Darkness at Daylight

I know it’s been a long time but it was one hell of a week.

The fallout from Margery’s baptism was, in retrospect, nothing compared to the fury that followed the revelation that Jack Grade—JACK GRADE!—was “involved” with “that Leesa Mitzvah girl.”

I woke up one morning and padded out to the kitchen, with the view I was always boasting about, and went through the rituals of the morning. Coffee was brewed; a paper was collected, orange juice and the morning headlines completed the routine. The city had lost its green canopy and had yet to surrender to a blanket of snow so I looked out on gray trees stripped of their foliage and somber skies all painted from a dreary fall palette.

It took me a week, maybe ten days, to shake off the lethargy of that morning. A four-day trip to London for Miss Cousins gave me a way out; I stayed in for a few days and waited for the heavy sense of futility to end and hoped that it would be soon.

The problem, of course, is that you just never know when it will happen because both the beginning of depression and its miserable end follow their own mean timetable.

Jane covered for me at the office and checked in on me with feigned errands, or pretexts related to the administration of The Campanile. She was visiting the building at least twice a week now for business—plus daycare trips to Sra. Cabral—and was Toronto’s newest and most nervous driver.

With a subway system, streetcars and buses the city was well served with transit and for many people—myself included—a car was unnecessary. Jane had grown up downtown and had never owned a car or had need for one. Her growing business and reputation, however, had put paid to that particular invoice. Jane was now a true member of the commuting world and cautiously made her way about the city of Toronto endeavouring to avoid busy intersections and school zones.

She had begun to regularly extol the virtues of her shiny new hybrid vehicle (she was from the Annex, after all) and had adopted global warming, along with classic arena rock, as her latest cause. Ardie and I both waited for it to pass.

“Well, are we going to see you die of this business, Sir?” said Ardie one evening as he arrived at my front door and glanced at my disarray. I wasn’t dressed yet—it was after six—and the apartment was dark.

Ardie looked around the said nothing. His eyes swept from one place to another noting a newspaper on a chair, a teapot, cup and saucer and the TV remote control on the floor next to the sofa, the curtains drawn tightly closed. Finally turning on me I noted how it sometimes seemed as though Ardie was looking in me and not at me.

“I am not going to die, Ardie. My luck has run out,” I replied, not really looking for a laugh. “I am just waiting for the sun to come out.”

Ardie looked at me and his already deep voice dropped an octave to a conspiratorial tone. “It’s too late in the day for sunshine now, but try and believe it will be there in the morning,” he said, “and not just darkness at daylight.”

I didn’t want to go anywhere but Ardie insisted—in a fun way, actually—and before too long I had showered and dressed and agreed to join Ardie for potluck in 12B. Habashka had prepared supper and gone out for the evening so we had a carpet picnic in the living room, looking out at city lights.

The phone rang a few times and Ardie ignored it with ease, unlike most of us. The drama of “Jack and Leesa” had started to simmer and statements were being made and positions were being quietly taken.

Beebe’s family supper following Margery’s baptism was an ill-conceived affair. No one was really that eager to socialize all evening with the very same people they had just spent the afternoon with and conversation was forced. Ardie made game efforts to keep the mood light but finally gave up and joined Ted in the den to watch television.

Beebe had a liberal hand with a bottle of scotch and grew increasingly quiet throughout supper. Ted bantered with Kat (she had a good sense of humour) and everyone tried to avoid mentioning that Jack Grade was nowhere to be seen.

He arrived late and, according to Ardie, in something of a foul humour. He arrived as supper was almost finished to warm hellos from Margery, Kat and Suky and a glance of warning from his father. Beebe invited him to “help himself” and not too worry about being late.

The silence, said Ardie, was loud.

Jack explained that he wasn’t one bit late. Having already had supper—with “that Leesa Mitzvah girl”—he was just stopping by for coffee on his way home. Why, he could not have possibly come for supper when he had already made plans to dine with Leesa. They had, it turns out, had supper downtown and he had just returned her home.

“We’ve been seeing a lot of one another; she’s a fun girl,” he said. If it was a challenge it did not go unnoticed by anyone, particularly Beebe. Ardie always said that his sister knew that the real success was not in the picking of battles, but the timing of battles.

For a moment it seemed as though her tight smile would crease into an actual grin but it remained fixed in place, her gaze fixed on Jack across the table. Ted cleared his throat and suggested that “the two of you should have had supper with us” and Beebe’s eyes flickered but still she said nothing.

“Don’t forget to say ‘thank-you’ to Aunt Margery, Jack,” said Beebe, standing up from the table, “because she’s going to have a mass said for each of us.” Beebe smiled at Margery fondly to indicate her pleasure.

Ardie told me that when Beebe came out with that line he “damn well knew” that Beebe was going to teach Jack a thing or two about timing.

“Who knows? Maybe she can arrange an Indulgence, too,” she said, her eyes still bright and her smile still fixed. “Who really knows?”

Saint Vitus' Dance

Torontonians can embrace the first flush of the cold weather season with some joy as it provides a golden opportunity to parade new outerwear, or smashing purchases from seasons past. The supposed societal injunction against fur coats, for example, was observed more in the breech here and on the cold Sunday after Remembrance Day, 2006, when Margery Beebe Temple was baptized at the Church of Saint Vitus a few well-cut coats, wraps, jackets, and trims were on display.


Ardie drove us over to the church in order for us to “get a good pew” and save a spot for Beebe and Ted who, Ardie said, were “much more open-minded” than I realized.


Not “open-minded” enough to be in a mood that could be described as celebratory, but happy in their own way for Margery. Faith, Ardie believed, was a personal matter and to each their own.


“Do you go to church, Ardie?” I asked, suspecting a no in response.


Ardie coughed a wet laugh and with the deep rumble in his chest said that his membership application had been blackballed.


