The Brutal Heart

CHAPTER 5

Except for the comics and a quick glance at the front page to see if there were trials of note, Zack never read any of our morning papers. Whoever made it to the porch first brought the papers in, but after that Zack left them for me to read or recycle as I saw fit. That morning, there was a change in our pattern. When I came in from my run with the dogs, Zack held out the Globe and Mail. “Some nice coverage of Ginny in here,” he said.

I took the paper, poured myself coffee, and read. The front-page coverage of Ginny was positive: a large and flattering photo of her with the twins as they came out of court and the headline, minister of family wins daughters. I read the article. The account of the custody dispute was factual, but the slant was positive: no hint of Ginny’s sexual adventures, and Jason Brodnitz’s decision to withdraw his case hinted at indiscretions he did not wish made public. The article concluded with Ginny’s response to a reporter who asked how she planned to spend the evening. “With my daughters,” Ginny said. “They’ll have questions and we’ll have to help one another find answers.”

I put the paper back on the table and measured out the dogs’ food. “That article couldn’t have been more glowing if Ginny had written it herself,” I said.

“Nope,” Zack agreed, “and the other two are even better.”

I sat down opposite him. “So, a good news day.”

Zack shook his head. The Leader-Post was folded in his hand. “Cristal Avilia made the front page too.”

I took the paper and turned it to the lower fold. The picture of Cristal was smaller than the one of Ginny, but it was large enough for me to see what she looked like. I don’t know what I’d expected, but she was a surprise. The woman in the picture was fine-boned, with dark hair swept back to reveal a high forehead and dreamy eyes. She looked liked the kind of young woman I’d see at the opening reception of a small gallery or a performance art piece.

“Well,” I said.

“Well what?” Zack said.

“She isn’t what I expected. She looks like a girl out of a locket – very sweet and innocent.”

“I guess that’s why her billing rate was the same as mine,” Zack said dryly.

“How many clients did she have?”

“I don’t know. She told me once she kept it to three clients a day, and her bookings were two hours minimum. Plus, she warned me against counting on a weekend date because she was often away with clients from Friday to Sunday.”

“At $500 an hour,” I said, “Cristal must have earned serious money. Why would she blackmail Ned for $10,000? That would be small potatoes for her.”

“Good question,” Zack said. “And I guess now we’ll never know the answer. There are a lot of things we’ll never know.”

I looked at the photo again. Unexpectedly, I felt my throat tighten. “And a lot of things Cristal will never know,” I said. “When I was thirty-four, I had two children and no idea at all of who I was or what I wanted out of life.”

Zack winced. “Jo, I already feel like a shit about this. If hauling my ass over a mountain of broken glass would make you feel better, I’d do it, but this is just making us both miserable. Cristal doesn’t have anything to do with the life we have now.”

“I know,” I said. “But she isn’t going to go away.” I poured us both coffee, folded the paper so I wouldn’t have to see Cristal’s photo, and turned to another front-page story about the impact Jason’s withdrawal of the custody suit would have on Ginny’s political fortunes and on those of her party. Despite everything, it was absorbing reading.

For much of my adult life I had been involved in electoral politics: first as the candidate’s wife, later as an activist, finally as an academic. I had managed campaigns, cooked turkeys, knocked on doors, hosted coffee parties, and sat in drafty halls enduring endless windy speeches. I’d hated almost every minute of it. I knew people who came alive with campaigns. They were addicted to the adrenalin rush of picking up the paper every morning and looking at poll numbers; they relished the gossip and thrived on trying to guess the shifting whims of the electorate. I found the process frightening and exhausting, but because I believed in what our party was doing, I stayed in. In mid-life, I came up for air, took a hard look at the party my family and I’d given our lives to, decided either it had changed or I had, and I walked away.

Now, I was back in – at least as a spectator. That morning as I left for the strategy meeting Ginny’s campaign manager had called, I automatically assessed her chances in the upcoming election. I knew Ginny’s federal riding, Palliser, intimately. It took in the southwest corner of Regina and the territory extending to and including Moose Jaw. It was a prosperous area and politically volatile, seesawing back and forth between the parties of the right and the left with the outcome often determined by fewer than a hundred votes. Until news of her ugly marital difficulties surfaced, Ginny had seemed unbeatable, but the jokes and innuendo had taken their toll. Despite the fact that she’d worked her constituency hard and delivered on her promises, the party’s internal polling on the night before the hearing opened showed Ginny trailing the candidate for my old party. Jason’s abrupt change of heart about custody of his daughters would stop the hemorrhage of votes from her campaign, but as I pushed the security buzzer in the lobby of her condo, I knew that the meeting ahead would be dominated by one question: was Ginny’s career salvageable?

