The Best Laid Plans Part 3

"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 b.a.s.t.a.r.d 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' doc.u.mented 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 cla.s.s?"

"I have no doubt the deed was just done. The cla.s.s 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.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 c.u.mberland-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 c.u.mberland, 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 partic.i.p.ate 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 n.o.body 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 canva.s.sing, 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 grace. "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 c.u.mberland-Prescott Liberal a.s.sociation. 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 a.s.sociation'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 c.u.mberland, 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 h.e.l.los 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, b.u.t.ton-down, oxford-cloth shirt untucked sandals, and funky sungla.s.ses, 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 cla.s.s."

"h.e.l.lo, 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 c.u.mberland-Prescott. Daniel, this is my granddaughter, Lindsay Dewar," Muriel concluded with a sweep of her hand.

"h.e.l.lo, 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 c.u.mberland 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 cla.s.s 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."

"I'll be ready. Good night, Daniel," Muriel replied.

"Nice to meet you, Daniel," chimed Lindsay.

I sauntered out of the room, this time to only a smattering of applause from my adoring fans. In another week, I'll need to fall off the boardwalk into the water to restore my tragicomic standing at the Riverfront Seniors' Residence. Jasper gave me the thumbs-up as I hit the crash bar on the front door. I waved and was out.

"Okay, what am I in for?" I asked and looked at Angus, sitting on the couch in his living room. I again sat in the easy chair and sipped a c.o.ke the course syllabus open on my lap. Without answering, he handed me a large binder with many coloured tabs week one, week two, week three, etcetera. I flipped through it and found talking points to carry me through the weekly lectures for the entire course. For the second time in as many days, the phrase I am saved shoved its way into my thoughts.

"This is perfect! How long did it take you to pull this together?" I inquired.

"You're holdin' in yer hands the product of nearly 20 years of survivin' this abominable cla.s.s. I've taught E for E five times in two decades, and I'm sane today because of that binder," he noted. "The more you can lose yourself in those lectures, the less engaged with the cla.s.s you'll need to be. Just ignore 'em and keep on talkin'. It's easier that way."

"How many students will there be?" I asked.

"Well, the course is mandatory for all 120 first-year engineers, but about half of 'em won't show up after the first cla.s.s. If you don't feel like talkin', you can always lob a provocative question into the seats and let the discussion flow," Angus said.

I turned to the talking points for the first lecture and followed through them. They looked straightforward to me.

"Yer first encounter with the philistines tomorrow is not a full three hours but just an hour-long orientation so that you can introduce yourself, set the tone and direction, and get the h.e.l.l out of Dodge."

By this time, Angus had arranged the chess board and was sitting patiently with black. I set aside his E for E bible and slipped into the seat with white. I'd been playing a bit online since my last encounter with Angus and felt a little more confident at the board. I remembered his comments about the shortcomings in my game and tried to avoid them this time around. I kept my queen on the back rank for an appropriate length of time. I paid more attention to my p.a.w.n structure something I seldom did. I castled at the earliest opportunity, securely sequestering my king under the protection of three p.a.w.ns and a rook. Finally, I was careful not to split infinitives, dangle participles, promulgate nonexistent verbs like prioritize, access, and impact, or end my sentences with a preposition. (That was a practice up with which Angus would not put. My apologies to Winston Churchill.) I won the first game. Angus was steamed. I'd taken his queen with a clever little move where I sacrificed my bishop to check the king, revealing a threat to his queen by my rook. Of course, he had to take my bishop with his king (he was in check), so I calmly took his queen with my revealed rook. Nice. It was the kind of move you can pull on a player like Angus once. So I did.

I was still enjoying my victory and lounging on my laurels when he advanced his queen p.a.w.n to start game two. I could tell Angus was mad at himself for underestimating me. It took 13 moves for him to pulverize me in game two. A combination of his anger-induced determination and my game-one honeymoon hangover was my swift undoing.

We shook hands and decided we'd play the rubber match the following night after my campaign meeting. I asked Angus if he'd like to come to meet the campaign team.

"Och, that's a shame, but I just cannae do it tomorrow night. I'm rustproofin' the steel plate in my head," he deadpanned. A simple "No, I don't think so" would have sufficed.

As before, he walked me down to the boathouse and disappeared into his workshop while I climbed the long stairway to bed. I was beat again that night.

The heating grates once again gave up the sounds of Angus working on the hovercraft and talking. I couldn't make out the m.u.f.fled words, but the tone seemed friendly. I heard nothing for a long while as I lay down and closed my eyes. As I dozed off, again I heard faint weeping, drifting up through the vents.

DIARY.