The church itself was actually a handsome affair that was restrained and without any of the tacky elements that often announce religious buildings; lit-up signs, illuminated crosses, weeping statuary cheaply rendered and other totems were nowhere to be seen. St Vitus’ was something of a gem of a church, with an altar bathed in natural light projected through the jewel tones of stained glass windows.


“It’s pretty enough, which might distract my sister from the show up front,” said Ardie.


Kat and Suky—with a few friends of Margery’s—motioned us over and we joined a growing party. Ted and Beebe Grade arrived soon after and settled in to the right of Ardie. Ted leaned over to shake my hand with the hale greeting he offered everyone. Beebe snapped a hello as she slipped her wrap off of her shoulders.


She was wearing a charcoal suit—well cut—with a black cashmere shawl thickly trimmed in black mink. Her handbag and shoes looked to be alligator, and she had on pearls and a wedding ring.


Beebe was so stick-thin and angular that I wondered if she didn’t always feel cold. She patted Ardie on the knee and said that she had called Margery that morning to “congratulate her” and learned that there had been, sadly, a last minute change to the august guest list.


The Cardinal had, most regrettably, been called to an urgent matter and had personally called Father Greg with the news. Beebe pointed out that there were still an archbishop, a monsignor, a few local politicians—an election was looming and Margery had been known to support political causes—and a number of notables from her circle of friends and acquaintances.


“That makes it one ‘Excellency’ and two ‘Right Honourables’ if I am not missing anyone,” whispered Beebe in a good natured fashion to Ardie before pointing out that she might have spied an ‘Honour’ and possibly a former ‘Worship’ in what she called “the audience.”


The tea party afterward in the church basement was the finest event ever hosted at the church. Leveraging her ability to afford what she wanted ensured that Mrs Temple had the best post-baptism brunch ever catered at St Vitus’ parish hall. No alcohol, of course, but Ardie had already suggested that we have a drink after the service.


Margery looked happy and was a gracious hostess, or as much as anyone can be a “gracious hostess” in a church basement. Father Greg tended his flock while Margery tended her guests and Ardie made wisecracks. Beebe and Ted looked uncomfortable, and stayed for a decent amount of time to support Margery.


“I could tell you a thing or two about a few people here,” he said to me, in as sotto voce a manner as he was capable of producing. “You just never know where you are going to run into some people,” he laughed while reaching out to accept an offered hand, or kiss a dowager on the cheek.


Beebe said hello to a few people and I noticed that of six women who greeted her all but one bent forward to kiss her cheek. On not one occasion did she, however, make a move to return the kiss.


Arriving late to the ceremony saved Jack Grade and Leesa Mitzvah the ordeal of being the centre of attention as they entered St Vitus’ and searched for a place in the congregation. Beebe, therefore, did not duly note their arrival until the assemblage moved to the hall for Margery’s reception.


Jack congratulated his aunt, kissed his cousins, and introduced Leesa—fond hellos and gracious welcomes—before finding his parents and re-introducing Leesa to them.


Beebe extended her hand and Leesa duly shook it, receiving little effort in return. Her eyes—which tended to be bright and rather wet looking—narrowed briefly before her crisp smile returned. Her hair was the colour of prairie wheat and it was, as usual, brushed back and sprayed into place. Like all stylish ladies her hairstyle never changed; severe and unchanging she wore the same well-groomed style for many years.


She ignored Leesa conversationally and immediately began to talk about family matters including a planned supper that evening “for Margery and the family.”


Miss Cousins wasn’t there, but I saw her afterward at the office. I had some work to complete for the upcoming gallery show and I showed up in the afternoon and found her in her studio painting.


She wasn’t part of Margery’s circle—which latterly had been horses and station wagons in King City—but did ask who was there. I borrowed Beebe’s line and recounted the few honorifics I could recall plus any names that Ardie had introduced me to at the luncheon.


Of course, Miss Cousins smoked while she painted. She put the brush down frequently to take up her torch and the air was pretty thick for a Sunday afternoon. I busied myself at my desk—recently moved to a better location with a view—while she remained in the studio. I heard music playing, always a sign she was working, and we went about our business all afternoon without intruding on one another.


Toward the end of the day Miss Cousins asked me if I had plans for supper; I did have a tentative plan to meet Ardie for a drink but readily accepted an offer of joining Miss C for a fast bite at the end of the day.


We had supper at Seniors, near Yonge and St Clair, a long-established steakhouse in the midtown neighbourhood well known to local residents. Miss Cousins was feeling reflective and greeted the owners in a friendly fashion.


“Yonge and St Clair has lost some of its carriage trade appeal,” said Miss Cousins, sipping a gin martini. “Ely’s, Cameron Jeffries, Ira Berg—all of the good old retailers are gone now. Only Harry Young Shoes is left.”


There was a time when Yonge and St Clair could claim a title as a distinguished part of the city. It was still a major destination for residential living, of course, but the neighbourhood feel was gone. Two movie theatres offering four screens were gone, as were the liquor store—a dreadful loss—and most of the higher end fashion retailers displaced due to bankruptcy or declining business.


Large condominium developments, however, had sprung up around the neighbourhood and Ardie—for one—believed that this augured well for future retail and service offerings. Miss Cousins disagreed.


“The glory days of Yonge and St Clair are over now, and no hope of restoration is possible,” she said.


People, you see, are dangerously fickle.

Bread and Wine

Margery Temple had embraced the Catholic faith with a warm heart and without any worrisome second thoughts. She was already involved in the administration of the church—she helped out with the post-funeral lunches and tea parties—and she had made an impressive donation to the fund to repair the roof. She had also placed a small notice in the bulletin of St Vitus’ inviting the “community of faith” to join in a celebration of her baptism two Sundays hence.


Landing Margery Beebe Temple as a new congregant was a feat that had not gone unnoticed at the splendid offices of the Archdiocese. Mrs Temple was wealthy, widowed, recently converted, eager and desperate to make a difference. She was also something of an innocent and she reacted with real joy when she learned that the Cardinal and an archbishop would attend her baptism at St Vitus.


