The Second Part of Chapter 28: Restored

Finally, Margaret was nearing her destination, and could see the squat, unimaginative towers of Downtown Ottawa; Clarissa’s house and neighbourhood, she knew, lay just south of the largest collection of towers. The hospital was just across the Rideau River, and she took pleasure in stretching her legs after the long drive once she arrived in the parking lot. Now, her thoughts turned completely to her daughter, regretfully noting that she had not come to visit her daughter, nor vice versa, since Christmas, as she had been in Vancouver on business for Easter. Perhaps if she had maintained closer contact, this would not have happened. She knew that she could not have prevented a car crash––only the lowlife driving the car could have done that––she nevertheless felt responsible in a small way for her present predicament.

“I’m here to visit my daughter,” said Margaret to the receptionist in the hospital’s lobby, whose name was Olivia. “Her name is Clarissa Miller,”

“She’s staying in room B505,” said Olivia after consulting the computer. “Go up the elevator, turn left, and follow the signs to the room.”

“Thank you,” said Margaret, who walked to the elevator, bearing flowers. It did not take too long to reach Clarissa’s hospital room. It was very sad to see her in a cast and stuck in bed, which made her all the angrier at the thoughtless driver who had crashed into her. Don’t people know enough to watch where they were going? Clarissa was awake, and Margaret could see that she had a black eye.

“I got you flowers, dear,”

“Thank you,” she said sullenly. “It’s the thought that counts,”

“Meaning they weren’t a good gift? Ottawa’s nice and all, but the drive here is very boring and long,”

“Sorry, it’s just… you know.”

“Yeah. It’s been a tough year for you. Have you heard what happened to Belinda?” Eunice had been emailing and phoning Margaret since the wedding, and Margaret, as a result, saw the city from Eunice’s vantage point.

“I would prefer not to hear this. I don’t particularly like Belinda; she has loose lips, she’s alcoholic, she has a decidedly blasé attitude about other people. I think she views them as characters in a novel or something. It turns out that those things she did at the garden party last June––you know, those lurid, provocative moves made at David, and such, didn’t really happen. She had a large part to play in the spreading of gossip, and I think her and a few others like playing broken telephone. Anyways, I would prefer to hear about what Belinda does from Belinda herself, if at all.” Clarissa was unaware of the connection between Margaret and Eunice, and was not pleased that her mother wasn’t more choosy in her friendships, as what she had told her implied some sort of contact with the woman.

“Oh, I’m sorry honey,”

“How do you know her?”

“Through Eunice; she’s quite a nice person, Eunice,”

“Don’t worry about that; I haven’t exactly been innocent in spreading these perceptions. It is very funny how these perceptions can get projected onto people and become almost as real as the people themselves,”

“Yes, I know,” said Margaret, only half understanding.

“Well, please do get better. I love you, Clarissa,”

“I love you too, mom,”

“Do you know what’s so ironic about me being in the hospital right now?”

“What?”

“Today was supposed to be my due date; today was supposed to be a joyous occasion after labour,”

“Did you find a new boyfriend?”

“After much barhopping, fishing on dating sites, and making eyes at as many handsome men as I could see, I found somebody,” said Clarissa, referring to Ken.

Clarissa, after receiving the flowers from her mother, reclined, and slept, as the doctors said she needed rest, and then she would be wearing casts for a while; she did this for the next several days, and received visits from Eunice and Mario, Nicolas, who came from Place du Portage after work was done, accompanied by Vilia. Clarissa reflected that she was lucky to have such caring friends, whose presence would make the hospital stay more bearable.


On Friday afternoon, Ken visited Clarissa at the hospital. He had a drink to steady his nerves, as he needed alcohol as a means of doing this, as well as in celebration, commiseration with friends, and drowning his sorrows, as well as loosening his inhibitions. He had his daughters in tow, but they were looking bored. Annette was fidgeting with her shirt, while Venesse was reading a book, though she appeared not to find it engaging, as she kept staring at other people in the waiting room, patients, nurses, and the receptionist.

“Why are hospitals such nasty places?” asked Venesse. “There’s nothing to do here. I’m
bored,”

“It should only be a few minutes; then someone will tell us where to go,” said Ken as he approached the receptionist.

“I’m here to visit a patient,” he said. “Her name is Clarissa Miller.”

“Are you family?”

“I’m her boyfriend,”

“She’s in room B505. Enjoy your visit,”

He returned to the upholstered bench where his daughters were waiting.

“Where’s your new girlfriend? You didn’t get her injured already?” asked Annette.

“No, that was a car driven by some horrible man, honey. She’s in room B505.”

The family, after taking many turns through the labyrinthine corridors, arrived at Clarissa’s room, and Ken knocked on the door.

“Come in.” Ken recognised Clarissa’s voice.

“Hi Clarissa,” he said as he entered the room, which was painted a pale green colour, and had a view of the Rideau River.

Clarissa exclaimed, “Ken! You didn’t tell me you were a father!” That he was a father made her happy: she could finally be a mother, which was her dream.

“I’m so happy to see your kids. What are your names?” Clarissa was smiling as she asked the question. Her wide smile showed all her teeth; she hadn’t smiled that way since October.

“I’m Annette,”

“I’m Venesse,”

“It’s very nice to meet you. I hope we can be friends,” said Clarissa.

“Daddy said you were in a car crash.”

“Where were you driving?”

“I wasn’t; I was walking home, and somebody crashed into me.”

“That’s terrible; the driver must be a horrible man,” said Venesse.

Clarissa agreed. “I think the car has something to do with it, Venesse. Sometimes, people are perfectly reasonable and nice people when you meet them; when they get into a car however, they turn into something base. Let’s leave it at that.”

“What do you do when you drive?”

“I don’t, but I don’t think I would be very different from the person who hit me.”

“Will you get better soon? Daddy wants you to, he really likes you,” said Annette.

Ken said, “I also hope you get better soon,”

“I hope so, too.”

Things would work out; there would be a new beginning, after all.

The End

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The First Part of Chapter 28: Restored

When Clarissa woke up, she found herself in a hospital bed. “What happened?”

“It was a car crash,”

“I was in a car?”

“No; a car crashed into you,”

“What bastard did this?” Clarissa asked, shouting.

“They didn’t catch him; he drove off. I agree with your assessment of him.”

Clarissa did not notice the implicit demonization of men, even though it was, in fact, a man who had crashed into her. This was why she had never purchased a car; it was the fear of being in an accident, and the fear of being held responsible in some way. There were also economic rationales for shunning the car; they were expensive, and since most of the cost is fixed, she knew she would always view the initial expenses of insurance and the vehicle itself as sunk costs, and thus not consider those when making a decision whether to drive. Being an educated person herself, she was also aware of the environmental costs of cars. Her lifestyle had no need for a car either; she had lived in an apartment near a major transport hub, and James’s house had nearly every imaginable amenity nearby. It was thus deeply unjust that a car struck her, and it was a heinous, senseless crime, made no better that the driver had no intent to hurt anyone. She wondered if it would have unfolded differently had James been alive; she would not have intended to rid herself of the baby slippers or his pictures, which were now in the recycle bin; thus, the only reason for her coming to the garage sale would have been to purchase. Perhaps James would have pushed her out of the way? She hoped this latest misfortune would be the last to strike her in a tumultuous fall and winter; she wanted a quiet life, perhaps boring, but she would do well by that; wasn’t that the reason she had come to Ottawa? Wasn’t that the reason everybody came to Canada? No doubt, a quiet order had its appeal, due to its connections with a stereotypical image of a nuclear family, which unfortunately only existed in people’s minds, for when was this ideal of a quiet life ever reached? Certainly, if everyone’s life were like that, the world would not advance, and progress would not occur, and therein lay the quandary of that ambition; perhaps a storied life was the ideal? There were more questions than answers, but Clarissa found solace in the thought of her new boyfriend.

“Are you all right, ma’am?”

“I’m just in a bit of pain, but I’m sure I’ll survive,”


Once Margaret heard of the car crash, she moved as quickly as she could and made the long drive to the hospital where Clarissa was staying. She needed a full day off work to make the daylong round trip; she needed to leave at six in the morning in order to spend a couple of hours with her daughter and be back home in time for a late dinner. She found the long drive calmed her somewhat; it was sort of like meditation: all she had to do was to concentrate on the road ahead, and to banish all other concerns from her mind. Clarissa seems to have had a rough time since she married that man, she thought. The only bright spot, if it could be called that, was that she had a nice house. It wasn’t as if it was a hard burden for her to bear; she had an ample income. The burden of young widowhood, on the other hand, was much harder to bear, and Margaret had felt deeply sympathetic for her daughter, and quietly cursed herself for not doing anything. What foul fortunes have befallen my baby over this past year! She muttered to herself as she drove along the highway.

She had passed east of Peterborough, and was journeying through a sparsely inhabited section of the province; she had always found this particular stretch of road boring, because firstly, the only town of any size was Perth, and that was at least two hours away from where she was. Additionally, Highway 7 did not follow any rivers at this point, and the vegetation, which had not come into flower here, was monotonous and presented the bare stone of the shield. All the while, as she drove, her mind was on Clarissa, even as she guided the car along the tight curves of the highway that avoided the surrounding rocky, pine-clad hills. The monotony of the trip made her tired, she needed some refreshment by the time she reached Perth, and even there, there was still about an hour to go. She made a pit stop at Tim’s, and coffee in hand, continued driving.

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The Second Part of Chapter 27: New Light

On May first, Christine and her now-fiancé, Zachary, organised a community garage sale, which was advertised as a way for various households to get rid of unwanted stuff. Zachary, an accountant, was keeping careful records of exactly who had contributed what, the price on the item, and the price it had been sold for; it was a very careful and detailed operation, considering that at least fifteen households had contributed clothing, old furniture, a few books, assorted knick-knacks, and various other pieces of junk.

