David bent down and lifted Garith on to the counter. The dog shook his head, tinking his bell. "Chinese Cresteds don't shed. They're hypoallergenic. He hardly makes a peep. In the three years since I house-trained him, has he ever had an accident?"

"An accident?"

"A p.o.o.p or a pee, Andrew. An accident. Well, let me tell you, Andrew, no. This dog is accident-free."

Andrew cleared his throat and leaned forward so he could take a closer look at Garith. The dog wagged his tail and pulled his lips back, performing his smile trick. Andrew reached forward, tentatively, and ran his hand along Garith's smooth brown back. "I've never seen an animal like this."

"This dog is more intelligent than your average high-school graduate today, Andrew. He deserves to be treated with respect."

"But"

"But nothing, really. We walked here tonight, so I can't leave him in the vehicle. Which would be a sin against decency even if I could do it. And it doesn't seem fair that you should make this decision now, a half-hour before my meeting, with no warning whatsoever. How many meetings have we had here with Garith, with nary a whisper of disapproval from the management? This city shall bring itself to ruin with all these petty regulations designed to bolster the egos of dull bureaucrats. Yes?"

"But"

"But nothing, Andrew."

David paused for another five seconds, took Garith in his arms, and walked upstairs to the boardroom on the mezzanine level. For a moment, he remained aware of Andrew. The a.s.sistant manager walked around the counter and followed David up the stairs for a few steps. Then Andrew sighed, whispered "Whatever," to himself, and returned to his perch behind the computer screens.

Everything was ready in the boardroom. On a credenza against the wall, a large Thermos of coffee with various whiteners and sweeteners. Next to the Thermos, a selection of soft drinks and a box filled with m.u.f.fins, donuts, and squares.

David sat at the head of the table with Garith on his lap. To warm himself up, he ate a m.u.f.fin and read the minutes from the final spring meeting aloud to Garith. The Strathcona PC Riding a.s.sociation had raised several motions, including a "no idling" automobile initiative and a resolution supporting a strengthened fine arts curriculum in high schools. These were the sorts of concerns that eroded support for the opposition in central urban ridings. Gosh, the pinkos will think, maybe there is a little progressive in that conservative.

The first to arrive was the newest member, Tammy "Sparkle" Davidson, who had just purchased her PC card. She sat in the chair nearest David and opened a bottle of water. "I'm so nervous," she said. "This all seems so important."

David squinted, a strategy he learned at Toastmasters long ago. "You should be nervous, Tammy. Nothing in your life is more important than active citizenry. Congratulations."

The Terrys, a couple from Gillingham, England, arrived next. Terry and Terry Ashton were two of the most devoted members of the Strathcona PC Riding a.s.sociation, helping with barbecues and softball games in the summer and the family sleigh ride every December. But as far as David could see, they were shameless liberals. All the Terrys ever did was introduce motions about spending the budget surplus. Tax cuts? Not for the Terrys.

Next came Cheese, who stood at the snack table with a coffee. Before he said a word, Cheesea grown man who insisted on being called Cheeseate a blueberry-bran m.u.f.fin and a date square. He was bald and wore a motorcycle jacket. His only reason for joining the Strathcona PC Riding a.s.sociation was to fight for marijuana legalization and to denounce the federal government in "Taxawa." Most meetings, Cheese argued against the Terrys until David was able to broker a compromise.

This was everyone, it seemed. Just before the meeting started, Tammy "Sparkle" Davidson walked around the room shaking hands. Then, after relations seemed cozy and Cheese was finished snacking, Tammy sat down and said, "I'm hoping to meet some real power brokers here."

Woman Terry put up her hand. "Are we to call you Tammy then, or Sparkle?"

"Either way!"

"Well, Sparkle it is then."

"I love your accent. Is it Australian?"

"No."

"I love it, Terry. I really do."

David stood to lead the Strathcona Progressive Conservative Riding a.s.sociation through a rendition of "O Canada" when the door opened. Barry Strongman walked in, smelling of campfire. "Sorry I'm late," he said. "I'm the new guy."

"Dear doctor," said Man Terry.

Barry removed his poncho, jean jacket, and toque, and sat next to Tammy, who plugged her nose with her m.u.f.fin napkin. He pulled a sheet of white paper out of his bag, held it up for David to see, and slapped it on the table.

