Part 4 (1/2)

”Proverbs 11:21.” A woman's voice, husky and self-important, cut through the silent night. ”Though hand join in hand the wicked shall not be unpunished but the seed of the righteous shall be delivered.”

I turned towards the voice. So did a lot of other people. When she saw that she was centre-stage, a smile lit Maureen Gault's thin face, and she gave me a mocking wave.

The demonstrators on the front steps had broken ranks during Little Mo's outburst, and Howard took advantage of the situation to get Sylvie and Jane into the hotel. Seconds later, the five of us were safe in the lobby, our shaken selves reflected a dozen times in the mirrors that lined the walls.

Hilda took command of the situation. She turned to Sylvie and Jane. ”We were planning to have a drink before the festivities started. Will you join us?”

Jane O'Keefe smiled wearily. ”As my grandfather used to say, 'Does a bear s.h.i.+t in the woods?' Let's go.”

The Saskatchewan Lounge is a bar for genteel drinkers: the floral wallpaper is expensive; the restored woodwork gleams; the chairs, upholstered in peony-pink silk, are deep and comfortable; and the waiters don't smirk when they ask if you'll have your usual. We found a large table in the corner as far away as possible from the singing piano player. When the waiter came, I asked for a gla.s.s of vermouth, then, remembering the menace in Maureen Gault's smile, I changed my order to bourbon.

Howard raised his eyebrows. ”Trying to keep pace with the guest of honour, Jo?” he asked.

”No,” I said, ”but Howard, didn't you see ...”

He'd been smiling, but, as he leaned towards me, the smile vanished, and I changed my mind about telling him Maureen Gault had been in the crowd. Howard had always been there when I needed him, and this was his night.

”Nothing,” I said. ”Just a case of mistaken ident.i.ty.”

”Sure you're okay?” he asked.

”Yeah,” I said, ”I'm sure.”

”Fair enough,” he said. Then he turned to Jane O'Keefe. ”So, are you having second thoughts about the Women's Centre?”

”Not a one,” she said. ”And I've waded through crowds a lot loonier than that bunch out there.”

Sylvie started to speak, but Jane cut her off. ”My sister doesn't agree with me on this issue. But my sister hasn't had to try to salvage women who've been worked over by butchers. If you'd seen what I'd seen, Sylvie, you'd know I didn't have a choice.”

”No,” Hilda said, ”you didn't. For sixty-five years, I've known that an enlightened society can't drive women into back alleys.”

I was surprised. There were some subjects I never discussed with Hilda. The drinks came and, with them, another surprise. Hilda had never been forthcoming about her private life. She sipped her Glenfiddich and turned to Jane O'Keefe. ”My sister died from a botched abortion,” she said. ”By the time I'd convinced her to let me take her to the hospital, she was, to use your word, Jane, unsalvageable. It's vital that women are never driven to that again.” Hilda's eyes were bright with anger.

On the other side of the bar, the piano player had started to sing ”Miss Otis Regrets.” Jane reached over and touched Hilda's hand. ”Thanks,” she said. ”There are times when I need a little affirmation.”

Howard snorted. ”Janey, you never needed affirmation. You always had bigger b.a.l.l.s than any of us.”

Jane looked at him, deadpan. ”What a graceful compliment,” she said, and everybody laughed.

Everybody, that is, except her sister. For as long as I'd known her Sylvie O'Keefe had been an outsider. As I watched her blue eyes sweep the table, I wondered, not for the first time, what that level gaze took in.

She had always been unknowable and, for much of her life, enviable. She was rich, she was talented, and she was beautiful. She and Gary had been a golden couple. Physically, they were both so perfect, it had been a pleasure simply to watch them as they came into a room. In the days when we were all having babies, we joked about the glorious gene pool Sylvie and Gary's child would draw from. But there was no baby, and as the months, then years, went by, Gary and Sylvie stopped being a golden couple. By the time Jess came, Gary and Sylvie had stopped being any sort of couple at all.

Jess was a miracle, but he didn't bring his parents together. Gary continued his headlong rush towards wherever he was going, and Sylvie became even more absorbed in her career. She was a gifted photographer, and her son soon became her favourite subject. Her luminous black and white photographs of him, by turns sensual and savage, were collected in a book, The Boy in the Lens's Eye. The collection established Sylvie's reputation in the places that counted. She was a success.

As I watched her a.s.sessing the people drifting into the hotel bar, I wondered if the time would ever come when Sylvie O'Keefe and I would be friends. Somehow, it seemed unlikely, but one thing was certain: after twenty years, fate a or the vagaries of small-city living a had brought our lives to a point of convergence again.

