Chapter 6

Yeah, Tori and I had a great time that summer. Back in the present, I had to make arrangements to get Shauna and me to Ottawa. I called the CBC's travel agent. I booked two business class air tickets for Wednesday morning. I always fly business class, and, to be honest, I wanted to impress Shauna with what a bigwig I was.

After I talked to the AMEX travel cooze, I got the number of Shauna's extension from the CBC's online Intranet directory. I punched the number, and she answered.

"New Media, Shauna speaking."

"Hi, Shauna. It's Pat Connolly."

"Oh gosh. Hi, Pat."

"I have our air tickets booked. Why don't I pick you up on Wednesday morning? We might as well share a limo to the airport."

"OK. That's great. What time?"

"You're gonna hate me. We have to leave for the airport about 8:00 in the morning."

"That shouldn't be a problem. I'll just have to pack tomorrow night. But my roommate Robin may be upset if I wake her up that early."

"What does she do?"

"She's also in website design, but she has her own company. She makes a lot more money than I do, so she pays more of the rent." I could hear the smile in Shauna's voice.

"That seems fair. I'll talk to you later. Oh, you'd better give me your address and phone number."

"OK. I'm at Kingston Road and Main Street. The big building on the corner. Just push the buzzer downstairs. My phone number is 416-698-7254. But don't call after 11:00 or before 7:00."

"I'll remember. See you Wednesday morning if not before. Oh, actually, we should meet so that I know exactly what kind of materials you'll need. I can tip off our library people to come up with them."

"OK. How about tomorrow afternoon? Maybe around 1:30?"

"You've got it."

After I hung up, I decided that a drink was in order to celebrate a day of accomplishments. It was a nice afternoon -- one of those January thaws that happen in Toronto. So I thought I'd stroll up to Queen Street and drop in on the Eternity.

The Eternity has been one of my favourite bars for years. I like it even better since it's become the major jazz bar in this part of town. Of course the jazz only happens in the evening. During the day, it's a great conversation bar. The owners of the bar, Carole and Danny, hate canned music, and so do I. Since the CBC relocated to Front Street, the Eternity became a favourite hangout for the news crews. Two things that all news guys had in common was a love for talk and a love for drink, not necessarily in that order. So I usually tried to drop in on the Eternity when I was in Toronto.

The four blocks north were a pleasant stroll, and when I entered the Eternity, I saw a familiar face at the bar: John McCarthy. He was an old friend who covered the Ontario provincial parliament. John had been on the Queen's Park beat for about 10 years. I sat down next to him, ordered a G & T, and asked if I could buy him a drink.

"Pat, that's like asking if wild bears relieve themselves in the woods. The answer, in both cases, is in the affrimative. Sarah, I'll have the same again. A double this time, and put it on Mr. Connolly's bill."

"So what are the Queen's Park cretins up to these days?"

"Nothing good. You can bet on that. The reverse Robin Hood syndrome: steal from the poor and give to the rich. The same old stuff. But on a more serious note, I haven't seen you since that Banff bullshit went down. How are you doing?"

"Couldn't be better. But Christ, has it really been that long?"

"Just about. So maybe you haven't heard."

"Heard what?"

"Moe Casselman is back in hospital."

"Christ." I stared into my gin and tonic. Maurice Casselman, "Moe" to his friends, had been my mentor when I was a rookie newsman breaking into political coverage. Moe was already a bigshot. He was the floor leader for the Liberal Party. That's the leader's right-hand man -- the guy who keeps the troops in line for votes. For some strange reason, he'd chosen to take me under his wing. Just as he had when I was a boy.

I remembered his saying, "Kid, there are two things you gotta remember in politics. Number 1: act like you believe everybody. Number 2: don't believe anybody."

I'd asked, "Does that include you, Moe?"

"Especially me, kid. Especially me."

As our relationship developed, I'd found that I could always believe Moe. He never lied to me, and he always gave me great advice. Moe took the place of the dad I'd never known. My own father died when I was a kid. He was one of those crazy Canadians who enlisted in the American army during the Vietnam war. I've never thought of him as a hero. To me, he was an irresponsible fool who left his widow to raise three kids on her own. Moe took our family under his wing. He became my second father.

