The Best Laid Plans (3 page)

The Riverfront Seniors’ Residence loomed on my left just beyond the park. Built in 1952, it had that utterly forgettable but, I suppose, practical architecture of that era – early Canadian ugly. Two wings of rooms extended along the riverbank on either side of a central lobby. Everything looked painfully rectangular. The only architectural grace note, just adjacent to the dining room, was a curved wall of windows, overlooking the Ottawa River. For the residents, the panorama provided a welcome distraction from the steam-table cuisine.

The lounge next to the dining room was populated with 30-year-old couches and chairs, sporting strangely hued upholstery from the “shades of internal organs” collection, accessorized by protective plastic slip covers. I saw a couple of dozen or so residents camped out in the lounge. Some were reading. Others were locked in debate over what vegetables would accompany the pot roast that night. A few simply gazed at nothing at all with a forlorn and vacant look. The scent of air freshener hung heavy, only just subduing that other odor sadly common to many seniors’ residences. I loitered in the lobby, surveying the scene and deciding on my approach. Evidently, I was too slow.

A grizzled, old man in a peach safari suit and a lavender, egg-encrusted tie looked me up and down a few times, wrestling with his memory. Finally, recognition dawned on his withered face. “Hey, it’s the doggy doo-doo diving champ!” he shouted. I glanced at the aging alliteration aficionado before taking in the rest of the room. All eyes turned to me. I saw heads nodding and smiles breaking. A wheelchair-ridden centenarian gave me a thumbs-up. I heard a smattering of applause that slowly gathered strength and culminated some time later in an osteoporotic, stooping ovation. I felt compelled to take a bow. When the commotion abated, the guy in the peach safari suit approached.

“I gotta tell you that was some performance this morning. After that horse of a dog dropped his load in the middle of the sidewalk, we were all gathered by the window there, waiting for some poor sap to step in it. We even had a pool going.”

“I’m certainly gratified that I could brighten your day,” I answered with an inferior replica of a genuine smile.

“We had no idea someone would actually throw himself into it. What a showstopper! What chutzpah! We haven’t had that much excitement around here since the great Arnie Shaw flatulence evacuation in ′94.”

“My pleasure,” I said. “I’ll work up a new routine for next week. Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for Muriel Parkinson. Do you know where I can find her?”

He surveyed the room and pointed to the far corner. I followed his crooked finger to see an attractive and well-dressed woman, trying to conceal herself behind an anemic
benjamina ficus
that really wasn’t up to the job.

“Thank you,” I replied and started towards her.

From behind me, I heard, “No no, thank you. You made our month, young man.”

I recognized Muriel Parkinson immediately. I’d met her four years earlier at a Liberal Campaign College prior to the last election. She had attended a workshop that I had led on election communications for campaign managers and candidates. We had eaten lunch together that day, and I had gotten to know one of the grand old dames of the Liberal Party. She’d been acclaimed as the Liberal candidate in Cumberland-Prescott for the previous five elections, never once gaining enough support to get back our deposit. Now, that redefines dedication.

During World War II, Muriel had actually worked as Mackenzie King’s head secretary. Some historians believed she served as his sounding board and confidante when his dog, Pat, was unavailable. She was Liberal to the core. I clung to the fact that for five consecutive campaigns, with no hope of winning, she’d stood as
the lone Liberal in the safest Tory riding in the land. I harboured a faint hope that she might have a sixth left in her.

I was expecting at least to have the element of surprise. I didn’t think my mission was well known beyond a small circle at national campaign headquarters back in Ottawa. But from her reaction, I had a faint inkling my cover was blown. She peeked through the sparse branches of the ficus and saw that I had a lock on her. Resigned, she sat back in her chair and waved her hands in front of her face in the universal gesture for “get the hell away from me.”

“No no no no no!” she yelled. “Do not even think about it! Do not pass go! Do not collect two hundred dollars. Security! Security!” She yelled just loud enough to vibrate the picture window behind her. What a voice.

The room once again turned to me while I held my hands up in the universal gesture for “I’m harmless and just want to talk.” Fortunately, the celebrity conferred by my morning acrobatics had not yet waned, and I was permitted to continue. I approached her as an asylum orderly might inch towards a violent patient.