Ginny herself met me at the door. She was wearing running shorts and a tank top, and her hair was damp with perspiration. “Perfect timing,” she said. “I got in my run and I’m just about to hit the shower. Have you seen the papers?”

“I have.”

“Then you know that I used your line about staying home with the kids last night because that’s where I belonged. My campaign manager said it made him want to blow chunks, but he thought it was effective.”

“That’s a start,” I said. “I don’t imagine that he’s thrilled to have me here this morning.”

“Ignore him,” Ginny said. “But an old friend of yours is coming, and he is thrilled that you’ll be here.”

“Who’s the friend?”

“Keith Harris. When he called from the airport to get my address, I told him about our agreement. I thought if he had concerns, we should deal with them up front, but he was delighted. How do you two know each other?”

“Remember that line about politics making strange bedfellows?” I said.

“I’ve heard it two or three hundred times,” Ginny said dryly.

“Sorry,” I said. “Anyway, Mieka was married to Keith’s nephew, and Keith and I were on a political panel together for a couple of years.”

Ginny cocked her head. “I had a feeling there was more to it than that.”

“There was,” I said.

Ginny raised an eyebrow. “That must have been interesting.”

“It was,” I said. “For a while.”

A young man in khakis, a black T-shirt, and a Blue Jays ball cap came out of the kitchen. He had a newspaper in one hand and a half-eaten Crispy Crunch bar in the other.

“Milo, this is Joanne Shreve,” Ginny said. “She’s going to be with us till E-Day. Joanne, my campaign manager, Milo O’Brien.”

Milo’s smile was not pleasant. “So you’re the Trojan horse.”

Ginny’s voice was wintry. “Back off, Milo. Joanne’s here at my invitation.”

“You’ve already screwed up once, Ginny,” he said. “And it may cost us this election.”

Ginny shot him a look that would have curdled milk, but it bounced off her manager. “Are you sure we can trust her?” he said.

“I’m standing right here, Milo,” I said. “Why don’t you ask me?”

He turned his eyes on me. They were a startlingly bright blue. “All right, Joanne Kilbourn-Shreve, can we trust you?”

I met his gaze. “Yes,” I said.

Ginny laughed. “There’s your answer, Milo. I’m going to shower. You and Joanne get acquainted.”

Milo crammed the rest of his Crispy Crunch bar in his mouth and headed down the hall. I followed him into the kitchen. The room was bright and attractive, but like the rest of the condo it had the unused quality of a show home. It even smelled new. Milo went to the kitchen table, pulled out a chair with the elaborate courtesy of a waiter in an overpriced restaurant, and gestured to me. “Madam?” Then he pulled another Crispy Crunch bar from his pocket, peeled back the wrapper, took a bite, sat down, and began talking on his cellphone.

Somewhere in the apartment a phone began ringing. It stopped and then began again. Milo didn’t move. I took out a notepad and pen and began making notes. Milo narrowed his eyes at me and kept on talking. In fifteen minutes, Ginny was back. She was dressed in a pullover and slacks and talking into a portable phone. She nestled the phone between her ear and her shoulder, took a bran muffin from a paper bag on the kitchen table, and continued fielding questions from her caller.

Left to my own devices, I studied Milo. He had a wild kinetic energy that kept him constantly in motion: drumming on the table with his fingertips, tapping his foot, rolling the wrapper from his Crispy Crunch into a ball, and tossing it towards the wastebasket. All the while, he was wheedling, cajoling, cursing, and threatening the luckless souls on the other end of his cell. The purpose of his endless stream of calls was no mystery. The party had written Ginny off and moved her workers to other, more winnable ridings. Milo was giving it his best shot, but I knew from experience that once the workers had been moved, it was almost impossible to get them back. If Milo hadn’t been such a putz, my heart would have gone out to him.

When the buzzer rang from the lobby, Ginny was in the middle of yet another interview. She gave me a beseeching look, and I walked over, pressed the entry pad, and went to the hall to wait.

