Sussex Drive: A Novel (5 page)

They hiked silently for a few minutes, the tramp of their footsteps sounding vaguely military in intent, or so Lise thought. Their heels kicked up smoky dust.

Becky glanced over at her with a good hostess grin. “How’s roughing it in the bush?”

“Formidable!
It’s so kind of you and Greg to ask us.”

“The taxpayers’ pleasure. And you’re not missing Margaret Lee too much?”

“Oh, God,” said Lise.

Margaret Lee, Lise’s newly appointed adviser, stuck to her like cerebral Velcro. Although she’d been a long-time civil servant and supposedly non-partisan, in reality she was at the epicentre of the right wing. Greg Leggatt, in his infinite tactical wisdom, had seconded her to Lise as soon as he could—posting her predecessor to China, a country his government opted to overlook, treating it like the Asian version of Monaco or an overpriced teacup dog breed—cute but
qu’est-ce qui se passe?
Greg had been adamant about the miniature regime change.
Lise, I want you to have all the support you need. Peggy’s served at the top-drawer embassies
.

René performed a decently mean Greg Leggatt, sticking out his stomach and speaking in human dial tone.
Lise, I want you under surveillance and surrounded. Peggy’s led our evil witch hunts …
It had been funny until.

“You have no idea who Greg had in mind for your secretary. Do you remember Scott Serf from the Mulroney administration?”

“No.”

“Trust me, you wouldn’t want Scotty running your office. He’d be telling you which bra to wear.”

“I don’t think so.”

“And snapping it.”

Lise laughed sharply.
“Non, non, non.”

But Becky seemed quite carried away with this image, and her mirth spilled out on the trail, bouncing back off the foliage.

Lise sighed; she occasionally deployed this on Margaret Lee.

“What?” Becky quickly read it.

And then it tumbled out of her mouth, right out of the blue. “René has a problem.”

Lise saw Becky hesitate, the hitch in her stride. But she kept going. She didn’t look at Lise. “What’s up?”

Lise plunged ahead. “He’s been offered a part.
C’est incroyable!
The role of a lifetime. With the director of
In Bruges
.” When Becky didn’t say anything, Lise knew she’d never heard of it, let alone seen it. “He’s already won an Oscar for Live Action Short.”

“When?”

“A couple of years ago.”

“No, when is it happening?”

“This fall.”

“Piss on his bliss,” Becky said. “He can’t do it.” She was speed-walking up the path, and Lise hoofed it to catch up.

“He must.”

“The state visit to Africa,” said Becky.

“Yes, but he wants to reschedule. In the spring.”

“Your entire mission? To the fucking continent?”

“No, just his component.”

Becky pulled her non-carcinogenic water bottle out of its charity-logo harness and popped the lid. “He doesn’t have a component. You’re the dynamic duo. And it’s Africa. You can’t turn those boyos on a dime. It takes them a month to respond to an e-mail, they have to plug in their laptop and there’s no electricity.” She gulped the water.

“Becky,” Lise said. “That’s insulting.”

“You’ve said worse about St. Bertrand, Lise. You know you have.”

Lise took a deep breath, then smiled. “True, but I’m from there. I’m allowed to say it. Nobody else can.” And she meant it.

Becky indulged in a very long swig, which gave Lise time to reevaluate.

She elbow-checked Becky’s arm. “
La merde
—it happens, eh?” she said teasingly.

Becky almost choked.

“You okay?”

“Yes,” Becky said, then, “No, I’m still recovering. ‘Shit happens.’ René wants to make a movie.” She was laughing.

Lise moved into what appeared to be a warming portal.
“It is a huge opportunity for him,
c’est magnifique
, and consort or not, he has to be able to pursue this.”

Becky considered. “It
is
all about the optics, of course. And René will shine a positive light on Canadian culture—”

“He plays a priest.”

“I like
that
.”

“Yes.” Lise didn’t mention that this was a gay priest, positive only in that he had
AIDS
, and other issues, including the ethical question and quagmire of euthanasia.

“Good. Greg can push the Privy Council around. And I’ll have my work cut out with Greg.”

