Sussex Drive: A Novel (19 page)
“Your Excellency.” Lieutenant-Colonel K. curtseyed and held out her hand. Not as smooth as it used to be; the cuticles were nibbled raw.
“We meet under extraordinary circumstances,” Lise said.
“Yes,” said Lieutenant-Colonel K. “Last time it was your beautiful Riddled Hall and now—” She looked back at the utility tent, where she’d obviously been strip-searched.
“I understand that you have been through a challenging situation,” Lise said.
Lieutenant-Colonel K. bobbed her head. “We will talk sometime about that.
Inshallah
.”
Lise studied the shape of her skull, her hair, and imagined pouring a burka over her shoulders. “Very soon you’ll be reunited with your children.”
“Yes!” Lieutenant-Colonel K. lit up, and Lise thought she could see something familiar in the demeanour—that warm spark.
Time and sequence suddenly became a blur of rushed formality. Ambassador Jabar Khan appeared at the side door of the other Chinook, and Corporal Shymanski and Lieutenant-Colonel K. were escorted to him before Lise could even say goodbye. Lise saw Lieutenant-Colonel K. bend and touch Shymanski’s pylon leg. She was asking him
a question. She probably never knew what had happened to him the day she was apprehended.
Suddenly Lise started to panic. Was it Aisha or not?
The tent out by Highway 1 had been folded and the G-Wagen disappeared inside the other Chinook. Lise was bundled back into her helicopter as the carpet was rolled and planted under the machine gunners. Margaret Lee shoved the satphone into her face.
“Lise, is it the Lieutenant-Colonel?” It was Defence back in Ottawa.
“Yes,” said Lise, overly decisive. “I think so.”
“Think so?”
“What did Corporal Shymanski say?” She knew
CENTCOM
was with them on the line.
“Shymanski! Lise, he wasn’t even asked.”
Lise watched the other Chinook shut up tight, lock and load. She pressed her right hand to her forehead and inhaled the scent—the plumeria so wondrously hopeful and lush in the Kandahar wilderness.
“Yes, it’s her. It’s Aisha.”
B
ECKY TOOK CHARGE OF THE
Tory war room, where everything jittered in an agonizing state of play.
She dispatched party spies
en force
on Banks and Sparks, the bars on or near Wellington—D’Arcy McGee’s, Parliament Pub, Zoe’s Lounge, Milestones, and the Metropolitan—slipping down the hill into the densely gossip-choked ByWard Market. Even a retired and decrepit Conservative senator was practically yanked from his comfortably lined casket and propped up in the Rideau Club.
Bulletins buzzed in: former Liberal PM Jean Chrétien, Trudeau’s pussycat, was reportedly bending the ear of Ed Broadbent, the stalwart ex-leader of the NDP, and flying back on the red-eye from Paris. Becky’s contact at the Château Laurier was so dependable that even decaf urns had ears. Reports filtered in that the Grits were huddling there over an all-veg pizza with goat cheese marathon. The NDP, salivating at the possibility of Cabinet posts, were
stationed at the Marriott in Salon B with a stream of pricey Stash tea, and the king-making Bloc were toasting over Dieu du Ciel microbrews at the Elgin.
Meanwhile, Greg forced his seasonal smile and lit up the capital’s Christmas tree with Martha, Pablo, Peter and LEDs. He then retreated to the Langevin and collapsed in a deep sleep on the leather couch. Becky locked the door to keep out Chief and Doc.
“Becky,” Chief begged. “Please.”
She loved hearing him wheedle.
“Let us in,” said Doc.
Wheedledee and Wheedledum. She stepped toward the door and spoke very clearly. “Boys. Stay TFO.”
Then she covered Greg with a Hudson’s Bay blanket and kissed his closely shaved cheek. “Honeydog,” she said. He hadn’t started to snore yet.