Laura watched Clarissa as she solemnly laid the baby slippers on the table. “I won’t need these,” said she.

“Why not? Surely you can try again,” said Laura.

“Not for awhile; everything seems…to have fallen apart.”

Laura watched a single tear trickle down Clarissa’s cheek.

“Please, Clarissa, don’t say these things. How about we go out to see a comedy show, or a play?”

Clarissa responded, stammering. “Maybe.”

“I hear there’s a show on next week. Heck, I need an excuse to dress up. So do you.”

“Mmm.”

“I’ve seen you slowly degenerate. You looked positively glowing at the wedding, but after he died, it seemed to have fallen apart”

“Well, of course. What did I do to deserve it?”

“Nothing, same as anyone.”

“I met a guy last night. He seems nice,”

Eunice, who was getting rid of an old coffeemaker, interjected, “At a bar, you mean?”

“Yes, at a bar. It was a rather pleasant night, and we talked about all sorts of things: interest rates, our credit ratings, the Bank of Canada’s monetary policy, and of course, Employment Insurance, not to mention trade negotiations.”

“Sounds like a fascinating conversation,” said Eunice, who could have thought of a number of more interesting things to talk about.

“Then we got right down to business, if you know what I mean.” Clarissa then gestured to the baby slippers, which were of blue wool, and had a decorative ribbon.

“I hope these baby slippers have a happier life. They will be 50 cents. Say, do you know what happened to Belinda? I don’t know anything, and I’ve just been telling people stories; I told your mother something made-up, I can’t remember what it was,”

“I hope they’re nice stories, but no, I don’t know, I can’t help you,” said Laura.

Laura wondered why Clarissa would be getting rid of the baby slippers. Had she given up on having kids? They were decent slippers, and could be for either a boy or a girl; they were sufficiently unisexual.

Eunice told Clarissa about Belinda, and then asked, “Are you planning on trying to have children again? I hear there’s someone you met at a bar; are there any prospects there?”

“I’m hopeful, but I think that getting rid of these slippers would help me to get over the whole experience of losing the baby. I really need to move on; I have had too much death over the past year.”

“I understand,” said Eunice. She saw that Clarissa had also chosen to get rid of a number of picture frames. Some were small, while others were larger and ornate, the largest being the size of David’s flat-screen LCD television, which gave his living room the air of a theatre; she counted twelve frames in all.

Ten minutes later, a couple named Carolyn and Thomas picked the baby slippers up. Thomas had just moved from Toronto, where he had been fired from his job at CityTV, and was looking to start over with his wife.

“How I wish that were me,” Said Clarissa, motioning to the couple.

Eunice said, “I hope it will be, some day.”

“I hope I wasn’t too much trouble for you; you cared for me so much, even in my darkest days. Well, thank you, Eunice,”

“Don’t mention it; I just didn’t want to see a friend sad.”

“How are you doing otherwise?” It was a general question, but Eunice knew she meant her pregnancy.

“I’m due in July; we’re planning a baby shower in June. There’ll be cake, lots of food, and I’m inviting all sorts of people and family. You’re invited too, if you want to come,”

“Sure,”

Clarissa walked home, and Christine watched her. She then turned her attention to a seven-year old interested in a book.

“You’re interested in the Hardy Boys? It’s a very good series.”

“Yes ma’am. I’d like it. Here’s 50 cents.”

“Thank you,”

There was suddenly a loud crash, and then the sound of screaming was audible. Eunice dropped the book she was handling (a well-thumbed copy of Morley Callaghan’s Our Lady of the Snows), and almost instinctively ran to the edge of the driveway, where she looked down the street. Her eyes widened in shock when the scene confronted her. Clarissa was lying on her side in the middle of the road, with her legs at an awkward angle. She looked around, and was able to see a van with a cracked windshield speeding down the road.

“Clarissa!” screamed Eunice.

Laura’s hand went immediately to her cell phone and she dialled 9-1-1. What monster could have done this? She thought, in fear of Clarissa’s life. She swiftly looked down the street, and saw a blue car with a cracked windshield. Everything was happening so quickly; the emergency respondent at the other end of the line was talking to her, and she saw the monster in the car quickly speeding away, too fast for her to read the license plate. This is an injustice, she thought.

“Ma’am this may be an injustice, but please calm down.”

“Sorry. Some man in a blue car drove into my friend, Clarissa.”

“Did you get a license plate?”

“No. He drove away. Look for a blue car with a cracked windshield.”

“And Clarissa?”

“Clarissa seems to have a broken arm, at least, and she’s bleeding from her mouth.”

“There will be an ambulance over right away,”

“Thank you very much.”


Henry was talking on his cell phone:

“Well, could you email me those files?” he asked Cora, with whom he was working on a project.

Then it happened. She hit the windshield. She was a tall, pretty woman, crossing the street, and it seemed to Henry, as she screamed, to be three months pregnant. She slid off the windshield and left a large crack. Henry thought in horror, what will happen to me? He swore.

“Henry?” Cora’s voice sounded scratchy on the phone.

“Did something happen?”

“It’s… nothing,”

“Really?”

In a panic, Henry ended the call and turned off the phone. Surely I will be charged with careless driving. I might go to jail. He stepped on the gas, and drove in an effort to get away from the scene and dissociate himself from his deeds.


Cora thought that it seemed rather strange; he does not normally act that way. He’s usually much more focussed; he normally knows what he’s doing when he’s being unreasonable; his voice sounded positively strained. With these thoughts, Cora picked up the phone, and called Henry back.

“Henry, are you sure nothing’s wrong?”

“Yes, I’m sure,”

“You don’t sound so good.”

“Listen, could you call me back? I’m driving right now.”

“Sure. And get some sleep, you put in far too much time last night.”

“Goodbye,”

Well, that’s that, thought Cora. Or is it? She thought something was up. His voice simply sounded too strained for something not to be up; what if he did something on the road? Should I call someone?

Not wanting to be bothered further with these troublesome thoughts, she turned back to her work. She would surely find out soon enough about Henry.

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The First Part of Chapter 27: New Light

Ken was at O’Shaughnessy’s pub downtown on that Friday night chatting with his friends, Kevin and Steve; all of them were drinking. Ken was having a Grand Marnier, Kevin a Bacardi Breezer, and Steve was having a beer. That was when he saw her; she was very pretty.

“You’re checking her out, I see,” commented Kevin. “I know her; her name is Clarissa. Do you want me to introduce you?”

Kevin also knew about the miscarriage; word gets around, after all, but he thought it would be better to spare Ken the sorry details of her recent life.

“How is she?”

“She’s lonely, maybe you should hook up.”

Ken walked over, attempting to be as confident as he could.

“Good evening,” said he.

“Uh, good evening,” replied Clarissa. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Ken.”

“I’m Clarissa,”

“My friend over there says he knows you. He says you’re single,”

Clarissa smiled. “That’s true; he knows me well, apparently. Oh, it’s Kevin!”

“I’m single too, you know,”

“I’m interested,” said Clarissa, who to Ken sounded seductive.

“I work for the bank of Canada; you know, forecasting inflation and that sort of thing. I personally think it’s a waste of time; you remember that old adage about forecasting being at best a waste of time and at worst a sin?”

“What do you forecast for tonight?”

“Optimistically, us hooking up?”

“You’re a very good forecaster; it may not be such a waste of time. You know what, let’s stop beating about the bush and get back to my place. I have a nice house just a fifteen minute walk away.”

“Congratulations, Cupid,”

“Thanks, Steve,”

Kevin watched Ken and Clarissa sit down at a table together, chatting animatedly. I think this is going to be a success, he thought.

“You’re smiling,”

“Oh I’m just thinking of some disreputable woman who seems to take a fancy to me; every time I see her, she seems to be drunk. Not that I would want to see her that often; she happens to be a neighbour, and she tries quite routinely to flirt with me, and could never seem to pick up that I’m gay. She always thought she had some sort of chance; I guess that’s what you get with vacuous women. Just last week, she approached me and told me all about a cute dress she purchased, like I care, and it was definitely not pretty: it showed too much skin, and she does not have a particularly nice body. Too much hangs out, you know. It didn’t help that it already had a wine stain on it.”

“That sort of reminds me of my neighbour; she’s not exactly agreeable herself, and she isn’t all that savoury, though she seems to do well for herself; she put an addition on her house last September, and now it’s one of the nicest houses in the city; she always seems to buy the very best things for her children, and I can’t stand them running around the neighbourhood, riding their motorised dirt bikes around the gully out back. She doesn’t seem to like me, either; she’ll pick on absolutely anything, such as me hanging my laundry out to dry, the way my lawn is landscaped, and my lifestyle, which I simply can’t understand, and just seemingly anything she can think of.”

“Need I know her name?”

“Juliana, but there are probably lots of people with that name in Sudbury.”

Ken and Clarissa walked out of the bar, hand in hand. Clarissa had only had a shot of Frangelico, and Ken had finished a beer. They were giggling as they walked down the downtown street, which at eleven at night was busy, this being the bar and nightclub district, and the night being rather warm for the time of year: ten degrees.

Ken moved very smoothly, thought Steve. They look nice together. This wasn’t the first time Kevin had done this, either; he didn’t try, but he was a skilled matchmaker; it was Kevin, after all, who had helped Ken find his first wife, Viola, and he suspected him of pulling the strings with a few other people: he had introduced their friend Marie to a man named John, and there were others, but he was rather tipsy, and his memory came and went when he was drinking. This is not to say that he always played Cupid; he also got in the game himself, as he was presently dating a man named Luc.