“Hello, Muriel, I’m Daniel Addison. We had lunch together a few years back at the last candidates’ school. How are you doing?”

“I know who you are, and I know why you’re here,” she said. “You really have your nerve. I told the Leader’s office that under no circumstances would I stand again. I’ve done my part. Get somebody else to fall on their sword this time.”

“Look, we really think Cameron’s ripe for the picking this time around,” I countered, wondering how plugged-in she still was to the local political scene.

“Look, college boy,” Muriel said, “I’ll lay it out for you. Eric Cameron is so high in the polls he starts each day with a nosebleed. I’ve run against him in the last three elections and have never even come close to seeing his dust in the distance. He’s smooth, courteous, educated, articulate, widowed, for mercy’s sake, and so right wing that the middle of the road is in a different time zone!” Her tirade aroused the interest of everyone in the
room and several who weren’t. “I’m eighty-one years old,” she continued. “I’ve got the shakes, and I’ve been in the bathroom thirteen times in the last three hours. I would not run again if the Leader promised to name me ambassador to Bermuda. And looking at the polls, he won’t be able to offer me a House of Commons Visitor’s Pass for much longer. I am not your candidate!” she harrumphed with finality, crossing her arms.

I lowered my voice in a vain attempt to lower the temperature. “Is that why you think I’m here – to persuade you to run again?” I asked, giving her my best wounded look.

“Well, I don’t think you’re here to ask me on a date.” I paused, unsure of how to play it out. Concern clouded her face. “Oh, please, tell me you’re not here to ask me out,” she blurted, mortified.

“I’m not here to ask you on a date,” I conceded. “My two-year relationship with a philandering girlfriend just ended, and I plan to lay low for a while.” I thought I’d open up a little and go for the sympathy vote.

“Then, I’m agog. You really are here to get me to run again, aren’t you?” she pressed.

I really had no idea how to handle her, so I just rolled over. “Okay, okay, I thought I at least owed you the right of first refusal.”

“Consider it exercised, Danny boy. I’m not your girl this time around. Am I coming in loud and clear, or should I speak slower?”

I crumpled into the chair beside her and buried my head in my hands. I toyed with the thought of convulsive blubbering, but she’d have been unmoved, and around the room, a dozen gnarled hands would’ve shot from sleeves, offering used tissues.

“What am I going to do?” I wheezed. “If I don’t find a candidate to run against Cameron in four days, my solemn promise to the Leader will be broken.”

“A broken promise in politics? Stop the presses!” she quipped. Now, she looked like she was officially enjoying herself.

“I just want to do the right thing and leave with a clear conscience,” I stammered and fell silent.

I could feel her eyes on me, and when I looked up, they seemed to soften. I knew she’d never run. I think I knew that before I’d even arrived at Riverfront Seniors’ Residence. But Muriel Parkinson was a loyal Liberal.

“Look, Daniel, I’ll work on the campaign, but my name will not be on the ballot. Is that clear?” she asked gently.

I was very much in a “take what you can get” frame of mind. I was also filled with affection and gratitude, and I told her so. A topic change was in order before she reconsidered.

“How long have you lived here?”

“About two years,” she replied. “Ever since God’s sense of humour simply made living on my own too difficult for me and too onerous for my daughter.” I was puzzled and must have looked it because she carried on. “It’s my lot in life to suffer with a disease whose name I share. I was diagnosed with Parkinson’s ten years ago and became debilitated to the point that getting around my house wasn’t possible any more. I suppose I should be thankful I wasn’t christened Muriel Melanoma. Anyway, after a fall, a broken hip, a stint in Cumberland Memorial, and much debate with my saint of a daughter, here I am.” I nodded in sympathy and thought of my own name and how JFK had suffered with Addison’s disease.

“My daughter and I nearly came to blows over my move here,” Muriel continued. “She really wanted me to live with her and her daughter, Lindsay. I love them both, but they have their own lives.” Her words faded.

“I’m sure their offer was genuine and well-meaning,” I suggested.

“I’m sure it was, too. That’s why I insisted on coming here.”