“I see what you’re saying,” Lise said.

“Well, I’m always after Greg to promote culture, particularly in Quebec. That’s no secret. And it’s definitely beneficial to see Canadian actors on the
world
stage.”

Lise understood this to mean that she was happy to see Canadian actors stray away from the indigenous and subsidized Canadian trough. Mooch Lake. Any actor with a credit in a non-Canadian work meant that the citizens hadn’t had to pay for it.

“Look at that Sandra Oh,” Becky went on.

“
Sideways
,” Lise said.

“
Grey’s Anatomy
!” Then Becky chuckled. “A priest! René’s not exactly typecast, is he?”

“
Non. Non
. He’s not.”

“What does Niko think about all this?”

“C’est le plus difficile,”
Lise said. “We haven’t told him. He’ll miss René. And when I’m away too, in Africa, he’ll be lonely.”

“Nonsense,” Becky said. “He’ll stay with us. At 24 Sussex. He gets on so well with Martha and the boys.”

“We couldn’t ask that.”

“You didn’t.”

“Oh, Becky, no.”

Becky was on a roll. “And here’s an idea. Does he like Corporal Shymanski?” Becky hopped on one hiking-booted foot.

Lise laughed, as she got it. “Yes. Yes, he does.”

“Well, let’s get Shymanski transferred to Rideau Hall. He’ll be a big brother for Niko. A mentor.” She hauled out her cell and tapped a memo to herself. “By the time Shymanski travels on with you to Africa, Niko can come to us.”

This didn’t entirely make sense to Lise, but she sensed an enormous favour being dangled. “Becky.”

“I’ll keep a close eye on him. Security will be tops—nobody taking off to play hockey. I’ll treat him like my own.”

This sounded too good to be true. And it was, because she didn’t want her son inhaling the same air as Greg Leggatt. Becky, sure. Greg, no.

“And don’t worry about bothering Greg,” Becky said. “We barely see him.”

“Becky, I—”

Becky, misreading, stopped on the trail and turned to face Lise. “It takes a village.”

Lise was pulled into Becky’s arms and pincered in a titanic hug, misted with Becky’s athletically feminine perspiration. She also inhaled Becky’s hair volumizer—definitely a white-girl
product. She didn’t think it was a good time to remind her that
It Takes a Village
was the title of the Antichrist Hillary Clinton’s children’s book, the conceit of which was cherry-picked from a clothesline of African proverbs, translated from Swahili, or lifted from the Kihaya culture, or even Yoruba. Lise had picked up this information on her
oui
Care travels.

When Becky let go, Lise found herself stupidly upset.

Becky patted her shoulder awkwardly. “Lise, it’s okay. It’s no biggie. We’re the moms of non-Caucasian boys.”

She was always going on about this. That women were bound by their children, and their children were friends, swimming tethered in the fishbowl of sharky Ottawa with its lobbyists, ambassadors, politicians, pundits, math teachers, choirmasters, coaches, counsellors, pediatricians, dental hygienists, tutors, hairdressers, barbers, hangers-on, and the
de rigueur
atheists and racists. It was a place where a misfired confidence could result in the fall of the nation, or an intelligence leak could sink a trade deal that would sustain a whole region or, worse, kick the flying buttress out from under the carefully constructed and robustly bolstered self-esteem of a beloved child. A tough and treacherous place, and as mothers, they had to stick together.

Becky produced a piece of pristine folded Kleenex from one of her multitude of mini-pockets.

Lise blew her nose passionately then stabbed the tissue in her back pocket.
“Merci,”
she said.

“
Sa na fey ruin
. Moving on.” Becky led again, a certain spring in her step. “Let’s leave it that I’ll ask Greg about
René when I spot an opening. He’s been preoccupied with the Hill.”

“With everyone on holiday?”

“Everyone but him.”

“But Greg must be so pleased,” Lise said. “
Pauvre Monsieur Triste
. The Leader of the Opposition—his polls are abysmal.”

“True, but all our bills are blocked in committees.”

“The Senate,
oui
.”

