Just Like Family Page 3

  “That was so fun,” I said.

  “You hung in,” said Peter. “I’m impressed.”

  “I like projects,” I said.

  “You are your father’s daughter.”

  “Is that a good thing?”

  “Definitely,” said Peter. “Your parents are great.”

  “They’re okay.”

  “They’re a lot livelier than my dad and his wife,” said Peter.

  It wouldn’t be hard to be livelier than Don, but I didn’t say so.

  “Are you looking forward to law school?” I asked.

  “I’m more looking forward to being a lawyer,” said Peter. “The program is pretty intense.”

  “Have you always wanted to be a lawyer?”

  “As long as I can remember.”

  “I have no idea what I want to be,” I said.

  “You’ve got time,” said Peter. “But first things first. What are we going to do for the rest of the month now that we’re finished the raft?”

  “Want to help organize the Berry Point Olympics?”

  “Sure,” he said. “Why not? Let the Games begin.”

  {CHAPTER 3}

  Tuesday, July 11, 2017

  It’s already steamy when I step out of the doors of city hall into the plaza. I feel the sweat beading under my suit and my hair frizzing. I feel unprepared for my role as the star of the Avery Graham saga today. It is too demanding in this heat. I need a makeup trailer. I need personal staff: a stylist, a script coach, an agent to take care of pesky conversational skirmishes like the one I’m about to have.

  I don’t need any extras, though. I have plenty of those. I have the Sad Smoker, outside the doors, wafting clouds of cigarette smoke like dry ice, weeping angrily into her cellphone. I have Jesus on Rollerblades, who glides through the plaza at least twice a day, hair trailing behind him. I have the Grill Sergeant, who operates the hot dog truck on the northwest corner, barking commands at his customers while wearing a wardrobe consisting entirely of camouflage. I have the Narcoleptic Babysitter, who sits in the shade and dozes while her charges run around city hall plaza, dangerously close to the street, chasing pigeons. And I have the Bandwagon Objector, who has never, ever missed a protest in city hall plaza.

  I would like to tell the Sad Smoker to quit smoking and find a nicer boyfriend. But I don’t even know her name, and anyway, who am I to give anyone advice? I am, after all, on my way to see the Wozniaks, which is all the evidence anyone would ever need to conclude that the main character in my show has made some bad choices somewhere along the way. I’m hoping for catharsis before the final frames, but it won’t be happening today.

  We are meeting at Rick Wozniak’s office, only a few blocks from city hall. Roger’s constituency office is in a leafy suburb an hour away, where people drive cars to go to big box stores three blocks from their homes, so I’m not complaining. Not much, anyway.

  When I arrive, Roger and Rick are already seated in Rick’s conference room.

  “Avery,” says Rick, rising and clasping my hand as if we are old friends. “Thank you for fitting us into your busy schedule.” Rick makes an effort to be a gentleman in the small matters; I’ll give him that. Roger remains seated.

  “Well,” I say, “obviously the mayor is anxious to understand your thoughts on the waterfront development. We were, candidly, surprised by your objections, Roger.”

  “Were you?” says Roger. “You seem smarter than that.”

  “Dad,” says Rick.

  “Fine,” says Roger.

  “First things first,” says Rick. “How is Councillor Mendelson?”

  Roger’s face is redder than usual. “Mendelson’s too old for this game,” he says. “She should think about retiring.”

  “I’m sure she is,” I say. “She’s fractured a hip. A return to work is unlikely at this point.”

  “A remarkable career,” says Rick. “My father and I so admire her dedication to the city. I hope you will let us know if there is a celebration down the road. We’d be pleased to contribute to a gift.” Roger nods his head in agreement.

  “I’ll make a note of that,” I say. “We’ll be sure to include your family in any plans.”

  “Excellent,” says Rick. His assistant comes in with a tray, and a few minutes are spent on the pouring of coffee and the offering of cookies. There are always cookies here, no matter what the hour, and I never eat them. It feels dangerous, and possibly disloyal. The cookies are famously delicious. People whisper about them at city hall.

