The Sweetness in the Lime Read online

  “Hey, that’s my desk you’re standing on,” I wanted to shout at him. I didn’t.

  Nervous Man turned to face the suddenly silent gathering. The six Security Guys turned too, folded their arms, stared menacingly outward. Don’t fuck with us.

  “Good morning!” Nervous Man shouted as if he expected to be shouted down. He did not introduce himself. “Global Communicators International will issue a media release later this morning, but the board has asked me to inform you of its contents in advance.” He paused, took a sheet of paper from his inside jacket pocket, unfolded it, began to read. “The board is pleased to announce it has partnered with one of Germany’s most successful information technology companies to launch a global chain of interdependent, free daily information publications and websites to meet the needs and desires of busy urban commuters.” What the hell? “The first Canadian test site for this exciting new venture will be right here in Halifax.” He paused. It was an applause line. There was none. He resumed. “The first edition of Morning Hi Halifax”—gasps, a few guffaws—“will appear on local newsstands Monday.” Mumbles, murmurs. Was this good news, or bad news, or just more corporate bafflegab? Security Guys, sniffing danger, edged closer together, puffed themselves up even more. Nervous Man cleared his throat. “In order to capitalize on these exciting new opportunities, the board has had to make some painful strategic restructuring decisions in the interest of corporate sustainability. Effectively immediately, the company is suspending publication of the Tribune.”

  Now there was pandemonium. Gasps, shouts, cries, inchoate rage. “Motherfuckers….”

  Then Nervous Man again, no longer nervous, shouting over the rabble. “You must immediately return all company cellphones, laptops, and any other company devices and property to the security desk at the rear door. Any company equipment not returned by 6 p.m. will be considered yours and charged back to you at full replacement value and reflected in your final paycheque, which will be mailed to the address we have on file within two weeks. You must exit the building immediately. If you have personal belongings, you will need to leave your name and contact information at the security desk. You will be contacted to pick up any personal materials.” Fewer and fewer people paid attention. They were hugging, crying, commiserating, milling about.

  Security Guys herded, prodded everyone toward the door, the elevator, the world beyond. No one wanted to leave.

  “Hey everybody! Listen up!” It was Liv, standing on the rim, reclaiming her turf. “I just got off the phone with Victor at the Shoe. He’ll open the bar for us. We can drown our sorrows, celebrate who we are and what we did!” Liv held her cellphone above her shoulders, as if in a toast. “Fuck Global! Fuck global capitalism!”

  Everyone—even the sales guys, who all considered themselves capitalists—roared approval.

  Security Guys eyed each other apprehensively. Had the revolution really begun?

  ****

  I knew should have gone straight home. My father must have been confused by this disruption in our daily routine. Our routine? Who was I kidding? I usually slept until noon while my father sat, alone, in the plush brown La-Z-Boy recliner in his bedroom, staring out the window. After I awoke, I would make us both breakfast, usually cereal, occasionally French toast on raisin bread, my father’s favourite. Sometimes I’d feed him, not because he couldn’t feed himself but because, otherwise, he’d forget to eat. Later, we’d sit together on the sofa. I’d read him stories from the morning paper and tell him some of the stories behind them. Today—before the call that had changed everything—I’d planned to tell him about Wendy and the potholes. My father appeared to listen intently to all my stories, though he never responded. He was happiest after Doris arrived and turned on the TV soap operas.

  At least I’d remembered to call Doris before the taxi arrived and left a message on her machine. I told her about the newsroom meeting, asked if she could stop by early to check on my father. I said I’d be back soon. I wasn’t. I should find a pay phone, make sure she was there, ask her to stay until…whenever.

  At least my father had something worth staring at today. A snowstorm blanketed the city, shutting down schools and businesses. The police advised everyone who didn’t need to be on the road to stay home…or inside. I was inside. At the Shoe. Cheers to that. I’d ensconced myself on a stool at the far end of the bar—my own personal un-workstation—from which I could observe the universe unfolding, without having to be part of it. I preferred to watch. There was much to watch.