The Tory hub blazed all night. Becky made time to personally call Margaret Lee, leashed to Lise overseas, for a confidential heads-up: how soon could Peggy execute a forced march cum flight on the GG, if necessary?
On Saturday, Becky attended the launch of Martha’s capstone internship project, after driving between indoor soccer matches (Pablo on the superior Rep team, Peter reluctantly on the level below Bronze—which had its repercussions). The National Gallery exhibit, sculptures of common metallic
household objects such as flashlights, foil and pasta claws, included her daughter’s copy in the pricey catalogue.
“Praise the Lord!” Martha said, taking in the scene. “It’s a big success.”
Becky, watching the egotistical artist elites hoover canapés, nodded.
“I’ll miss the NGC,” Martha added. “My internship.”
“For sure.” Becky was already planning the fastest route to pick up Niko from his pre-Calculus tutorial.
“But now I can focus on
Temptations
.” Martha said this without irony.
“Absolutely,” said Becky.
Back at 24 Sussex, Becky found Greg in his study. He was lying on the floor under the Diefenbaker and denying reality. When a political situation became dicey, this was a default position.
“Delay Opposition Day,” Becky demanded.
“They’re just
toy
sabre-rattling.”
“And Ways and Means.”
“They’re too scared to table it.” He was referring to the non-confidence motion, and the way he said this made it sound like a question.
“They’ve formed the coalition, Greg.”
“If we delay, it gives them more time to plan.”
“They’re going to seize power.”
“They’ll replace their leader with someone we haven’t defamed yet.”
“Nip this in the bud, or we’re in Stornoway for New Year’s.”
Greg sat up. “Where the fuck is Chief?”
While her nails dried, Becky speakerphoned the campaign chair, comatose in Saskatchewan. She had the plane chartered, the buses reserved, and a catchy slogan flew out to fire up fundraising:
Democracies are elected, stupid
. One never knew the timing of a premature election.
After the PMO cancelled the Opposition and Ways and Means day, Becky called in Chief and Doc. Greg, white as the bad starches, braced himself behind his desk. Chief and Doc were buried in a sentimental import—an Ikea loveseat from Greg’s Whitehorse constituency office.
“We need to retract it,” Becky said.
“You’re overreacting,” Chief said.
“There’s no reason to eliminate the right to strike for federal servants when they just agreed to a deal and we gave them a gold star for doing so.”
“She’s right,” Doc said. “We look mean.”
“We are,” Chief said.
Greg said, “Mean is a means to an end. Major—”
“You need to
look
as if you’ll listen to reason,” Becky said. “Or you’ll throw it all away.”
Greg glared at her. She wasn’t sure if he was losing it or had a high fever. “Retract it,” he said to Chief.
Finance was dispatched to Global to fret about the automotive industry and to mention “stimulus spending” fourteen times.
The Cabinuts, even though their portfolios were far away from anything to do with the subsidies for political parties, told every program on all platforms at the Corpse that a particular controversial provision about voter funding was doing the disappearing act too.
That night, Greg was so physically ill and intellectually stressed he couldn’t rise from their bed. Pastor Grant prayed with him on the phone. Greg stared at the stack of dry toast she brought him and dubbed it his doppelgänger.
If the toast fits
, she thought.
Becky carried on with the four children, including Niko, and they decorated the family tree at Gorffwysfa. In their own teenage wasteland, Martha and Niko stuck together in monosyllabic unity. Peter, in holly berry polo shirt, persisted in pushing Pablo, in complementary holly green, into the beautiful fresh-cut noble fir, until Pablo decked him. Even though she was absolutely thrilled that Peter (Greg Jr.) had had a comeuppance, she reprimanded Pablo.
“Why is everyone mad at Daddy?” Pablo whimpered, off topic. “Why are they bullying him? Will we have to move out of Gorff? Where will we go? Can we stay for Christmas? Why is Daddy yelling at
everybody
?”
