The Gifted Page 8

  When the mayor started to move away, I stepped in front of him. “I have a question, Mr. Mayor,” I said. “Tonight I heard a rumour that the two hundred units of low-income housing that the City promised would be built in Westchester Place are now going to be built in Dewdney Park. Is that true?”

  Scott Ridgeway’s round blue eyes roamed the crowd desperately. He was seeking salvation, but none was forthcoming. “Where did you hear that?” he asked.

  “From someone I trust,” I said. “Is it true?”

  “I can’t answer that,” he said. He scuffed the toe of his shoe against the floor sheepishly. He knew he was about to disappoint again. “Other people are involved,” he said weakly.

  “Other people are involved,” I said. “That’s my point. There are families waiting to become part of Westchester Place. Can you imagine what it means for someone who’s lived his or her entire life in North Central to be promised an affordable house in a good neighbourhood?”

  He surprised me by answering. “No,” he said. “I can’t.”

  “Can you imagine what it will be like for the people in Dewdney Park to learn that the city is planning to increase the density of the unemployed and underemployed in their neighbourhood? Dewdney Park is already struggling. Every year when the snow melts, the community association has to patrol the alleys for hypodermic needles and used condoms before the kids start playing there. If the city builds two hundred low-income units there, you’ll push Dewdney Park over the edge.”

  “I can’t talk about any of this,” he said finally. “I’ll get back to you on your question, too, Joanne.”

  The mayor sprinted off, putting as much distance as possible between him and us. Zack reached over and rubbed my lower back. “Nicely done,” he said.

  “Why do I feel like a bully?” I said.

  “Because attacking Scott Ridgeway was like shooting fish in a barrel. How the hell did he get elected anyway? This is his, what … second term?”

  “Third,” I said. “Did you vote in the last civic election?”

  “No,” Zack said.

  “Then you just answered your own question.”

  “Okay, point taken,” Zack said. “So when’s the next election?”

  “Next October,” I said. Across the room, Scott Ridgeway, smoothly guided by his aide, was glad-handing the well heeled. I drew Zack’s attention to the mayor’s progress. “That’s how it’s done,” I said. “Mayor Ridgeway cultivates the people who matter. When the election is called, the people who matter fill Ridgeway’s campaign coffers and get people who share their vision to vote for him. The people who matter have a lot at stake. They have to make sure the mayor is someone who will serve their interests.”

  “A lapdog like Ridgeway,” Zack said.

  “You’ve got it,” I said. “And people who don’t vote make winning very easy for them.”

  Zack was thoughtful. “I’m not the only one who doesn’t vote,” he said. “I imagine the turnout in North Central is pretty dismal.”

  “It’s abysmal,” I said. “Maybe voter turnout is something Racette-Hunter should focus on.”

  Zack nodded. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe it is.”

  Just then, Margot stepped up onto the stage, Declan at her side. The program was about to get underway. There was no chance now for Zack to warn Vince.

  Privately Margot still found it difficult to talk about Leland without breaking down, but that night her voice was firm. She thanked everyone for coming and then she went to work, explaining that the driving force behind the Racette-Hunter Centre was something she termed “The Brain Gain Initiative.” Margot said that before her husband died, he had come to realize that the people in North Central should be treated as their community’s greatest asset; they should be given real chances to acquire the skills and confidence needed to lift up their community without wholly relying on government.

  She explained that the facilities would be open to all, and that in a very real sense the centre would belong to the people who used it. Everyone paid, but the cost would be on a sliding scale, so people would pay what they could afford. There would be first-rate recreational facilities: an Olympic-sized swimming pool, two gymnasia, and centres for health, fitness, and the performing arts. There would be an infant learning centre and a space for child care. There were industrial arts shops where people in the community could learn trades. But everyone who used the facility would have an obligation to help the next person. If you were swimming, you taught someone else to swim; if you were shooting hoops, you taught someone else to shoot hoops; if you were using the child-care facility, you were obliged to take a shift caring for other children; and so it went. The idea was community building, and that meant responsibility for one another and pride in accomplishment.