"I'm pumped, David, fellow Conservatives. I'm inspired. Let's Fix It."

26.

the newest member of the party Once or twice a year, David Weiss had a nightmare. Since he spent a remarkably small amount of time ama.s.sing worries and fears, his nightmares were random instances of humiliation and forgotten responsibilities.

It is 1975 and Abby is giving birth in the Royal Alexandra Hospital, on the verge of dying from a ruptured uterus, and David is playing cards and drinking Cuba Libres with strangers in a smoky hotel bar on Fort Road. David is late for school on his first day as a teacher. He is in the middle of making a speech to like-minded men in suits and every time he opens his mouth, a cuss word comes out. He sleeps through his mother's funeral. A meteor is crashing through the atmosphere, on its way to Old Strathcona, and he's stuck in the middle of Whyte Avenue, naked.

Since he was not well-practised in the art of managing fear, David stood in the conference room on the second floor of the Metterra Hotel and stared silently at Barry Strongman for close to a minute. David understood it was his duty, as riding president and as Barry Strongman's acquaintance, to respond to the intrusion. Yet somethingthe blueberry m.u.f.fin, the coffee, the plaque in his arteries left over from twenty-two years of cigarettes and saturated fatprevented him from acting.

"Do you know this man, David?" There was a hint of pleasure in Woman Terry's voice.

"Well, of course he does." Barry gathered a bagel and an orange juice from the credenza. "David's one of my best customers and best friends. He's my boy." He plopped back down beside Tammy "Sparkle" Davidson and elbowed her gently. "How you doin', sweet pea? My name is Barry Strongman and I'm the nephew of the chief."

The fog of fear began to lift from David, and he regained the power of speech. "What?"

"What what?" Barry chewed.

"What are you doing here?"

"Oh, right. My credentials. I wasn't sure how all this worked." Barry pulled a card out of his front pocket. "Here's my membership number. They were real understanding about things at head office, even though I'm currently without a permanent dwelling."

"You can't just barge in on a meeting like this, Barry. Unannounced."

"Lady on the phone said I could."

Tammy "Sparkle" Davidson squinted as though something about Barry Strongman stung her eyes. She wheeled away from him. On the other side of her, Cheese seemed unusually jocular. Man Terry's mouth hung open, as though he were preparing to nibble at corn on the cob. His wife flared her nostrils.

At that moment, David wanted to be in a hot-air balloon floating over the river valley. He wanted to be stuck in traffic on Quesnel Bridge in the middle of January. David wanted to be sick with avian flu, back teaching high-school algebra, eating tofu burgers with Reiki pract.i.tioners or attending an Amnesty International convention with Abby in Newfoundland. Anywhere but in the second-floor conference room of the Metterra Hotel, responsible for Barry Strongman.

The newest member of the Strathcona PC Riding a.s.sociation lifted the Let's Fix It sheet high enough for everyone to see. "I trust everyone's read this effer. It's mind-blowing."

"Barry, I don't think you want to be here."

"I know what you're saying, David. I know." Barry called Garith up on his lap, and Garith began licking the homeless man's neck. "But there comes a time in every man's life when he's got to join the system, sick as it is, and try to fix itto fix itfrom within. You know what I'm saying?" Barry leaned over the table, extended his hand toward the Terrys. "I'm Barry Strongman. It's a pleasure."

The Terrys introduced themselves, as did Cheese.

Tammy "Sparkle" Davidson raised her left index finger. "I'm confused."

At this point, the monthly meeting of the Strathcona PC Riding a.s.sociation could go in one of two directions: David could work to normalize the meeting by making excuses for Barry's appearance and behaviour or he could attempt to remove his debating partner. It was the face of Woman Terry that steeled him in the direction of toughness, the smile in her eyes. David knew Woman Terry wanted to be president and that she enjoyed this breach, this chaos, this display of weakness. It was laudable to work with the homeless, to make public statements about the homeless, to sponsor legislation that might improve the plight of the homeless. However, a PC Riding a.s.sociation president was not supposed to be a "boy" to the homeless.

"Maybe we can talk about the a.s.sociation, Barry, before you begin attending meetings."

