12 Rose Street (36 page)

“Tomorrow Milo will be gone,” I said. “It’ll be nice to have a little private time with him today. He’s been terrific, Zack.”

“I know,” Zack said. “He’s taken a lot of the burden off you, and for that I am very grateful. Where’s Milo going anyway?”

“To the next campaign,” I said. “It’s a congressional seat in Alabama. The current congressman got caught with his pecker in the pickle barrel, so there’s a special election. Milo’s candidate is slightly to the right of Genghis Khan.”

“That’ll be a one-eighty for him. Our campaign was pretty progressive.”

“Milo won’t miss a beat,” I said. “He’s a professional. He doesn’t have principles, he has very specialized skills. He’ll give his new candidate exactly the kind of loyalty and commitment he gave you.”

Zack’s smile was sheepish. “Kind of like a lawyer,” he said.

“Exactly,” I said.

Milo’s swimming was a surprise. He knifed into the pool, barely rippling the surface. Water was clearly Milo’s element. Swimming gave his wild, kinetic energy a conduit, and he moved with grace and power. For twenty minutes, side-by-side, the three of us did laps. Enveloped in our watery tranquil world, no one said a word. When we pulled ourselves out of the pool, the bond was still there. Then Milo shook the water from his head and turned to Zack and me. “That fucking fucker Meighen may have finally fucked us,” he said.

“How so?” Zack said.

Milo wrapped his thin body in his towel. “Meighen’s death gives Ridgeway a free pass for the day. Slater Doyle’s a douchebag, but he’s not stupid. By now he will have a called a press conference and he’ll be coaching his candidate, the homeroom monitor, on what he should say.”

“The homeroom monitor should be able to handle this assignment,” Zack said. All he needs to say is that people should remember that Meighen was innocent until proven guilty, and since nothing had been proven when he died, Meighen died an innocent man. As long as no one challenges him, he’ll be fine. And if he gets a tough question, he can always just choke up and run.”

Milo spent the rest of the morning at the Noodle House tweeting and checking voter turnout. Zack didn’t want to
comment on the Meighen situation until after Scott Ridgeway’s press conference, so he and I kept a low profile, moving from poll to poll and thanking poll captains and volunteers. We were home in time for the noon news. Zack’s prediction that the mayor would crumble at the first probing question was prescient.

As he stepped before the microphones in his black suit, white shirt, and navy tie, the mayor was red-eyed, wan, and sombre. He read a prepared statement that was almost word for word what Zack had reeled off by the swimming pool. When he turned to leave, the media began to shout questions. Ridgeway looked startled, but he walked back to the microphones. A rangy young woman with a ponytail asked whether the Meighen case would remain on the books as still open.

The question seemed to stun Ridgeway. “But Graham’s dead,” he said.

The young woman had clearly done her homework. “My information is that the evidence the police have amassed against Graham Meighen points to ‘beyond a reasonable doubt’ proof of his guilt in at least two major crimes.”

The mayor was exasperated. “Didn’t you hear me? Graham’s dead. Why would there be a trial?”

“So even though the evidence against Meighen hasn’t been tested before the courts, you’re in favour of putting the investigation to bed.”

The mayor’s eyes darted towards Slater Doyle. The intent of Doyle’s subtle headshake was clear. He was urging the mayor to say no, but Scott Ridgeway didn’t get the message. “I don’t know what I think,” he said. “All I know is that my friend is dead.” Then Ridgeway teared up and fled.

Milo had alerted the media that Zack and I would be voting in one of the gymnasia at Racette-Hunter at one o’clock, so
they were ready with cameras and questions when we arrived. After we’d smiled for the obligatory “candidate and spouse entering the voting booth” photos, the questions began. Once again, the rangy young woman took the lead: “Did you see the mayor’s news conference?”

“I did,” Zack said.

“Any thoughts about why the mayor left the room rather than face questions about Graham Meighen’s activities since Labour Day?”