Keith Harris was older, thinner, and more drawn than he had been the last time I saw him. With his laptop case slung over his shoulder and his suit-bag hooked to his forefinger, he looked like a traveller at the end of a long and unsuccessful business trip, but as always, he was gallant. He stepped inside, dropped his luggage, and held out his arms. “May I kiss the bride?”

“No longer a bride,” I said. “Zack and I have been married a year and a half, but I’m still me, and I’d welcome a kiss.”

“Good,” he said. The kiss was warm but not passionate: a kiss between loving friends. When it ended, Keith stepped back and looked at me. “Marriage obviously agrees with you.”

“It does,” I said. “We’re very happy. And you?”

Keith shrugged. “Getting by.”

Milo came out into the hall, pocketed his Crispy Crunch, and shook Keith’s hand. “God, am I glad to see you,” he said. “Did they arrange any accommodation?”

“No. This trip was a last-minute decision.”

Milo’s young face creased with anxiety. “But you are staying?”

“As long as I’m needed,” Keith said.

“Thank God. I’ll call about a hotel room. Smoking, right?”

Keith sighed. “Nope, I’ve quit yet again. Doctor’s orders.”

Milo had no interest in other people’s doctors. “Okay, nonsmoking,” he said. “Keith, we’ve gotta pull this out. If Ginny wins, we win it all. But we need people.”

“Then we’ll get them,” Keith said evenly.

Milo’s nod was solemn, but halfway down the hall, he did a little side kick of happiness.

I turned to Keith. “Looks like he’s glad you’re here,” I said. “By the way, is Milo certifiable?”

Keith chuckled. “Everybody in this business is. But he gets the job done, and as you know, a political campaign is not exactly Plato’s symposium.”

As if to underscore the point, when Keith and I walked into the kitchen, Ginny had her head in the refrigerator. She was still responding to interviewer’s questions and still trying to put together her breakfast. When she heard Keith’s voice, she turned, waved, then reached in and extracted a litre of milk. She answered a question about her sex life, opened the milk, sniffed, made a face, checked the best-before date, and poured the milk down the sink. Milo watched the action and gallantly offered Ginny the rest of his Crispy Crunch. By my count, it was his third since I arrived.

Keith poured himself coffee and sat down at the table. “Okay, the fun’s over,” he said. “Milo, where are we?”

“No longer beached on shit creek,” Milo said. “The custody thing helped big-time.” He chomped his bar. “Two problems: time and bodies. E-Day is fourteen days away and the only volunteers we’ve got left can’t leave home without their Depends or their nitro – sorry, Keith.”

Keith made a faint gesture of dismissal, and Milo barrelled on. “Anyway, we need a media blitz, but the ads Ginny’s got now are shit – worse yet, they’re generic shit. Ginny’s gotta go for specificity. If she’s gonna win Palliser, she needs to get our core group of Christian family-values wackos to the polls and she needs to appeal to the spoiled brats with the renovated houses in Old Lakeview and the Crescents. That means the campaign needs bodies and it needs new ads, and that means money quick and on the table. Again, and for the record, I think we can win this thing, but we have to move fast.”

Keith handed him a list of names and numbers. “I drew this up on the way out. Call and tell them to be on the next plane.”

Milo glanced at the list. “Half of these people are from Ontario.”

“From safe seats in Ontario.”

“It’s going to cost serious money to get them out here.”

“Elections are about serious money.”

“True enough,” Milo said. “I’ll find me a little corner and start dialing. What about the media buys?”

“Get what you need. We’ll cover it.”

Ginny ended her call, flicked off her phone, and joined us.

“So, how’s it going, kiddo?” Keith asked, and I could hear the affection in his voice.

Ginny went over and planted a kiss on his cheek. “Better now that you’re here,” she said. The moment passed quickly. She straightened up and went to the chair opposite him. “Jason’s withdrawal seems to have shifted the winds. When the custody question hit court, there was a sense that where there was smoke, there was fire. For the last few weeks the smoke’s been hovering over me, but now, Jason’s the one under suspicion.” She picked up the muffin she’d buttered ten minutes earlier and took a bite. “There’s speculation that my ex has a few nasty skeletons in his closet,” she said carefully.

Keith cocked his head. “Does he?”

An odd expression flickered across Ginny’s face. “Everybody does,” she said tightly. “But when it came to the girls, Jason was always on the side of the angels.”