  Liv led everyone in toast after toast, whose defiant revolutionary fervour only increased with each empty glass. Peggy arrived, clutching her framed journalism awards, which she had liberated from the boardroom under the surprisingly un-watchful eyes of Security Guys, and passed them around for everyone to admire. Everyone did. Editor Gibson wandered in, but only stayed a few awkward minutes. This was not a party for bosses. He stood off to the side, raised his glass to Liv’s “Fuck ’em all!” then slipped out into the snow.

  A prim woman from marketing, who’d handed out don’t-drink-and-drive taxi chits during the staff Christmas party a few months earlier, strolled purposefully through the bar, handing out more of the same. She put several chits in my hand. “Use them before the motherfuckers know we have them,” she said with a wink. The bartender yelled out that reporters from our rival-no-more daily had called to say the next round was on them.

  “Bacardi Black, neat.” I raised my empty glass to the bartender. “And make it a double if those fuckers are paying.” Old rivalries died hard.

  I would need to offload before I on-loaded any more alcohol. I set down my glass, stood up. I navigated as decorously as possible around the bar, found a hallway that led to the washrooms. Damn! Wendy Wagner was standing outside the closed door to the women’s. Beyond it, the door to the men’s was open.

  “I have to pee,” Wendy declared when she saw me. “I really, really have to pee.” Leaning against the wall, ankles crossed, jittery, I could see she did. I could see too she’d been crying. Her mascara smeared around her eyes, her nose was red.

  “You go ahead.” I pointed to the unoccupied men’s room. “I’ll watch the door.”

  “Really? You’re so sweet, Eli. I know I never told you, but you are. Sweet. Sweet Eli.”

  I urged her through the open door, closed it behind her. I only hoped she would be quick.

  “Don’t go away,” she called from inside the bathroom. “I have something to ask you, something really, really important.”

  “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

  But then the door to the women’s washroom opened. It was Liv. She stood on her tiptoes, stuck a wobbly pointer finger in my face. “This isn’t over,” she said with drunkard’s intensity. “We’re going to start our own fucking newspaper, show those fuckers. You in?”

  “I’m in,” I replied, but without enthusiasm. Liv didn’t notice. “I’ll let you know when and where. Be there or be square.” And then she disappeared, back into the bar, back into the raised glasses.

  I debated with myself for less than a second before entering the women’s washroom. When I came back out, Wendy was waiting. “I just want to say how much I love all of you, I really do,” she began without preamble. She was standing in the middle of the narrow hallway, blocking my way back to the bar. “You’ve all taught me so much. And I just respect you so much, Eli. That’s why I need you to tell me what I should do.” She’d washed the makeup smudges from around her eyes. She looked better without makeup. I wanted to tell her that, wanted to tell her she should go back to school, learn a trade, find a job that pays overtime, double time on holidays. Before it was too late.

  “Don’t do anything hasty,” I said, trying my best to sound sober and wise. “Give it a few days and then—”

  “But I’m meeting with Hitchcock in the morning.”

  Hitchcock? Who—?

&
nbsp; “The new publisher of Hi. From Toronto. He came up to me after…you know. He offered me a job with the new paper.”

  “Uh, congratulations.” I tried to sound enthusiastic, or at least unsurprised. Global must have decided to pluck the lowest-paid fruit from the newsroom tree to staff its new daily information blah blahs. “Good for you, Wendy, good for you.”

  “But won’t everybody be, you know, mad at me for—”

  “It’s not your fault, Wendy. No one—”

  “But do you think I’m, like, you know, ready to be the editor?”

  The—?!

  “Mr. Hitchcock says they’ve had their eye on me for a while, that they have confidence—”

  “And he’s right, Wendy,” I cut her off. Before I laughed. Or cried. “You’ll be fine. Just fine.” Was I being perverse? Editor? Wendy?

  “Do you really think so, Eli? I mean, I really respect you. I really, really do. You’ve helped me so much. Thank you, thank you, thank you!” She wrapped her arms around me. She was taller than I’d realized, almost as tall as I was. She kissed me, first on the cheek and then full on the mouth. Teeth to teeth. I could smell and taste hot alcohol breath. Hers? Mine? No! My eyes darted down the hall toward the bar. There was no one. I needed to stop this, needed to…. She pulled her face back, inadvertently pressing her crotch against mine. Something! In spite of myself, I felt something stir. Did she feel it? I pushed my butt back, away from her crotch, hoping she wouldn’t notice. She looked at me. Her cheeks were wet again.