Kevin did not think it worthwhile to mention her name, although he knew her perfectly well; she was Belinda, and in his opinion, she had talked too much, and was getting far too nosy for her own good. If she only paid as much attention to her garden, where the crocuses would have just finished and be replaced by other flowers if she had them, as she paid to her neighbours in an effort to pick up any scrap of information, then maybe more people would like her; she would also have a better front garden, which right now was a small bare patch of earth. He did not like the way she had carelessly put her recycling on the kerb, leaving copies of People and similar magazines to blow around in the strong spring gusts; that had made quite a mess of the street, and unlike last fall’s leaves, it was offensively bright and gaudy. He did not know that the real reason was that Belinda had moved to her mother’s house, which was why she had been neglecting the front garden. Belinda had in fact been very careful to keep it quiet, which ran counter to her personality; the embarrassment of losing her job and whittling away her savings was too much for her, and only in May did Kevin realise that Belinda would be gone. Kevin thought, after four drinks, that he had spent long enough in the bar, and bade his friends good night. While walking brusquely home, he saw Ken and Clarissa, both tipsy, making their way to Clarissa’s house.

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The Second Part of Chapter 26: Blandness and Retreat

After being unemployed for four months, Belinda decided that it was time for the last resort: she would be moving in with her mother. The mortgage payments were becoming increasingly unsupportable on her income, which at present consisted of Employment Insurance cheques, received once a week. Her savings were down to the amount it would cost to move her belongings to Toronto, so she did so on that day; Belinda had never been much of a saver, and while it would not be beyond anybody who was good with their money to squirrel enough away to last a year or two on meagre living, Belinda’s finances were a travesty, due to her habit of dining out, preference for all sorts of knickknacks with which her house was tastelessly decorated, and impulse purchases. It wasn’t for lack of trying that she hadn’t found work; word of her being fired from her previous job had got out of her previous employer and had spread around the city, making it that much harder for her to find new employment; managers would not listen to her, and would think that she would simply be eager to dig up some dirt and spread it around. She had packed the things among her belongings that she wanted to keep, got up at five in the morning, and loaded the car, enduring the drizzle that made everything feel colder than it was. By six, she was on the road, and at noon, she had reached Toronto; Pollux spent the trip on the passenger seat of the car, sleeping. How like the old days when I would move home from university for the summer, she thought. Now, on the other hand, there was not the reassuring knowledge that her stay would be limited to four months; it might last a year, given the way her job search was progressing. Perhaps she could get a job in a low-key position in a different industry, she thought; the tech industry wasn’t that big, and word travels fast enough. An industry like banking or retail, on the other hand, was much larger; perhaps she would have better luck there.

She had called Suzanne the previous evening, informing her that she was moving back with her. While Suzanne was also out of work, she had paid off her mortgage years ago, and thus had the opportunity to simply stay at home until her savings dried up, which, given her considerable age, had grown to be ample enough to afford her the dignity of simply giving up the job search and retiring.

She had asked when Belinda had been laid off, and Belinda replied sullenly, “a few days before Christmas,” which led Suzanne to wonder why Belinda hadn’t told her earlier; it was probably shame, she thought.

Upon hearing Belinda’s news, Suzanne had phoned her other children and asked them that they give Belinda their support for the time being, but Melvin, Juliana and their spouses took this in a different direction, as none of them really liked Belinda. Eunice noticed her absence first, when she dialled Belinda’s number, and all she got was an answering machine; that this was on Thursday evening, when one would expect Belinda to be at home, was a little odd, so Eunice called Belinda’s cell phone instead.

“Hello,” came her voice.

“Hi Belinda.”

“Oh, hello Eunice,”

“What’s going on? I haven’t seen you around,”

Belinda did not really know how to deal with the awkwardness of the question; she would have to bite the bullet.

“I moved to Toronto,” she said.

“What about the house?”

“I sold it.” That was not true; she had simply abandoned it, and did not bother to board up the windows.

“It’s a nice house,” Said Eunice. “Who purchased it?”

“Some speculator,” said Belinda. “I don’t remember their names,”

The story was sounding less and less plausible to Eunice.

“So, now I’m moving in with my mother, who decided to stop looking for work and simply retire.”

“I see; well, good luck on finding a job in Toronto,” and then she bade Belinda good-bye. She could tell there was something missing from the story, and that was the name of the purchaser of the house on the corner of Lyon Street; most people would know the name of whoever would be buying the house, and it was a very nice house: there were neatly pruned junipers in the front, and a pretty garden in the back with grapevines supported on a trellis. She realised what else was missing from the story: she had passed that house on the way to Hartman’s just on Wednesday, and there was never any for sale or sold sign in the front; the only thing that had been missing was the car in the driveway. If she had abandoned it, then it was a very unwise move; she would thus miss out on regaining the equity on her home; thus it did not strike her as something Belinda would do; on the other hand, she was not known for good money management, as her house was full of all sorts of junk, and even though she rarely used the car, a big money-sucker in and of itself, there had been hints that Belinda’s finances were not in good shape, and she had heard third-hand from one of her co-workers that she had never made voluntary contributions to the company pension plan, and would thus be unable to rely on that in her retirement. On the other hand, surely she would know enough to sell her house, and that thought made Eunice believe Belinda when she said it had been sold.

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The First Part of Chapter 26: Blandness and Retreat

In celebration of spring and the arrival of weather that, while not warm, was at least not brutally cold and comfortable enough for one to show more than in winter, Belinda brought out the cherished part of her wardrobe that showed more of her skin. On Friday, Belinda decided to wear a dress she had purchased shortly before Christmas, but had not had the chance to wear, due to the weather.

Her unemployment changed her for the worse; she always liked to drink, but in the company of friends, which was not happening as often due to her circumstances; she still needed to drink, though, and in attempting to find an excuse for the glass of Pinot she had poured, toasted the first day when the temperature exceeded 16 degrees; she did this because she had precious little to celebrate. She chose alcohol as a means of forgetting her troubles, and this was having a sore impact on her money supply; she was down to her last 300 dollars. At six, when most other people would be sitting down to dinner, she decided to take a stroll through the neighbourhood to enjoy the lovely spring air and feel the pleasant breezes. When she turned the corner and went down Gilmour, she met Kevin, who was jogging the other way.

“Oh, Hi Kevin, do you like my new dress?” Kevin showed little interest as he stopped and took a sip from his water bottle.

“I got it just before Christmas, and it’s so nice to be able to wear it at last.”

Kevin was feeling awkward, being confronted by a woman he disliked, especially considering his shirt was stuck in the waistband of his shorts rather than on his back; he preferred to jog in peace, and only grunted in response before moving on.

Maybe some other time, thought Belinda. She continued to walk down Gilmour street and turned left onto Percy, and then right onto Gladstone; she met very few people along the way as they were enjoying their Good Friday dinners; tonight, Belinda would be having a chicken breast or something; her tradition of Good Friday dinners had stopped with the divorce, and she instead treated herself to either turkey or duck on Easter, but even that was not an option, as her money was running out, and Employment Insurance could only go so far.


Easter that year was a cheerless one at the elder Millers’; the source of discontent was the friction between Patricia and Katherine. While Ryan, like Patricia, also desired a grandchild, he saw no reason to push Katherine for any reason. Patricia had decided what to make on Easter only that morning and there was not so much choice; Ryan might have liked to have guinea fowl, Katherine said she had not had goose in a while, while Patricia preferred duck. No consensus was reached, and Patricia opted for a chicken stew, which though good, lacked the fanciness that characterised their previous Easters.

Katherine was not looking forward to seeing her parents, as there was nothing to look forward to; she had always been fond of her brother, but now he was dead, there was one less thing to brighten the visit. Patricia and Clarissa were recently estranged because Clarissa, in Patricia’s view, no longer had any connection to the family in light of the miscarriage, meaning that Clarissa would not be bearing any of Patricia’s descendents. Patricia had become much less warm to her daughter due to Clarissa’s miscarriage, and all these factors combined led to Easter dinner that Sunday being stiff and formal, rather than laid-back and chatty as it had always been.

“Could you pass the sauce, dad?”

“Certainly, Kate.”

“Harry was just saying how few young women there were at the library; he’s getting lonely,” said Patricia meaningfully; Patricia had attempted to get Harry and Katherine together, but to no avail; Katherine found him boring and snobbish, and he reminded her too much of Mike in physical appearance.

“Have you been speaking with Clarissa?”

“Not that much,” said Patricia. “She’s been giving me the cold shoulder lately,”

“Are you sure that’s not the other way around? I have always remembered her being quite genial,” said Katherine, although she had not seen her sister-in-law––she still considered Clarissa a relation––since February.

“It’s definitely her,” said Patricia, her voice wavering; she wanted to cover up the fact that she had been cold to Clarissa during her last visit, and now no longer acknowledged her when she saw Clarissa at Hartman’s or on the way to work.

Katherine wanted the conversation to change from its current track of dwelling on her and tending to have long periods of awkward silence into something that at least made good table talk. “Did you interview any interesting people?”

“Well, there was this one person from Toronto who was talking about their construction projects––you know the light rail lines they’re building?”

“Yes, I’ve heard,”

“Well, there have been some objections in a similar vein to the ones heard about the reconstruction of the Saint Clair line; that it would cost too much money, that they would be unsafe, that they would be an impediment,”

“The complaints sound spurious,”

“I agree; the same could be said for all sorts of other construction projects,”

“That’s what Helena Perari said; she was also in the studio, and really lit into the complainant afterwards.”

“That woman seems merciless; she’s always moralising about this, that and the other thing; it seems sort of sanctimonious at times.”

