The Best Laid Plans (7 page)

The warning light on Rumplun’s head gasket seemed to flicker on. “Don’t you correct me in my office. I’m fed up with your incessant pedantry. You’re nothing but a grammar-Nazi,” he said through gritted teeth.

“But, Roland, I only correct you when you make a mistake, so the frequency is really up to you. In any event, you’re single-handedly justifyin’ the need to teach English to engineers.” The smirk had emigrated from Dean Rumplun to Angus.

“I’m running out of time, McLintock. State your business.”

“Professor Addison here has kindly agreed to teach E for E in my stead, and I’m just offerin’ you the courtesy of meetin’ him before you file the necessary paperwork to make it so,” Angus explained, the very embodiment of equanimity.

“What audacity!” Rumplun sputtered. “It’s impossible. Absolutely not. I will not have it. The course must be taught by an engineer, and that means you, McLintock.”

I just sat there in the middle of the bellicose exchange and shifted as necessary to evade projectile spittle. I worried that this buffoon might put the kibosh on my bargain with Angus.

“Daniel is a first-rate lecturer, understands his audience, and will get all the support he needs from me,” Angus replied.

“I don’t care if he has a Nobel Prize; it’s out of the question. Don’t even think about it. End of story. Now, I’m nearly late, so if you’ll excuse me.”

Angus paused and looked to the ground as if deciding how to proceed. Then, he looked out the window with a distant look in his eyes. “Montebello,” he said in a voice so low I barely heard it.

“What did you say?” Dean Rumplun spat. His face turned the colour of rust, and his jowls vibrated. I wondered what an aneurism looked like.

“You heard me. You’ve left me no choice,” said Angus. His eyes were two slits trained on his adversary.

“You wouldn’t dare!”

“Just sign the faculty-transfer form, and you’ll never have to find out.”

For what seemed like minutes, they stared each other down through tension so thick it would have snapped the knife.

“You are a bastard, McLintock. And after all I’ve done for you. Who got you your appointment in the first place? It was me!” Rumplun shouted.

“It was I,” whispered Angus as he smoothed a wrinkle in his pants.

“What!”

“A copular verb takes a subjective completion. It was
I
, not it was
me
. You might want to audit Daniel’s course.” Angus rose, and I followed suit, in awe of the master.

“Get out this instant before I phone security. Calling you a bastard is a high compliment you’re unworthy of.”

“Of which you’re unworthy. All right, all right, we’re goin’, we’re goin’. A pleasure as always, hemorr-Roland,” Angus soothed over his shoulder as we hustled out just ahead of the slamming door.

The campus looked beautiful in the dappled light of a second consecutive sunny day. Angus said nothing as we left the building but whistled as we walked. I think the tune was “Zip-A-Dee-Doo-Dah” but, then again, it might have been “Onward Christian Soldiers.” Music was not his gift.

The suspense was killing me. “Okay, spill the goods on Montebello,” I implored. He was silent for a moment, pondering, which I much preferred over his atonal whistling.

“It’s a private and delicate matter involvin’ documented academic dishonesty at a major scientific conference at Montebello. Discretion prevents me from identifyin’ the perpetrator, but his initials are Roland ‘the rumphole’ Rumplun.”

“You mean you caught him plagiarizing a scientific paper?”

“Worse. I caught him claimin’ credit for research he did not undertake, theories he did not conceive, and a paper he did not write,” Angus intoned.

“That is a serious accusation. Why didn’t you take it through the formal channels and have him drummed out of the university?” I asked.

“It wasn’t worth it to me then. Instead, I confronted him. He denied it until I showed him the evidence. He then broke down. At the time, I felt a pang of sympathy, so I pursued it no further. But I did keep the evidence. I dust it off every ten years or so when it’s important,” Angus replied.

“Like today, for instance,” I suggested.

“Aye, like today.”

“What arrogance,” I observed.

“Aye, he’s always suffered with a self-esteem problem,” Angus noted.

“Self-esteem problem?”

“Aye, he has too much,” Angus explained. We walked on in silence for a moment or two.

“So do you think he’s going to sign the form and let me take your class?”

“I have no doubt the deed was just done. The class is yours. All yours.”