Peter shoved him into the Nativity. The Leggatt crèche, with shepherds, angels and Three Kings on Mustangs, was
curiously life-size and Yukon Territorial. When Pablo landed on top of baby Hay-Seuss, Martha rushed to pick up the doll and gently replace it. As Niko put his arm around her shoulder, Peter grabbed Hay-Seuss and hit Pablo.
“Hey!” Becky yelled. “Peter!”
Becky force-marched Peter off into the dining room for a time out. “Martha?” she said over her shoulder. “Take care of Pablo.”
But it was Niko who moved to Becky’s adopted son; Martha knelt beside the baby Jesus, no worse for the wear and tear, and pressed her face against His head.
Becky found it meet and right that the Tory Christmas party was being held that night at the Museum of War, 1 Vimy Place, in the icy western armpit of Parliament, off the Ottawa River. They were honouring the new importance of the military, of course; Canada was at war in Afghanistan, and would have been in Iraq if Greg had had his druthers. The crowd was inebriated on Rumour. Conservatives, big C and small, were panicking and staggering around the Voodoo jet, tanks and military vehicles in the LeBreton exhibit. The update from insiders who had text relationships with insiders in the enemy camp: the coalition of Liberals and NDP was making magnificent progress, arriving at cordial agreement on the number of Cabinet seats for the Socialists. They were even tinkering with the nitty-gritty composition of the ABCs—agencies, boards and committees.
A lesbian socialist might become Finance!
Someone had heard a pundit on the Corpse report that Greg was considering prorogation, likening this to pulling the fire alarm before the final exam. The Separatists had said that this was an example of “cut and run.”
A lesbian socialist might become Foreign Affairs!
It was Becky’s MO to literally rally the troops. She took a call from the Karp-Deem polling firm and scooted upstairs to Regeneration Hall to vet their sample questions. Doc told her that the Toronto
Blob
columnist was hectoring Greg over his three limp electoral kicks at the can, with the ultimate verdict being that 60 percent of the country rejected him.
A lesbian socialist might become deputy PM and, if something happened, by default Prime Minister—Becky whispered all this and more in loyal ears. She kissed blanched cheeks, led them in a tearfully enraged anthem, and smilingly, cheekily, hearteningly, inspiringly and unreservedly pinned buttons on over five hundred lapels at the coat check:
SAY NO/NON TO THE COUP
.
When she arrived back at Sussex Drive, she found Greg and Martha in the Arctic subzone of the rumpus room, ostensibly watching
A Beachcombers Christmas
. But Greg was also engaged with his BlackBerry. Can Vox news, already singing in four-part harmony from the Tory song sheet, played silently in a corner of the screen. Becky collapsed on the couch, Martha bumping into the middle. Greg said, “How are the troops?”
“Drooping.”
He passed her his BlackBerry. A text from her father.
Socialist separatist wankers. Off with their dicks
.
The next morning, Ottawa was a winter wonderland. It was so cold that, on the school ground, Becky’s nose hairs seemed to freeze like stiff trees in a mini-forest. She hadn’t been aware she had so much new growth. Later, while she exercised and overreacted to the breakfast shows, a speedy anchor checked her Skatecam and marvelled at the seniors steady on their blades, the toddlers toe-tripping, with their pompom toques and pockets full of bonbons, along the frozen Rideau Canal.
Other than the endless fascination Canadians displayed for their weather, and wreath-making tips, the main event was
coalition
. The anchor pronounced it first as
coercion
, then corrected herself and said the opposition was forming a
collision
.
Becky met Greg at his Langevin office and took notes as he conducted ten-minute phoners with Brown, Sarkozy, Merkel and finally with his stepbrother in Australia. Berlusconi didn’t call back, which wasn’t unusual; Putin, out of the blue, rang up but Greg didn’t take it, had Firstname Somebody-Hyphenate tell him that he was in the can. Greg had mentioned that Vladimir often gloated because he was able to use force and corruption transparently. Lucky stiff.