A Killing Spring (8 page)

I hadn’t planned to drive by the rooming house where Reed Gallagher died, but as I headed along my usual route to pick Taylor up at her class on the old campus, I ran into a construction detour. The next street that would take me south was Scarth Street, and there was no way I could drive
along Scarth without seeing number 317. It was a house straight out of an Edward Hopper painting: a Gothic spook with a mansard roof, a widow’s walk, and a curved front porch. In summer, the porch was filled with vacant-eyed women in rockers and wiry men with wicked laughs who would taunt passers-by with insults and invitations; in winter, the tenants took to their rooms, and you could see their shadows, dark and shifting, behind the blinds that separated their blighted existence from the lives of the lucky.

A block past number 317, I yielded to impulse, pulled into a parking spot and started back towards the house. The porch was empty, but the blinds in every window were raised. Eyes that had seen it all were peering out to seek further proof, as if they needed it, that people were no damn good.

The spectacle in the front yard must have offered them proof aplenty. The rain had turned the grassless yard to gumbo, but it hadn’t kept any of us away. The gawkers and misery-seekers were quite a group: media people with cameras; young couples with kids; teenagers with Big Gulps and cigarettes, and middle-aged, respectable people like me who should have known better but who came in response to stirrings as dark as they were ancient. As I walked towards the back of the building and the fire escape Alex had told me Reed used to get to the third floor, I heard snippets of conversation: “hookers with whips …,” “mirrors all around so he could watch himself …,” “wearing a dress and a Dolly Parton wig …”

After these fevered images of Sodom and Gomorrah, the actual fire escape seemed disappointingly mundane. It was a rickety metal affair that zigzagged from the back alley to the third floor, an eyesore that had been added on as a sop to some busybody at City Hall who took fire regulations seriously. Utilitarian as it was, it had done the job. It had taken Reed Gallagher where he wanted to go. I walked over to the
foot of it, and for a few minutes I stood there looking up through the dizzying height of steps into the pale March sky. When I started back across the yard, I met an old man with a walker. He was moving with exquisite slowness, but as I passed him, he stopped and grabbed my arm. His voice was raspy whisper. “Did you hear what happened in there?”

“Yes,” I said, “I heard.”

He pulled me so close I could feel his breath on my face. “Men who don women’s clothing are an abomination to God,” he said, then he continued his methodical passage towards the site of the abomination.

After such a chilling insight into how a fellow being saw the heart of God, an afternoon reading the dry legal language of the Canadian Charter of Rights and Freedoms was a relief. When Angus came home at 4:00, I told him that, as a reward for babysitting on a Saturday night, he could choose the dinner menu. He decided on sandwiches from the Italian Star deli, an easy call for me, so after I picked up the mortadella and provolone, I had time for a quick nap before I showered and dressed. I was just fastening the turquoise and silver necklace Alex had given me for Christmas when Taylor came in and sat on my bed. Benny was in her arms, but her eyes were anxious.

I sat down beside her. “Taylor, in all the time since you came to live with us, have I ever not come home?”

“No,” she said. “But what if … ?”

“What if what?” I asked.

She shook her head dolefully. “I don’t know,” she murmured.

I drew her close to me. “Taylor, life is full of what-ifs, but if you spend all your time being afraid of them, there’s not much time left over for being happy, and I want you to be happy.”

“I am happy,” she whispered. “That’s why I’m scared of what if …”

Twenty minutes later as I walked through Wascana Park towards the Nationtv studios, Taylor was still at the forefront of my thoughts. She’d come to the front door to wave to me when I left. She’d been hugging Benny to her, and doing her best. It was a worry, but it was a worry that was going to have to wait. I took a deep breath and started mentally running through the clauses relating to sexual orientation in the Charter. I was trying to remember the three key points of a bill on homosexual rights that had been defeated in the Ontario legislature when I realized I’d turned onto a path that had a degree of fame in our city.

The old campus of our university is on the northern edge of the park. It’s a serene setting for the handsome pair of buildings that once housed our entire university, but which are now given over to the departments of Music, Drama, and Art. The path I walked along ran behind the buildings. By day, it was a place where students gravitated for a smoke, young mums wheeled strollers, dog-walkers walked dogs, and joggers jogged. But at night, the path changed character. After dark, it was a cruising park for gay men. The students at the university called it “the Fruit Loop.” So, in my private thoughts, did I. More sticks and stones.