  “I love you, Eli Cooper.” No, you don’t. You don’t. You’re drunk. The words trapped inside my head, stayed there. She edged forward now, arms still wrapped around me. Suddenly, we were inside the bathroom. My arm reached out, closed the door. Don’t! I was too old, too unattractive, too…Eli. I must be fantasizing. Time to go back to the bar. My drink would be waiting for me. This was not a fantasy. But it was wrong. Wendy was drunk, too drunk. Was I drunk? Not that drunk. It was up to me to say something, save her from herself, stop her from— The last time I’d had sex in a bathroom had been in high school. After my senior prom…with…I closed my eyes. I was no longer here. I was there. Again.

  And then it was over. Back to reality. To this bathroom. To Wendy. “Look, Wendy, I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have. I didn’t mean—”

  She shushed me with a finger to her mouth. “It’s OK,” she said. She placed her finger on my lips. “It’s OK.”

  But my fantasy bubble had burst. Doubt and recrimination sloshed around my brain, mixed with the alcohol. What the fuck had I just done? How old was she? How old was I? Was it rape? Not rape. But she was drunk. She never said yes. But she’d been the one to come on to me. She was drunk. Would she accuse me? Of what? Sexual harassment? I wasn’t her boss, just a lowly copy editor. I couldn’t have hired or fired her, even before…. Fuck, at this very moment, I didn’t have a job—and Wendy Wagner did.

  “We should get back,” she said. She had already rearranged her clothes. She gave me a quick, demure peck on the cheek. “Thank you.”

  Thank you?

  Numbly, I followed her out the door. I heard Liv’s voice from down the hall. Shit. “He’s probably gone home already,” she was explaining to someone behind her. “He was pretty drunk. But this is where he was when I last—Eli?” Liv noticed Wendy first, then me behind her, saw the door we’d just come out of, understood what we’d been doing behind it. I looked down to see my shirt hanging over my pants. Liv gave me a brief, disgusted flash. “Here he is,” she said to the two men standing behind her. “He’s all yours.” And she turned and headed back to the bar. Wendy, looking embarrassed, gave me a brief smile and followed.

  “Eli Cooper?” I nodded. “Sergeant Wilson. Halifax Regional Police. This is Father Tupper.” Wilson acknowledged the man standing beside him, who nodded gravely at me. Neither of them wore a uniform. “Could we have a word?”

  They led me into an empty kitchen, found three mismatched chairs, arranged them in a semicircle, beckoned for me to sit in the middle.

  “Mr. Cooper, do you live at 3106 Union Street?” It was Wilson. He seemed to be in charge.

  “Yes.”

  “Who else lives in that dwelling?” Why were they asking? I couldn’t believe I didn’t interrupt Wilson, didn’t ask what the hell was going on. Instead, I obediently answered, “My father. Just me and my father.”

  “That would be…Arthur Cooper?”

  “Yes.”

  “Your father have any issues?”

  Issues? “I guess. I mean, he has dementia. What’s wrong? Is he OK?”

  Wilson paused, looked over at Tupper, back at me. “I’m sorry to have to tell you, Mr. Cooper, but we found your father this morning up in Needham Park.”

  Jesus. Hadn’t Doris gotten my message? I should have called her again. I should have had my own cellphone. I should have called from the bar phone. “I’m sorry,” I told the officer. “It’s my fault. Is he home now? I’ll go right now. I’m sorry, I should have—”

  “Mr. Cooper.” Wilson held up his hand, stopped me. “Your father was deceased when our officers found him. They immediately called paramedics, who did everything they could to revive him. But it was too late.” Deceased? Dead? My father! Father Tupper reached out, placed a hand gently, tentatively, on my shoulder. Father Tupper. Now I knew why he was here.