“No use letting that get out,” Keith said. “We did some polling last night, Ginny. Character is still an issue for you.”

Ginny looked at her muffin with distaste. “This tastes like gerbil droppings. So how do I deal with the fact that the good people of Palliser think there have been too many men in my bed since Jason and I split up?”

Keith turned to me. “Any thoughts?”

I raised my hand in a halt gesture. “Uh-uh,” I said. “I’m here as an observer.”

“If you weren’t an observer, how would you handle it?” Keith asked.

“I’d get Ginny on Jack Quinlan’s radio program. Everybody listens to it, and he’s sympathetic to your side. He’ll let Ginny deal with the character issue head-on, but he won’t kill her with it. Apart from that, put her into as many soft situations as you can: arrange for photos of her at daycares, old folks’ homes, women’s shelters. Show that she has a heart and remind people that she has a record supporting programs for women and kids and seniors. Also have her spend as much time as possible with her daughters between now and E-Day.” I extended my hand, palm up to Keith. “Now, give me a loonie for anything I suggested that you didn’t think of.”

Keith handed me a loonie. “There wasn’t anything, but it’s always fun listening to your ideas.” He turned to Ginny. “Why don’t you call Quinlan yourself? Tell him you want his show to be your first live interview since the custody was resolved.”

“Jack does his show from Saskatoon,” Ginny said. “If I’m going to be on today, it’ll have to be a phone in.”

“Uh-uh,” I said. “Quinlan likes face to face. Ginny, tell him you’ll fly up there this morning.”

Ginny picked up her cell, called Information, punched in the numbers, and began talking. When she was done, she rang off. “The producer’s delighted,” she said. “So we’ll take the next flight up, and go live in the second hour.” It took her a minute to realize Em and Chloe had come into the room. She smiled at her daughters. “God, I’d almost forgotten you were here,” she said.

The twins were identical, but I knew instinctively that the one who stepped forward and spoke was Em. “Probably best if you don’t say that too often till the election’s over,” she said. The girls exchanged a private smile. They were poised young women. The twin who’d spoken first performed the introductions. “I’m Emma Brodnitz,” she said. “And this is my sister, Chloe.”

Keith nodded at them. “We met the last time I was here. I went to one of your basketball games. Let’s see,” he said, pointing to Emma. “You’re the shooting guard,” and he pointed to Chloe, “You are the point guard.”

The girls exchanged glances. “You’ve got it backwards,” they said in unison.

“Guess it’s lucky I’m not the one running for office,” Keith said. “This is Joanne… do you go by Shreve?”

“Depends on the situation,” I said. “But Joanne is fine.” I shifted in my chair to face the girls. “My daughter Taylor is going to Luther next year, so we’ve been watching the Lions with interest. You had a great season.”

“Did you get to a game?” Emma asked.

“No. But I promise I’ll be a regular next year.”

“Come tonight. It’s a charity game for Ranch Ehrlo,” she said. “Bring your daughter. We’re playing Sheldon. They’re solid, so it should be a good game.”

“Sounds like fun,” I said.

“Luther gym. Seven o’clock.” It was the first time Chloe had spoken. “Get there early if you don’t want to climb up to the top of the bleachers.”

“How would you feel about your mother coming?” Keith asked.

Emma’s tone was derisive. “Why not? It’ll be a great photo op.”

Ginny ignored the slight. She walked over to her daughters and draped an arm around each of them. The three women – all rangy and athletic – made an appealing triptych. “Want me to ask Milo to make a run to the Great Canadian Bagel before school? Our choices here seem to be mouldy muffins and outdated milk.”

“Thanks, but Chloe and I have a secret stash,” Em said. She opened the freezer compartment and pulled out a plastic sack of bagels. “Whole wheat and multi-grain. Want one?”

“A multi-grain,” Ginny said. “Thanks.”

Em offered the bag around. “Anybody else?” As the girls toasted their bagels and poured juice, the meeting continued. I took notes. When the girls were through eating, they excused themselves.

“You don’t have to leave,” Ginny said. “You’re not in our way.”

Emma’s expression was too cynical for a girl her age. “Sure we are,” she said. Then she and Chloe vanished.

Quinlan Live was broadcast province-wide between 8:30 a.m. and 12:30 p.m. and rebroadcast at night. The tag for the show was, “Stop banging on your steering wheel. Call Jack.” Judging by the ratings, a lot of people did. For many years running, Jack Quinlan had been voted one of the most influential people in Saskatchewan, and for that reason and many others, it made good sense to announce Ginny’s political reentry on his show.