Beebe, however, was not at all surprised.


“The handouts start now, Ardie, just watch. Margery is such an easy mark. Honestly, they must see her coming. Before too long she’ll have built a cathedral,” she said. Ardie and Beebe were having lunch together and had already gone through half a bottle of red wine and there was no guarantee that a second bottle would not soon grace the table.


Ardie laughed and cautioned Beebe to “go easy” on Margery. “You’ll only encourage her to dig her heels in, Beebe, so be careful,” he said. He looked at her over his wine glass and took a long satisfying draught.


“They mean business if they are sending a bloody cardinal to the baptism. They don’t land people like Margery every day,” said Beebe, pushing at her salad with a fork. Ardie noticed that Beebe didn’t eat all that much but merely picked at her food. She didn’t give up the drinks, however, and leaned over to pour more wine into her glass.


Margery had recently taken an apartment at Granite Place and was looking forward to rekindling some friendships and getting reacquainted with the city. She was spending less time at her farm in King City and was establishing some new friendships among the parishioners at St Vitus.


Margery planned to invite her family to an intimate supper on the day of her baptism—Father Greg was also going to be in attendance—and both Kat and Suky were helping plan the occasion. Margery planned to wear a demure navy suit and a new gold and diamond crucifix on a simple chain around her neck. Flushed with the joy of her conversion she was hoping that both Ardie and Beebe would, after spending some time with dear Father Greg, consider following in her footsteps and joining the church.


She had tried to broach the subject with Ardie but to no avail. He stopped by 7A one night—Negroni in hand—and told me about Margery’s clumsy attempts at religious conversion.


“Margery is recruiting altar boys and her first target is me,” he intoned in his deep voice, “but I told her that I found a new place to worship a long time ago and never went in for team sports in the first place,” he laughed, taking another sip of his drink. Seeing it was nearly empty I went to the kitchen to look for some vodka, came up empty and returned with a chilled bottle of Tanqueray. Ardie smiled and poured himself a shot.


I had been kept hopping at work because there was an upcoming gallery exhibit of the Beijing Series of photographs, plus some older works from her food series. The catalogue was printed—full of errors—and Miss Cousins was in a dark mood most days. Fortunately the errors were not my fault (I was better than that, thank you very much!) and it was the printer who received a harassing phone call from The Boss.


The gallery showing was a combination of social event and business networking opportunity and there was a great deal of administration to take care of. Miss Cousins closely followed politics and was delighted to watch the Republican “thumping” in the United States. She was faxing some of her conservative friends with the poll results and—between cigarettes and coffee—discussing a new series of paintings that would feature the Democratic donkey and the Republican elephant, with the donkey triumphant.


There was, you see, an element of humour in some of her art.


Jane called and invited herself and Bethany to my house for supper; Bethany was now spending some afternoons with Sra. Cabral at The Campanile so Jane would be at the building after work to collect her. It goes without saying that “Uncle Ardie” would be included and somehow the party shifted from 7A down to Sra. Cabral’s lobby-side apartment and ultimately up to 12B and a repast prepared by Habashka.


Habashka and Sra. Cabral had formed a unique bond and, united in a mutual love of the domestic arts, were the new odd-couple in Midtown.


It was at this impromptu after-work mid-week supper that Ardie invited me to go to church with him on Sunday and “watch the fun” as Margery became a Roman Catholic. “You won’t want to miss this, Chum, because the roof might fall in when Beebe enters the church,” he laughed, finishing with a wet cough. He took another pull on his torch (right in the kitchen!) and reached for a bottle of red wine. In the living room Bethany was absorbed in television and Jane and Sra. Cabral were chatting quietly. Habashka bustled and Ardie reached over and stroked my cheek.


He looked at me with his piercing eyes, smiled, and said nothing.


I realized then that Ardie had already figured everything out. What use would words be?

The Most Imporant Meal of the Day

The habits of a lifetime are hard to break regardless of how long your life has been. I never developed a love for eating breakfast chiefly because it meant getting out of bed earlier than I liked. At most I would grab a muffin or a toasted bagel at a coffee shop or on rare occasions I would manage to put a bowl of cereal together. I was adept at making coffee, however, and always started my day with a few cups of freshly brewed coffee to jolt myself into action.

On days when I was driving Miss Cousins to work I could—most of the time—expect something from her kitchen to fall my way. Lourdes was now working for Miss Cousins with greater regularity since The Secretary died and seemed intent on feeding me. I would loiter in the kitchen while Miss Cousins rushed to get ready and there was always something for morning nosh at her place. (My favourite was cinnamon toast, which I had been known to request.)

Miss Cousins did not eat breakfast in the normally accepted sense of the term unless, of course, coffee and orange juice with a chaser of cigarettes counted as breakfast. Lunch was her first meal of the day, a sacrosanct time where work at the office stopped and the studio emptied and conversation ranged from mild to wild and from serious to gossip.

Beebe had breakfast every morning without fail and always from a strict menu designed to guard against weight gain and sloth. Coffee with skim milk—which was horrid—orange juice and fruit. Beebe did not eat much until supper; even lunch was a scant affair consisting of cottage cheese (if she was at home) or a salad or, say, an omelet if she happened to be out. Ted ate a large breakfast every day that he enjoyed in the kitchen while reading (his) daily newspaper. Ted would read each section of the paper in turn, noting certain features for subsequent follow-up, and making a quick count of all the advertisers appearing that day. He was, after all, concerned about the bottom line of The Canadian Record.

In a rare show of corporate pride Beebe also read the paper carefully and circled errors in spelling, grammar or syntax. She also decided if certain items were “unfit” and paid close attention to any typographical errors that escaped the copy desk. Her “edited” copy would then be sent down to “the main office” where an editor would make note of her corrections. Large errors—which in truth were rare—would warrant a telephone call. Mrs Grade’s calls were never ignored; she did, after all, own the newspaper.