  In her brilliant red dress, Margot was a compelling figure, but Lauren Treadgold was standing ten feet away and I couldn’t keep my eyes off her. She had done her best to hide the damage to her appearance. A leather patch covered her eye, but even skilful makeup couldn’t conceal the ugly bruising that had spread to her cheek. Her black silk gown was daringly cut, and she was wearing the stunning snake bracelet she had worn the night of her birthday. Her hand rested gracefully on the back of the chair beside her, and she held her head high.

  Zack had pulled his wheelchair up next to the arrangement of chairs that filled the centre of the room, and I joined him there. I’d been looking forward to the art auction for weeks, but as Darrell Bell took the stage and began describing the first piece, a work of silver-stained fused glass, my chest was tight. The piece was superb, but when I ran my eyes down the brochure that listed the items for sale, I saw that BlueBoy21 was Number 6. I pointed the listing out to Zack.

  “I’d better give finding Vince another try. Tell Taylor I’m sorry, but Two Painters is Number 33, and I’ll be beside you for that.”

  “She’ll understand,” I said and made my way to a seat in the middle of the back row.

  I saved the seat next to me for Taylor. She slid in, just as the bidding on Number 5 had ended. She wasn’t alone. Julian and Kaye Russell were with her. Kaye was in a vintage aubergine gown that flattered her slender figure. Julian was dressed formally in a grey Edwardian-style jacket and a cream vest. There was a creamy rose in his lapel, and as BlueBoy21 was brought onto the dais and positioned on an easel, Julian plucked the flower from his buttonhole and handed it to Taylor. I had spent years watching Taylor. I thought I was familiar with her every expression, but the quiet joy that lit up her face when Julian gave her the rose was new, and its intensity frightened me.

  BlueBoy21 was a large piece, seventy by forty-four inches – Taylor had told us that its dimensions were the same as those of Gainsborough’s Blue Boy. As the audience took in the painting, there was silence and then a buzz. The nude Julian was close to life-sized, and my first impression was of darkness and light. Julian was standing in front of a pier glass framed in elaborately carved dark wood, painted in burnished browns, densely applied. On either side of the pier glass were large shuttered windows made of that same carved wood. Against the darkness, Julian’s flesh was incandescent – light seemed to come through his body the way light comes through fine china. He was flawless. His skin was without blemish and, except for the modest tangle of black pubic hair, smooth. His limbs were almost female in their grace and lack of developed muscle. We were close enough to see the shadings of the buttocks, and in the mirror, the dark pink of the testicles, the pink shaft of the penis, the lighter pink of the penis head. The body was perfectly rendered, but it was Julian’s face that wrenched the heart.

  He was a person alone with a private sorrow. As BlueBoy21 stared into the pier glass, his eyes were filled with pain and the knowledge that, perfect as his reflected self was, it would never be enough.

  When Darrell Bell began reading the description of the piece, Taylor’s face was stone, but a small smile played on Julian’s lips. When the bidding started at $5,000, Taylor’s hand crept over and
touched Julian’s. The room was almost silent; a man whom Darrell had pointed out to me as a dealer was standing against the wall, talking on his cell; when the bidding hit $15,000, the dealer raised his paddle. I knew Darrell was surprised, but his face showed nothing. BlueBoy21 had been intended as an apprentice piece, and it was highly skilled, but it was the longing in BlueBoy21’s face as he looked in the mirror that made my nerves twang. In capturing the moment when a human being realizes that the one thing he wants is forever beyond his grasp, Taylor had touched a chord that resonated. She had painted a Blue Boy that reflected the bitter poignancy of our century.

  At $17,000, there was a moment of quiet, and it seemed as if the bidding was over; then a voice from the crowd called out $25,000. I knew without turning my head that the voice was Vince Treadgold’s. Lauren’s hand rose to her throat. BlueBoy21 was removed from the stage and the next piece brought out.

  Taylor’s face was pink with excitement. “I can’t believe this,” she said.

  Julian’s expression was knowing. “I can,” he said. As he brushed Taylor’s cheek with his hand, she lowered her eyes. “This is just the beginning for us,” he whispered. Then he said goodbye to Kaye and me and disappeared into the crowd.