  “We won’t know for sure until we hear from the medical examiner’s office later in the week, but we believe he froze to death,” Wilson continued. “At this point, we don’t suspect foul play. But just for the record, you say you took a cab. To your job?” I nodded, told them about the message I’d left on Doris’s machine, didn’t tell them I hadn’t followed up. “My understanding was there was some sort of announcement at work this morning.” Another nod. “And then you came…here. And you’ve been here ever since. Is that right?” Yes. “We’ll need the name of the cab company. Just to confirm the time. Just routine, you understand.”

  The chaplain arranged to go with me to identify my father’s body, and then offered to accompany me back to the house. I demurred. “If you need anything,” the chaplain said as I got into another cab, “don’t hesitate to call.”

  “I won’t.” I would. Back at the house, the front door was wide open still. Snow had blown into the hallway, piled against the wall. Vera Lynn was still singing, inviting everyone to keep smiling through, just as they always did until those blue skies made the dark clouds go away. Until we meet again. We wouldn’t. Ever.

  I found my father’s broom, tried and failed to push all the snow out the door, got down on my knees, scooped out the rest with my bare hands. I grabbed a handful of wet, cold snow and pressed it to my face, held it there, let it sting my cheek, imagined what my father felt in the moments before he stopped feeling? My father, whose nightmares always ended the same way—“I killed them! I killed them all!” Now, it seemed I had killed him, killed my father. Had I? This would not be a nightmare from which I could wake up.

  I looked at my watch. Four o’clock. I should have been starting my shift at the Trib. How my world had changed in just twenty-four hours. I no longer had a job. The newspaper for which I’d worked almost half my life no longer existed. My father had died. I hadn’t killed him, not really, but I was responsible. And, oh yes, I’d fucked the new editor of Morning Hi Halifax. And the day was far from over.

  I needed to call Sarah, tell her our father was dead and I was responsible. I needed a drink first.

  3

  Cooper, Arthur (Art) Elijah, DSM, 88, of Halifax, passed away suddenly on February 21, 2008. Born on January 28, 1920, he was the son of the late Albert and Inez (MacDonald) Cooper of Halifax. A quiet man, he rarely spoke of the “gallantry and devotion to duty,” which earned him Canada’s Distinguished Service Medal in 1945. Art went on to serve the public for 35 years as a records clerk in the provincial Department of Motor Vehicles until his
retirement in 1985. He was predeceased by his sister, Abigail, and his wife, Elizabeth. He is survived by his daughter, Sarah (Saul Cohen), a lawyer in Calgary, son, Elijah, a journalist in Halifax, and his grandchildren, Samuel and Amy. Visitation will take place on Sunday, February 24, 2008, 6 – 8 p.m. in Snow’s Funeral Home, Windsor Street. No funeral service by request. Cremation has already taken place. Memorial donations may be made to the charity of your choice.

  DSM? For a journalist, I had been curiously uncurious about my father’s existence before I’d become part of said existence. Distinguished Service Medal? I hadn’t even known what the initials stood for, let alone that he’d won one. The morning after my father died, while waiting for Sarah to call back to tell me when her flight was arriving, I’d riffled through my father’s bureau searching vainly for his will. Instead, I stumbled across a lumpy brown envelope underneath a pile of mismatched socks. “On His Majesty’s Service” appeared in the space at the top left-hand corner of the envelope where a return address would typically have been. His Majesty apparently didn’t need a return address. Surprisingly—though it didn’t register that way in the moment—the envelope was addressed to my mother. From inside the envelope, I pulled out a small silver medallion mounted on a blue-white-blue ribbon with a fine dark blue stripe running down the centre of the white. On one side, there was an image of King George VI, and on the other, the words “For Distinguished Service.” Below that were engraved my father’s name, service number, and rank. After a brief internet search, I discovered the DSM was one of the country’s highest military honours for non-commissioned personnel who “set an example of gallantry and devotion to duty under fire.”

  Sarah and I immediately agreed our father’s newly discovered medal should highlight his obituary. That had helped me, the obituary writer—“You’re the journalist,” Sarah had said, delegating responsibility—since there was little else to enliven the he-was-born-he-lived-he-died blandness of what I knew of his existence. Or make up for the lack of concrete information.