For the first time, I noticed the book in her lap –
Home Economics and Free Labour
, Marin Lee’s groundbreaking treatise on the unrecognized economic contribution of women working in the home. Lee’s book was the first solid analysis of how society in general, and the economy in particular, benefited from the services typically
provided by housewives day in and day out, ostensibly for no income. It was a classic in feminist theory that had first opened my eyes to women’s equality issues during my involvement in student politics at university. In fact, I’d heard Marin Lee speak once at a Canadian Federation of Students conference at Carleton where she taught. She’d even signed my copy of her book after her talk.

I pointed to the book.
“A
little light reading?” Muriel’s face brightened as she turned the book so I could see it and stroked the cover the way book lovers do.

“Light? No. Liberating? Yes. The way she writes, the way she puts her arguments, the positions she advances – it all makes so much sense to me. She actually uses humour to make her point even more profound; so many before her simply used anger and rage – not that they weren’t justified, mind you. You should really read it.” She was surprised and, I think, pleased when I told her I already had. Policy wonks read stuff like Marin Lee.

So this was Muriel. Eighty-one years old. She’d put her neck on the line in five consecutive elections. She was battling Parkinson’s while fending off my entreaties to run yet again. Undiminished intellectually, she lived in a seniors’ home where only a handful of her fellow residents could match her mental acuity. And she read Marin Lee instead of playing bingo. I liked this tough old warhorse.

I swept the room with my hand. “Have you made friends here?”

“I was born and raised in this town and only lived in Ottawa while working on Mr. King’s staff,” Muriel explained. “I returned here in 1950 after I refused to take minutes for one of his bizarre seances. Anyway, the point is, I knew everybody in this place long before I ever signed up to live here. See that guy over there in green-plaid shorts and the orange-striped shirt?” she asked. I looked over at a group of men playing cards, all of whom seemed to buy their clothes from the bargain table at the golf pro shop.

“Which one? Half of them are wearing plaid shorts.”

“The one on the left, leering in my direction. When I was eighteen, I used to date him. He had the same avant-garde fashion taste
back then, too, not to mention a penchant for wandering hands, which he has yet to outgrow.”

“Would you like me to have a word with him about his manners? I’m not about to sit idly by as the honour of a former Liberal candidate is challenged by a dirty old … fashion train wreck.”

She laughed. “Thank you, but I fear he could take you,” she chuckled. She was probably right.

I was suddenly hit by the smell of lunch wafting in from the kitchen; I felt queasy. “How’s the food?” I inquired with my nose in full wrinkle.

“The view of the river is lovely,” she said, closing down that subject.

Muriel brought us back to politics and the millstone that still hung around my neck, feeling heavier with each passing day. As we reviewed my exhaustive four-week odyssey, she seemed impressed by my methodical search. I had left no stones unturned in Cumberland. Every person she rhymed off, I’d already crossed off or pissed off. She sighed and leaned back in her chair, the plastic slipcover protesting.

“You know, before Mr. King lost himself in the occult,” Muriel said, “he used to say ‘if you’ve really done absolutely everything you can and you still come up short, fate will smile on good people.’ He called it King’s axiom. That’s what accounted for his serenity in the face of such daunting challenges. Are you a good person, Mr. Addison?”

I didn’t know how to respond, so I just dialed up the wattage of my smile and nodded.

“I’ll tell you something else,” she went on. “There is more to Eric Cameron than the world sees. I can feel it. He’s been under my microscope for the last fifteen years, and I’m certain something’s amiss. Ever since that harlot Petra Borschart took over his staff, I’ve been waiting for the wheels to fall off.”

I filed this insight away for further analysis. I’d met Petra a few times on the Hill, and she reminded me of a rattlesnake – scary,
slimy, aggressive, loud, and poisonous. That’s where the similarities ended, because rattlesnakes were also ugly.

We talked a bit more about how the campaign might unfold and what role she might play, assuming I found a candidate. When we appeared to have run our conversational course, I rose. I squeezed her hand and told her how much I enjoyed renewing our acquaintance. She squeezed back and told me to call on her any time now that we’d resolved any confusion over her potential candidacy. I turned to go.