”Kismet,” I said.

Sylvie turned reluctantly from the partygoers to me. ”I don't understand.”

”Sorry,” I said, ”just thinking out loud about how the kids' discovering each other has brought our lives together.”

”Actually, I'm glad we were brought together tonight,” she said. ”I was going to call you about taking some pictures of Taylor. Have you ever watched her when she draws? She's so focussed and so ... I don't know ... tender. She has a great face.”

”She looks like her mother,” I said.

Sylvie looked at me quizzically.

”You know Taylor is adopted,” I said. ”Her mother was Sally Love.”

Sylvie's eyes widened. ”Of course. I'd forgotten. Sally's work was brilliant,” she said.

”It was,” I agreed. ”That's one reason I'm happy Taylor's spending some time around you. I think being with another artist can give Taylor a link with her real mother.”

Sylvie leaned towards me. ”And that doesn't bother you?”

Before I had a chance to answer, there was an explosion of laughter at the other end of the table. Howard was in the middle of a story about a rancher he'd acted for in a lawsuit against a manufacturer of pressurized cylinders. The rancher's s.e.m.e.n tank had sprung a leak. Like Onan, his seed had been wasted on the ground, but the rancher wasn't waiting for G.o.d's judgement. He hired Howard and took the case to court.

As I turned to listen, Howard was recounting his summation for the jury. It was funny, but it was crude, and at the next table a smartly dressed man with silver hair and a disapproving mouth turned to glare at him. Howard smiled at the man, then, still smiling, leaned towards me. ”I make it a policy never to get into a fight with a guy whose mouth is smaller than a chicken's a.s.shole.”

The pianist segued into ”Thanks for the Memories,” and I stood up. Howard looked at me questioningly. ”It's time to get out of here,” I said. ”Some cracks are starting to appear in your guest of honour persona.”

We finished our drinks, and headed for the lobby. Gary Stephens was just coming up the steps from the side door, and he joined us.

”Sorry I'm late, babe,” he said to Sylvie. She looked at him without interest, and I wondered how often she'd heard that entrance line. But Jane O'Keefe was interested. Her grey eyes burned the s.p.a.ce between herself and her brother-in-law. ”You're a real b.a.s.t.a.r.d, Gary,” she said. Then she turned her back to him and started towards the cloakroom. We followed her and dropped off our coats, then we took the elevator upstairs to the ballroom.

The crowd in the upstairs hall was surprisingly young. Many of the men and women who were now deputy ministers or People on Significant Career Paths had been having their retainers adjusted and watching The Brady Bunch when Howard Dowhanuik became premier, but tonight that didn't seem to matter. Our party's first year back in government was going well, and there seemed to be a consensus that we had something to celebrate. In the ballroom, a string quartet played Beatles tunes, the crystal chandelier blazed with light, and silvery helium-filled balloons drifted above every table set for eight. It was party time.

Hilda looked around the room happily. ”It's everything Howard deserves,” she said. ”Now I'd better find my place.” She lowered her voice. ”Joanne, I'm sitting with a man I met at the art gallery last Sunday. If we continue to enjoy one another's company, I might not go home with you. My new friend tells me he has an original Harold Town in his apartment.”

”But you hate Harold Town.”

Hilda raised an eyebrow. ”Well, there was no need to tell my friend that.”

I laughed. ”Let me know if you need a ride.”

”I will,” she said. ”Now, you'd better get over to the head table. Howard likes people to be punctual.”

Manda and Craig Evanson were already in their places. Manda was wearing a blue Mexican wedding dress, scoop-necked and loose fitting to accommodate the swell of her pregnancy. Her dark hair, parted in the middle, fell loose to her shoulders. She was very beautiful.

Sylvie stopped in front of Manda, took out her camera, and began checking the light with a gauge. As always, Sylvie seemed to have dressed with no thought for what other women might be wearing, and as always she seemed to have chosen just the right thing. Tonight, it was a pinstriped suit the colour of cafe au lait, and a creamy silk s.h.i.+rt. As she moved around the table, adjusting her camera, I noticed more than one woman in iridescent sequins taking note.

”I don't usually walk around like the inquiring photographer,” Sylvie said, ”but I thought Howard might like some pictures of his party.”

Manda smoothed the material of her dress over her stomach. ”He'll be thrilled. Having Sylvie O'Keefe take your party pictures is like having Pavarotti sing 'For He's a Jolly Good Fellow' right to you.”