Chapter 16

I awoke the next morning feeling like the wrath of God. Somehow, I'd managed to get into bed. I was even undressed and under the covers. I couldn't tell if I'd brushed my teeth. My mouth tasted like shit. Perhaps I should say that it tasted how I'd imagine shit to taste, since I'd never actually ingested feces. Suffice it to say that I had, if not the worst hangover I'd ever had, certainly the worst in my memory.

I was able to perform my three esses, amidst considerable moaning and groaning. I managed to dress myself and was able to knot my tie in a passable fashion. I even imbibed several cups of coffee, although food was out of the question. Had I eaten the night before? I couldn't remember doing so, although I did remember drinking a considerable amount of Scotch. I was afraid to look at the bottle to see how little might be left.

As I was on the third cup of Joe, the emptiness hit me. The house was quiet. All I could hear was the ticking of the mantle clock in the study and the occasional cycling of the heating system. She was gone. My Shauna was gone. My life was gone. I sobbed. I couldn't help it. Here I was, a pathetic figure, an aging roué left alone. And I knew that, Tori notwithstanding, it was basically my fault. I'd lived my life in such a way as to make this moment nearly inevitable.

I gradually got myself together. Self pity notwithstanding, I had a responsibility to all the people who worked on the show. I had to go into the studio and pretend to be Pat Connolly. If I pulled it off, it would be the best acting job of my life.

I rinsed my cup and put it in the dishwasher. The emptiness of the dishwasher answered the question concerning my supper. There had been none. No wonder the booze had hit me so hard.

I absent-mindedly started toward the garage. Then I remembered. I had no car. Cursing under my breath, I dialed the number of the Blueline Taxi Company. The cab came a few minutes later.

When I arrived at work, I busied myself with my usual routine. I read through the scripts prepared by the editors, five times as was my habit. I corrected what needed to be corrected and printed the final copy. I checked the lineup of interviews. I read the suggested questions, discarded some and added others. Finally, I was ready for the studio.

My usual makeup artist, Joanne, had been on holiday. She'd returned today. As she worked on me, she babbled away about how great it had been to go to Myrtle Beach with her family. I sat quietly, grateful for the fact that little was required of me except the occasional grunt.

As I got out of her chair, Joanne became more serious. "Pat," she said, "are you sick? I've never seen you so pale. I had to use a much darker base today to make you look like yourself. Maybe you should see a doctor. Or better yet, take a holiday."

"Thanks, Joanne. Maybe I'll do both of those things. I'm glad to hear that your holiday was so great."

In studio, things went reasonably well. I was even able to feign a bit of animation and interest. However, by the time we were off the air, I felt drained. It had been a hell of an effort to try to be myself.

When I got back to my office, there was a phone call from the Lexus dealer. After I removed my makeup, I returned the call. I was put straight through to the service manager.

"Mr. Connolly," he said, "I've worked on these cars for years, and I've never seen something like this. The entire computer system is fried. It's as though a sudden huge surge of electricity went through it. Believe me, that should be impossible. We have all sorts of protection built in so that something like that can't happen. It's almost as though your car had been struck by lightning. Would you mind if we kept the car for a while? We need to figure out what happened. In fact, I'm waiting for a call from Lexus Canada. I expect that they'll authorize us to offer you a new car in exchange for this one. We need to take it apart completely. Until we know what happened to your car, we can't prevent it happening again. In the meantime, I've sent a loaner car over. It's one of our brand new demos. It should be there very soon."

I thanked him and hung up the phone. I stared into space. This guy, who had been with Lexus from the beginning, had never seen something like this. It was as though there had been some sort of divine intervention. I was very nearly paranoid enough to believe that God was paying me back for my past life. In fact, the only reason I couldn't believe it was that, in the scheme of things, my existence wasn't important enough to draw special attention from the Almighty.

Joe Dudich came into my office. As usual, Joe came in without knocking, and he didn't beat around the bush. "Pat, you look like hell. And I see that Shauna isn't in at all today. Have you guys picked up a bug or something?"

"No, not exactly."

"Trouble at home?"

"Yeah, sort of."

"Anything I can do?"

"No. But thanks for asking."

"OK. You're no good here. And it's Friday afternoon. Go the hell home and try to fix what the hell ever is wrong."

"Thanks, Joe. I'll take you up on that."

Just as Joe left, the phone rang again. It was the guy delivering the loaner car. He was downstairs. I thanked him, closed up my office and headed for the elevator.

The loaner was the same model as my car, but it was a weird shade of metallic gold. Not my style at all. It also had more bells and whistles on it, including some that I'd never order. The Lexus guy proceeded to demonstrate all of them: electric fanny wiper, etc. I thanked him. He'd been tailed by the Lexus dealer's shuttle bus, a Toyota minivan. He climbed in and took off. I got behind the wheel of the loaner and drove home.

As I parked the car in the garage, I decided that the colour was somewhere between beer and horse piss. Or maybe moose piss. No, I'd never buy one that colour, but while I had it, I'd never have trouble finding this one in a parking lot. Oh well, it sure as hell beat walking. I went into my silent house.