“The thing is, she’s always right, though; she’s one of the best journalists and commentators at the CBC,”

“I like Derma Head better,” said Patricia; Derma Head had an uncanny knack for making accurate predictions; it was her who first voiced the opinion, back in November, that the election would go to Duff, and she had sounded an alarm bell on the credit markets in 2003, fully five years before many other people did. The conversation didn’t continue in this vein for a while; Patricia had other ideas.

“What about a boyfriend, Katie?”

“I don’t think I want one at the moment,” said Katherine, who was by now feeling hen-pecked; she wondered if Ryan ever felt the same way.

Ryan thought the Patricia’s cajoling of Katherine was quite unnecessary; she was attractive enough to find men who were into her, and he was not at all concerned about her finding a husband; if she were to reach 40 before finding someone, though, there would be a chance he would start getting concerned. It was true that like Patricia, he wanted Katherine to find someone, but he wanted this so that Katherine would feel happy, for he had the distinctive feeling that Katherine was not happy, but frustrated. He tried to change the subject.

“I hear that more people are looking for work, now that the recession is over,” he said.

“That’s a very good thing; the library was being used very heavily until last Christmas; there were always people passing the time, reading, on the computer, and generally trying to escape,”

Other than that, dinner was eaten in a stony silence for the rest of the evening, and Katherine departed at eight, drove west on MacLaren Street to her home near Lincoln Fields, and prepared for her next day of classes; as usual, there were science assignments to mark, some of which were done well, and some of which were not. The weather seemed to reflect her gloom as it grew colder and threatened rain, which started to fall the next morning.

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The Second Part of Chapter 25: Estrangement

Patricia still dwelled on Clarissa with ferocity; she had heard from Eunice that she had been spotted in bars in early February, or so she remembered from their discussions, and while Clarissa did not have any drinks before the miscarriage, Eunice did not pass that crucial piece of information on, leaving Patricia with the impression that even the miscarriage had been planned. She did not know how, but she would find the underlying cause of this. She called Clarissa, but after four rings, the phone went to the answering machine. Undoubtedly, she would be at the pub again, mistreating her body and trying to pick up some hapless economist.

She was so single-mindedly focussed on Clarissa that Ryan started to notice things were going awry.

“Patty, I noticed that the potatoes were undercooked three days in a row.”

“Sorry about that, honey,” she said. Ryan could hear an undertone of insincerity in the apology.

“Is everything all right?”

“I assure you, everything’s fine. How was work?” She wanted to distract him from her own distracted condition; she was semi-retired and to some extent had lived vicariously through him since her last days as a librarian, and was now working in the archives room part-time.

“Work was pretty good, as always; Andy had a good joke to tell,” and he started to relate the joke as first told by Andrew Chadwick Heron, but failed to get the details right, since it was a highly involved anecdote.

“That’s nice,” said Patricia, still distracted.

They ate the bland dinner in silence; Patricia had neglected to add garlic cloves or other seasonings to her mashed potatoes, and rather than putting flour and soy sauce on the fried chicken, she had just put flour, leaving the chicken uninteresting; this was the bad kind of boredom, the kind that results from bad decisions and putting things off, the sentence of fools, rather than the kind that arises from too much contentment or a lack of change in life. The similarity between these two boredoms was notable; both necessitated some kind of comfort level with oneself; with contentment, so much was obvious; with bad decisions, there was an element of the subconscious that did not want change, that desired a weird form of security in dullness, that wanted predictability; thus comes procrastination, idleness, and neglectful mistakes. The interesting part was that Patricia liked one and loathed the other, even though, married to Ryan, who had seen a number of careers in a very exciting life, from journalist to entrepreneur, civil servant and back again, which with all of its attendant moves and lifestyle changes, banished boredom from her life since they had been married.


Patricia had noticed that Belinda was silent on the gossip, if it could be called that; all that she had heard from Belinda in the past week was that Christine had purchased a Van Gogh replica, which now hung over her fireplace, but when she went to Christine’s house, she saw it was not Van Gogh, but Monet, and only a complete neophyte could mistake a Monet for a Van Gogh, especially considering the title and creator were clearly printed at the bottom of the frame. She had not even seen much of Belinda; she would typically walk by or through Dundonald Park on her way to work, and this was not happening, due to her now well-known jobless status, as told to her by Eunice. Thus, she could no longer rely on Belinda as a source of information; there was still Eunice, fortunately, who was looking quite round, but for some reason, not happy, and this was a woman who had every reason to be happy; she was carrying new life. For some reason, possibly connected with her seeming moroseness, the quality of gossip was also lacking, and was inaccurate, which was unlike Eunice. While Belinda’s gossip had some truth and fancy in equal measure, Eunice’s tidbits were mostly factual.

Patricia had to do the sleuthing herself, although Ryan called it snooping, which he pronounced with a pointed distaste; it could be seen to an outsider but not herself that the unfounded suspicion was straining her home life as well. One fine Saturday morning in early April, when the snow was patchy on the ground and the air was fresh, perfect for just about any sort of clothing, Patricia walked over to McLeod Street to pay Clarissa a visit. One ring of the doorbell was enough for an answer.

“Hello Patricia,”

“Good morning,”

“Come in,”

“I just wanted to know how you’re doing,” Patricia looked around; the house had not exactly been maintained well, but it was still inhabitable. She noted that the carpet on the living room floor, which when James had purchased it was a rich burgundy, now had the grey of dust intermingled with it; she also noticed the grey dust gathering on the bookshelves, and there were cobwebs in corners.

“Well, I’ve had a lot happen to me, as you know,”

“You seem to be doing well enough for yourself,”

Clarissa did a double take. “Are you kidding me? I had a miscarriage, and I’m a widow at thirty-three because my husband, who’s the same age as me, had a heart attack, so no, I don’t think I’m doing well.”

Unfazed, she ploughed on, indifferent to Clarissa’s replies. “You must be feeling lucky to be owner of such a fine home, and live alone,”

“That was not my wish, and you know that perfectly well; I thought I knew you! Why are you asking me these questions, anyways? Is it about his death?”

“It’s about the miscarriage, and yes, the death,”

“Well, there’s nothing to it; it’s misfortune, and I don’t feel this conversation is going anywhere,” said Clarissa. “Please don’t bother me with these notions,”

“All right, Clarie,” said Patricia, trying to keep some sense of civility within her. She then left. She felt a growing distance between herself and her daughter-in-law, for she still considered Clarissa in that way. At first, the estrangement was in Patricia’s mind; now it was founded on some truth; this marked the point when their closeness ended, and they became mere neighbours who lived a few blocks from each other, and were not in each other’s family.

The weather, completely independent of human emotions, improved slightly; there was only one heavy snowstorm that month, which delivered half a metre of snow, and hit the city on the 11th of March, which meant there would be an unscheduled holiday from school, and for many people, from work. That was the final major snowfall of the season; after that, the weather warmed up sufficiently for people not to need toques when they went outside; Patricia’s attitude, in defiance of the seasons, darkened toward the other women in her life, and this trend continued into April.

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The First Part of Chapter 25: Estrangement

Eunice observed, during the dreary months of winter, when the sun was weak and the snow lay deep on the ground, that Clarissa’s mood, already having been down over an extended period, had taken a turn for the worse. The first indicator was the number of times they had seen each other: that figure had dropped, leaving her, in the eyes of Eunice, an automaton, and this particular statistic was significant considering they lived across the street and a few doors down from each other. Her mood couldn’t possibly have been good for the baby she was carrying before the miscarriage, and it was unquestionably bad for her now. The worst thing was that she did not know how to help. Talking about her condition simply reminded Clarissa, and she would dissolve into tears. Finding someone else might help, but of course, she knew that Clarissa was trying to do that. It could also be that men weren't attracted to women with baggage, and being a widow in her thirties would certainly constitute a lot of baggage. Her sad face also seemed to age her; when she was with James, she had looked so vibrant and youthful. Now, as a widow, she looked to be in her forties, even though the change came about in less than a year.

It was not as if she had not tried everything to cheer Clarissa up, as they had gone to the movies together, they had taken in a concert in January, and she had invited her to dinner several times, but she only came occasionally. After the miscarriage, she had grown worse: she had taken to drinking; Eunice had found this out when she saw Clarissa stumbling home one night, and she had heard a similar story from Belinda. Clarissa’s downward spiral was also pulling Eunice with her; she found she had less energy, which on top of her pregnancy––by March, at five months, she had become large––made her a less pleasant person.


Eunice, the older Millers and the older Varrettes were not the only ones impacted by Clarissa’s miscarriage; now that all possibility of Clarissa bearing her descendents were gone, Patricia turned up the pressure on Katherine to find a boyfriend. Katherine knew the real purpose was so that Patricia could call herself a grandmother, and she was not exactly appreciative of the efforts; while the idea of having a boyfriend was nice, the implicit pressure to get pregnant was unwelcome.

“How many men work at your school, Katie?” was the form the question inevitably took over the phone one evening.

“Out of the seventy staff, there are thirty men,”

“How many of them are single?”

“I have never really asked.”

“Come on; in a profession as young as teaching––and I know teaching’s a young profession––there must be some eligible bachelors.” Patricia didn’t actually know that teaching was a young profession––she was simply trying to make stuff up on the fly in an effort to pressure her daughter, her last remaining child, to find someone.

“I’m sure a man will turn up in good time,”

“But honey, what does ‘in good time’ mean?”

“It means that when I want a boyfriend, I will find one.”

“But honey, your biological clock is ticking,”

“Relax; many women have given birth past the age of thirty-one. And is my romantic life all you want to talk about? I told you, I will find a man when I want one; if only they weren’t all such insufferable brutes like Mike.”

“Mike’s just one man, Katie. And Ryan’s a great husband, and a wonderful man, so there’s proof right there that there are good men. Say, why don’t you go on a dating site? I’m sure someone will turn up.”