Zack shrugged. “The mayor’s campaign manager used to be a lawyer. I’m sure by now he’s reminded the mayor that depending on the evidence, the police might decide to push ahead with the investigation into Cronus’s murder, despite Mr. Meighen’s death. I’m sure Mr. Doyle has also reminded the mayor that if the case is still open, he shouldn’t comment on it. I’m a lawyer, so I won’t be commenting either. Thank you for coming out today. The photos of Joanne and me voting will be a nice souvenir.”

And with that, we went home to wait. The latest Insightrix Poll had Zack at 52 per cent of likely voters and Scott Ridgeway at 48 per cent. Way too close to call.

Margot had invited Brock, us, the kids, and the grandkids to eat and watch the results at her house. Margot’s caterer of choice was Evolution, and Aimee had outdone herself with the buffet. But the children were the only ones who had an appetite. Even Taylor, who was normally a trencherwoman, picked at her food and watched the clock, waiting for the polls to close.

Not long after eight, the numbers started to come in. The first results were from the south end, an area that was supposedly solid for Ridgeway, but Zack was doing surprisingly well. The east end was a disappointment. We thought we’d made real inroads, but apparently dog whistle politics had triumphed, and while Zack’s numbers there improved, they
never surged. After the first half-hour the numbers came so quickly, we didn’t even bother writing them down.

Zack was getting the figures directly from Milo on Twitter. Hunched over his phone, peering through his reading glasses at the screen, Zack was a solitary figure. Several times I went over to massage his shoulders. He smiled absently and kept his eyes on the numbers.

At 9:25, with thirty-two of the thirty-two precincts reporting, Zack was ahead by 251 votes. Margot had muted the sound on the television. For a few minutes, we all just stared at the screen, but no matter how hard we stared, the numbers didn’t change.

Finally, Taylor walked over to Zack, kissed him, and said the unsayable. “It looks like you won, Dad.”

Zack took off his glasses and turned to me. “So now we wait for Ridgeway to concede.”

“And he may not,” I said. “Slater may want a recount.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I don’t, but what does Milo say?”

Zack checked Twitter. “There were 58,395 accepted votes. Milo thinks a lead of 251 should be enough.”

“I think so too,” I said. “But it’s their move. If I were Slater, I’d concede. If they want a recount, they’ll have to go to court. The process will drag on for days, and in the end, nothing will change. The count Milo gave us was of
accepted
votes. That means those 58,395 votes have already passed the smell test. Concession will give Ridgeway a dignified exit, and after a dirty campaign they could use a grace note.”

As always on election nights, Howard had been quiet, watching the numbers, assessing the possibilities. I turned to him. “What do you think?”

He didn’t hesitate. As Howard had reminded me during a sharp exchange about strategy during Zack’s campaign, he had been to the rodeo many times before. “They’ll concede,”
he said. “Every sitting member of city council was defeated tonight. Scott Ridgeway was a puppet. He doesn’t have the brains or the stomach to deal with a council that will oppose him, even if the count did somehow prove to be wrong. And the money boys won’t be encouraging him to stay. They need a winner and Ridgeway lost.” Howard checked his watch. “9:45,” he said. “Jo, I’ll bet you a bottle of Crown Royal, Ridgeway will be onstage at the Travelodge within half an hour giving his concession speech.”

“You’re on,” I said. “Except we’re betting for a dozen Black and White cookies. Do you really think they’ll concede within half an hour?”

“Slater Doyle will be writing the speech, and it’s his last chance to fuck with our minds,” Howard said. “But he’s not stupid. He knows it’s over.”

At 10:10, Scott Ridgeway entered the convention room of the Travelodge to give his concession speech. The mayor appeared dazed. Slater Doyle came onstage with him and stood less than a metre away. As Ridgeway spoke, his eyes kept seeking Slater’s. The speech was good, but the sparse audience’s response was tepid. Howard had won his cookies.

When they left the stage, I turned off my phone. “That’s it,” I said. “Time to move.”

Zack wheeled towards the door. “I’ll get our jackets.”

Taylor leapt up. “I’ll help you, Dad.”