Harry and Esther Steinberg ate breakfast together in their dining room each morning from a varied menu prepared each day by their housekeeper. Esther watched her diet—Ardie chided her about that—so she was usually avoiding carbohydrates, sugar, butter and cream and stuck to one English muffin with low-cal jam, coffee with milk. Harry ate whatever was put in front of him without complaint.

Did I tell you that Ardie had a houseman?

Habashka was originally from Burma and had been in Ardie’s employ for many years. His role was often nebulous; Ardie’s frequent absences from the city made a full-time houseman something of white elephant (no insult to Habashka intended) so he had also worked at the showroom or in the antique shop.

Habashka’s chief occupation these days was keeping Ardie’s home running like a perfectly timed machine. Ardie didn’t wake early and started his day with coffee, breakfast and the newspapers of the day plus his telephone and daily calendar. Habashka seemed to be a jack-of-all-trades and a master of most of them. He could cook like a trained chef—which in fact he was—and he ran 12B like an army camp. He arranged for and fluffed the flowers, dealt with domestic issues, looked after Ardie’s errands and household tasks and was, in reality, indispensable. He had a suite in 12B but he also had a small house north of the city where he repaired each weekend. His usual attire was a pair of black trousers with a white or navy blue jacket. He always wore a tie and he had a smart collection of aprons to protect his tailored uniforms from dirt and stains. Habashka didn’t say much but when he did his voice was distinct and somewhat inflected with a faint British accent.

It goes without saying that it was Habashka, and not Ardie, who put breakfast together in 12B. He also did the shopping, looked after the domestic establishment and supervised the many social events that Ardie hosted. Habashka was the only person I ever heard call Ardie by his last name—Mr Beebe—and not by his first name only.

“I tell everyone to call me Ardie because Ardwold sounds stuck-up and the world really doesn’t need another Mr Beebe,” said Ardie, upon making a new introduction. His handshake was firm and his eyes were bright and his smile—capped teeth—was wide and suggested fun was forthcoming.

Jane started her day with breakfast chiefly because of Bethany; children can’t be sent to school on an empty stomach and Jane routinely churned out full cooked breakfasts featuring all the goodies from your favourite brunch menu: blueberry pancakes filled with cream cheese (surprisingly delicious, actually) or scrambled eggs with bacon and home-fried potatoes. Jane was the only Goth-inspired Mother in the city to my knowledge who shopped at Whole Foods and regularly purchased organic groceries. (Ardie laughed at this caprice, convinced that organic foods were a scam.)

Candis Mitzvah always ate breakfast and rarely missed any other meal, frankly. She was a “big girl” who didn’t worry outwardly about her weight. It was, she explained, much easier to buy new clothes than slim down to fit an existing wardrobe.

Jack Grade was a new convert to breakfast, the introduction being made by none other than Miss Leesa Mitzvah. Coffee and toast had been replaced with bagels and cream cheese, Tropicana Orange Juice (no pulp), Kona blend coffee and real cream. Scrambled eggs benefited from the addition of either salami (delicious; try it some time) or finely diced and quickly fried onions. Leesa—she was sleeping over now—would prepare breakfast wearing one of Jack’s shirts or perhaps a tee shirt from his closet. Jack—all rumpled hair and morning grumpy—would see his face dissolve into a smile as he heard Leesa quietly bustling about his kitchen.

Leesa had begun to exert more influence over Our Boy Jack. She had re-arranged his kitchen to improve the counter and cupboard space, helped him clean out his closet and had a quiet word with the two hired maids—sent by a service each week—thereby vastly improving the domestic scene at home. Jack was happy and unconcerned; if it made her happy to be a housekeeping goddess he wasn’t going to spoil her fun. Besides, he was prone to be untidy and already he could find things easier in the kitchen.

Leesa had also “suggested” to Jack that he worked too hard and didn’t have enough fun. Soon enough Jack was leaving work by 6:30 or 7:00PM each evening, entertaining friends at home from time to time—Leesa was a perfect hostess, naturally—and enjoying quiet nights at home watching a movie while snuggling on the sofa with Leesa.

Jack was also becoming slowly aware that his friendship with Leesa was starting to take on more importance in his life. Where, he wondered, would it all end up?

Sisters

Esther and Candis grew up in the loving embrace of their doting parents in the vibrant and culturally rich Jewish community of Toronto in the 1950s and 1960s. In those days the city had not yet acquired its accidental designation as Canada’s premiere city and took a clear and noteworthy second place to Montreal, then the shining star in the northern firmament of urban centres.


Montreal was the hometown of their late mother; Mrs Starr had met and married their father and moved with him back to Toronto. Mr Starr—his name was Samuel—was a young man with big dreams and he invested his savings (augmented by a family loan) and launched himself as a fledgling builder and devoted his not inconsiderable energies to the creation of family neighbourhoods in the north end of the city. Specifically, Sam Starr was the driving force behind a popular northern neighbourhood called Bathurst Manor.


As time went on the neighbourhood grew and Sam prospered; he and Estelle moved from Lippincott Street to a tidy bungalow right in Bathurst Manor, near the intersection of Sheppard and Bathurst. Visitors today don’t believe it, but at the time the intersection was desolate and without the hustle and bustle that characterizes the busy area now. The new house had an eat-in kitchen with a built-in dishwasher, a separate dining room with a glittering chandelier and a lovely “front room” that Estelle reserved for company and special occasions. The family would gather Friday night for supper in the dining room —the Starr family held to a Friday night routine—and would spend cozy Sunday nights en famille in their finished basement recreation room to eat Chinese food off of glass plates (to preserve their kosher kitchen) and watch the Wonderful World of Disney on TV.


Soon it was time to move again and Sam built a lovely new home for his family on a quiet street in the best possible blocks of Bathurst Manor. In a moment of pride he named one street of his development “Candis” after his daughter. This presented a problem; “Esther Boulevard” or some other derivative did not exist. Instead his elder daughter was given the privilege of naming another street adjacent to their new home; both parents silently hoping she would not actually name a street “Esther.” Thus it came to be that Esther Starr came up with the name “Blue Forest Drive” after a poem she had written in English class.