“Thanks for the relationship advice,” said Katherine, insincerely.

“Bye Kate, and think about it, okay?”

Patricia’s thoughts turned darker as she peeled some potatoes one evening; why had
Clarissa received all the good luck? This callous thought ran through her mind, and the sense of injustice about the possibility of being left without descendents banished her sympathy for Clarissa, and neglected that what Clarissa was going through could hardly be called luck, without the attendant “bad” in front of it. Clarissa, at the present, seemed to her to be a figure out of a fairy tale whose husbands mysteriously die in succession, leaving her to accumulate a fortune. Although in reality the circumstances were innocent, they seemed otherwise to Patricia. Perhaps she failed to rein in Jimmy’s love of salty foods, she thought, ignoring the fact that Clarissa had spent eight months with James, while she had raised him for twenty years, and watched him closely for a further thirteen years.

The next day, she called Katherine again.

“What do you think of Clarissa?”

“Mom, are you all right? Your tone of voice makes you seem on edge,”

“I’m quite all right,” said Patricia, who was increasingly focussing her thoughts on one thing: the belief that Clarissa had carefully planned and orchestrated Jim’s death.

“Well, if you must know––and I’m not so sure of that, myself––I think Clarissa’s an extremely unlucky woman,”

“Do you call inheriting a fine house in a nice neighbourhood bad luck?”

“Aren’t you forgetting that she didn’t only inherit the house, but the mortgage too? The rate’s the same; the monthly payments remain the same, and that mortgage was signed when Jim’s credit rating wasn’t so good, remember? He had a habit of going on spending binges when he was younger; hence the car in that driveway?”

“But it all seems uncanny,”

“Look, mom, why don’t you sleep on it or something,” But Katherine was unsure that sleep would rid her mother of this ridiculous supposition and dubious theory.

“Bye Katie, and get a boyfriend, okay? I worry about you,”

“Really? I think things are not so hunky-dory with yourself.”

Sensing that the conversation could continue and be unnecessarily long, Katherine hung up the phone, and to ensure Patricia would not call back left the receiver off the hook; she didn’t anticipate any important calls, anyways; it was late at night, and concerned parents would call at some different hour.

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The Fifth Part of Chapter 24: Bleak Month

On the night of Friday, February 18th, Ken was indulging in a habit that at once brought easy camaraderie and liver troubles at his favourite bar with two of his friends, Herman and Ed. He did this because he said it warmed his blood on such a cold night, and it was a cold night; minus twenty and that was three hours after sunset; at the coldest point in the night, just before sunrise, there was promise that the temperature would reach thirty degrees below zero, leaving the air extremely cold, dry, and clear; at that temperature, one’s breath would come in visible puffs as the water vapour condensed out, quickly cooled and froze, creating a frosty rim on jacket collars.

Herman pointed out a woman to Ken. “You notice her?”

“I saw her last week”

“Week before that, too.”

“She’s getting progressively sluttier, have you noticed?”

“Yeah, I find it hot.”

“So do I, kind of. The thing is, she’s looking morose right now. Maybe she broke up with somebody.”

Clarissa overheard, even though there was some rather loud music playing. “Actually, I’m a widow. My husband died of a heart attack.”

“Isn’t it still a bad idea to hang out at a bar while you’re pregnant?”

“Oh, I don’t plan on drinking. I want to pick up. Speaking of which, what are you two doing tonight? Would it bother you to… attend to me?”

“Sorry, I hope you understand that I’m not exactly ready for a kid at the moment.”

“Oh,”

They could see Clarissa’s lip quiver before she turned around and left the place. The bartender turned and said, “This is the third time she ran out of this bar since New Year’s. Each time, someone asked about her pregnancy or why she was in a bar. The conversation would inevitably turn to how she got pregnant, what had happened to her husband, and, well you know. She never had a drink, either; I think she’s a poor, lonesome soul. Incidentally, she had to talk about her miscarriage each time; that made it worse.”

Ed, a frequent customer who was sloshed, said to the bartender, “What are you, some kind of philosopher?”

“I’ve seen all kinds of customers come in here. She’s odd; not like you, I’ve seen boozed up guys checking women out all the time.”

“I think she has a pretty face. Beauty is all in the eyes, you know.”

“Oh yeah, if you have a nice pair of eyes, you have it made.”

“You would have to be pretty lonely to go to a bar once a week for a month in an effort to pick up guys. I’m with my buddy Herman, here,” said Ed, putting an arm around Herman and pulling him into a tight hug. Herman, a person often mistaken for Ed, was at least a little uncomfortable.

“Um, thanks, Ed,” he said.

Ken pondered Clarissa after she had walked out the door, forgetting what she had told him. If she’s a widow, he thought, that must mean her husband died a violent death if he died young. If her husband were old, she would simply be a gold-digger, but for some reason, he could not see a gold-digger widow hanging out at a bar that was admittedly targeted at the university set who came over from the nearby campus. A gold-digger, thought he, would have her own bar at home, furnished with the money of her late husband. Therefore, her husband must have been relatively young, and of similar circumstances to her own. Was it violent, maybe a car crash? That seemed likely; car crashes do kill plenty of people, after all. It might also be some other dark tale of violence and woe. Ed turned to Ken and said, “So, what do you think of the Prime Minister?”

“Duff, you mean? He seems very smart and he has quite astute political instincts, which he’ll need if he is to last with such a small minority government. He hasn’t done anything too high profile yet; he promised ‘rationalisation of the bureaucracy,’ which obviously means cuts to the Public Service, and there was the promise of tax cuts and reform of the Employment Insurance system that was announced to be in the budget. Overall, there’s nothing particularly high profile; I think he aims to be a workhorse, which is nothing too flashy, but decent enough. The budget should be interesting,”

“That’s not so much like the American President.”

“Ah, yes; the world’s foremost admirer and proponent of all things glitzy; tell me about it,”

“Say, where are your kids? I hope you haven’t abandoned them?”

“Of course not; I’m too much of a responsible parent for that; Annette and Venesse are visiting mom and dad in Montréal.”

“That’s nice,”

“They said they wanted to see their grand-filles. They are really quite nice people, and doting. I hope my girls are getting their homework done.”

“What is it that happened between you and Viola?”

“I think it was something about the retirement plan: I wanted to buy stocks, you know, so I could sell them later, and live off the gains. She thought the money was better off squirreled away in an RRSP.”

“That was it?”

“I don’t think that was entirely it; she picked on me constantly for my drinking habits, and I really don’t think it’s a serious problem; what’s wrong with a couple of drinks? It doesn’t make me any less lovable a person. There was also the car; she coveted it so much. It was serviceable enough, which is all I care about, but she desired its glamour. She said I could do with a Sedan. Lucky I’m the sole breadwinner, while she was a housewife.” Ken also thought it was lucky of him that the judge had awarded him custody, with Viola getting visitation rights. “Awarded” was not an appropriate word to use in a divorce case, when all that remained was wreckage and kids who
hated both parents. He had to admit to himself, sometimes, that his drinking did occasionally get out of hand. He personally regarded this as a hold-out from when he was young; he and his wife had met at a crowded bar in Montréal, but Viola had grown out of the drinking habit, while he had not; it wasn’t that he was a nasty drunk; he was slower and more mellow when drunk; it was that his wife thought it was unbecoming, and she called him embarrassing in social situations, and he set a poor example to his daughters, an opinion expressed pointedly and often in front of them.

“You seem to be lost in thought,” observed Ed.

“Just ruminating on the past,” answered Ken.

“Baggage?”

“Lots; too much, in fact.”

“So that’s why you come here,” said the bartender.

Ken proceeded to forget his sorrows with an increasing number of shots of rum, Grand Marnier, and rye; the next morning found him awake at six in the morning, on the couch in his living room, with a dull headache; this was the additional price of the bottle.

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The Fourth Part of Chapter 24: Bleak Month

The next morning, Seth woke with a pounding headache, but was still clearheaded enough to conclude that starting a relationship with someone clearly still obsessed with someone who was in the ground was not going to work, and he told Clarissa as much over breakfast. There had not been the time for an emotional bond to form, so Clarissa wasn’t too upset.

“All right then,” she said. “I suppose if you’re a bit freaked out by those photos of Jim, it’s understandable. But it’s not like his ghost is haunting the room or anything like that,”

Her offhand suggestion seemed at that moment to be a very real possibility; the thought of him, having shared a bed under the still eyes of a photograph all of a sudden seemed creepy. What if he were watching? Seth then tried his best to dismiss that thought: he’s dead, and he’s not coming back from the grave, in spirit or in body.

“Yes, it’s definitely the photos, and it’s not some ghost, but rather the memory; it’s almost as bad as having him in the room with us.”

“It must represent baggage for you, just like this,” she said, gesturing to her still-pregnant belly.

“Well, perhaps that too. Thanks for the night,” said Seth, and then went outside. He turned around and gave the elegant house one last look. Clarissa was visible through the living room window, and he thought he could see her cry. She really misses her husband, he thought; it’s so tragic being in love with a dead person, clinging to his memory without hope. With that, he walked down the street to board the number 14 bus on Gladstone Street, one block north of her house, which would take him in the general direction of home.


Eunice invited Clarissa to accompany her to the art gallery on Saturday, while Mario acceded to the trip with some minor grumbling; he would have been happy at work, but Eunice said that friends were more important than work, and she pointed out that Nadia was a perfectly capable assistant to the manager. One thing that was notable about that day was that it was snowing heavily; a foot of snow had fallen overnight on Friday, and there were fifteen more centimetres on the ground that morning; thus, traffic had slowed nearly to a standstill, and taking the bus was not that much faster than walking, while Mario said that the car was entirely out of the question. The three of them strode down the middle of McLeod Street, which was reduced to a few tire tracks. While it wasn’t cold, it was very quiet; there were no car engines, no dogs, no cats, most people were inside, and even the few birds that were braving the winter were silent. Mario enjoyed these walks.