After I'd changed, I decided that I should have something to eat. I'd not eaten since lunch yesterday, and it was now getting toward supper time. I warmed up a few leftovers. I was depressed to note that they were all things that Shauna had cooked. While the leftovers were in the microwave, I downed a gin and tonic and opened a beer.

While I ate, I pondered the situation. Instead of getting pissed again tonight, I should do something -- take matters in hand. British Columbia was three hours behind Ontario. Therefore, it was now about 3:00 in the afternoon in Sechelt. That should have been plenty of time for Shauna to get there.

After I finished eating and putting the dishes in the dishwasher (force of habit), I opened up the Sechelt, British Columbia website. I noted that the ferries left Horseshoe Bay in Vancouver nearly every hour during the day. Shauna must easily be in Sechelt by now.

My next step was to open the "Canada 411" website and look up "Cake" in Sechelt, B. C. There was only one. I'd have been surprised if there'd been more. There were about 8,000 people in the whole town. I dialed the number. A man answered.

"Is Shauna there?"

"Who's calling, please?" He sounded very guarded. She was there, all right.

"It's Pat Connolly in Ottawa."

"Well, Pat Connolly in Ottawa, this is John Cake in Sechelt. Remember that name. Tattoo it on your ass. If I ever meet you, that ass is mine. I'll rip it off and keep it for a souvenir."

He slammed down the phone. Things were going from bad to worse.

I reasoned that even if Shauna wouldn't talk to me on the phone, she'd still check her email. She might even read an email from me before erasing it. I got another drink and proceeded to write. I wrote the most eloquent and accurate explanation of events that I could. I apologized, but at the same time protested my innocence. I clicked on the "send" tab and picked up the phone.

I called my favourite florist. I arranged to have a dozen red roses delivered to the address in Sechelt. I wanted them delivered every other day until further notice. No card, just the roses. Then I called what was reputed to be the best jeweler in town. I asked if I could come in the next day to see their selection of diamond engagement rings. I made sure that they knew I wanted something special. The guy on the other end of the phone was only too happy to agree. I made an appointment for 11:00 the next morning.

In spite of the "hair of the dog" that I'd imbibed, I still had the world's worst hangover. I felt like hell. I knew that the only cure for this hangover was sleep. I downed a Scotch (the last drink left in last night's bottle) and headed for bed. Although I knew it wasn't a great idea to combine drugs and booze, at that moment I didn't really give a shit. I took a lorazepam and went to bed. Soon, I was asleep.

I awoke the next morning in much better shape. I performed the customary ablutions, dressed, had a bit of breakfast, and drove the Orange Monster, as I'd decided to call the loaner, downtown.

The jeweler was located near my office, so I parked in my rental spot in the garage. I was very glad that I'd had the presence of mind to rescue my parking access card from the dead car.

At the jeweler, the salesman was only too happy to help me. He showed me every ring in the store. Some were very nice, but, as I told him, not quite what I had in mind. I wanted something spectacular but still tasteful. I asked if he had any catalogs I could see. He was quick to oblige.

I thumbed through the first few catalogs without seeing anything inspiring. Suddenly, there it was. The design of the setting was simple but elegant. It was available in 24-carat gold or platinum with a variety of stone sizes and qualities. It was also one of the most expensive settings the store carried. I didn't care. This was for life, if she'd accept it. The salesman and I decided on a VS-1 clarity F colour two-carat stone in a platinum setting. The very best. I gave him the exact size. I'd measured Shauna's finger while she was asleep, wrapping a string around it. I'd been thinking about this for a while.

The salesman, whose name was Ashad, told me that it would take at least a week to locate and obtain such a ring. I gave him a cheque for a thousand dollar deposit. I shook his hand and told him to do the best he could for me. In my hand was a hundred dollar bill. It wasn't there when I took my hand away.

The next week passed. That's about all I can say about it. I got through it somehow. I managed to give a creditable account of myself at work and to take care of the basics at home. I heard nothing from Shauna. I sent her several more emails. There were no replies.

On the Thursday, I got a call from the jeweler. "Good news, Mr. Connolly," the salesman gushed, "I have your ring. When can you pick it up?"

"Ashad, I'll be in there tomorrow. I have a lot of work, so it may be late in the afternoon. Do you have a good courier that you trust?"

"Yes," he said, sounding somewhat unsure, "why do you ask?"

"Because that ring is going to British Columbia. As soon as possible. Please check the best and most secure ways of sending it to Sechelt, British Columbia. I'll see you tomorrow. Please call me tomorrow at my office with the total cost, including shipping." I hung up.

The next day, I had a bit more of a spring in my step. The studio session went well, and so did a few meetings that I couldn't avoid. I returned to my office to find a message from Ashad, the diamond salesman, giving the cost of the ring. I could tell that he was somewhat reluctant to give me the bad news. I called him back.

"Ashad, thanks for the call. I'll be at your store at 2:30. Is that all right?" He agreed that it would. "And for payment, how about a certified cheque for the entire amount? Would that be acceptable?"