Becky went on. “Greg is very frustrated. He’s thinking hard about proroguing this session and calling a fall election.”

“Quoi?”
Lise hadn’t known she could screech like that, but the man had just amended the law thirteen months ago and created a four-year fixed election-date cycle. He’d made a big deal about this. He’d overhauled Parliament.
“Pourquoi?”

“Greg’s always the first to call a spade a spade.”

“He’ll be called a flip-flop.” In her distress, she said
fleep-flope
.

“Maybe. For two days, until a volcano somewhere, or the inevitable change in the media cycle.”

Becky was right. The media definitely knew which side their
pain
was buttered on.

Lise summoned her own considerable personal majesty to deliver her ultimatum. “He would have to have my permission.
Bien sûr
.”

Becky became quiet, but Lise was exhausted. In ominous silence, they passed a meadow being plundered by pairs of ravens, foraging for those relentless young beaks back at the
ranch. Becky’s posture became
plus dur
, her spine a ridge of steel. She dropped back.

That made Lise even more uncomfortable.

“Becky,” she said, coming to a halt. “Look.”

Becky approached and stopped. Hands on her hips, a leg jutting out, and Lise knew exactly what she’d looked like on the first day of her sophomore year.

“Growing wild,” said Lise. She pointed at the edge of the trail. “A garlic
bébé.”

“So it is,” said Becky.

“I’m going to pick it. For René’s salad.”

“Don’t.”

“Pourquoi pas?”

“It’s Crown land, Lise.”

“Il y en a beaucoup!”

“You can’t pick anything on Crown land.”

“Ah, but I am
la grosse légume, n’est-ce pas?
” Lise crowed. “I am the Big Cheese! I am the Crown,
n’est-ce pas?
”

Becky cast such a chilly look upon her that Lise froze and took immediate stock of her own weight, muscle and fortitude. It wasn’t conscious; she just did it. In that humid forest in the subdued light of morning, she realized that there wasn’t anybody else around. Lise would even go so far as to tell René later that there was a homicidal glint in Becky’s eyes.

“I wouldn’t touch it if I were you,” Becky said.

“Becky! Are you serious?”

“Yes, Lise. I. Am. You are only the
representative
cheese.”

The women stood staring at each other in the woods.

Then Lise shrugged. “Hey
, c’est la vie
.” She looked up at the sky, the colour of laundry rinse water just above, darker beyond.
“Regarde ces nuages
. I’m going back.”

“See you,” said Becky, not budging.

Lise headed down the trail, but she turned around and took another look.

Becky bent.

Then swooped.

Then swallowed.

4
 

A
T THE
G
ATINEAU
H
OSPITAL
E
MERGENCY
, Becky kept her head down as she trailed Greg through the waiting room—stacked with children of August and their broken bones, the elderly succumbing to heat prostration and poor nutrition, and a young addict, stretched thin as a rubber, dangling between this realm and the next, muttering in what might have been Cree. She crossed her fingers that there were no listeriosis casualties on site. The four security stayed so close, Becky didn’t dare speak to Greg for fear of how he might react. It occurred to her that the only reason a few people noticed Greg, the Prime Minister, was that their security detail was so actively casing out the ill and their companions. Otherwise, he was any other slightly sunburned bloke—some dude with a blistering rash climbing up his neck—who had the bad luck to end up here on a ravishing summer evening.

Becky had waited to brief Greg about her conversation with the GG. She’d stewed while Martha had prepped and
departed for a friend’s pool party back at Manotick, while overseeing Peter and Pablo’s tent set-up on the lawn (for their sleepover, with soon-to-be-gone Corporal Shymanski in attendance to chase the bears), while watching Greg shoo away Doc and Chief, who had jumped on their blowers to the election machinery, summoning them from family reunions and RV excursions and ATV treks and Bible camps all over the rural free world. She’d restrained herself until she and Greg had settled into the extraordinarily uncomfortable matching wicker chairs on the porch. In her straw bag, she’d placed a copy of the late Eugene Forsey’s book parsing Parliament in case she needed to refer to it.