Sussex Drive: A Novel (33 page)
S
TAGE RIGHT
.
Becky was tremendously worried. Lise still had not arrived.
Greg and Martha, and their well-oiled band, were performing
Sodom and Gomorrah
. They were the second-to-the-last surprise act; midset. Beside Becky, Peter and Pablo, tuxed and bow-tied to the max, were anxious for the curtain so they could hit up the 2010 Team Canada hockey players for autographs; the athletes were now benched until the grand finale. Peter was also obviously embarrassed by his father wearing a cool, black, tight T-shirt and control-top jeans. Children had limits.
Martha’s voice soaked the National Arts Centre barn. She wasn’t Céline, Shania, or that new girl but she sang with moist emotion, as if she were to be guillotined at dawn with a dull blade. Mr. Yo-Yo Ma, gracing the cello, laced Lot’s wife’s ballad with a hint of despair. Watching from the opposite wing, Niko, now gone Native with a ponytail, his
acne Accutaned away, swayed with requited lust. He didn’t take his eyes off Becky’s own girl, thin as a stretchy stick of chewing gum, in her short white sleeveless sheath. He gripped a conspicuous white feather.
“Thank you,” Martha said with a bow. The applause slowly blossomed.
A stage left skirmish. And then Lise, her commoner co-host, appeared, offering a big thumbs-up to Becky.
Becky nodded, relieved, and sent her a very meant kiss.
Lise had testified before the Parliamentary Committee that morning, resigned as Governor General after lunch, and moved from number 1 Sussex Drive to an undisclosed hotel. For Becky, it was a miracle that Lise was even alive, ambulatory, and on the cognitive ball. Becky wasn’t clear on the African recovery details. She’d heard not only that U.S. Secretary of State, Hillary (“It takes a Black Hawk”) Clinton, had personally controlled ops—from an aircraft carrier loitering in the Gulf of Oman—and rescued Lise in a mini-raid near Mwanza, but that King Charles vacationing in Mombasa, Kenya, had become involved and sent a Prince in a heli. Or a personal jet. Or both. And then the reliable Trenton commander, their regular pilot, had flown the Challenger at Greg’s command to deliver Lise safely home.
So rumours had been flying, literally.
However, the Canadian media had overlooked the rescue drama to shine significant light on Lise’s bizarre behaviour in Africa, where she’d threatened indigenous boat people at gunpoint, committed a dhow-jacking,
declared herself Canadian head of state, and eaten “pet goat” meat.
Op ed columnists queried the GG’s relationship with her bipolar sister, the Communist terrorist, and the unauthorized clinical trial conducted on innocent African children by the doctor brother-in-law, and also spared column inches to note that Lise’s deceased first husband had had radical Cree aspirations. And there had been a leak about Eastern Europe: Romania.
Any mention of Lise’s testimony about the possible murders of a young Mountie hero and an Afghan mother was missing.
“Our final song on this memorable evening,” Martha said, “is called ‘Mother Mary’s Song … to the “Other” Mary.’ ”
Was it Becky, or did that shallow titter indicate restlessness?
Martha began. “
I
———”
Greg strummed, all diligent service and rock posture.
Before the gala, when Peter had hounded Becky about Lise’s resignation, she hadn’t known what to say. The media made it sound as if Canada was well rid of her, but Becky knew, of course, that Lise’s action had everything to do with her approbation about the deeds and direction of the current government. Daddio. She hadn’t dared say that to her son.
But Peter had addressed the pause. “Bet she quit because she couldn’t stand Dad.”
“What?” said Becky. “Who said that?”
“Nobody,” Peter had said. “It just figures,” and then he’d gone back to fantasizing about the Team USA roster.
Now Martha was yowling, “
Should I bake and sew?”
So Canada was without a Governor General and Clark the Privy Clerk was going squirrely nuts across the way in the Langevin. Forsey was being parsed and re-parsed, Becky knew. And the country, despite the censorship surrounding Lise’s resignation, and the blatant character assassination, was still smitten with her. Lise’s approval ratings were soaring on the CBC poll: stratospheric numbers for integrity and patriotism.
Becky surmised that this was perhaps the natural disaster bump. Becky, Lise and the powerless ArtsCAN! board had agreed to donate half the gala proceeds to relief efforts in St. Bertrand. Not to be outdone in chequebook empathy, Greg had agreed that the government would pony up an undisclosed amount to a specified cap for “PMOpproved” charities. But when she checked the customarily Tory-fawning Karp-Deem and Rippo polls, during the chorus, the results were the same. Lise was off the charts!
Suddenly, Martha couldn’t be heard. She’d had a tremulous catch in her voice and stopped singing mid-verse. Greg strummed on while the drummer gunned the beat, but Martha was zombie-stalking off the stage into Becky’s silk-gloved hands.
“What is it, honeybee?” Becky said. “Honey—”
Her daughter’s eyes streamed. “I can’t do this. I hate him.”
Becky knew what she meant: she hated him perfectly too. Hated his feet in his socks, his socks in his shoes, his tread on the stairs, his earwax, his snore and torso and digestive system, and what he stood for and what he’d done.
Greg was right there. He snagged his daughter by the arm. “Martha, come back out and finish—”
“I can’t.”
“Martha Leggatt.” That tone.