When I got to Nationtv, I went, as I always did, to makeup, where Tina, who had taught me that if I wanted a clean lip-line after the age of forty, I had to use lip-liner, and that I would be insane to buy any eye shadow more expensive than Maybelline, was waiting for me. As she swept blush along my cheeks, I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Despite my nightly slatherings of Oil of Olay, it was clear that Father Time was undefeated. I shrugged, turned away from the mirror, and asked Tina to tell me about her wedding. The week before, she’d been agonizing about how
to tell her future mother-in-law that, since the wedding dinner was catered, she wouldn’t need to bring the jellied salads in the colours of the bridesmaid’s dresses that she had made for all of her other children’s weddings. I was eager to hear if Tina had brought it off.

When Tina was done with me, I went, as I always did, to the green room to wait until Jill came out to talk me through the first question and walk me into the studio. But that night, Jill didn’t come. Five minutes before airtime, I took matters into my own hands. As I pushed the door into the studio open, a young man I’d never seen ran into me. He glanced at my face, then grabbed my arm and pulled me into the studio.

“They’re waiting,” he said.

“I’ve been here all along,” I said.

He looked right past me. “Whatever,” he said. “Let’s just say there’s been a screwup.”

It wasn’t the last one.

When she’d first set up the weekly panel, Jill had decided to cover the ideological spectrum rather than have representatives from specific political parties. From the outset, Keith Harris, who had once been my lover and was now my friend, spoke for the right, Senator Sam Spiegel articulated the view from the centre, and I was there for the left. Over the years, the images of Keith and Sam on the television monitor had become as familiar as my own. But that night as I glanced towards the screen, I saw a face I’d never seen before in my life. The woman on screen appeared to be in her mid-thirties; she had a head of frosted curls, cerulean eyes, and a dynamite smile.

The young man who’d dragged me into the studio was kneeling in front of me, trying to fasten my lapel mike. I touched his shoulder. “Who’s that?” I asked.

He glanced quickly at the monitor. “Didn’t anybody tell
you? That’s Glayne Axtell. She’s the new voice for the right.” He leaped out of camera range.

“What happened to Keith Harris?” I asked.

He looked irritated and moved his fingers to his lips in a silencing gesture. Through my earpiece, I heard the familiar “Stand by,” and we were on the air.

By the time the last caller had been thanked and the moderator in Toronto was inviting people to join us next week, my back was soaked with sweat. It had been a rough evening. Keith’s mysterious disappearance had been a blow. I had to admit that Glayne Axtell was good. She was far to the right of Keith, but she was witty and crisply professional. The problem wasn’t with her; it was with me. I couldn’t seem to adjust to the new rhythm, and for the first time, I let the callers on our phone-in segment of the program get to me. Usually, I dealt with the crazies by reminding myself that the law “every action has an equal and opposite reaction” governs physics not politics. In politics, most of the time, you got back pretty much what you handed out, and if you were lucky, reason would beget reason.

That night I seemed to be beyond both luck and reason. As the torrent of hate and fear poured through my earpiece, I couldn’t seem to stop myself from lashing back. I kept wondering where Jill was with the cut-off button. But as the red light went black, and we were finally off the air, I had to admit that, as exhausting as it had been, the panel on homophobia had been good television.

Jill came down from the control booth almost immediately. She was wearing jeans, a black turtleneck, and a houndstooth jacket, and she didn’t look happy.

I unclipped my mike and went over to her. “I thought you were going to keep the mad dogs at bay tonight. But maybe
you were right to let them yelp and foam. It was an exciting show.”

Jill gave me a tight smile. “Do you have time for a drink?”

“Sure,” I said. “Angus is with Taylor. He has plans, but I’ve got time for a quick one. I wanted to ask you about Keith. Did he quit or what?”

“Let’s talk about it later,” Jill said.

It was a mild night, but when I told Jill I’d left my car at home and suggested we walk downtown to our old standby, the Hotel Saskatchewan, she said she’d rather drive to the Chimney. It was an odd choice. The hotel bar was a place for grown-ups to unwind: elegant surroundings, deep soft chairs, and discreet bartenders. The Chimney was a family restaurant in a strip mall not far from where I lived. They made good pizza, and my kids liked the open fireplace, but it wasn’t Jill’s kind of place.

