The Garneau Block by Todd Babiak

week, we’re going to have to cancel the class.”
    â€œOh, come on.”
    â€œWe can split one of the surveys, and you can–”
    â€œThis is harassment. I’m not teaching two greatest hits courses this semester, Claudia. I’m sorry.”
    â€œHarassment.” The chair of the department smiled and nodded. Her posture was impeccable, her control of the room complete. Raymond’s peers, his teammates, one or two or five years from retirement, were already broken. The men who weren’t still coughing slumped in their chairs and inspected the weave in their sleeves or the lines in the palms of their hands. Claudia Santino was beautiful and intelligent and, when shewanted to be, quite cutting. Unbeatable. She lifted her chin, took a breath in through her thin nose, and nodded. “We’ll discuss this in private.”
    If Claudia did cancel his Death in Philosophy seminar, Raymond would press for extra time to work on his new idea for an article. There had been a record number of violent deaths in the Edmonton area in 2005, the most recent one across the street from his house. The Let’s Fix It signs were clearly a cry for understanding in a Godless universe. How do individuals or even communities seek to comprehend tragedy when religious answers no longer resonate in their hearts? The paper could ripple out from Edmonton to the avian flu scourge in Asia and the phenomenon of suicide terrorism.
    According to social and political trends, these were difficult times for unbelievers in North America. In popular culture, the atheists had gone underground. Yet Raymond felt–no, he knew–that millions of North Americans still sought philosophical answers to traditionally spiritual questions. Even if only five students showed up to his seminar on Thursday night, he still had faith in atheism. Just because something was old didn’t mean it was powerless.
    Claudia asked if there were any more questions or contributions. Of course, Raymond had a few obscene suggestions for Claudia and her acolytes, but articulating them wouldn’t quite fall under the protection of academic freedom.
    Both Claudia and Raymond stayed seated quietly while the philosophy professors filed out. Two of his withered associates were brave enough to drop a hand on his shoulder as they passed into the hallway. Claudia stood up. The chair of thephilosophy department closed the door and smiled with artificial geniality. “Coffee?”
    â€œI shouldn’t.”
    She returned to her seat and folded her hands on the table. Long fingers, ringless. A pianist’s fingers. Raymond glanced out the window again, searching for joggers, but there was only a man pushing a baby carriage while speaking on a cellular phone. The only sound in the room now was water travelling through distant pipes, until he looked back at her.
    â€œAre you a very troubled man, Raymond?”

 
    13
    not a rotary meeting
    S hirley Wong sat in a giant chanting circle in the yellow Universiade Pavilion–better known as the Butterdome–clapping. Next to her, Abby sang along.
    Â 
    We got power
    We got faith
    We got John Kenneth…Galbraith
    Â 
    A bearded and shirtless man played guitar and two others slapped drums. In front of them, twenty or thirty people danced like Hollywood witches. Thinking this activist fairwould be semi-formal, like a theatre opening or box seats at an Oilers game, Shirley had put on a black dress and tan cardigan.
    More and more people were jumping up to dance, including Abby. She stood in front of Shirley in her tie-dye T-shirt and loose jeans, her hands out. “Come on, Shirl. Let’s shake our things.”
    â€œI’m good, thanks.”
    â€œSuit yourself.” Abby slipped off her sandals and joined the dancers in front of the musicians. She swayed her hips and moved her arms as though she were groping to find a door handle in a dark and turbulent airplane.
    Shirley