  “To business, then?” asks Rick.

  “Sure,” I say. “Why don’t we start with you bringing me up to speed on your current objections to the plan.”

  “The neighbours are pissed, and so are we,” says Roger.

  Rick takes over. “You can tell the mayor that we remain committed to the basic concept of the redevelopment, as we told you several months ago,” he says. “But in the past week, it has come to our attention that the neighbours had not received full information about the plans. The mayor had given my father his absolute assurance that the neighbours would have full and complete input into the uses in the development.”

  “As I understand it, the neighbours were consulted fully,” I say. “Is there a specific issue?”

  “Let’s call it a concern,” says Rick. “A legitimate concern, about the women’s shelter.”

  Now I’m honestly confused. A modest, discreet, non-intrusive, architecturally attractive, and politically popular women’s shelter has been part of the design plan from the beginning. There are a few new additions to the project, compromises here and there, including a home improvement store that looks like an airplane hangar and a hunting and fishing supply store with a gigantic stag’s head rising from the top of the building, but until this moment I have believed the women’s shelter to be unassailable, both in purpose and design.

  “As you know,” says Rick, “the development will result in the demolition of affordable studio space for artists in the city.”

  “Yes,” I say. “And that is why the mayor has created an equal number of new rent-controlled studios in the development plan.”

  “Exactly,” says Rick. “And those studios are located above the women’s shelter.”

  “Forgive me, Rick,” I say, “but this isn’t news. We haven’t moved any of these elements in the project.”

  “No one is suggesting that you have,” says Rick. “This issue is inadequate information. The neighbours were not informed that there would be children in the shelter. And now they are deeply concerned that the noise of the children will interfere with the creative process.”

  “Of course there are children!” I say. “Women leaving abusive situations take their children with them.”

  “Avery,” says Rick, “no one is suggesting that these women should be separated from their children, merely that more needs to be done to consider the needs of the artists.”

  “Would you pass the cookies?” I say. I need some fat and sugar to absorb this outrageous political play. Roger Wozniak is Public Enemy Number One for the intelligentsia in this city. The idea that he is now styling himself as a friend to artists is too rich by half. The cookie is not, though. It is exactly rich enough. It is perfect. I take another, which doesn’t count, because I’m burning a lot of calories right now by suppressing my rage.

  “You want my vote?” says Roger. “You need to get the artists onside.”

  “What we’d like,” says Rick, “is for the mayor to meet with the neighbours, specifically with the Artists’ Cooperative, and work out a solution to the noise issue. I’m sure there are a number of ways in which this could be resolved. And when the artists are satisfied with the process and the outcome, my father will vote for the plan.”

  “Right,” says Roger. He looks at his watch. “Are we done? I have a lunch.”

  “We’re done,” says Rick. “Thanks, Dad.” Roger pushes his chair back and is gone in seconds.

  I make a move to rise, b
ut Rick speaks. “I apologize if my father appeared rude just now.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” I say.

  “He may lack a certain finesse, but he truly wants the best for this city.”

  “Of course.”

  “Did you know that he’ll be seventy this year?”

  “I didn’t,” I say. And, in fact, I’m surprised. There is a boyishness in Roger that appeals to those who want their politicians to be exactly like them and no better. I would have put his age at least five years younger, and I’m struck by a wonderful thought. “Is he considering retirement at all?”

  “I tell him he should slow down,” says Rick, “but he loves the work. It puts the fire in his belly.”

  “Retirement can be a daunting prospect for a man of that generation,” I say.

  Rick’s face relaxes into a smile. “Exactly!” he says. “And on that topic, I wanted to ask for your help with something. I hope you won’t mind.”

  “I’m sure not,” I say.

  “You may not know that my father is a poet,” says Rick.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, “I thought you said ‘a poet.’”