A few years ago, Moe retired from politics. Since then, he'd been living in Toronto and I'd been in Ottawa, and we didn't see each other as often as before. A couple of years ago, Moe was diagnosed with leukaemia. He'd spent considerable time in hospital and finally been released. If he was back in treatment, that meant the disease had returned. As he'd told me at the time of his original diagnosis, a recurrence meant that he would die. If the disease came back, all they could do was to try to make him comfortable.

It's strange how life can be so capricious: kind one moment and cruel the next.

I asked John, "Is he allowed visitors?"

"No, but he can talk on the phone. I know he'd appreciate a call from you."

I asked Sarah to bring me the bar phone. Moe's advice had always been not to use a cell phone for a call you didn't want to be overheard. I didn't want to trust my cell with this call.

The Princess Margaret Hospital in Toronto is a huge institution specializing in only one disease: cancer. I called their inpatient directory line. After going through the automated switchboard, I finally heard Moe's voice.

"Hello." Christ, he sounded weak.

"Moe, it's Pat."

"Pat, I'm so glad you called. How'd you find out I was here?"

"John McCarthy told me."

"John was always a good boy. Just a little naïve. How are you, son?"

"I'm fine. How are you, you old bastard?"

"Not so fucking good, to tell you the truth. I hate this place. If I'm not sick as hell from the treatments, I'm bored out of my mind. It's good to hear your voice."

"Why didn't you tell me you were back in hospital?"

"I didn't want to worry you. I knew you'd be upset."

"You silly old bastard! Of course I'm upset. I'm even more upset to find out this way."

Moe was quiet for a few minutes. Then he said, "Well, when are you coming to see me?"

"John tells me that you're not allowed to have visitors."

"Yeah. They need to destroy my immune system to build it back up. Visitors might be carrying germs. The good part is that, if this treatment seems to be working, they'll let me go home. For a while, anyway."

"What are they doing?"

"You don't want to know. It's called an autologous bone marrow transplant. They take some of my own stuff out, kill what's left, and put the original stuff back in. Imagine somebody using a power drill on your ass. That's a small idea of what it's like."

"Jesus, Moe. Is there anything I can do?"

"Yeah, there is. Goddam right there is. Are you sure you wanna know?"

"Sure, Moe. Anything."

"I think that I have the right to talk plainly to you, right?"

"Of course."

"You can't treat my cancer. Hell, you can't even come to see me right now. But you can do something much more important to me. And I believe that it's really important to you as well. Sitting around this joint, I've had nothing but time to think. And I keep coming back to you. That's why I'm glad you called.

"Pat, you've been like my son, so please take what I say in that light. I've known you since before you were wet behind the ears. I knew your mother, and a finer woman never breathed. I know how she'd feel if she could see you today. She'd think that you're headed for the ditch. I wouldn't say anything about this if it hadn't been bothering me for a long time. Don't take this the wrong way, but I have to speak plainly. Please clean up your act."

"What do you mean, Moe?"

"Over the years I've known you, I've been proud of you most of the time. I thought that you were the best and the brightest. I believed that for years. But I'm not so sure any more."

"Why?"

"If you think about it, you'll know what I'm talking about. Take a look at yourself. Other people are impressed with you, but not nearly as impressed as you are with yourself. You've turned into a conceited, self-centred, mean son of a bitch. Now don't argue -- just hear me out. This is coming from an old man who loves you and who wants the best for you. Believe me, people aren't the idiots you take them for. They see what's going on, and in time they'll do something about it. For Christ's sake, you're not even doing your job -- not the way it should be done. You don't treat people on your show with any respect. Anyone watching can see that. Oh, you let your guests talk away, but you make it clear that you think they're idiots. I've seen that thing that you do into the camera. These are important people. How long do you think you can get away with that shit? If you'd ever treated me like that, I'd have shoved your teeth up your ass."