As we drove up College Avenue and turned onto Albert Street, she was uncharacteristically quiet. In fact, she didn’t say anything until we’d found a table and ordered two bottles of Great Western.

When the waiter left, Jill glanced around the room as if she were seeing it for the first time. “This is nice, isn’t it?” she said absently.

“I’ve always liked it,” I said. “But it must be thirty degrees in here tonight. Somebody should have told whoever’s in charge of the roaring fire that spring has sprung.” I leaned towards her. “But listen, I’ve been dying to know what happened with Keith. I know he’s been busy since he moved back to Ottawa. Did he just have too much on his plate?”

“It was more of a mutual decision,” Jill said. “We’ve been looking at the demographics – thinking we should try to hook a younger audience.”

She wouldn’t meet my eyes, and I knew the truth without
asking. “And so you decided to replace Keith with Glayne Axtell.”

“She did a good job tonight,” Jill said defensively.

“Keith’s done a good job ever since the show started,” I said, and my voice was so loud the people at the next table turned and looked at us.

Jill winced. “Jo, please. Don’t make this any worse than it already is.”

The waiter brought our beer, and I took a long sip. The heat in the restaurant and the turn in the conversation were beginning to make my head spin.

Jill’s voice was guarded. “I know Keith’s done a good job, Jo. The panel just needed – I don’t know – a fresh look.”

“Spring cleaning?” I said. “Jill, we’re not talking about a piece of furniture here. We’re talking about a friend.”

Suddenly, Jill looked furious. “Christ, Jo, it’s never easy with you, is it? All right, here it is. We think it’s time you considered other options, too.”

I felt as if I’d been kicked in the stomach. “You mean I’m out as well? What about Sam?”

Jill was icy. “He’s staying. Sam has an avuncular quality. We thought he’d be a nice mix with Glayne and … the other new panellist.”

“Who is it?” I asked. And then, I knew. “Oh fuck, Jill. Is it Tom? Are you getting rid of me so you can hire your boyfriend?”

She didn’t say anything. I stood up and grabbed my coat. As I pulled it on, I knocked my beer over. I was beyond caring. It had been a long time since I’d made a scene in a restaurant. I headed for the front door, but before I opened it, I turned and looked back at Jill. She was sitting, looking numbly at the mess I’d left behind.

The Chimney was less than four blocks from my house. Even in the state I was in that night, I was home in less
than ten minutes. The Chimney’s proximity to my house was, I suddenly realized, the reason Jill had chosen it in the first place. Once we had been as close as sisters. I guess she figured she owed me an easy exit. But I wasn’t grateful; the thought of her planning the logistics of my firing made me sick to my stomach.

When I got home, Taylor was already in bed, and Angus was so full of news about an ’85 Camaro he’d seen for sale up the street that he was oblivious to my mood. Leah, who was sensitive to emotional currents, looked at me with concern, but I told her it had been a tough show, and she said that she had tuned in for the phone-in segment and she understood.

When she and Angus finally left for the late movie, I felt the relief an actor must feel at the end of a bad performance. The audience was gone. I could wail, rend my clothing, or gnash my teeth to my heart’s content. But as I walked into the living room and began searching aimlessly through my
CDS
, I was overwhelmed with self-pity.

I wanted to talk, but the three people I counted on most were busy with their own lives: Alex was out at Standing Buffalo; my friend Hilda McCourt was in Europe with her new beau; and, as the old saw had it, Jill was no longer part of the solution, she was part of the problem.

I selected a disc Keith Harris had once given me: Glenn Gould playing the Goldberg Variations. As I listened to the shimmering precision of Gould’s performance, I felt my pulse slow, and, for the first time since I left the restaurant, I found myself able to think. Being fired from the show was not the end of the world. I still had family. I still had Alex. I still had friends and my job at the university. Summer was coming. Without the show, there would be no reason to be in town on Saturdays. We could rent a cottage and drive out there on weekends. Taylor could use the extra time with me.
I could teach her to canoe. We could get Benny a life jacket. I had just convinced myself that it was all for the best, when the phone rang. I leaped to answer it. I was certain it was Jill, apologizing and making everything right again.