Sam turned his eye toward condominiums and subsequently built a number of successful properties across the suburbs of the sprawling city Toronto was growing into. Shopping malls—cheap to build in those days—were erected on unwanted land and great big tracts of land were turned into covered parking to protect happy shoppers from the vagaries of Canadian weather.


Sam and Estelle moved to North Toronto and then finally ended up in a rambling 1960s confection north of Eglinton Avenue, just west of Bathurst Street. When they first moved into their new home visitors were struck by its attention to detail. The consummate builder had erected a showplace of ultra-mod sleek design supported by a hasty collection of modern art, circa 1966. The exact details are now long lost to legend, but Sam and Estelle Starr owned the very first original Warhol in Toronto and it took pride of place in their rarely used living room outfitted with scan-design furniture and funky bric-a-brac. Nubby wallpapers and shaggy carpets co-existed with chunky artwork of vaguely African themes.


Estelle Starr initially missed Montreal with its pulse and myriad opportunities, but ultimately settled in and took to life in Toronto; she was married to a doting and slightly older man who adored her, and that helped. Estelle also recognized that Toronto was a much different community from boisterous and exciting Montreal. It was a far quieter but more determined place. The pace was fast—which visitors always remark on even today—and the people were politely reserved. The city shut down on Sundays (most forms of commercial commerce being illegal on Sunday in those days) and projected a solid middle-class air of WASPy respectability. The Santa Claus Parade was an institution and the society event to of the year was an agricultural show replete with cows and pigs. (On some enchanted occasions a junior member of the Royal Family would be dispatched to attend the Royal Winter Fair leaving local hostesses breathless and giddy.)


Esther and Candis attended public schools and graduated from high school with respectable but not outstanding grades. Parental expectations were limited; both were taught to be good hostesses and marry suitable young men.


The Misses Beebe had a completely different upbringing, defined by the mores of the time and the social constraints they were born into. The family home was on Ardwold Gate (you already know that) and both sisters were educated in Toronto before a couple of years in Switzerland to provide a gentle touch of polish and sophistication. Vesta—you know her as Beebe—left first and Margery followed a few years later when she was old enough to be away from home.


Beebe loved school and her academic excellence was a source of pride to her parents. Ardie Junior was no prize student, often in trouble, and more than a casual truant. Unrepentant and ungovernable for most of his youth his education was a patchwork of different schools, new communities and stark boarding school dormitories. He graduated—barely—from a cram school before embarking on travel and some courses in design in New York.


Margery was quiet, did not socialize as much as her elder sister, and plugged away with solid determination to do her very best. She caused few problems and genuinely missed her parents while she was away at school. She did not enjoy boarding school, but took pleasure in small weekend trips arranged by the headmistress for the girls under her suzerainty. Margery—bookish and quiet—toured museums and galleries and dutifully snapped pictures of cathedrals and castles to send home to her mother in her weekly letters.


Old Ardwold Beebe was greatly disappointed by his son—Ardie was a flop in his opinion—and soon transferred his dynastic aspirations onto his eldest child. Beebe was smart, shrewd and blessed with an intuition she knew to trust. Ardie was too much of a good-time boy to be trusted with business matters and after numerous yelling matches and dire threats of being cut off forever—an empty threat because Ardie was a Momma’s boy and Momma always came to his defense—Ardie was given permission to do whatever he damn well wanted, provided he didn’t cause trouble.


Like all parental strategems this failed; Ardie always seemed to cause some trouble.

Tricks or Treats

Jack and Leesa started to spend more time together and I even saw them once at a Starbucks near Yonge and St Clair. To me it looked as though they didn’t have a care in the world.

There were a few cares, however, that were starting to encroach upon their blossoming friendship.

Sure, the daily grind of their friendship was without too many problems. Jack fell into the habit of sending an email to Leesa who fell into the habit sending cute replies. Soon enough Our Boy Jackie was sending humorous instant messages; Leesa would reply with a few words.

Before too long it became easier to talk on the phone. With the immediacy of telephony they were able to make plans one evening for a quick bite after work, say, or perhaps some shopping a deux at Whole Foods for the prepared foods that Jack filled his refrigerator with weekly.

Jack asked Leesa to help him pick up sheets—Jack is colour blind—and the date was dutifully made for Saturday afternoon.

There was more than a little bit of cloak and dagger activity taking place between the two of them. Leesa would leave work without mentioning plans for the evening and was suitably vague most Monday mornings about her weekend activities.

Jack was keeping his parents—mainly Beebe, let’s be honest—out of the plot completely. Suky Temple had called and suggested lunch next week and he had agreed before realizing that she was no doubt in the services of her mother. Aunt Margery would be sifting for information to report back to Beebe.

Ardie, of course, found the whole “friendship” rather amusing. “I wonder if they are doing it yet?” he asked one day while helping me place some tchochkes in 7A. “It’s been a few weeks now and they are starting to spend a lot of time together.”

The drama surrounding “Jack and Leesa” wasn’t all that interesting to me; no one expected such a fun flirtation to last.

Miss Cousins, on the contrary, had a field day with Ardie and refused to relent when she discovered that he was somewhat worried about the response Beebe would offer to the news that her son was “involved with that Leesa Mitzvah.”

“She’s very pretty, Ardie, you have to give her that,” said Miss Cousins, at a meeting to sign documents related to The Campanile. “And her interest in art! Such a cultivated girl.” She observed Ardie through bright eyes while flicking ash from her cigarette.

It was part of Ardie’s natural charm that he seemed unflappable about most things.

“Right now Leesa is only cultivating one particular interest: my nephew, Jack,” said Ardie.