I looked around the room. Everyone was still awake. “Who’s up for the Pile O’ Bones?” I said.

Madeleine and Lena were the first to volunteer. “Tomorrow’s a school day,” Mieka said. The girls groaned. “Okay, this is a special occasion. Grab your coats.”

It was almost impossible to find parking around the club. I dropped Zack and Taylor off and began searching for a spot. After my third tour of the neighbourhood, I dug the
handicapped sign out of the glove compartment, went back to the Pile O’ Bones, and nosed into a spot near the entrance.

Inside, Zack and Taylor were still attempting to navigate through the crowd. Brock had joined them, but they weren’t having much success. People were hugging them and some were crying. It seemed everyone wanted to talk to the newly elected mayor and councillor. I was relieved when Howard, who had driven over in his own car, steered them purposefully towards the ramp that led to the stage.

It was already close to eleven and the next day was a workday. The sooner the speeches were over, the better. I saw that our family and Margot’s had gathered on the left side of the hall. I managed to push through the well-wishers to join them. When we were together, I gave Howard the high sign to get the evening underway.

Howard introduced Brock as the new councillor from Ward 6, and the crowd erupted. Brock’s speech was brief and gracious, then he introduced Zack. When the applause and whoops and hollers died down, Zack began by congratulating Scott Ridgeway for a spirited campaign. Predictably, there were boos and catcalls. Equally predictably, Zack quieted the grumbling and began.

“Tonight when we finally knew the election results, our seven-year-old granddaughter, Lena, said, ‘Well I’m glad that’s over.’ ” There was laughter. Zack joined in, then he continued. “I understand how she felt. I imagine you do too. It’s been a long, hard campaign. When we began, everybody wrote us off. The idea that a slate of populists could defeat an entrenched mayor and council seemed ludicrous. But we did it.

“And in the process, we reminded the citizens of Regina that rich or poor, Canadian-born or born elsewhere; Muslim, Hindu, Jew, Christian, agnostic or atheist; male or female; gay, straight, bi, or questioning, we are all in this together.

“Almost a hundred years ago, a man who was as wise as he was humane said, ‘What we desire for ourselves we wish for all.’ His words still resonate. We are a wealthy city that truly does have enough for all – enough money, enough food, enough work, enough challenges. And it seems we’re finally accepting the truth of that old adage: ‘My neighbour’s strength is my strength.’

“Lena was right. Part of our job
is
over. You were the reason we won tonight. You were our ground game. Day after day, you went door to door, talked to your neighbours, phoned radio shows, worked social media, made personal phone calls. You identified the voters who supported us and today you mobilized them.

“What we’ve accomplished together is nothing short of miraculous. But we’ve just begun. So go home. Get a good night’s sleep. Dream big dreams and tomorrow we’ll get to work.”

Our family joined Zack and Brock on stage. We smiled, waved, grouped, and regrouped. When the last picture was snapped, Taylor went home with Margot and Lexi, and Zack and I began wading through the crowd towards the exit. It was slow going, but it was good to see so many of the people I’d come to know at the Noodle House. Zack hadn’t exaggerated the importance of our ground game. These volunteers had been the key to our success, and they deserved a personal thank you. I was especially pleased to see Elder Ernest Beauvais, who had gathered together the corps of Aboriginal and Métis workers who got out the vote in our ward. Ernest was six-foot-six – easy to spot in a crowd. He was shepherding Peggy Kreviazuk, and they were both beaming. Peggy had worked in elections since she was a teenager. Like Ernest, she had lost more battles than she’d won, and they were both clearly relishing this win.

I was pleasantly surprised to bump into my good Samaritan, Boomer, who was there with his lady. Her name was Kelly, and they had both worked hard to get their fellow bikers to the polls. When Warren and Annie Weber approached Boomer and Kelly, it was old-home week. Before she married her millionaire, Annie had worked at the biker bar on Winnipeg Street and she, Boomer, and Kelly had obviously shared some great times. As the bikers reminisced, Zack and Warren had a confab. That left me free to seek out the person I most wanted to see that night.