“I’m very sorry to hear about the miscarriage,” he said.

“I guess it’s the luck of the draw,” said Clarissa. “I mean, I don’t think I did anything wrong,” she said as they crossed Bank Street. The office towers, normally visible a few blocks north on the street, were obscured by the tempest, and the normally bustling commercial strip was silent, as people’s footsteps were muffled by the snow; the only cars to be seen were parked on the street, and it was obvious that their owners were not using them or anywhere nearby; no tires were visible, as they were long buried, and most of them were ensconced in deep drifts. On the remainder of the walk, they saw similar scenes; cars were stuck, many snowbanks had grown to be the height of small trees, and when they got to the parking lot of the gallery, which was nearly empty, they could see it was rimmed by mounds of snow that dwarfed all cars, and buried the pine trees halfway up their trunks.

“I have always found it difficult to figure out why you’re unhappy,” said Mario when they were in the gallery. Although he knew that depression did not have to have a reason or justification behind it, the subject was nevertheless hard to broach; any question asked would be awkward.

Clarissa shrugged. “I don’t know,” she said as she looked at a heroic image of Norman Bethune, which a plaque indicated was donated by the government of China. “I guess it’s just life in general.”

“Perhaps it’s all this snow,” said Mario. “I wouldn’t mind seeing green grass and flowers again,”

“It’s more of a social thing; you guys are very kind and all, but the same could not be said of my parents. They try to do the right thing, but mom keeps missing the mark, and Pat seems to have an ulterior motive.”

It was an astute observation, noted Eunice. Patricia had confessed in Eunice her dear desire to see some grandchildren, and was dwelling on it with a growing obsession; the miscarriage must no doubt have been a huge blow for her.

They continued walking, and passed several more pictures; they saw Alexander Graham Bell’s painted image, and Lester Pearson looked very handsome in his portrait. They then saw Richler, Massey, and a number of other luminaries, before turning to a hall devoted to landscapes.

“That one seems to reflect what’s outside,” said Eunice, pointing at one that showed loggers cutting a tree down in a snow-covered forest; it reflected not the present, but rather the heritage of Canada as a logging nation, also reflected to some degree in their city’s heritage; they could see, through a large window, a paper mill across the frozen river giving off large amounts of steam. The visit to the gallery did not seem to cheer Clarissa up, as Eunice noted. Mario also saw that something was wrong with her; several of the neighbours had noticed this as well, and some of them clearly preferred the old Clarissa, the one who had a sunny disposition, who always seemed to be happy, the one with a smile always on her face.

“Has anyone else been looking out for you? I think that, now James is dead, and your mom lives in Toronto, that you have nobody looking out for you,”

“I’ve been going to bars,”

Eunice raised her eyebrows. “You’re trying to pick up?”

“That’s it.”

“Have you been doing this often?”

“Yes; I would have a club soda every time, or a Perrier, if it’s a more upscale place, and some alcohol, and you know, try to have a good time,”

“But you wouldn’t be going out with friends; you need friends to go to a bar,” that Clarissa was going to bars alone was perhaps the worst part, even if she had been abstaining from alcohol; the lone barfly, in her mind, was typically male, unattractive, balding and either single or divorced; it wasn’t the kind of dating pool she would want for herself if she were in Clarissa’s place. There were also the unsavoury characters that went to bars.

“What kind of bars?”

“The ones downtown,”

“The ones with all the rowdy students?” Asked Mario.

“What other kind is there?”

“Oh dear,” said Eunice.

“You know, you’re always welcome to come over to our place any evening you want,” offered Mario.

“Just not at the end of the month; that’s inventory time for me,”

“Oh, yeah, I also do inventory then; of course, I need to keep track of the food constantly, so it’s kind of a continuous process,” said Mario.

“Well, I guess that, now you’re no longer pregnant, there aren’t any restrictions with the bottle,”

“It’s a small comfort; but now I have all this booze––I inherited James’s liquor cabinet––and there’s nobody to share it with,” said Clarissa.

“I don’t remember James as being a drinker,”

“He wasn’t; he simply liked to collect exotic drinks; he seems to have had a taste for liqueurs; most of the bottles looked really old,”

“That’s interesting,” said Eunice, who had never seen James’s liquor cabinet, and wondered where it would be kept. She had noted a cabinet that appeared to be 70s décor in the study with sliding doors last time she visited Clarissa, and thought that it might be kept there; it might also be in the cupboard with stained glass doors in the sitting room upstairs, or in a variety of other places. She had been idly looking into space at this point, not noticing a sculpture of a lion; then she came back to the present, and noticed the sculpture for the first time. After two hours, the trio went home; the snowfall had wound down to a few flakes falling, and the only noise that could be heard was the wind; the sky was overcast, and was a shade of pale grey, which was reflected on the snow on the ground. The crystals, so beautiful, iridescent, multihued and sparkling in the sunlight, took on the grey hue of the sky in places, while they were white in other places and blue in the shadows. This was a time when Eunice and Mario both found that they could accomplish plenty of work, as the weather outside meant there would be few distractions in the form of warm sunlight or anything, which meant they could subtly get harder and more productive work out of their employees; it was also when they preferred to do their income taxes, again for the reason of few distractions.

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The Third Part of Chapter 24: Bleak Month

Seth spent Friday night, the second one in February, as he sometimes did, at a bar downtown; he seldom did this, but sometimes he found he needed a drink to relieve the monotony of work. On this particular night, he went alone, which meant he would not be drinking anything; he had a principle of not drinking unless he was with friends. He relaxed that rule, however, and purchased a corona beer with lime, which was prominently advertised on the opposite wall. He then noticed an oddity for a bar: an apparently pregnant woman, whom he assumed and hoped, was not there for the drinks. She was holding what looked like a gin and tonic, but he hoped it would be something less harmful, like soda water with a lime. She sat down at a table, and read the drinks menu, not really planning to get anything other than water and maybe a sprite. Seth, thinking she was lonely––she looked unhappy, sat down beside her.

“Well, hello. You look out of place. Is a bar really a good place for a pregnant woman? And I hope that’s not alcohol,”

“Oh, it’s Perrier and lime. Why do people automatically assume I’m pregnant? I might just be fat, you know.”

“A lot of men can tell the difference, and anyways, fat’s a peripheral issue. It’s overblown in society. It’s all in the eyes, really.” Clarissa made no comment about the assumed pregnancy, but bit her lip and instead focussed on the last part of his comment.

“Really? How are my eyes?”

“I think you look rather pretty.”

“Thank you. My husband would say that, before he died,”

Clarissa’s eyes were glistening with tears being held back. The man noticed.

“Oh dear,”

“It’s all right; I’m just another woman, anyways. I’ve received rather much pity, lately, due to, well, things.”

“I would think so, if you spend your Fridays in bars. What’s your name?”

“Clarissa,”

“Seth,”

“So, why are you in a bar?”

“I’m no longer pregnant. I had a miscarriage,”

“Oh dear, I’m so sorry,”

“Don’t worry about feeling sorry for me; I received plenty of that from my parents and in-laws,” Clarissa asked, changing the subject, “What do you think of the president?”

This is an obvious attempt to draw attention away from your dead husband, thought Seth. It’s probably a good idea.

“He puts me to mind of the saying about Julius Caesar––he came, he saw, he conquered. In all aspects of life, I mean. He’s an enormous character. I heard rumours about how he slept with scads of women before finding his wife, who he’s currently cheating on,”

“I couldn’t believe that story when it broke out! I mean, some men, they don’t give one whit to his wife. The worst part is, he has a four-year-old, and I’ve heard rumours of another pregnancy with his secretary.”

“That harlot?”

“Not so much harlot as airhead.”

“It’s a funny show, American politics; at least we get to watch it as a spectator sport. It puts me to mind of what was said by that person on CNN, you know, Rich something-or-other: ‘Politics these days are flashy, splashy, and trashy.’”

“His campaign was quite funny. Who would’ve thought that he could promise to strengthen the ties that bind America to the world, and promise to protect jobs in manufacturing at home? He endorses globalisation and protectionism in the same breath! I’m surprised he got away with it.”

“The debates weren’t that impressive; ‘are tax cuts your only answer to everything?’ said one. ‘Are subsidies your panacea?’ said the other,”

“I hope he ‘wends his way on the incredible American journey of progress’, whatever that means,”

“That’s not to say we’re all that different from them. We bicker constantly, and there’s a real mismatch between rhetoric and action.” This rang especially true; Meach, while making noises about respecting the democratic process, had been reticent about relinquishing power, and only handed the reins of office over to Cameron Duff at the end of the month.

“Indeed; ‘building Canada’ turned out to mean building an airport for Winnipeg that’s not really in Winnipeg, and widening a few roads. What the hell is that?”

“To me, building Canada would mean building on human capital. I was expecting to see university expansion and more funding when I heard that phrase, but I have never seen someone so eager to curtail research budgets,”

Seth thought that she was very interesting.

“What do you think of Cameron Duff? He seems a rather interesting character; just think of his life story: once an economist with the Conference Board of Canada, independent and essentially a dark horse and a contrarian voice throughout his period in Parliament until ten years ago, and then he stood as the primary antagonist of Meach and the other party leaders, who are trying to portray him as the universal nemesis, and representative of all that is devious, with alleged cloak-and-dagger strategies on Duff’s part; I don’t buy that, however, and neither did many other people.”