Later that day, I received an e-mail from the Faculty of Engineering, confirming that I was, indeed, teaching English for Engineers. I thought I’d better check with Professor Gannon to make sure I wasn’t violating some obscure regulation by having an engineering course on my teaching schedule. When I reached him, he already knew about it, having received the faculty-transfer form from Rumplun’s office. Very efficient. The power of Montebello. There was no problem beyond a concern he expressed that I might be dulling my intellectual acuity by fraternizing with lower life forms. The arts-engineering enmity was not confined to the undergraduate population.

That evening, I drove back to the Riverfront Seniors’ Residence to confer with Muriel. I had in my hand the official Elections Canada nomination form, completed and signed by one Duncan Angus McLintock. With a candidate locked up, Muriel greeted me with a warmth and an enthusiasm that were in stark contrast to the reception I’d received the day before.

“Daniel, congratulations! I knew you could do it!” she said as I joined her on the shiny, slippery couch that looked out over the river. The evening was beautiful, and the sun had begun its descent off to our left. A couple of boats puttered up the river, and a lone windsurfer leaned into the breeze as he cut across the water. She gave my hand a squeeze as I sank in beside her. I felt like we’d been friends for years.

“Hello, Muriel. Yes, I’m certainly feeling better today than I was yesterday. Wow, that’s some view you have,” I said, taking in the scene.

“Trust me,” she replied, “it gets old fast. So don’t make me wait
any longer. Who won the great Cumberland-Prescott Liberal Candidate Sweepstakes?”

I beamed and held up the envelope. “And the winner is,” I announced with theatric flair as I slipped out the nomination form. “Dr. Angus McLintock, a stoic Scot of an engineering professor who kind of looks like Karl Marx.” That got her attention.

“That’s odd,” she said. “I thought I knew all of the Liberals in Cumberland, and I’ve never heard of him.”

“Well, to be frank, I’m not certain he is a Liberal. But I am sure that this is his signature on the bottom of this nomination form, and with three days before the writ drops, that’s what really counts,” I gushed, hoping Muriel would get on board. She looked noncommittal. I continued, saying, “Muriel, he’s a nice guy, a smart guy, and he’s prepared to have his name stand to help the party.” I hesitated but then decided to bring her into the tent where I needed her. “He won’t exactly participate actively in the campaign, but we’re still going to hit the hustings as if he’s right there with us. I can make this work, and nobody will be the wiser.”

“Did you save his life or something? What’s in it for him?” she asked.

“Why he agreed is not important. What is important is we’ve got a candidate, and we’ll have a campaign … of sorts.”

She persisted. “How are you going to manage the canvassing, the all-candidates meetings, the media interviews, and the rallies if you don’t have a candidate in the flesh?”

“I’ve got it all covered, Muriel, but it simply won’t work if you’re not with me on this. I need your local knowledge and your experience if we’re going to pull this off.” She looked out over the river. “Muriel, Angus is a real character. He’s thoughtful, intelligent, and very funny. He’s also going through a rough time personally, and I really think this campaign might be just the distraction he needs. You see, his wife of 40 years died at the beginning of May. On the surface, he seems to be handling it as well as can be expected, but beneath the veneer, I can see he’s still in a great deal of pain.” Her
eyes softened though they were still on the water. I paused for effect before delivering the
coup de grâce
. “I discovered quite by accident that his wife was Marin Lee.” I gazed out over the white-capped river and waited.

I could feel her turn and look at me.
“The
Marin Lee?”

“None other,” I whispered. “Muriel, even though the terms of his candidacy are somewhat … er … irregular, he has a good heart, and he’s agreed to stand. Unless you or I are prepared to run, his name is all we’ve got, and time is nipping at our heels.” I took her hand, rearranged my face, and gave her the most pathetic visage imaginable. “Will you help us?”

Ten minutes later, she signed the nomination form as the only existing executive member of the Cumberland-Prescott Liberal Association. Then, she swept through the games room where gin rummy duked it out with canasta for supremacy. Her next stop was the large activity room where half the residents were shuffling through a line-dancing lesson. The singer’s voice blasting from the stereo sounded inhumanly low. Darth Vader swinging a lariat sprang to mind though I wish it hadn’t. I soon realized the instructor had slowed the CD down to one-third speed so her geriatric dancers could actually complete the steps in time with the song. After a final stop in the third-floor TV lounge where the old and the rested watched “The Young and the Restless,” Muriel reappeared with the 100 signatures required to complete the nomination. We had liftoff.