  Taylor raised her fingers to her lips. She seemed stunned. I was stunned, too – by the amount the painting had brought, and by Julian’s words and obvious intimacy with Taylor. In seconds, the axis of our world had shifted. But Kaye seemed oblivious to that. She hugged Taylor to her. “Well, you did it,” she said.

  Taylor’s voice was small. “Now I have to do it again,” she said.

  “Oh you will,” Kaye said, and there was an edge in her voice. “Nothing can stop you now.”

  The auction continued. Zack joined us. He took both Taylor’s hands in his. “I’m still learning about art,” he said. “But I know enough to realize how amazing that painting of Julian is. Congratulations.”

  Taylor coloured. “You didn’t mind that the boy in the painting is naked.”

  “Not a bit,” Zack said.

  When I bent to embrace him, he whispered, “Poor Vince. I couldn’t get to him through the crowd before BlueBoy21 came up. I don’t know what he was thinking, but it must have been Julian he found her with.”

  “Do you want to go back and stay with him?”

  “No, I promised I’d be here with you and that’s how it’s going to be.”

  The bidding for Two Painters was hot as well. Finally, the field narrowed to two: the dealer on the cellphone and Zack. When the dealer offered $16,000, Zack offered $18,000; after a terse conversation on his cell, the dealer didn’t counter, and the piece was ours. When Taylor, Zack, and I exchanged fist bumps, Kaye seemed lost in thought. “I think I’ll head for home,” she said finally. “It’s been a long day.”

  Taylor touched her arm. “I don’t know how to thank you, Kaye. Julian was exactly right for me.”

  “You were right for Julian, too,” Kaye said. “Goodnight.”

  Zack stayed with us through the rest of the auction. As her contribution to the evening, Kaye had curated a selection of works by young artists and artisans for the auction. Some of the pieces were truly lovely, and Margot and Declan joined us to choose something to take home.

  Margot discovered a collection of pursies, small, classic change purses, very feminine and sweet, with soft pink and purple fabric vaginas hand-sewn in the openings. They had the goofy playfulness of happy sex, and Margot bought a baker’s dozen of them for female friends. Declan steered clear of the pursies and bought Taylor three triangular silver bangle bracelets, and in turn, Taylor bought Declan a bold black-and-white-striped cashmere scarf. It had been a good night for the Hunters and the Shreves.

  It had not been a good night for Vince Treadgold. The lineup to pay for purchases was long. We were still far from the payment table when a female volunteer took Zack aside. They moved out of earshot, and when Zack rejoined us, he looked glum. “What’s wrong?” I said.

  “It’s Vince,” he said. “Beth Ann was on the desk when he paid for his purchase. He insisted on taking the painting with him even though she tried to dissuade him. She explained that there were insurance issues, and that the Racette-Hunter Foundation could deliver the piece to his wife first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “To his wife?” I said.

  “Yes, apparently, Vince was firm on that point. The painting was for Lauren, and he’s determined to give it to her personally. There was a lineup, so Beth Ann got one of Darrell’s people to re-crate the piece. Luckily, in her non-volunteer life, Beth Ann is a lawyer, so she wrote up a waiver saying that if the piece was damaged, the Racette-Hunter Foundation wasn’t responsible, and Vince took off with his prize. I should have tried harder to find him, Jo.”

  “No,” I said. “This was Taylor’s night. You’ll be around to help Vince deal with the fallout when it comes.”

  “The fallout has already started,” Zack said. “Beth Ann is certain that Vince had been drinking. He must have nipped out to that bar off the lobby and ordered a couple of quick ones. Jo, Vince hasn’t touched alcohol in fifteen years, and he’s been faced with some tough situations, including the night when his first wife took her own life.”

  “Celeste and I talked about her mother’s suicide. Celeste is haunted by the image of her mother barefoot in that snowy field.”

  “So is Vince,” Zack said. “Solange suffered from depression. Vince believed he should have picked up on the signs sooner. And now his second marriage is crashing. Vince doesn’t handle failure well. He’s in for a tough time.”

  The line inched along. We paid for our purchases and headed home. Taylor was wearing her triangular bangles. As we drove through the dark city, she kept her forehead pressed to the cool glass of the window in the back seat. The evening had left us all with plenty to ponder.