With the completion of my move to 7A the week before I was now seeing Ardie regularly when he arrived at The Campanile to oversee the final decorating touches on 12B. The project took an unexpected turn when it was revealed that the cost of knocking out some walls was prohibitive. Due to the historical nature of the building no demolition could take place without getting city hall involved. Ardie “got wise” and decided to “make do” with 12B as much as possible and forgo knocking out certain walls and pulling up most of the flooring. The final results were still going to spectacular.

No one knew what Irving and Candis Mitzvah thought about their daughter spending time with Jack Grade. Miss Cousins imagined that they “couldn’t care less” but Jane demurred; “they are pretending that if they ignore the situation it will just go away,” she said.

Jane had been very active with the building. She had arranged for Sra. Cabral to assume duties as the superintendent of The Campanile ensuring once and for all that the building would have a personal touch to its administration. Sra. Cabral moved into the apartment off of the lobby and soon was as venerable an institution on Avenue Road as was the fine old building she oversaw.

I decided to walk home from work one evening and enjoyed the stroll in the fall weather. The city was putting on its autumn plumage and the trip was rather pretty. Store windows with new merchandise and everyone sporting fall outfits. I was making my way up Avenue Road when I happened to see Leesa Mitzvah turning her Audi convertible into the Rathnelly district.

Jack Grade, you might remember, was a citizen in good standing in the Republic of Rathnelly.

She parked on the street and began to unload a number of bags from her car filled with goodies to hand out on Halloween. In moments Jack Grade sprinted across the street from his house and began to help her; he was good that way.

I watched as he bent to give her a kiss and watched—gawked, really—as she reached up to rumple his hair.

This was “no mere friendship” I later told Jane when she stopped by with Bethany to “trick or treat” at my apartment, followed by a quick stop at “Uncle Ardie’s” up in 12B, and a longer more family visit with Sra. Cabral who had made a princess costume for Bethany.

"We're going to have a front-row seat for this performance, Kiddo, so enjoy the run while it lasts," she said, "because the truth is that everyone loves a June wedding."

Fall on Your Knees

Margery Temple had experienced something of an emotional catharsis after the death of her late husband caused, in part, by a dull lack of focus in her otherwise busy life. Consuming herself with her horse farm and her children for most of her life kept her occupied and involved. When she was suddenly widowed she found herself drifting and alone, rudderless and without a reason to get up in the morning. Kat and Suky were both busy with their own lives and it wasn’t long before Margery decided to look for a pied-a-terre in the city. She planned on rekindling some old connections with her girlfriends while getting “out and about to really enjoy the city.”

In her loneliness she turned to the one true source of comfort that can always be found in times of need.

Religion—as opposed to alcohol—gave Margery a new, upbeat tempo to her life and put a bounce back in her step. In due course it was time to announce her new joy to the family. Her own children encouraged a “spiritual journey” and were happy to learn that their mother wouldn’t have so much time on her hands. Suky was particularly encouraging and suggested that her mother explore other, more esoteric faiths.

Beebe and Ardie, however, were a different matter.

Ardie, of course, wasn’t overtly concerned about the new and exciting religious odyssey that Margery was contemplating; he was more interested in where she intended to live in the city, and if she intended to keep the farm in King City.

Beebe was happy enough to know that her sister was “interested in church” but shocked and dismayed to discover that Margery had been receiving instruction at The Church of Saint Vitus, a Roman Catholic institution, for several months and—even more horrible to consider—was planning a baptism for herself.

“Father Greg says that it is so much more welcoming if a number of people are baptized at one time,” reported Margery, “and I thought I would have a reception for everyone who attends the ceremony afterward. I’ll invite everyone who is baptized that day along with their families,” she said, firmly.

“Who, I wonder, is Father Greg?” asked Beebe, her bright eyes staring Margery down.

“Father Greg is my confessor and the new rector at St. Vitus,” mumbled Margery, unwilling to engage in a pitched discussion with her sister.

“St Vitus? Isn’t that a Catholic church?” asked Beebe, knowing full well that St Vitus was a large brick edifice that catered to the few Roman Catholics who called Rosedale home. Beebe reached for her purse and rummaged for a small bottle of Tylenol.

Ardie realized that religious conversion was not a popular topic of discussion and it didn’t look like Margery was going to back down. With battle lines being drawn right in front of him he decided to skip the war and move to the peace talks without even a quick stop at détente. He lit another cigarette and looked for a way to change the topic of conversation.

Poor old Margery, he thought, always looking for some sunshine outside of the family shadows. Beebe really did give her such a hard time about things and it wasn’t fair; she was so defenseless against her sister.

“Sounds wonderful, Margo, and a party is great idea. You can have your little reception at my apartment,” Ardie offered, his voice raspy from the night before. “Anything for my sister!” He winked at her in solidarity. She smiled back, grateful for an ally.

Beebe’s eyes narrowed but she said nothing. Margery could be a very determined girl if she was pushed at the wrong time and Beebe was convinced that she could “knock some sense into her" if she spoke to Margery when Ardie wasn’t around to interfere. For the time she would say nothing. Clearly it was time to take Margo under a protective wing before she made a fool of herself in public.

Beebe believed that everyone should belong to a church, of course, with the Anglican Church as the first among all churches. Subsequent rungs on her ladder of belief were reserved for the other mainstream protestant religions, with a bottom run crowded with Jews, Hindus, Muslims and Catholics.

Reconsidering briefly how own prejudices gave Beebe a momentary pause; she supposed that even Catholics deserved their own pious and Christian rung.

Beebe’s form of religious observation involved attending church on Sunday morning when she was in the city, but not while at the cottage or on holiday. She made donations to the church, of course, and leveraged the family foundation to support a number of private schools in Toronto and Bermuda. These were solid institutions that offered the comfort of allowing the generous to direct the use of their financial gifts. It would not happen in her lifetime, however, that The Ardwold and Martha Beebe Foundation would donate money that would end up in Rome! The Vatican wasn’t going to be receiving a cheque signed by Beebe Grade anytime soon.