"Sure we can talk. Whenever you like. That's what I'm here for, David, to make a contribution. For too long I've been idle, screaming from the fringes."

David took a deep breath. He would not lose control of the room. As he exhaled, he caught a glimpse of Woman Terry's half-smile.

"I'm asking you to leave, Barry."

"What do you mean?"

"Please, Barry. Just leave."

For ten seconds that felt like ten minutes, Barry Strongman stared into the eyes of David Weiss. Then Barry slid the Let's Fix It sheet across the table to Woman Terry, and began gathering his poncho, jacket, toque, and scarf. He bent down and kissed Garith. As Barry pa.s.sed David at the front of the room he paused. "I didn't know you were this sort of man."

Woman Terry followed Barry Strongman out of the room. Man Terry nodded at the seat Barry had vacated. "Who is he?"

"He smelled like burning tires," said Tammy.

David cleared his throat. "Sorry for the interruption. Now, three, two, one, O Canada..."

David knew the words so well he didn't have to think about the national anthem. But he wanted to think about the national anthem, deeply, because thinking about the way he had just treated Barry Strongman made him feel unpleasant.

Why did everyone have to be so difficult, and different? There were people who agreed with David: wonderful, superior people in positions of power. But out here, among the rabble, they were rarer than burrowing owls.

It was obvious, if one sat and considered them, that each of David's values and principles was wholly reasonable. One doesn't just show up unshaven and smelling of burned porktires was unfairat a PC Riding a.s.sociation meeting.

By the end of "O Canada," as Woman Terry re-entered the room, David had convinced himself that Barry Strongman, not David Weiss, should be cross with himself. The Let's Fix It sheet was on the table before him, covered in stains and marked with barely legible notes in red pen. The date, circled three times, was tomorrow.

Tomorrow night.

27.

another national tragedy On Wednesday morning, Madison woke at six with hunger pains. In the last few days, her potent appet.i.te for carbohydrates had pushed the nausea aside, but she wasn't sure which she preferred. It was still dark and her newspaper hadn't arrived yet, so Madison took her giant bowl of muesli and frozen blueberries in front of the television. Though it had been over two months since she struck caffeine from her life, she deeply missed the hopeful smell of fresh coffee, the hot cup in her hands, the shock of clarity that came with her first sip.

Madison was rarely up this early, so she almost never saw the morning news from studios in New York City. On all three American stations, the hosts spent most of their time on celebrity concerns, upcoming movies, self-help books, and handy recipes, with only a whisper of actual news. Information breaks on the channel with the most attractive male hostbalding-a-licious Matt Lauerfocused on missing children, runaway brides, bad weather in Georgia, and some important senator's gall bladder operation.

Madison knew missing children, bad weather, and runaway brides weren't important concerns, but in her fuzzy, coffeeless haze, she was powerless to turn the channel. It was junk, all of it, b.u.t.tressed with expensive sets and fake importance that made her feel part of the American experience. But here in Canada, Madison didn't have the luxury of feeling superior.

On the night Benjamin Perlitz returned to 10 Garneau with a rifle and the divorce papers Jeanne had sent, the television and print media outlets interviewed Madison. They interviewed everyone but Jonas, who snored near some shrubbery.

The story of the hostage drama that appeared on television that night, and in the newspaper the next day, went like this: Benjamin was a full-time bureaucrat and a part-time day trader. When technology stocks crashed, he lost a pile of money. He took out a second mortgage on 10 Garneau and continued to gamble.

And lose.

By the end of 2004, everyone in the neighbourhood had noticed the changes in Benjamin Perlitz. He looked and smelled desperate and ill, occasionally wandering into the Weiss backyard or curling up drunk on the sidewalk. Just before Christmas, his superiors in the government realized he was gambling online when he should have been working, and laid him off.

In January of 2005, to the delight of everyone on the block, Benjamin left. Even Jeanne was relieved, though she feared raising her daughter alone. Katie, when Madison babysat, said her daddy was "getting fixed." There were rumours in the springtime, circulated by Madison's mother, that Jeanne was having an affair. This made perfect sense to Madison, as Jeanne was blonde and smart and almost six feet tall.

At some point in the summer, Jeanne sought a divorce from Benjamin Perlitz and that, really, was the whole story. Until he brought a rifle to 10 Garneau on the last night of the Fringe Festival.