We had twenty minutes to catch the plane for the forty-five-minute flight to Saskatoon. I called Zack on the way to the airport.

“Hey, my lucky day,” he said. “A minute later and I would have been in court with my cell turned off.”

“I’m glad I caught you. I’m going to Saskatoon this morning. Ginny’s going to be on the Jack Quinlan show, and the campaign people have decided she’ll be more effective if she’s with him in studio. Anyway, I’m tagging along.”

“But you’ll be back tonight, won’t you?”

“I’ll be back by lunchtime. We’re flying.”

“Whoa. Are you okay with that?”

“No, but I should see Ginny’s performance first-hand.”

Zack knew I hated flying. “I wish I could be there, so you’d have a hand to grip.”

“So do I,” I said. “Promise me my martini tonight will be extra dry.”

“You’ve got it,” he said.

When we boarded the shuttle to Saskatoon, I felt the familiar clutch of panic. Keith looked at me closely. “Anything I can do to help?”

“Take my mind off the fact that I’m sitting on an airplane,” I said. “Tell me what’s been going on in your life.”

“Lately I’ve been paying for a lifetime of mistreating my body. Too many cigarettes. Too much booze. Too many late nights. Too much stress. Too much fast food. I’ve been spending a lot of time with my cardiologist.”

“But everything’s okay now?”

Keith shrugged. “I don’t want to waste our time alone together talking about my medical history. Tell me about Mieka and the girls. How’s the move to Regina working out?”

“Fine. They’re living in my old house, and it’s nice to watch another generation of kids growing up there. Of course, we love having them close. Mieka’s doing well. It took a while for her to figure out what she wanted to do. She thought about going back to school, but academics were never really her thing. She didn’t want to go back to catering because she hated being away from the girls, so she came up with a business plan that seems to be working.”

“So what’s the business?”

“It’s called UpSlideDown. Mieka took the money from her catering business, bought an old hardware store over on 13th Avenue, and redesigned it as a combination giant play area and coffee shop. The kids play, the parents sip coffee and chat, and everybody’s happy – especially Mieka because she gets to earn a very tidy income and spend time with the girls.”

“Good for her. And Taylor is still Taylor?”

“Taylor is magnificent,” I said. “We’ll have to get you over to the house so you can see for yourself.”

“I’d like that,” Keith said. “It’s good to know the Kilbourn women are thriving.”

“We are. And our men are doing well too. Angus is being vastly overpaid for a summer job with a law firm in Saskatoon, and Peter’s walk-in clinic is making as much money as walk-in clinics in the inner city make, but he’s content. How does Greg like Montreal?”

“He’s coping. Sometimes that’s all you can do.”

“I wish he were closer,” I said.

“It’s not easy being an ex-husband, especially when you still love your ex-wife. Greg thought a clean break was best.” Keith cocked his head so he could read my expression. “You don’t agree.”

“No,” I said. “But nobody asked me.”

“Or me,” Keith said. “Now, before we hit the big city, can you think of any questions that will poleaxe Ginny?”

“Quinlan’s good at cutting off questioners who make you want to dig out their eyeballs with a spoon,” I said, “but there are some legitimate concerns about Ginny’s priorities, and he’ll let them through. Ginny’s sex life is her own business, but the stories are out there. Even Taylor’s heard the jokes.”

Keith’s headshake was almost imperceptible. “Ginny’s been in public life long enough to be prepared for those. For anything she might not have considered.”

“There’s something about Jason that Ginny knows and isn’t telling,” I said.

“I sensed that too,” Keith said. “Any idea what the mystery is?”

“No. But this is Saskatchewan – there are only a million people in the entire province.”

“So you think somebody else will know the secret.”

“I do,” I said. “And I’ll bet they’re ready to tell.”

Over the years, I’d been on Jack Quinlan’s show a dozen times. The first time I’d been promoting a book I’d written about Andy Boychuk, a man who had been our province’s last best hope until he was murdered. Later, I’d been on air as an academic from the left whose views on the politics of culture, race, and land claims lit up the phone lines. Until lately, the studio for Quinlan Live had been so small and congested with old scripts, memorabilia, stained coffee cups, and junk that the host had to stand on his chair to see into the control room. But stellar ratings for private radio bring their own reward. The building that housed the new studio was charmless and functional, but the setting on the bank of the Saskatchewan River was prime.