“Oh yeah, if there were any cloak-and-dagger conspiracy, we would have known about it already. That was a very leaky election campaign, thanks to journalists being very good at bugging conference rooms; I now know all sorts of things where I think I was better off in the dark, so to speak.”

“I find Duff as sort of a man of principles; he said that he didn’t want to make any particularly flashy promises that he couldn’t pay for, yet he had no problem making all the flashy promises that he could pay for. By the way, how would they bug a conference room?”

“It’s a simple matter of cleverly hiding a digital recorder in the room, pressing record, and retrieving it later. He had no problem mocking the system, occasionally light-heartedly, at other times passionately, but there’s no question that he’s a first-rate political actor; he has never been one to tip his cards. It’s another thing about him that he likes to play all roles that can be ascribed to a person: villain, hero, anti-hero, jackass, ladies’ man, and neutral observer after the fashion of Oberon.

“At least he can’t be accused of being a ruthless womaniser or a mollycoddler; that describes Meach. I was none too pleased with him redecorating his cottage with public funds, like quite a lot of my friends. They have to work very hard for that money.”

“The Prime Minister works very hard for the money he gets as well, and as neither of us have ever been Prime Minister, I don’t think we should talk about the stresses he may or may not be experiencing on the job.”

Seth was taken aback by this perhaps nobly disinterested opinion, and tried to change the subject. “So, why are you here? You’re obviously still in mourning,”

“I kind of want to forget about my husband. I’ve had enough of crying for so long. I’m really just here to play the field.”

“And a bar was the best place to do it,”

“Well, sure; one only goes to nightclubs in groups, at parks you’d be taking
a pot shot, book clubs are usually only for women, and all of my neighbours are married. Hence, the bar was my best bet; I find people are a lot looser here, and I don’t mind being the so-called designated driver,”

Seth thought, my, this is at once disturbing and a turn-on.

As happened often to people, that had been more than a thought. “Pardon?”

Clarissa asked, “Uh, so, were you planning on taking me home?”

“Um…sure. I’m single too, after all.”

As it turned out, they did not go to Seth’s house, which was on the east side of the river, and then a further two kilometres; they went to Clarissa’s house instead, which was a highly manageable fifteen minute walk, and thus very friendly to a moderately drunk Seth and a sober Clarissa, who was clinging tightly to his arm, out of fear of the dark and criminals, but also in an effort to keep warm, and in a desire for companionship. When Seth entered her house, he had the impression of a nice, though slightly neglected interior; he noted the wilted potted plants and the carpet that needed vacuuming. The two headed upstairs, Seth inebriated, Clarissa simply tired, but both of them excited, and they went to the bedroom, which Seth noted had several photos on the wall of a slightly pudgy man who was shorter in stature than Clarissa, as was evidenced by the photo of the two of them standing on a beach together. This man, he assumed, must have been her deceased husband.

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The Second Part of Chapter 24: Bleak Month

Margaret could hear her daughter in tears as she answered the phone. The last time she had been this tearful was at her husband’s funeral, and although she did not like him due to some characteristic of his that she could not quite pin down, she still felt sorry for her daughter for having lost her husband. It was true that there were other fish in the sea, but she simply wanted to see her daughter happy; it had always been first on her mind. This was why Clarissa’s next words struck her like a blow.

“I’m no longer pregnant.”

“What? Oh, Clarissa! You had a miscarriage!”

“Yes. I woke up mysteriously feeling better, and the doctor told me that I had lost her.”

Then I’m no longer going to have a grandchild by her, thought Margaret, even though there would be other chances. What misfortunes have befallen her! She has had far too much death. It was also true that although Margaret wanted her daughter to feel happy, she did not find the deaths tragic for herself. She wasn’t the one who had loved James, and that stillborn child belonged to Clarissa, not herself. Thus, she reacted to this latest tragic news as if it were somebody she did not know, and she felt uncomfortable with herself for thinking this. Didn’t she also take a disliking to James for his detachment and indifferent attitude to everyone who wasn’t Clarissa? That was how she saw it; he seemed to have very few tender relations, even with his parents, she thought, her mind going very quickly, and leaping rashly from one thing to the next. Wasn’t this detachment the same sort that she was currently feeling?

“I’m so sorry,”

“I told Ryan and Patricia. They were in hysterics. I’m surprised that you’re not.”

Margaret wiped a tear from her eye, as she sometimes did when she read a particularly sad story in the news.

“What did you think when James died of that heart attack? It seems to me like he stopped loving you, divorced you, and died, all within four seconds. And you know: a heart attack seems a dodgy way to go for a thirty-three year old.”

“Must you read something that’s not there into James’s death? It was a heart attack, pure and simple, and the shock of unemployment combined with the news of my pregnancy pushed him over the edge. And honestly mom, every time you mention it, you conjure uncomfortable thoughts in my mind. Suggesting that his death was dodgy suggests some responsibility on either my part, or Maurice’s. So please, don’t mention his death.”

“I’m sorry honey,”

“This isn’t exactly the first time you bought this up. It somehow surfaced in a conversation at Christmas, and several other times, which is not a terribly impressive record. It seems like you have an obsession with it.”

“Perhaps I shouldn’t have brought it up.”

“You haven’t been discussing this with Hyram or your friends, have you?

“No, honey.” Margaret was sorry she had brought it up, and she was feeling at least a little guilty for making Clarissa reminisce over James’s death, and contemplate her role in it. This gave rise to another thought: would things have turned out differently had I reached out to James? Maybe he would have survived if I had given him my warm support rather than the cold shoulder.

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The First Part of Chapter 24: Bleak Month

Winter had dragged on to a phase which was universally found to be grating on the soul, and which everyone wanted to see over: it was the phase in which the last day when the temperature had been above freezing was three weeks previously, on the 11th of January, and the snow, where it wasn’t packed down hard, was chest deep, and one could not see over the snow banks. At least that was the way it seemed to Patricia, as she walked home from her grocery shopping at Hartman’s. She reviewed her purchases, to check whether she had remembered everything. As it turned out, she did: the jam, the milk, cheese, olives, bread, meat, and everything else was in her bag, and she continued down the street, shielding her face against the cold. She wondered how Clarissa was faring; winter was known to be a time in which people were affected with depression, and with quite good reason: after nearly three months without seeing the bare ground and having to dress up in sometimes cumbersome clothing, and having to deal with short daylight hours, it was easy to see why one would become downtrodden. After shopping, she decided, she would go visit; she had last visited Clarissa’s house just after Christmas, and she wanted to see what had become of the house that her son had purchased.

She put her groceries away, and then walked the five blocks over to Clarissa’s house. Clarissa, like James, had very little use for the car, and thus had not bothered to shovel the driveway around it, but rather only shovelled the front walk and steps. The car itself was just discernable, with one window uncovered, while the rest of the vehicle was buried under the deep snow. She knocked on the front door, and Clarissa came to answer. This being the weekend, Clarissa had taken the opportunity to sleep in, she was still in her dressing gown, and her shoulder-length hair was uncombed.

“Hello, Clarie. I just came by to see how you’re doing,”

“Good morning, Pat. It is still morning,” she checked the clock in the living room to make sure. “I’m doing as fine as I can expect; the pregnancy is still making me sick all the time, so I can’t be too well until the baby comes.”

“I expect you’re looking forward to that happy day.”

“Yes.” Patricia could hear that the bounce and perk of her voice was absent. She looked around: it seemed like the carpet had last been vacuumed two weeks ago, and some of the plants in the living room were starting to wilt; the spider plant that she had given James was looking small and sad, just as she was imagining Clarissa was feeling about her dead husband. She noticed a collection of photographs on a small shelf in one corner; the shelf had once belonged to her grandmother, and had lingered in her mother’s basement, then her own basement, before James had found a use for it when he purchased his own house. The shelf’s age was evident, as it was an antique, and one of the legs showed several scratch marks. The photos on top of the shelf were mostly of James: when he and Clarissa were on a date, when he was swimming, and several honeymoon pictures, arranged around a white vase. The room, which was decorated in shades of blue, looked quite cold and uninviting, as opposed to the lived-in and welcoming appearance that it had before James died. It even felt cold; this was an effect of the weak sun, and the fact that it was still around ten degrees below zero outside as much as the feeling that it had not been cleaned for a few weeks; it seemed to her that Clarissa was slowly losing her grip, and would need to find it soon.

“Well, I just want you to be happy, dear.” Patricia had formed a sort of attachment to her daughter in law; it was as if Clarissa were a surrogate for Jim, and now she regarded her almost like a daughter. It was for this reason that she cared for Clarissa almost as much as she cared for Katherine. Ryan had formed a similar attachment, although this bond was not nearly as strong: he was still just as interested in her welfare as Patricia was, but he did not go out of his way to make phone calls or visit; he was a man, after all. He, like her, also regarded Clarissa like a member of the family, even though there was no blood relation. The care both of them shared for Clarissa was an obvious manifestation of the hope and joy they felt that they would be having a granddaughter to love and dote upon in May, if all went well. She considered that, given Clarissa’s misfortunes, her luck would have to turn and Alexandra Apollonia’s birth would be a joyous occasion come May. Patricia, who knew some statistics and probability, fully realised that its underpinnings were random rather than moral, even though she felt it should work in a more moral fashion, with virtue being rewarded; she did not doubt that Clarissa was virtuous, as was her son; this wasn’t virtue in the classical sense of the word, but rather it was virtue in the sense that her son had always cared for his girlfriends.

As she walked back home, it started to snow. The gray skies had been threatening snow for a day, and it started to fall, first in one or two flakes, and then more heavily as she turned on to MacLaren Street. She fried mushrooms and a chicken breast for dinner, and put rotini on the stove to boil, and by the time dinner was ready, the snow was falling thick and fast; the pavement, once gray, was presently obscured entirely. The sidewalks, like the road, were also quickly buried afresh, which meant that the plough team, consisting of a snowplough for the road, and two snowblowers for the sidewalks, would be coming within three days.