  CHAPTER

  5

  The Racette-Hunter working team was gathering mid-morning at Margot’s for a debriefing about the art auction, so Zack and I had planned a leisurely breakfast.

  When the dogs and I came back from our run, it seemed as if the leisurely breakfast was right on target. The porridge was on the stove and a copy of the local newspaper, still folded, was beside my plate.

  I unhooked the dogs. “Anything going on around here?” I said.

  “Nope,” Zack said. “Taylor’s still sleeping.”

  I topped up Zack’s coffee, poured myself a cup, and picked up the paper. On page one beneath the fold was a large picture of Taylor standing beside BlueBoy21. Without comment, I handed the paper to Zack. He peered over his glasses at the photo. “Nice picture of Taylor,” he said. “And the photographer certainly captured Julian’s glory. All over the city, kids are choking on their Cap’n Crunch as they get an eyeful of Julian’s jewels.”

  “Kids don’t read newspapers any more,” I said. “And if someone’s offended by Julian’s jewels, the paper can argue that it’s art.”

  “True,” Zack said, “but a Joe Fafard bronze calf sold for $40,000 last night, and I don’t see the calf on the front page.”

  I stood over Zack’s shoulder and started to read the article. The opening sentence got my attention and raised my ire. “Taylor Shreve, the fifteen-year-old daughter of famed artist Sally Love and Regina trial lawyer Zachary Shreve, was the star of the show at the Racette-Hunter Art Auction last night.” The piece was long on human interest: “a Grade Ten student at Luther College High School donated a work she’d created and the painting sold for $25,000.”

  “So you and Sally are Taylor’s parents,” I said. “I guess that puts me and Taylor’s biological father in our place.”

  “You have every right to be pissed off,” Zack said. “I expect our daughter’s not going to be any too happy about the reference either.”

  “She won’t be, but she’ll be pleased about the photograph and about the attention her work’s getting.” I filled our bowls with porridge and took Zack’s to him. “When Sally donated her fresco
to the Mendel Gallery, there were people prepared to run her out of town on a rail. She didn’t turn a hair. She was content with the way the fresco turned out, and that was all that mattered.”

  Zack sugared his oatmeal and flooded it with cream. “Did I ever tell you that I actually saw Erotobiography?”

  “No,” I said. “After three years, you still have secrets.”

  “Not many,” Zack said. “Anyway, I was in Saskatoon on a case, so I went over to the Mendel with some of the other guys to check out the action. Sally’s fresco really was something – that big sea of blue with all those penises and clitorises floating around.”

  “The owners of those penises and clitorises weren’t as amused as you are,” I said. “They all belonged to people with whom Sally had been intimate.”

  Zack guffawed. “How the hell would they know? I couldn’t pick out my penis in a police lineup. Now your clitoris is another kettle of fish.”

  I shook my head. “You really do have a way with words,” I said. “Time to clean up our act and call our daughter.”

  When Taylor came down, she picked up the paper, gazed critically at the photo, and tilted her head. “I wish the light had been better,” she said. “You can’t see the shadings.”

  Our refrigerator door is what our younger son, Angus, calls a zonk board, that is, a space for sharing information: photographs, weird tweets, bizarre blog fragments, and party invitations. Taylor went to the drawer where we kept miscellanea, took out a pair of scissors, clipped the photo but not the article, and attached the clipping to the refrigerator door with a magnet from Mr. Electric. Then, without further discussion, she joined us at the breakfast table. “I know porridge is good for me,” she said, “but do we have any crumpets?”

  Taylor always ate her crumpets over the sink so the melted butter wouldn’t drip on her shirt. When she was young, she needed a stool to reach the basin. She didn’t need a stool any more, but the sight of her savouring her crumpet while saving her shirt always made me smile. That morning, just as Taylor finished her crumpet, her cell rang. She answered, then half turned away from Zack and me. “I can’t talk right now,” she said. “I’ll call you back.” She slipped her phone back into her pocket, put her plate in the dishwasher, and, without quite looking either of us in the eye, muttered, “I’m going to get back to work.” Then she raced upstairs.