Authors: Anthony Bidulka
announcement at the ceremony. But due to the
58 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
importance of the Businessperson of the Year
Award, we do what is necessary to ensure that the
winner, with prepared speech in hand and troops
of supporters in the audience, is in attendance to
accept the honour.”
“I take it you don’t agree with this tradition?”
The corners of her lips turned up just a wee bit
before she answered, “That is not my decision to
make.”
“So the bottom line is that anyone could have
known who the winner was and anyone could
have gotten to that envelope without being detect-
ed. There are no obvious suspects here,” I said
grimly.
“Well,” she said, “just one.”
She had my attention. “Oh? And who is that?”
“Me,” she said. “I am the one obvious common
denominator with unequalled access to the knowl-
edge of the winner’s identity and the envelope.”
“Are you making a confession, Ms. Vermont?”
This time a smile did flit across her face. “No,
for the record, I am not.”
I narrowed my eyes. “But that in itself does not
preclude me from adding your name to the sus-
pect list.” I wasn’t serious about this, but I was
interested in her reaction, just for the heck of it.
“I would expect no less,” she responded,
Vulcan-like.
“I want to thank you for your time, Ms.
Vermont,” I said as I rose from my chair.
“You’re very welcome,” she said, also rising.
“I’m sorry my information couldn’t have been
more directive.”
Anthony Bidulka — 59
“Well, you never know. Sometimes the cloudi-
est bit of information when combined with other
cloudy bits of information makes everything per-
fectly clear.”
“I understand.” And I believe she did.
I was almost out the door when I heard her call
my name. I turned back and gave her a question-
ing look.
“Your client is Daniel Guest,” she said in a
hushed whisper.
I swallowed hard but hoped I gave no other out-
ward signs of confirmation or surprise at the accu-
racy of her guess. “Why do you say that?”
“Don’t worry, Mr. Quant, nothing we’ve dis-
cussed today will leave this room. It’s just that I
must admit I’ve found the idea of your profession
and current dilemma quite intriguing and chal-
lenging this afternoon. I’ve been attempting my
own internal sleuthing since you arrived with the
goal of guessing who your client is. I hope you
don’t mind. I know it’s silly.” Silly was not a word
I’d use to describe Lois Vermont. “I’m probably
way off base, but given that I know your client is
a man and he won the award in the past six years,
there are only four possible people it could be. The
other two recipients were women.”
I was curious now too. “So why Daniel Guest
out of those four?”
“When the awards are handed out, my duties
include being present on or near the stage through-
out the ceremony. Although it was several days
ago, I remember clearly the look on Mr. Guest’s
face after he received his award and opened the
60 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
envelope. He was smiling, but there was some-
thing else I saw, something in his eyes. It
was…horror.”
By the time I returned to Persephone Theatre after
my meeting with Lois Vermont, Rebecca had col-
lected a stack of five black and white eight-by-
ten’s (the actor’s version of a resume) of blond or
sort of blond twenty-something actors who’d
appeared on the Persephone stage in the past
three productions. Rebecca wisely would not
allow me to remove the photos from the premises
but she did let me photocopy them. I copied front
and back—on the back of each photograph was
the actor’s pertinent information including name,
phone number and vital statistics (likely exaggerat-
ed) of height, weight and hair colour.
Back in my car I used my cellphone to call
Daniel’s office number. I reached his voice mail
which told me he would be in meetings or away
from the office for the rest of the day.
Instead of going back to the office where I expect-
ed all I’d do is chase my tail while trying to find a
comfortable spot on the sofa, I called my mother
and told her to put her coat on because I’d be by
to pick her up in fifteen minutes. And thirty min-
utes later my mother was sitting in a movie the-
atre seat for the first time in almost forty years. As
we went through the process of selecting one of
the four matinee options, paying for the tickets
Anthony Bidulka — 61
and buying popcorn, Nibs and drinks, her mono-
syllabic conversation had me worried. It wasn’t
until we were settled in the dim, nearly empty the-
atre, on the downy comfort of our coats waiting
for the show to begin that I took notice of the look
on her face. It was that of a schoolgirl on her first
fieldtrip away from home. Her eyes were wide
and shiny as they gobbled up every detail of the
theatre and the few people around us. She was ini-
tially suspicious of the yellowed popcorn but was
deep into the bucket’s contents long before the
film began to roll.
“I vas tventy-tree years old, Sonsyou—” (her
affectionate Ukrainian term for “my son”) “—last
time I do dis. Vit Dad.” I knew that by Dad she
meant my dad, her husband. “Dad deedn’t like.
Too long for heem to seet.” Her head rotated about
a hundred-and-eighty degrees as she continued to
behold her awesome surroundings. “Oi, vhat a
ting. And before supper too!”
I smiled more that afternoon than I had in a
long time. And it had nothing to do with the
movie.
My house is on a large lot at the dead end of a
quiet, little-travelled street. A grove of towering
aspen and thick spruce neatly hide it from view of
the casual passerby. Inside, the house is a unique
mix of open, airy rooms and tiny, cozy spaces,
each that appeal to me depending upon my mood.
A six-foot-high fence encircles the backyard and at
the rear of the lot, accessible by way of a back
62 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
alley, is a two-car garage with a handy second
storey I use for storage. My home is my castle, a
place where I re-energize and take refuge from the
world. And tonight my refuge smelled like pork
roast, kielbasa and potatoes in cream.