Our timing was split second. We arrived at the top of the hour while the news was being read. Jack Quinlan came out to the reception area, greeted Ginny, and jumped back in mock surprise when he saw me.

“I’m here as an observer,” I said.

“Well, come in and observe,” he said. In the studio, he pointed Ginny to her seat, and offered me a stool next to his. “If you get bored, you can look out at the river. The view from here is spectacular.” He handed Ginny her headphones, picked up his own, and they were on the air.

Every phone-in show has its regulars: some have an opinion on every issue; some have a passionate opinion on one issue and feel compelled to share that opinion regardless of the topic under discussion. Quinlan’s audience was, on the whole, politically astute, but his regulars were predictable. As a caller from Elbow wound up for his well-worn joke about how Saskatchewan’s refusal to accept daylight saving time meant our province would forever be consigned to the Dark Ages, my eyes drifted to Jack Quinlan’s computer screen. I had time to read the message twice before he noticed the direction of my gaze and minimized the window. “GINNY MONAGHAN DESERVES TO WIN. WHEN THE TIME IS RIGHT, I’LL GO PUBLIC WITH THE TRUTH ABOUT HER EX-HUSBAND.”

Jack glanced at me quickly, then went to the next caller. She was hostile. The next three callers were men – also hostile. It wasn’t Ginny’s morning. She was handling the enmity, but I could hear the tension in her voice. The fifth caller was a young woman from Regina who sounded as if she were reading from a script. She praised Ginny’s accomplishments as an MP, then dropped the bombshell. “Your accomplishment is even more remarkable,” the young woman said, “when one considers that while you were working for the people of this country, your ex-husband was living off the money he took from prostitutes in this city.”

The caller was cut off, but the damage was done. Ginny sat bolt upright and glared at Jack. He raised his palms to indicate helplessness and cut to a commercial. Ginny ripped off her earphones and turned to Jack. “Why didn’t you stop that girl?”

“I thought she was a plant from your party,” Jack said. “You’d had four rough calls. The girl was obviously reading. I figured she’d pitch you a soft question, and you could knock it out of the park while you caught your breath.”

“We have a family,” Ginny said. She was visibly upset, but it struck me that she didn’t seem surprised.

“We’re back,” Jack said. Ginny picked up her earphones and took the next call. From that point on it was smooth sailing, with more supportive than hostile callers. When the hour was over, Jack thanked Ginny for taking the time to come on his show, and Ginny responded with a gracious statement about how it was always a pleasure to have a chance to talk to the people of Saskatchewan.

Jack walked us out. At the elevator, he and Ginny shook hands. “You should know this isn’t the first time someone’s been in touch with that gossip about Jason,” Jack said. “I don’t expect you to tell me whether the rumour’s true, but you should know that it’s making the rounds.”

Ginny nodded acknowledgement. The elevator doors opened, and she stepped in, leaving the pertinent question unasked. Keith wasn’t so reticent. “So,” he said. “Is the dirt about Jason helping us?”

Jack stared at him coldly. “It explains why Ginny might have been seeking consolation elsewhere,” he said. “Is that what you need to win?”

“We use what we get,” Keith said, extending his hand.

“I guess Santa came early for you this year,” Jack said. He turned and walked back into his studio, leaving Keith’s hand outstretched and unshaken.

News about the enticing rumour passed along by Jack Quinlan’s mystery caller moved fast. By the time we got on the plane, Keith had made some calls of his own, and the pulse beating in his temple suggested his excitement. The reports were good. Ginny’s seat was back in the undecided column, and that meant there was the possibility of forming a government.

Ginny and Keith huddled together, conferring in whispers on the flight back to Regina. I sat next to a woman whose son had been in grade school with Angus, and we caught up on each other’s news. Time passed quickly, and I was surprised when the plane touched down.

Keith and Ginny dropped me off at my house. Ginny was spending the afternoon canvassing, and I wanted to clean up and have a sandwich and a nap before I joined her. I checked the mail and found the usual mix of bills and ads. There was also an unaddressed padded envelope containing a DVD. That, too, was no surprise. NationTV had been taping since the candidate left the courthouse triumphant, and I knew they would have great footage of Ginny Agonistes, the combatant who wouldn’t quit.