Goddam right, it would, although he didn't use exactly those words.

At about 2:00, I went to my bank, which was quite nearby. I wrote a cheque and had it certified. Then I walked to the jeweler. It was slightly after 2:30. Ashad was waiting at the door. He showed me into his office. He unveiled the ring with a flourish. It was even more beautiful than I'd hoped. Here was a ring that was worthy of Shauna -- that could truly serve as a symbol of my love for her. I felt moisture in my eyes.

"Ashad, you've done very well. Very well indeed. Here's the cheque." He took it, trying to be nonchalant. "And here's a bit extra for your marvelous help." I handed him an envelope. In the envelope were five crisp one-hundred-dollar bills. "I'm sure that you'll always serve my lady well whenever she comes to shop."

I thought he was going to shit. Either that or go down on me. Yes, if Shauna were to shop in this store, she'd get the royal treatment.

The ring was to arrive the next day, Friday. There was no note with it, although it was addressed specifically to Shauna. I expected to hear something from Sechelt on Friday. I didn't.

That night, there was a party at the U. S. Embassy. I was supposed to attend with Shauna. Instead, I sat in the study, drinking and staring into the fireplace. I tried to rationalize that the longer it took her to call me, the more seriously she was considering the obvious implication of the ring. In between drinks, I nearly succeeded in convincing myself. But by the time I stumbled off to bed, I didn't believe a word of it.

Saturday went by in a daze. Still no word from Sechelt. I began to wonder if she'd thrown the ring away. No, Shauna wouldn't do that. But what about her dad? Would he be hotheaded enough to turf out a ring that was obviously worth many thousands of dollars? I had no idea what John Cake was like. My only conversation with him had been brief and far from cordial.

To add to my black mood, there was an item in Margo Roston's "Around Town" column in the Ottawa Citizen newspaper. "Notable by their absence at U. S. Embassy party last night were CBC political guru Pat Connolly and his partner Shauna Cake. It seems that there may be trouble chez Connolly."

That night, I again drank myself silly and combined the booze with lorazepam. The combination worked. I slept.

I awoke Sunday morning in a cold sweat. I'd been dreaming, and the dream seemed far too real. Once again, I'd been in that hotel room in Vancouver listening to the kid crying and pleading. It had been the low point of my existence, something I'd tried to forget for years.

I'd renewed acquaintances with Jean-Marc Prieur at a convention in Vancouver. He and I had been school chums at the University of St. Michael's College in the University of Toronto. We were both Catholics, he a French Canadian and I an Irish Canadian. We were at St. Mike's not because we intended to enter the priesthood but because we felt comfortable with people of a similar background. However, our religious training was where the similarity ended between Jean-Marc (or "Johnny," as he like to be called) and me. Johnny was flamboyantly gay, while I was a blatant heterosexual. Somehow we became close friends.

After graduation, we'd both gone into broadcasting, more by accident than design. Johnny wound up as a news anchor in Calgary, while I started at the CBC national desk in Ottawa and then became host of National Affairs. Although we hadn't seen each other very much over the years, we kept in touch by phone, mail and later by email.

Johnny'd stayed in Calgary, where he was now known as John Prior. He reasoned that an Anglo name was good for business. And business had been very good indeed for Jean-Marc. He'd invested heavily in the real estate market just before the Calgary Olympics. The market boomed. He used his profits to invest in real estate in Canmore, just outside the Banff National Park. That proved even more profitable. Now, he used his on-air position chiefly as a sort of advertising. People were more anxious to go into business with someone who had a public profile. As Johnny said, he could retire very comfortably at any time. I suspected that he enjoyed the thrill of business as much as the profits.

When we met in Vancouver, I was amazed at the difference in Jean-Marc. I wouldn't say that he'd been skinny before, but now he looked like a body builder. He'd obviously spent a lot of time in the gym and at the tanning parlour. But when we started talking, it seemed that the years fell away. We were the same two crazy kids out for a good time. We made arrangements to meet in the hotel bar for drinks after the last session of the day. I went to my room and freshened up. Then I headed for the bar. When I arrived, I got a surprise.

Johnny was sitting in a booth with a couple of young kids, a boy and a girl. They couldn't have been more than twenty years old. They were unkempt and looked none too clean, like street kids. They were tucking into big plates of food. Both of them were eating as though they hadn't eaten for days. Perhaps they hadn't.

Johnny introduced them as "Julie and Peter." No last names. Julie was cute enough, if a bit skinny for my taste. But Peter was truly handsome, almost girlishly pretty, rather like a very young Paul Newman. It was obvious why Jean-Marc had befriended these kids.

I ordered a beer. After drinking it down, I excused myself to go to the gents. A short while later, Johnny followed me. While we were taking a leak, I said, "Johnny, just what the hell is going on? Who are these kids, and why are they with you?"

Jean-Marc grinned like a Cheshire Cat. "Pat, let's do 'em."

I almost pissed on my feet. "What the fuck are you talking about?"