She then gave me a thorough briefing on the state of the association’s election war chest. In other words, she handed me a tired and tattered bankbook, showing a balance of $157.23. Excellent. That wouldn’t even cover photocopying and file folders, let alone rent and telephone. I knew that filling the Liberal coffers in this community would not be easy. In fact, in Cumberland, we had a better chance of sighting Bigfoot than finding Liberal money. With no funds, the McLintock campaign would be built on creativity, ingenuity, and parsimony – befitting, I suppose, a Scottish
candidate. An idea for a low-cost campaign headquarters emerged from the fog in my head.

While getting around was difficult, Muriel did have time on her hands. I still had my cell phone from the Leader’s office and had negotiated some extra time before I had to return it. It would be our official, campaign-office phone number. I handed it to Muriel. She agreed to carry the campaign phone at least until we secured our headquarters. We agreed to meet the following evening – along with any volunteers I could muster – for our first campaign meeting. I hoped to have reached a decision on our campaign office by then.

As I stood up to leave, I noticed a young and attractive woman making her way through the room, exchanging hellos with the women and laughing with the men as she parried their advances. I could see why her arrival caused a stir. She had very short, sandy hair, framing a face blessed with symmetry, lovely green eyes, and a memorable mouth. For some reason, I’d always had a weakness for women with short hair. I really hoped it wasn’t because my late mother had always worn her hair short (paging Dr. Freud). Anyway, as I followed her runner’s body and her dancer’s gait, it was clear she was accustomed to the attention and not bothered in the least. She wore those new low-rider jeans, a man’s white, button-down, oxford-cloth shirt – untucked – sandals, and funky sunglasses, resting just above her forehead. I pegged her at about 28 years old. She sported no eyebrow rings, no tongue stud, and no tattoos, at least that I could see. She stopped in front of us, cradling a cribbage board in the crook of her arm.

“Hey, Grandma, sorry I’m late. I got hung up after class.”

“Hello, Lindsay, dear. Whenever you arrive is the right time for me,” Muriel answered. “I’d like you to meet Professor Daniel Addison. He’s just started in the English department at U of O. He’s also the Liberal campaign manager for Cumberland-Prescott. Daniel, this is my granddaughter, Lindsay Dewar,” Muriel concluded with a sweep of her hand.

“Hello, Lindsay. Very pleased to meet any relative of Muriel’s.”

“Hi, Daniel, I’ve heard a lot about you,” Lindsay said with a grin.

I looked at Muriel for signs of a conspiracy but could detect none.

“Don’t look at me; I’ve never mentioned your name,” Muriel replied with her hands raised in surrender.

Lindsay jumped in. “Jasper over there just told me all about your double-twisting gainer on the sidewalk yesterday,” she ribbed. The old man, still in his peach safari suit, bowed slightly when I looked over. I wondered who within the Cumberland town limits had not yet had a laugh at my expense. “You sure made a splash with this crowd,” she chirped.

“Well, it was more like a splashdown. But thank you for keeping the story alive. I was beginning to think my 15 minutes were up already.”

She laughed. I laughed. Muriel laughed.

“Lindsay is halfway through her master’s degree in political science. She’s researching the role of the Senate,” Muriel remarked.

“Oh, don’t tell me; you’re advocating an elected Senate,” I suggested, trying to hide the skepticism from my voice.

She laughed again. “Nope, I think I’m the only one around who still believes in appointing the chamber of sober second thought. I’ve never been a fan of creating another House of Commons. One is quite enough,” Lindsay said.

“Well, Ms. Dewar, then we have something in common. I’m actually a big fan of the Senate just the way it is. It does some very good committee work that never gets enough air time,” I offered. I think I caught her off guard. Recovering, she seemed pleased with my response; hence, I was pleased.

Muriel interrupted our mutual admiration society. “Lindsay, dear, what I neglected to tell you was that Daniel recently left Parliament Hill where he worked in the Leader’s office for several years.”

“Ah, so you’ve been paroled,” Lindsay joked.

“Yes, in a manner of speaking, I have. But my debt to society will not be fully paid until after this election.” It was time to go before I
said something to threaten the reasonably good first impression I thought I’d left. Anyway, I needed to sit down with Angus to be briefed for my first class with the engineering frosh. I gathered the nomination forms from Muriel and offered my hand to Lindsay. “Well, I’ll leave you two to your cribbage. Be gentle with her, Muriel. It was really great to meet you, Lindsay, and I hope Liberal tendencies run in your family. We could sure use the help on the campaign. Muriel, I’ll pick you up tomorrow night at seven o’clock. We’ll check out the headquarters and lay out the campaign.”