him, and he needs us, so I think it’s time you buried the hatchet.” Zack didn’t respond, so I barrelled on. “When Peter and Angus were little guys, and they were sniping at each other, I always made them sit on the couch and hug for ten minutes.”
Zack chuckled. “Howard has to hug first,” he said.
CHAPTER
3
That day there was a function that I would have given anything to forego. It was a memorial lunch for my friend Beverly Levy, who had died of pancreatic cancer a year earlier. She was thirty-eight years old. Before my retirement from the university the year before, Beverly had been my colleague in the political science department. The purpose of the lunch was to raise money for a scholarship in her honour. I had been very fond of Beverly and remembering her would be painful, but she had met death with a grin and a raised middle finger. The least I could do was honour her by donning my best suit and pantyhose and pumps.
The luncheon was being held in the Agra Torchinsky Salon of the Mackenzie Art Gallery. The salon was a second-floor space, ideal for receptions because of its proximity to the art but also because the floor-to-ceiling glass of its west wall brought the treed beauty of Albert Street into the room.
I arrived late and had trouble finding a parking place. I had hoped I’d be able to slip in unnoticed, but when I checked my ticket, I discovered I’d been seated with the university president, a number of the university’s senioradministrators, and Bev’s parents. Bev’s father was Graham Meighen. I’d seen her mother, Liz Meighen, often at the hospital. She rarely left her daughter’s side, but until that day I’d never spoken to Graham. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking bread with him, but there was no turning back. The president’s table was directly in front of the podium. I manoeuvred my way through the other tables, slid into my chair, and lowered my eyes.
The program for the luncheon lay on the bread-and-butter plate. My memories of Beverly at the end were so sharp that it was startling to see the photo of her as she was before her illness. She had been passionate about the outdoors. The photo on the front of the program was of Beverly triumphant at the end of a hike along Vancouver Island’s West Coast trail. The breath caught in my throat. With her spiky black hair, her brilliant azure eyes, and her athlete’s body, she seemed destined to live forever. She was dead before the year was out. Liz Meighen, who was seated next to me, reached over and stroked my arm.
I glanced up and saw that her eyes, too, were filled with tears. “It’s just so wrong,” she said. All I could do was nod and cover her hand with my own.
We sat with our hands touching through the brief biography of Beverly and the explanation of how the university would match funds donated if the total reached a certain point. Our first opportunity to talk came during the salad course.
“I asked to have you seated at our table,” Liz said. “I hope you don’t mind. Bev was so fond of you.”
“And I was fond of Bev. I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you when I sat down, Liz. I’m a little off my game today.”
“I’ve been off my game since Beverly’s diagnosis,” Liz said.
“You’re still the finest woman I know,” her husband said. I had seen Graham Meighen only once, and that had been at a distance at Bev’s funeral. I’d remembered him as beingattractive, and he was. His features were even; his hair was full and silvery; his tan was deep. Bev had told me once that her father had been on his university’s wrestling team, and the power of his body was still evident. He reached across his wife, extended his hand to me, and introduced himself. “I hope you know how much your friendship meant to our daughter,” he said.
My eyes stung. “She was an extraordinary person,” I said. “Zack enjoyed her company too.”
“So many people fall away when a friend is dealing with terminal
Zack chuckled. “Howard has to hug first,” he said.
CHAPTER
3
That day there was a function that I would have given anything to forego. It was a memorial lunch for my friend Beverly Levy, who had died of pancreatic cancer a year earlier. She was thirty-eight years old. Before my retirement from the university the year before, Beverly had been my colleague in the political science department. The purpose of the lunch was to raise money for a scholarship in her honour. I had been very fond of Beverly and remembering her would be painful, but she had met death with a grin and a raised middle finger. The least I could do was honour her by donning my best suit and pantyhose and pumps.
The luncheon was being held in the Agra Torchinsky Salon of the Mackenzie Art Gallery. The salon was a second-floor space, ideal for receptions because of its proximity to the art but also because the floor-to-ceiling glass of its west wall brought the treed beauty of Albert Street into the room.
I arrived late and had trouble finding a parking place. I had hoped I’d be able to slip in unnoticed, but when I checked my ticket, I discovered I’d been seated with the university president, a number of the university’s senioradministrators, and Bev’s parents. Bev’s father was Graham Meighen. I’d seen her mother, Liz Meighen, often at the hospital. She rarely left her daughter’s side, but until that day I’d never spoken to Graham. I wasn’t looking forward to breaking bread with him, but there was no turning back. The president’s table was directly in front of the podium. I manoeuvred my way through the other tables, slid into my chair, and lowered my eyes.
The program for the luncheon lay on the bread-and-butter plate. My memories of Beverly at the end were so sharp that it was startling to see the photo of her as she was before her illness. She had been passionate about the outdoors. The photo on the front of the program was of Beverly triumphant at the end of a hike along Vancouver Island’s West Coast trail. The breath caught in my throat. With her spiky black hair, her brilliant azure eyes, and her athlete’s body, she seemed destined to live forever. She was dead before the year was out. Liz Meighen, who was seated next to me, reached over and stroked my arm.
I glanced up and saw that her eyes, too, were filled with tears. “It’s just so wrong,” she said. All I could do was nod and cover her hand with my own.
We sat with our hands touching through the brief biography of Beverly and the explanation of how the university would match funds donated if the total reached a certain point. Our first opportunity to talk came during the salad course.
“I asked to have you seated at our table,” Liz said. “I hope you don’t mind. Bev was so fond of you.”
“And I was fond of Bev. I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you when I sat down, Liz. I’m a little off my game today.”
“I’ve been off my game since Beverly’s diagnosis,” Liz said.
“You’re still the finest woman I know,” her husband said. I had seen Graham Meighen only once, and that had been at a distance at Bev’s funeral. I’d remembered him as beingattractive, and he was. His features were even; his hair was full and silvery; his tan was deep. Bev had told me once that her father had been on his university’s wrestling team, and the power of his body was still evident. He reached across his wife, extended his hand to me, and introduced himself. “I hope you know how much your friendship meant to our daughter,” he said.
My eyes stung. “She was an extraordinary person,” I said. “Zack enjoyed her company too.”
“So many people fall away when a friend is dealing with terminal
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