I walked into the house, left a message on Zack’s machine telling him I’d survived two flights, and went out to the yard to throw a ball around for the dogs until I’d come down from all the tensions of the morning. It didn’t take long before the dogs collapsed in the sunshine, and I went inside to make myself a sandwich and watch the DVD.

I was so mentally prepared for shots of Ginny on the steps of the courthouse that it took me a moment to understand what I was watching. The quality of the picture was sharp, but the camera’s eye was static, so the effect was like watching a scene through a security camera. A woman, very slender with dark hair cut in a sleek bob, was sitting cross-legged on a bed, stroking a cat. I recognized her immediately. It was Cristal Avilia. She was wearing a T-shirt, and her legs were bare. She stood, walked out of camera range, and when she returned, she wasn’t alone. Zack was with her. He was wearing a robe.

He handed her an envelope. She placed it, unopened, on an armoire and moved in front of him; then she took her fingers and began stroking herself. She began to moan and took her fingers and held them up to his lips. “Taste it,” she said.

He took her fingers in his mouth. “That always works,” he said. He began to stroke her, and she thrust herself at his hand, whimpering.

As Zack told me the night he explained his relationship with Cristal, from that point on, it was all business. He wheeled his chair next to the bed, pivoted his body onto the sheets, and they had sex. I couldn’t move. I watched until it was over, and Cristal slid out of bed. She was naked, she walked off camera, in a few minutes she came back, still naked, with washcloths and a towel. Zack cleaned himself, and she left the room as he dressed and moved back into his chair. When he was ready to leave, he wheeled towards the door without saying goodbye.

“You never look at me, you know.” There was bitterness in Cristal’s voice; there was also longing.

“We both know why I’m here,” he said. When he was gone, she threw the towel he’d been using against the door. “Bastard,” she said. Then the screen went black.

I hit eject. What was on the disc was not a surprise. Zack had told me that he’d bought sex from Cristal Avilia. But knowing it and watching it were two different matters. I put the disc into the pocket of the folder that contained my notes about “Women in Politics.” I called Ginny’s cell and told her I couldn’t make the canvass this afternoon, but I’d meet her at Luther for the basketball game after supper.

Then I made myself a sandwich that I didn’t remember eating, went outside, and started breaking up the soil in the patch beside the house where we’d decided to plant tomatoes. The bed hadn’t been worked before, and as I dug, the sun pressed down on my back like a hand. By the time I’d prepared the soil and given it a soak, I was sweaty, stiff, and thirsty, but I felt better. When I went back inside to shower, the phone was ringing. It was Zack.

“Jesus, I was starting to worry,” he said. “Your cell must be turned off, and I’ve called home about a dozen times. Everything okay?”

“I was out digging that bed where we’re going to put the tomatoes,” I said.

“You sure you’re okay? You don’t sound like yourself?”

“I don’t feel like myself,” I said. “Somebody left a DVD in our mailbox. It was of you with Cristal Avilia.”

There was silence on the other end of the line. “And you watched it.”

“Yes. Not the smartest move I ever made.”

“I’m coming home,” he said.

“You don’t have to.”

“I know, but I want to.”

I went to the little greenhouse Zack had had built for my birthday and began carrying out the tomato plants we’d been growing. They were thriving. I heard his car come up, but I didn’t go out to greet him. In a few minutes, he came up behind me and touched my arm. “So where do we start with this?”

“I don’t know,” I said.

He reached out to me, but I moved away. He wheeled his chair close to the plants. “How do you know when they’re ready for the big move outdoors?” he said.

“You kind of ease them into it,” I said. “I’ll take them back inside tonight. When they’re ready and we can trust the weather, I’ll plant them. I used to help my father do this when I was a kid.”

“You never told me that. In fact, you’ve never told me much about your father at all.”

“I didn’t see him much,” I said. “He was a doctor, and doctors are busy people. But he liked to grow cherry tomatoes from seed. And he let me help him.”

“So that’s why you wanted to do this.”

“I guess. My father didn’t spend much time at home, but during tomato season, he’d always leave a little dish of these on the kitchen counter, and they’d be there when I woke up. It always made me feel good imagining him out there in the dark picking the tomatoes, thinking about me.”

Zack took my hand. “Jo, what can I do to fix this?”

“Make it go away,” I said.

“I can’t,” he said.

“Then I guess we just have to keep on keeping on,” I said.