The news channels had presented several versions of Benjamin's recent biography, which was expanded upon in the newspaper. It seemed artificially dramatic on television, with the piano music in the background, but Madison learned a lot about Benjamin's interests in golf, water skiing, s...o...b..arding, and deer hunting. Quick shots of the tactical team sneaking through the front and back yards of 10 Garneau and the house next door, Madison's parents' house, were on all the national stations.

When the single shot echoed through the block, everyone stopped talking. No one knew if Benjamin had shot Jeanne or Katie, or if one of the snipers had shot him. The answer came less than a minute later, as Jeanne appeared in the window and, in an exhausted voice, announced that her husband was bleeding.

The sun came up and startled Madison out of her early morning doze in front of the American news. She wanted to go back to bed but she hadn't been out for a run in more than a week, and guilt was more powerful than fatigue.

Outside, in the flinty dawn air, Madison stretched her calves. As she did, a woman in shorts approached on her bicycle. At first, Madison thought the woman was on her way east, out of the university area, but she dropped her bike on the lawn at 10 Garneau. The canvas bag on the back of her bike said "Carol's Courier Service." She pulled out a pile of letters and proceeded up the walkway.

"No one lives there anymore."

The courier, presumably Carol, dropped the letter into the mailbox and stomped across the lawn. "Not my business." She dropped an envelope into each of the five mailboxes of the Garneau Block, retrieved her bicycle, and started back in the direction of the university.

Madison walked across her parents' front lawn and removed the envelope from their box. It was from the university, addressed to "Occupant." She opened the letter and read it, twice, and decided she wouldn't be going for a run that morning. Even though David and Abby Weiss didn't usually get out of bed until 8:30, Madison was determined to wake them. She didn't have a key with her so she began knocking, and yelling, and kicking the door.

28.

temper The morning sun filled the kitchen where David Weiss paced, from the refrigerator to the patio door, for over an hour. He was in the midst of calling every one of his influential friends in the PC party on the speakerphone. Nearly all of them pleaded helplessness. His final friend, the past executive director and a fellow Freemason, said, "David, listen. If we're going to be a party that's against government interference, how do we go about interfering?"

Madison and Abby, leaning on the wooden chopping island, jumped back as David picked up a Mandarin orange and spiked it on the ceramic floor. Garith, who had been at his master's feet, yipped and hopped and sprinted away. "That's bulls.h.i.t! We interfere all the time! Who do you think you're talking to?"

After holding her breath for a few moments, Madison led Abby and Garith out the patio door and on to deck chairs. At first, her mother seemed frightened. Then, as a gentle breeze began to blow through the backyard, tinkling the chimes, Abby chuckled. "Those barbarians are great allies when they want something from you, a few extra hours to help ruin the environment or discriminate against h.o.m.os.e.xuals. But now that David's in trouble, they're abandoning him."

Madison didn't know what to say to her mother. Since waking her parents and presenting them with the letter, she hadn't said much. There didn't seem to be any room for optimism.

The letter indicated that in the coming weeks a property evaluator would call for appointments. The appraiser would determine the current market value of the five houses in the Garneau Block, and the university would offer a ten-per-cent bonus. Thanks to the University Land Acquisition Act of 1928, this was non-negotiable.

"It'll work out, Mom."

"How?"

This was exactly why Madison hadn't said anything. All she could do was recite empty and meaningless cliches. In the real world, nothing ever worked out. "Well, you know, Dad didn't join the party for his own personal gain. He..."

Abby chuckled again, in a particularly un-elementary schoolteacher sort of way. "Oh, my sweet naive girl."

The dog, having recovered from his scare in the kitchen, attacked a plush pig in the middle of the yard. Instead of talking about the university buying their house, bulldozing it, and transforming the Garneau Block into a nanotech or health sciences something or other, Madison and Abby watched Garith stalk and chew the pig. A brief gust of wind felled two or three apples from the tree, and Garith left his pink companion to sniff and growl at the fruit.

A helicopter flew overhead, on its way to the hospital. Now here was something Madison could say to make her parents feel better about losing their house: at least they didn't have spinal injuries or ma.s.sive head trauma. She was just about to bring this up when David opened the patio door and walked out onto the deck.