Tuesday, September 3

My Love,

I like to have a run-in with "the Rumper" at least once every ten years whether I need it or not. Today, I needed it. He is truly a stench of the first order. One of my favourite pastimes has become piercing his pomposity. I took Daniel to meet with Rumplun so that we could finalize my escape from E for E and start Daniel's incarceration. On instinct, Rumplun flexed his meagre muscles and flatly refused. As I'd instructed, Daniel sat silent as a dormouse while I pulled the dean's strings. When it was clear he was not to be moved, I slipped Montebello into the play and that rumphole rolled over and offered me his throat in short order. The forms confirming my release were dutifully signed and my sentence commuted. Daniel has no idea what's in store for him. I feel a wee bit bad about it. No, I don't. I wish I did, but I don't. You were always there to help me with empathy. It's hard mustering it without you.

I confess I've given no thought to the implications of letting my name take up s.p.a.ce on the ballot in a federal election. I was so focused on eluding E for E that it seemed a minuscule price to pay. Anyway, the 39-day countdown to the election, or E-day as Daniel calls it, is expected to commence the day after tomorrow. Fortunately, while Eric Cameron is a slippery sc.u.mbag, he's so far ahead in the polls he could die and still win.

Tomorrow, Daniel has threatened to tell me about my campaign even though the candidate has no role whatsoever. I don't even want to know.

It is always late at night, without the daily campus travails to distract me, when the shadow of your absence falls most heavily upon me. I cannot escape it. I am immersed in it. The emptiness, the flatness of life without you, is stark and profound. Like a desert. What am I to do?

AM.

CHAPTER FOUR.

Battle stations. The next afternoon, as my eyes followed the steeply raked seats all the way up to the top, I had a sense of how the Christians might have felt scanning the rabble in the colosseum before the lions were let loose. The a.n.a.logy was more than architectural. In all, 120 engineering students populated the first-year cla.s.s. As expected, given the course and the fact that the first cla.s.s was just an orientation session, I confronted only about 80 students. About a third of them wore purple construction hard hats. I kid you not. The engineering pack mentality was alive and kicking. I just didn't want to be on the business end of the boot.

Both women in the cla.s.s also wore hard hats, confirming their membership in the "if you can't beat 'em, join 'em society." My heart went out to them. I really didn't think, as many did, that male engineering students were bona fide misogynists. However, I did believe that they succ.u.mbed to peer pressure for sustained periods and honoured traditions that undervalued women and nurtured stereotypes, particularly where nursing students were concerned. One skim through the engineering-student news paper, The Pipe, provided ample evidence.

I made the mistake of writing my name on the blackboard, followed by "Department of English." After ten fruitless minutes of trying to bring the cla.s.s to order through more civilized means, I thwacked (intentionally) and broke (unintentionally) a yardstick over the lectern. It made quite an impressive noise, after which the students settled down out of curiosity, I was sure, and not out of respect for authority. I apologized to the burly engineer in the third row who'd been struck by the jagged two feet of yard stick I no longer held. I handed him a Kleenex I found in my pocket and noticed that the bleeding stopped shortly thereafter.

"This cla.s.s is English for Engineers, in case that wasn't already clear," I began. "I'm Professor Addison. I am not an engineer ... but I play one on TV." Not a ripple. It was so quiet you could hear my bowels clench.

"What show?" some smarta.s.s shouted. I realized in an instant the query was genuine, delivered in earnest.

"Don't worry about it. That was my poor attempt at humour," I backfilled.

"Will this be on the exam?" Again, straight-faced. Serious question. I weighed my options and ignored it. I'd decided to attempt the Socratic teaching method, which meant posing the right questions to prompt discussion and debate and delivering the students to enlightenment or, at least, dropping them off at a gas station on the outskirts of basic understanding.

"Let me ask you all something. How many of you would rather not be here?" I surveyed the room, stopped counting hands at 63, and raised my own. "Perhaps it would be easier to ask how many of you are pleased to be here?" Again I counted. I lost count after two as there were just no more hands in the air.

"Could I see you two guys after cla.s.s, please?" I commented. Though I was kidding, my two supporters in the back lowered their hands and nodded. They looked like quite a pair despite the distance between us, resembling finalists in a Johnny Rotten look-alike contest.

"How many of you think that engineering students have enough to learn without having English foisted on you?" Blank looks. Rewind. "In this context, foisted kind of means the same thing as forced." I was going to use the word synonym, but it was only a one-hour cla.s.s. The penny dropped for most of them, and again, a large majority thrust their hands in the air. I approached the tiered seats and pointed to a smallish fellow, who I thought I could take if I had to. "Other than your engineering texts, what was the last book you read?"

Smallish fellow thought for a moment before replying, "Beam Me Up, Scotty by James Doohan." I saw much righteous nodding behind him.