Beebe suggested that “a lovely reception in the church basement” would be more in keeping with the tone of the event, and would have the added benefit of ensuring that everyone could attend without having to park twice. “Cater it” was good advice and Margery determined then and there speak to Father Greg about placing a small notice in the church bulletin; the entire congregation of her new church would be invited to celebrate her baptism as one “community of faith.”

Beebe got up to make another round. Community of faith indeed! She had never met a cleric who wasn’t looking for a handout and Catholic priests were the worst of the lot.

She dropped three ice cubes into her low-ball glass and heard the satisfying noise they made as they swirled in the scotch. “That sound is the bells of St Beebe, Margery, and it is the happiest sound in the world,” she cackled, focusing her bright unblinking eyes at her sister. “And today you are the one who has made them ring. Believe me.”

She poured in a tight measure of soda water and stirred her drink with her finger.

Clearing by Morning

Jack Grade made a bashful confession to Leesa Mitzvah over a drink at the lobby bar of The Fours Seasons hotel while staring into her hazel eyes and watching her mouth turn into a very pretty smile. He had to find—and subsequently quickly hang—one of his Adelaides before picking her up for “their date.”

“Well don’t tell me which one; I’ll try and guess when I see them,” she replied, holding but not sipping her almost untouched vodka and tonic. She wasn’t much of a drinker and to look at her she wasn’t much of an eater, either. With the exception of special occasions alcohol was not in common use in the Mitzvah household.

Leesa was five feet and three inches tall and she was 105 pounds after eating, something she did with a practiced eye to protecting her weight. She wore tailored slacks—chiefly because she knew she had a good backside—and tonight had slipped on shoes with a good heel before going out when she remembered how tall Jack was.

The dining room upstairs was intimate and, to be honest, rather conducive to intimate conversation and, it must be admitted, even a certain amount of romantic imagination. Leesa had been curious to go out with to Jack Grade and was enjoying the occasion, but she had not expected to find him both witty and fun but rather, well, charming in a way.

The plan was to complete the night with coffee and something sweet while inspecting the Jack Grade Collection at his place in “The Republic of Rathnelly.” How she laughed when Jack told her that story! Oh, he could tell a joke and she knew how to listen to one so they were a perfect match in that regard.

Sometime during decaf cappuccinos and dessert (Leesa urged Jack to finish her dessert, which he did) the conversation softened and voices were lowered. Jack talked about work, his plans for their “family newspaper” and the demands of the family business. She listened and made polite murmurs, noting his blue eyes and sandy hair.

He really was good looking, in that way WASPs can be. Tall and well formed, with vaguely athletic looks and great big mouths full of perfect white teeth. Lots of fine lines around the eyes later on, of course, but usually a good hairline. Leesa smiled at him; she listened to every word.

Jack thought he had finally—finally!—met a girl who was interested in his work and not in who he was. In his eyes Leesa became blessed with all the virtues the modern world admires. She was beautiful, kind, empathetic and caring.

Did I mention that she wasn’t hard to look at?

She had admired his two “wonderful” works from Miss Cousins, laughingly noting that one was actually a photograph and thus correctly guessing which one had been feverishly put on the wall that very afternoon. It was from a series of photographs taken in Beijing in 1999. Miss Cousins had taken a number of images, but only ever published four. This one was called “Temple of Heaven” and it was an image of beauty, if you liked black and white photography.

“I love black and white photography,” said Leesa.

Jack smiled and settled comfortably into his leather sofa, allowing himself the luxury of relaxing even more. Besides, he was rather full after eating so much dessert. He would definitely be going to the club first thing in the morning and working it off but right now he didn’t care.

Leesa was involved with raising money for the hospital and had personally created a program to provide teddy bears to any patient under the age of 16. Why, the program had been such an unexpected success that she and her committee were invited for tea next week as a thank you and she was thrilled.

She wasn’t like any other girl he had ever dated, he thought, as he silently added kind and modest to her ongoing list of charms. Most of the girls he dated were from backgrounds similar to his, but with less cash. Once or twice a friend of Clemmy’s had caught his eye, but he had never dated anyone too seriously from that crowd. He met a lot of women through his work, naturally, but he found career women not to his taste chiefly because they had career demands of their own.

He attended enough work-related events on his own, thank you very much, and he wasn’t interested in trailing along to some corporate event with a girlfriend who practiced law.

Overcast Skies

Among the universal events recognized as difficult to endure, the nervous “first date” transcends culture, geography, epoch and sexual orientation. We all know that the truth is somewhat grim when it comes to first dates. Even for couples that start off as friends and grow into love there is still a moment when a “first date” occurs. In reality there is no such thing as a great first date because nerves and anticipation are common to us all.


Jack Grade picked up the telephone and called Leesa Mitzvah one rainy morning and asked her out on a date. In a confident manner he reminded her about their conversation at Ardie’s and their mutual admiration of Miss Adelaide Cousins and her artistic output and then he asked her to join him for supper on Friday night. After a truly delicious meal at a truly remarkable restaurant—a quiet bistro known to local foodies—he would be thrilled to offer coffee and dessert at home and reveal his Adelaides in glorious, personal detail.


Leesa only increased his ardor and determination when she politely declined his invitation because she didn’t like to miss Friday night supper with her family. Jack was wounded but by no means off the battlefield. A born charmer he counter offered a Saturday night date with a movie tossed in for good measure; she accepted the supper but thought a movie would be too much on top of the dessert and art expo already planned.


Jack spent the rest of the afternoon in a happy state of mind that was improved when he received a text message from Leesa with her cell phone number; she didn’t think he had it. She was nobody’s fool.


The news of this impending rendezvous quietly became known as one person and then another learned of it. Jack Grade called the office to ask a question about the provenance of one of his paintings and during the call admitted that he had to know by Saturday night; he was entertaining.