  “Let me back up,” says Rick. “I’ve been going through my father’s papers recently. The family is throwing a party for his seventieth birthday, and we wanted to have a display of photos and other memorabilia. It turns out that Dad’s quite the pack rat. Anyway, I came across a file of poems that he wrote in his twenties. I asked him about it, and he told me that it was quite a passion for him when he was younger.”

  “How fascinating.”

  “Isn’t it?” says Rick. “I had no idea. And it struck me that I might be able to give him a surprise birthday present, and at the same time, remind him that he once had hobbies outside of politics. Maybe inspire him to take up his pen again.”

  “He’s lucky to have you as a son,” I say.

  “That’s kind of you to say,” says Rick. “I owe my dad a lot. There is no one more generous or supportive. Truly. So it would give me a lot of pleasure to do something special for him. And I was hoping you might help me do that.”

  “If I can.”

  “I hear that you were a writer yourself.”

  “Only for about five minutes,” I say, “a long time ago.”

  “Like riding a bicycle, I’m sure,” says Rick.

  “Not in my experience,” I say.

  “I was hoping,” says Rick, “that you might agree to look over one of his poems and give me your opinion on it. Ideally, I’d like to figure out how to have it published for his birthday.”

  “Rick, I was never a poet, and barely a writer. You must know dozens of people more qualified than I am to critique your dad’s poetry.”

  “None of them are connected to Hugh Crane,” says Rick.

  “Oh,” I say. “Yes. Well, in that case.”

  Rick opens a file folder and hands me a single typed sheet. I read it, and then I put the page down in front of me.

  “How . . . unexpected,” I say.

  “Can you help?” he asks. “A publication would mean a lot to us.”

  I think of Peter, and all of the work I’ve done for the past three years, and the fine people of our city who deserve a beautiful waterfront. I paste a cheerful expression on my face and think of Toronto. And I say, “I’ll do what I can.”

  He beams. “I won’t forget this,” he says. “Please tell Mr. Crane how very much I admire The Beak.”

  “I will,” I tell him.

  “My father will be over the moon.”

  “Let’s keep it to ourselves for now,” I say. “Until we hear back from Hugh. Publication can be a long road. I wouldn’t want to get his hopes up.”

  He nods. “Yes,” he says. “I see your point. In the meantime, I’ll see what I can do at my end to move my father along on the waterfront plan.”

  “That would be much appreciated,” I say.

  “I can’t work miracles, Avery,” he says. “Get the neighbours onside, and we’ll go from there.”

  “The mayor will be pleased,” I say, extending my hand to shake his.

  “I’m indifferent to his pleasure or displeasure,” says Rick. “I wouldn’t want to mislead you. I have genuine respect for you.”

  “Okay,” I say. “Thank you.”

  “I grew up in a political family,” he says. “My grandfather, my uncle, my father—they were all close to the leaders of the day. We ate politics for dinner every night. We were, I guess you would say, connected.”

  I nod. “And you still are.”

  “Yes,” he says. “And when you are connected to many different people, information finds its way to you. Lately, I’ve been receiving information about the mayor.”

  “What kind of information?”

  “I can’t say,” he says. “It’s only gossip, and I dislike gossip.”

  “What can you say?”

  “There aren’t many surprises in this business when you’ve been at it long enough. And you learn, after a while, that most rumours are at least a little bit true.”

  “I don’t know about that,” I say.

  “I know you don’t,” he says. “That’s my point. That’s why I’m telling you what I’m telling you.”

  “You’re not telling me anything,” I say.

  “We’ll talk again,” says Rick.

  I walk back into the office, sending texts as I go. I still haven’t shaken the imposter syndrome that goes along with having staff whose role it is to make you look and feel competent. Find out everything you can about Jim Crawford, I type, and people spring into action. Book lunch with Tara Gillespie. It’s a marvel, it really is.

  And then there are the people who have no interest in making me feel competent. “Peter wants an update,” says Bonnie as I walk in, and points to his door.