After our heavy post-theatre fare, I helped my
mother clean up the kitchen then introduced her
to the delights of satellite TV. She was immediate-
ly drawn to the mystery channel that was show-
ing reruns of all her favourites, like
Murder She
Wrote
,
Matlock
and
Barnaby Jones
. So while she retired to her room to watch murder and mayhem
to her heart’s content, I took Barbra for a quick
after-dinner walk, hoping to ward off the several
pounds I could feel attaching themselves to my
tummy like barnacles of fat.
It was one of those perfect winter evenings: not
too cold, no wind, confetti-like snowflakes flutter-
ing to the ground like ice fairies in slow motion.
Graceful, bare limbed trees glittered with diamond-
white jewels of frost. Decorated homes were Lite-
Brite versions of their normal selves. The smoke of
birch wood fires and Handel’s
Messiah
floated on
the air as if permanent components of nature.
Magical. Tranquil. I pulled in a sharp breath of cool,
clean air and wished I could maintain the euphoric
feeling for longer. Christmastime in Saskatoon. A
pretty terrific place to be.
We were on our way back and about half a
block away when Barbra began to act up, unusual
for her.
“What is it, girl? Did Little Timmy fall down
the well?” It was our standard Lassie joke when-
Anthony Bidulka — 63
ever it seemed Barbra was trying to tell me some-
thing important—if only she could talk.
Ignoring me, Barbra strained at her collar and
let out a couple woofs. Another dog was running
towards us. Initially alarmed until I saw that it
was Brutus, her brother, I released Barbra from her
leash and watched as the two dogs greeted one
another with their customary nose touch followed
by some rather staid frolicking in the snow.
“Errall?” I called out to the dark figure getting
out of a car parked in front of my yard.
“Good timing,” she called back.
As I came closer I ducked down to see if Kelly
was in the vehicle. She wasn’t.
“Is this a bad time?” she asked. “I should have
called.”
I was surprised to see Errall, especially without
Kelly. Errall and I aren’t the kind of friends who
just drop by for unexpected visits. “Ah, sure it’s
okay. Come on in.”
“I suppose I can’t smoke in there?” she asked,
knowing the answer. Errall and I both gave up
smoking over five years ago but she had started
again nine months ago when her partner, Kelly,
learned she had breast cancer and eventually had
a breast removed.
“It’s time to quit again, Errall.”
“I know,” she said tensely, “but it’ll be like last
time, I’ll get bitchy and gain a ton of weight.”
Errall is almost always bitchy and rarely devi-
ates more than half a kilogram off her ideal
weight, but I didn’t think this was a good time to
point that out.
64 — F l i g h t o f A q u av i t
“Russell, I need your help.”
This was a first. Errall and Kelly have been
together for eight years. Kelly is my friend—Errall
is someone who sleeps with my friend. At least
that’s how our relationship began and remained
for quite some time. Errall and I tend to see the
world in different ways, but I’ve also grudgingly
come to admit that she, my lawyer and my land-
lord, is one of the smartest and most insightful
people I know.
“It’s too cold out here, c’mon inside. You can
do without a cigarette for a while.”
“Who the hell is that?” Errall asked as we made
our way down the front yard pathway, dogs at our
heels.
I followed her gaze. My mother’s Brillo Pad
head was clearly silhouetted behind the frosted
glass of my front door. She was sneaking a peek,
not too subtly, to see who was in the yard.
I chuckled. “Come meet my mom.” But by the
time we reached the house and made our way
inside, Mother was no where to be found. I
shrugged, and said, “I guess the commercial break
was over.”
After depositing our coats and boots in the
foyer, I directed Errall to the living room. It’s the
largest space in the house, meant for grand parties
of which I’ve had one or two. The centrepiece is a
gigantic, stone-covered, octagonal fireplace.
Surrounding it is a collection of couches for fire-
side chats with close friends, a grand piano for
rousing singsongs with show-tune-loving homo-
sexuals and women over a certain age, a fully
Anthony Bidulka — 65
stocked bar for that lounge-lizard atmosphere and
an empty space near the windows that sometimes
ends up being a dance floor and would soon
become home to a Christmas tree.
“Wine?” I offered as she headed for the fire-
place and I for the bar.
“You have any Scotch?”
I had some Oban I’d purchased for a special
someone who’d never come over to drink it.
“Coming right up.”
While I poured our drinks Errall expertly laid
in a small fire. Her hair was in a tidy ponytail and
she wore an oversized sweatshirt and jeans. Our
tasks done we retired to the couch.
We weren’t small talkers so as I took a first sip
of a purple and peppery Via Aurelia Cabernet I’d
poured myself I asked, “What is it? Is it Kelly?”
“Sort of. I…we need a favour.”
“Sure, anything, you know that.”
Errall glanced over at Barbra and Brutus who
had splayed themselves out with the meekness of
Penthouse
models in front of the fireplace, soaking
up heat. “Actually, Barbra needs to agree to this
favour too.”
I said nothing. Barbra did the same.
“We were wondering if you two would mind
keeping Brutus for a while.”
I smiled. “Finally!” I enthused. “Where are you
going? It’s about time. Somewhere hot I hope.”
More accustomed to Barbra staying at Kelly and