On the fourth of February, the first thaw came; the snow melted and formed large, slushy puddles, and several backyards were flooded by water dammed by ice; the ground was still frozen, the air still cold, and thus the water had nowhere to go. The elder Millers’ backyard sloped away from the house, and they were not bothered by water, though their neighbours to their back, Jeannine, and to her west, Rick, both had flooded backyards. That evening, Patricia was mincing garlic for the spaghetti sauce she was making when the phone rang. It was Clarissa, and she crying.

“Oh dear, Clarissa, what’s wrong, darling?”

“I just had a miscarriage. You won’t be grandparents.”

The news hit Patricia like a blow; losing James was bad enough; indeed it was quite shocking, but this really put her over the edge. She was howling, and this attracted Ryan’s attention as he was removing his tie.

“What?”

“We’re… no longer going to be grandparents,” Patricia bawled. Ryan, who was still emotionally distraught from his son’s death only four months before, also dissolved into tears.

“Dear Clarissa, how did this happen?”

“I don’t know; I just have terrible luck.”

“I’m so sorry,”

“You don’t have to be, but thank you. I woke up and I wasn’t sick like I usually was, so I called the doctor. He told me I was no longer pregnant,”

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The Second Part of Chapter 23: A New Leaf

It was a Tuesday, and after Margaret arrived home early after finally hiring a better graphic designer, and with nothing better to do at home, she started cleaning the house. She began by wiping down all of the tabletops and counters, and she was thorough. She removed the pictures that she put on the buffet, and there were a lot of them; she had three married children and a grandson, after all. She then wiped the buffet top down until it was dully lustrous, not quite the same as when it was new, but close enough. She then went into the kitchen to dispose of the paper towel she had been using. Distracted by the time, she then filled the watering can and watered the plants, but had still managed to forget the small, neglected ivy plant that was perched on top of a tall bookshelf in the living room. She then went back to the kitchen via the dining room, but in a moment of clumsiness, knocked her hipbone against the buffet, where she had neglected to put the framed photographs back in one place, but instead left them stacked rather precariously. As her hipbone connected with the buffet, she grimaced in annoyance. At the same time, the top photo fell from its perch onto the floor, and the glass broke. It depicted James and Clarissa on their honeymoon. They were posing opposite Signal Hill in Saint John’s. When she saw this, she thought, oh great! Another mess for me to clean up! She put the empty watering can on the dinner table, and bent over to pick the frame up. The tips of her fingers were still wet, and without her noticing, she brushed the surface of the photograph with them, and then went and replaced the watering can beneath the kitchen sink.

The damage the water did to the photo escaped Margaret's notice until the evening, and Hyram rather than his wife pointed it out: “Say, Marge, what happened to the photo of Clarie and James?”

“Oh, that. I dropped it on the floor; we shall have to get a new frame.”

“Well, glass is cheap to repair, but it looks damaged in another way; it looks like part of it’s been erased,” said Hyram.

“What? Dammit!” She looked at the photo, which by now had been thoroughly damaged by the water, which had trickled down the left side of the photo and erased James’s face, replacing it with a dirty yellow and white area. She regretted doing this; it was bad enough that Clarie had lost a husband, but there was no need for their memory of James to erode as well; we might as well get on with it, and take the losses in stride, she thought. While the photo was a trivial loss, the real loss was not physical, it couldn’t be represented as a number or a figure on a piece of paper; the real loss came from inside the head when she forgot, and she was slowly forgetting: she could no longer recall what James’s favourite food had been.


That same day, Ryan was contemplating the headline after dinner, which proclaimed in banner letters the conservative victory. His reaction, unlike Margaret’s upon reading the same story, was of mild disappointment that the Liberals would not be carrying on their happy tradition of good governance at the helm of the country, as had been the case for a large part of the last century. Not that he had actually voted for the local candidate, Singha, but rather for Wakefield’s local representative; while he really liked the New Democrats, it was also the case that he did not mind the Liberals, and wasn’t sufficiently scared of Cameron Duff to help in some self-defeating effort to keep him out of office in the admittedly futile gesture of strategic voting. In this, he had principle, he said to himself. He still looked to the future with optimism, and thought after some reflection that the Liberals probably needed some time in opposition to get away from the temptations of patronage.

Katherine had just arrived home from school, to confront a pile of marking: she had three tests to give back, one for each class, and there was the assignment that her class had handed in the previous Friday. With luck and a lot of time, she thought, she would be able to finish marking one test, and would leave the rest for the next day. It was not so simple, though; her mother had left a message on her answering machine, in so many words wondering how long she would remain single, and urging her to find a man; she grimaced at her last words, “because I only want to be a grandmother, darling.” It was more than enough pressure to deal with; she would eventually find a boyfriend, she thought, but by no means with certainty. The divorce had left a bad taste in her mouth; must all men be so possessive? On the other hand, Jim had been nice enough before he died; maybe if there were someone similar to him that she could find, then her sister-in-law would be happy. If all else failed, there was still the school: there were enough decent men teaching there, she would eventually find a husband before they all went.

Her thoughts turned to dinner: what to make? Pasta would be too boring, as she had just had spaghetti last night, lasagne the previous Saturday, and fettuccine with Alfredo sauce two days ago. Perhaps she would roast a chicken. As she got the chicken out of the freezer and fetched the seasonings, her mind turned to the election: although she was disappointed by the results (she had voted for the New Democrats, who had failed to win in her riding by only 1,000 votes), she did acknowledge the fact that Meach and his cadre had grown too many of the warts of power, which included cronyism, a dissociation from their electoral base, and an increasingly out-of-touch attitude toward the populace; how else would one explain the bungling early on of the stimulus package that had been meant to create jobs? It was nearly three months overdue, and Duff had threatened to topple the government over that issue, before he actually did so in November.

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The First Part of Chapter 23: A New Leaf

On the morning after the election, Margaret rose early in anticipation of another productive day at work. While eating her bran, Margaret looked at the banner headline of the Globe and Mail, which proclaimed, in all-capital type: TORIES WIN ELECTION, DUFF TOASTS VICTORY. Below were two pictures: Duff standing before a cheering crowd of supporters, and Meach looking contrite. She read the article below, as written by Evan Robert Durmer, whom she doubted slept at all the previous night:

Last night, Canadians voted for a change in government, but by a narrow margin. Vote counts are incomplete at the time of printing, but the largest share of the vote went to Cameron Duff, leader of the Conservative Party of Canada. The lead of victory was razor thin, 33% to 31%, but still enough for now Prime Minister-Elect Duff to unerringly claim victory.

Duff, in his victory speech last night, thanked “Bruce Meach, Patrick Wakefield, Georges Valence, and Abethey Mazli for a vigorous, professional, and hard-fought campaign”, and extended the thanks to the Canadian people. Meach claimed something of a victory in his concession speech, made at one o’clock this morning, just before this issue went to print: “I stand before you, chastened, but I promise to present a vigorous opposition to the incoming government, led by the Cameron Duff. I would like to thank all of our supporters in this hard-fought campaign,” The full contents of the speech are in our special Election section.

“No doubt, the defeat of Meach by Duff would be most devastating to him,” said Mark Gainly, of the polling and research agency Treiserd-Wiss. “He viewed the
election as a given, and up until nearly Christmas, he had believed himself invincible.”

Catherine Ness, a former cabinet Minister close to the Prime Minister, corroborated this: “Oh, I imagine he must be very disappointed,” she said. “He was very ambitious and possessive. He wanted to continue shaping Canada’s destiny for quite some time.”

Xavier Nolen, another former cabinet Minister, said, “Quite frankly, this election has been a repudiation of Meach and his way of running government. I will admit that we have grown rather complacent, and we I think we need to spend some time in the woods,”

Meach said he wouldn’t be resigning in his concession speech vowing to “fight the good fight,” but there are already calls for his resignation. Angus Ross, former Minister of Human Resources and Social Development, as well as of Natural Resources, said in a late-night interview, “the overriding theme of this election was of Bruce [Meach’s] lack of leadership skills and poor direction,”

Meach, upon receiving knowledge of this statement by a former Minister, said emotionally, “I vow to continue as the leader of the Liberal Party, and these desires expressed by certain unsavoury individuals are full of sound and fury, signifying nothing,”

The election did not produce murmurs about the leadership skills of either Patrick Wakefield, of Winnipeg South, or of Georges Valence, of Shawinigan.

That would all be about expectations, thought Margaret. Nobody seriously expected either the Bloquistes or the socialists to form the government, thus there are no cloak-and-dagger moves within those parties. Meach got what he deserved; he and all those around him became complacent and corrupt, and now they need to spend some years in the political wilderness. It’s not complete exile, she thought; opposition parties are very powerful in minority governments, after all. All of this was the major reason for her, and Hyram, having cast their ballots for Fiona O’Brien. She and Hyram had both known her from her days working as the owner of the small restaurant chain O’Brien’s; Hyram had once been a major wholesale supplier, and the two got along quite well. A person like O’Brien should expect to do well, given luck, and it seemed like she had all the luck. It was also true that hardworking people like Fiona make their own luck, and this was certainly the case in the last election campaign, where she left nothing to chance. It was quite unfortunate, however that she had lost by a mere twelve votes to the Liberal incumbent, Peter Ronald Poores, the current President of the Treasury Board, whom Margaret viewed as a sycophant, particularly when seeking votes; she thought Poores’s kingly, regal stature and attitude had something to do with his re-election. There was still a ray of hope, however: the margin of victory for Poors was so narrow as to automatically trigger a recount.

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