  He’s on the phone as I enter, but he smiles at me, a good sign, and points to the chair opposite his. I sit.

  “Avery has been hard at work on the problem this morning,” says Peter into the phone. “I don’t want you to worry, Adam. Everything is well in hand. Last-minute posturing is normal. The project is going ahead as planned. You have my word.” He hangs up.

  “How’s Adam?” I say. Adam Rothman, last seen exiting the viewing gallery with unseemly haste, is our largest development partner. His company is building all the residential units at a miraculously low price, and donating the playground and the boardwalk. A great deal hinges on Adam’s happiness—the waterfront, Peter’s next election, my mental health. And, judging from the expression on his face yesterday, he needs a happiness intervention of epic proportions.

  “That depends,” says Peter. “What do the Wozniaks have to say for themselves?”

  “There are some complaints from the neighbours,” I say.

  “Really?” says Peter. “You told me you had that covered.”

  “I thought I did,” I say.

  “That’s politics for you,” says Peter. He’s in a remarkably even temper today. “What kind of neighbours have we got this time? Seniors? Families?”

  “Artists,” I say. “A group led by a sculptor-slash-multimedia-artist named Jim Crawford, who is also a self-described urban activist. They call themselves the Artists’ Cooperative Council, or ArtCo for short.”

  “Catchy,” says Peter. “Artists. Good. The lefties belong to us. Did you tell the Wozniaks to drive back to the suburbs?”

  “Rick seems to have a relationship with the ArtCo folks,” I say.

  “Ate a cookie, did you?” says Peter.

  “No,” I lie.

  Peter laughs. “Was it the double chocolate chip?” he says. “Fucking delicious, that one.” He has the design concept plan on his desk, and he flips a page and points. “We could eliminate the women’s shelter entirely if we had to,” he says.

  “No, we couldn’t,” I say. “We got three councillors on board because of the women’s shelter, and we’ll lose their votes if we take it out.”

  Peter shrugs. “Fair enough,�
�� he says. “Then I guess you’ll have to go see the art people and figure out how to move them. There’s always a lever.” Peter is never a detail person, until he is.

  I, on the other hand, am a perennial detail person. “Usually,” I say. “Not always.”

  He laughs. “You know, Avery,” he says, “I was thinking about your dad today. Brian would have loved this project.”

  “Yes, he would have,” I say. My dad had been a lawyer who cared more about urban planning than he did about the mechanics of real estate deals, and he’d loved the files that gave him a window into city politics. Like Peter, he was the sort of person who could see unrealized possibilities. I want to believe that I have his gift, but, in truth, I am the sort of person who borrows vision from others.

  “There was something else, Peter,” I say. “Rick mentioned a rumour about you. And I’ve been dodging calls from Aidan Clarke.”

  “Which rumour, Avery? There are ten reporters in this city who get paid to circulate rumours about me. You know that.”

  “Rick didn’t give me any details. But he seemed to know something.”

  Peter shifts his reading glasses to the end of his nose, raises his eyebrows, and watches me over the rims. “Go ahead, Avery,” he says. “Let’s play West Wing.”

  I hesitate here. It’s no secret that Peter is a hard dog to keep on the porch. I know it, his staff knows it, the press knows it, and his wife, Hannah, knows it. I don’t pretend to understand Peter’s relationship with beautiful, articulate, remote Hannah, the perfect political wife. If I were a man—Leo from The West Wing, for example—I suspect I would have insisted on some details by now, but I can’t bring myself to do it. It is one of many lurking anxieties that I have about my job performance.

  “Is there anything I need to know?” I ask.

  “You’ve known me for twenty-five years, Avery,” says Peter. “If there were something to know, you’d know.”

  “Everything fine at home?” I ask.

  “Seriously?” he says.

  “Yes, Peter,” I say, “seriously. I’m doing my job. It’s my responsibility to remind you that the Wozniaks are watching your every move. The waterfront project is in a delicate place. The mayor’s office must be above reproach.”