It was Peter, in his stupid tux and cummerbund, who rushed over and kicked his father’s shin and then again, repeatedly. Then he aimed higher with direct effect. Greg suddenly released Martha and pinned Peter under his arm.
Then Martha’s hand flew with a steely will of its own.
Greg flinched and the hot-fingered imprint burned his cheek. “What in hell—?” he said, instinctively dropping Peter to raise his hands and ward off another blow.
Which the newly-arrived Niko mistook as a threat to Martha and before the PMSS was even aware, or Becky could insert herself between them, Niko’s fist met Greg’s nose. Or maybe, lip. It bled copiously—on Becky, reaching into the bodice of her Olympic gold ballgown to fetch a tissue and press it to the PM’s mouth. Martha’s dress was streaked, too, as if she’d been grazed evading snipers in Kosovo.
“
Mierda
,” Pablo pulled his big sister away. “
Que te jodan! Me cago en todo lo que se menea!
”
Becky hurriedly covered his mouth. “
Palabrotas
.”
Greg’s security approached en masse to restrain his children. Niko, already familiar with the drill, lifted his arms in surrender and Greg seized the opportunity to grab the white feather and further staunch the flow of blood.
He turned away from his family and his guards to lumber back toward the stage, then suddenly stopped. Becky
actually wondered if he might be concussed. Then she heard it, too.
Cheers exploded. A resounding wave of applause bounced off the ceiling. It was a wave that could lift a country to the top of the podium or selective UN councils. Becky thought the hockey team had jumped the queue and she was ready to reprimand Shelagh Rogers or whoever was running the show. In shock herself, perhaps, she peered out.
It was Lise at centre stage. She’d stepped forward to segue from Greg’s catastrophic closer to the Olympic finale. The audience was on their feet and stamping them. Cellphones celestially glowed. The applause deafened. All for Lise in the spotlight in a sane and soberly grey dress. A new normal.
René entered from the stage door and Becky saw him pause to honour his wife.
They chanted, “Chief, Chief, Chief, Chief, Chief, Chief, Chief …” Becky realized that they were either echoing Lise’s remarks at the Press Building after stepping down or petitioning her to run. “This morning I testified as your Commander-in-Chief. And now I will return to be just
Maman
.”
Lise took a very steep and a very long bow.
Then the trumpets blared and the hockey players glided onstage. While Becky and Lise saluted the gala stars, the players performed a chorus line cancan which brought down the house. Then, in a burst of uncharacteristic nationalistic spontaneity, the players raised Lise in her plain dress and Becky in her bloody gown to their shoulders.
The women bounced on Luongo and Iginla, Weber and
Brodeur, Crosby, Toews, and Bergeron, on forwards, defence, and goalies. When they met, in the middle of the mosh, they hung on to each other and embraced. So tightly.
“Thank you,” Lise said to Becky.
“
Merci beaucoup
,” Becky said to Lise.
Peter and Pablo, unable to restrain themselves any longer, invaded the stage for autographs. The recently approved Can Mox broadcaster captured all their frolicking for future presentation pre–prime time.
When gentle Mr. Doughty lowered Becky back into the sudden respectful silence, a place that was new to her, she turned and made eye contact with her husband for one last time. He stood in the wings. His nose was clean, his hair recombed, and any blood that was shed did not show because he wore black.
They looked at each other. Then he looked away first. And she thought,
He’s just a man
.
As his security safely removed him, the house lights went up.
I am grateful for the assistance and support of the following people, publications, websites and institutions:
The Creative Writing Program, our students and alumni, and Office of the Dean of Arts, University of British Columbia; The John Simon Guggenheim Foundation; The Social Sciences and Humanities Research Council of Canada; Robin Straus; Anne Collins, Deirdre Molina, Scott Richardson, Adria Iwasutiak, and Random House Canada; Lesley Harrison and Elina Levina; Brian Rogers; Michael O’Shea; J. Yaniv; the Farrs;
Parliamentary Democracy in Crisis
, edited by Peter H. Russell and Lorne Sossin;
How We Almost Gave the Tories the Boot: The Inside Story behind the Coalition
, Brian Topp;
Canada’s House: Rideau Hall and the Invention of a Canadian Home
, Margaret MacMillan, Marjorie Harris and Anne L. Desjardins;
Rideau Hall: Canada’s Living Heritage
, Gerda Hnatyshyn;
Heart Matters
, Adrienne Clarkson;
The Prime Ministers of Canada
, Christopher Ondaatje; CP; JM; Carol Cunningham; A. Scott; T. Ades; TL; Shelley Gibson; G and K, and their father; Government
of Canada (
www.canada.gc.ca/home.html
); Governor General of Canada (
www.gc.ca
); National Capital Commission website;
Ottawa Book of Everything
, Arthur Montague;
Frommer’s Ottawa
, 4th Edition, James Hale; and Canadian political coverage in
Maclean’s
, particularly Aaron Wherry’s blog, the Vancouver
Sun
, the
National Post
, the Toronto
Globe and Mail
, and on the national broadcasters; Wikipedia (
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Timeline_of_the_Canadian-Afghan_detainee_issue
);
Aristide.org
(
www.aristide.org/articles/Aristideinexile.htm
); and Clara Sörnäs, for her sculpture
Memory for the Slaves
, adapted and transplanted from Stone Town, Zanzibar, Tanzania, to imaginary St. Bertrand.
