs and ahs as the sky explodes with showers of stars that
disappear as they drop to earth – summer enchantment. Like every child who’s ever held a sparkler, Madeleine and Lena tried to write their names in the darkness with their glowing wands. When they ran out of sparklers, the girls lay on their blanket and watched in silent wonder as comets and rockets exploded in flashes of light. Faces illuminated by the light show, Taylor and Declan exchanged the age-old whisperings of the young in each other’s arms. Fireworks and September love – the evening should have been the perfect coda to summer, but my eyes kept sweeping over the children around us. Indistinguishable in the darkness, they darted from blanket to blanket like fireflies. I prayed they would be more difficult to capture.

Finally, it was time for the spectacular last blasts of sound and colour. Rockets soared, and volleys of red, green, and yellow swept the inky sky. Blue stars burst to scatter white, green, and gold glitter. Fountains of silver and gold hissed through the air, and finally a comet erupted from the ground and bloomed into a giant red chrysanthemum.

As its petals faded and fell to earth, leaving nothing but a hint of smoke in the air and a memory of magic, people began to collect their children, fold their blankets, and say their goodbyes. We said ours too. Declan and Taylor went back to our condo on Halifax Street in his car. The days till Declan left for university were dwindling to a precious few, and he and Taylor seemed determined to make the most of the time they had left. And Tuesday was the first day of school for Madeleine and Lena. Faced with serious wardrobe decisions that needed to be settled before bedtime, our granddaughters raced towards Mieka’s van.

It was finally time to exhale. When we got back to the condo, the terrace door was open, and Zack and I went out to say goodnight to our daughter and Declan. They were curled up together on a chaise longue, and Zack harrumphed
like a dad in a 1950s sitcom. Embracing Taylor’s passage into womanhood was proving difficult for him.

I smiled at the kids. “If you need anything, you know where we are.”

“Right inside the door,” Zack thundered.

The apartment was cool, so I turned on the fireplace and pulled a chair close to the warmth. “We survived the day,” I said. “We’ve earned some quality time with Old Pulteney.”

Zack wheeled to the sideboard, poured us each two fingers of single malt, placed our glasses on the tray he’d balanced on his lap, and wheeled back. I took my drink, held it up to the light from the fireplace, and swirled the amber liquid. “You told me once that to enjoy this fully, we need at least a half-hour free of stress before we take our first sip,” I said.

“Let’s waive that rule,” Zack said. He raised his glass. “To getting through the day,” he said, “and to Cronus, who made getting through the day possible.”

We sipped our Scotch. “Zack, do you think there really was a plot to kidnap a child?”

Zack nodded. “I do. My guess is the child wouldn’t have been hurt – just spirited away for long enough to make headlines and discredit Racette-Hunter. Then he or she would have been returned to the bosom of his or her family.”

“So no harm done except for the damage to Racette-Hunter.”

“Which would have been irreparable,” Zack said.

“Zack, if the photo Cronus sent of him with you and Brock was the silver bullet, we have to find out who he sent it to and why it worked.”

“I’ll talk to him tomorrow,” Zack said.

“Don’t wait till tomorrow,” I said. “Somebody wants to destroy Racette-Hunter and torpedo Brock’s campaign and ours. You and I will both sleep better if we know what we’re up against.”

Zack picked up his cell, made the call, but quickly broke the connection. “Cronus’s cell is turned off. He’s probably in the midst of an enchanted evening of spanking, biting, and hair-pulling.”

“Cronus may have saved our bacon day today,” I said. “He’s earned a romantic interlude.”

We both slept well, and when I rolled over the next morning, saw the familiar contours of Zack’s body beside me and watched the play of shadows on the wall, I savoured the moment. There hadn’t been much peace in our lives lately. When Zack’s cell shrilled, I reached across to answer it before it awakened him, but he was too fast for me.

He listened, then swore softly. “Where are you exactly?” he said. “Okay, I’ll be there in ten minutes.”