I followed up with Miss Cousins directly who immediately suspected that Jack was about to sell a painting and wanted to know who was “in the market” for some of her works. I was instructed to place a call to Jack and connect him—pronto—to Miss Cousins.


The conversation itself was as pleasant as a weekend away. Naturally interested in discussing art at any time it was only natural that Miss Cousins would call Jack personally to discuss the particulars of his art. She had an almost photographic memory when it came to her artistic efforts and Miss Cousins could answer any questions he had.


Jack confessed that he had invited Leesa Mitzvah to view his small art collection but was—how embarrassing to admit to Adelaide Cousins—vaguely ignorant of the history and story of his paintings; anything for art.


Adelaide Cousins was happy to tell him everything.


Jack was learning about art while Ardie and Beebe were supervising the now frantic remodeling taking place at 12B. With the workmen gone it was an empty apartment that they wandered through discussing the placement of furniture—with the increased living space Ardie was able to raid his showroom and display antiques long hidden from view—as well as the generous size of the rooms. The foyer was singled out for special treatment.


Ardie had commissioned a new floor of inlaid marble in a diamond pattern with a vaguely trompe l’oeil effect that Beebe admired. Ardie passed the torch to Beebe who took a long pull.


I arrived home to find a note from Ardie slipped under my door. 7A was becoming more like home to me every day. Delighting in my new digs I had become something of a recluse, content to enjoy the space and dream big. It was mine, after all.


Ardie's note invited me up to 12B for a drink and to take "pot luck" with him on a cold autumn night--if I didn't have plans.


I had a shower and called Ardie to accept; getting to 12B meant taking the elevator to the lobby and then calling upstairs so that Ardie could "buzz" me up and the elevator would then deposit me right inside his apartment.


The smell of marijuana was strong as I stepped off the elevator to see Ardie and his sister--she was stoned, too--sifting through moving boxes from Ardie's previous home. Beebe wasn't staying for supper but she did seem genuinely happy to see me again, recalling our previous introductions at work and Miss Cousins' apartment.


"I spoke with your son today, Mrs Grade," I said.

"Everyone calls me Beebe; you should too," she replied. "How is my Jack today? He didn't call his mother so I'll get my news from you."

"Hosting an art exhibit, I gather, and he wanted to ask Miss Cousins about a specific painting. I recently edited a new catalogue and we had the information at our fingertips. Someone will be getting an earful about it this Saturday," I said.

Ardie smiled and announced that it was time for a drink. "Art is for lovers, Beebe, I am always telling you that," he said.

Beebe said nothing.

Clouds on the Horizon

I accepted ‘Clouds on the Horizon’ with a smile. Shoot me; I liked Miss Cousins’ art and there was no way that I could afford to purchase one on my own. I smiled kindly, kissed her on the cheek, thanked her profusely for her generosity and spent the rest of the afternoon stealing glances at my first piece of important artwork. I imagined an unveiling party at my new apartment as soon as I could arrange for the transportation of the painting and the purchase of some furniture. Actually, the purchase of any furniture was a necessity before I started hosting denizens of the art world at home. I was still making do with some cast-offs and whatever passable items were rescued from my previous apartment.

It was clearly going to be a distant event but I was having fun planning a party in my head.

I had already given up my hovel on Bathurst Street (no more basement living!) and I was more or less camping out in 7A. The Campanile was a wondrous destination to my eyes with all of the amenities of paradise. I don’t know what the door staff thought about my residency or me; I was by far the youngest resident at the building and my part ownership made me something of a minor deity. I did not use many of the much-vaunted services that were offered to tenants chiefly because I didn’t own a car that required valet parking and I never received packages or deliveries at home. I did, however, arrange for a floral display to be sent to the apartment in anticipation of my first weekend of residency that was accepted by the crew at the front door and presented to me with much fanfare. I pretty much kept to myself.

There were three other apartments on the 7th floor and so far I had not met even one of my neighbours. The approaching winter ensured that a number of long-term residents would de-camp to warmer climes for a few months. This created a revolving issue each year as residents balked at increased rents. Their logic was that as they lived away for up to five months at a stretch there was really no justification for higher rents. I remained silent on that score and agreed to let Jane and the building management settle the issue. One fact was certain; my rent was never going up.

I was seeing a lot of Ardie, too, as he was forever dropping by The Campanile with an assistant or two in tow. Bolts of fabric, measuring tapes, swatches and paint samples were littered about the floor of 12B. Architectural renderings were scattered on the kitchen counters and some walls were defaced with black magic marker: “Paint this first” and “Knock a door here” were early signs that Ardie was planning some demolition.

I was having drinks with Ardie and one of his assistants—her name was Michelle—and I casually mentioned that Miss Cousins had been kind enough to make a gift of one of her paintings to me. Ardie raised his eyebrows in some surprise and asked me where I intended to hang it.

Soon enough the three of us were down in 7A and discussing the various merits of my walls. Ardie suggested that my living room would be a fine destination for ‘Clouds on the Horizon’ and Michelle agreed with me that my foyer was too small for an important piece of art from a recognized artist.

Ardie—ever the host—asked me what my plans were for supper and perhaps I would care to join him and Michelle for a bite of pasta in the neighbourhood? I readily agreed and then Michelle begged off; she had a previous obligation and excused herself to dash home.

Thus I found myself sitting on the passenger side of Ardie’s classic Mercedes-Benz sedan as he drove us to one of his frequent haunts in the neighbourhood. Ardie didn’t need reservations and he didn’t worry about a restaurant being “too full” for him. He was known, welcome, and engaging. If we had to sit at the bar and wait for a table, why, so much the better!

Ardie belonged to that interesting community of people who go out for supper every night and his tenure at various eating establishments ensured him a table no matter when he arrived. Usually he decamped to Palm Beach each year in the early autumn but this year he was preoccupied with events at The Campanile and had indefinitely postponed his winter sojourn south.

We started at the bar with a drink—this shouldn’t be a surprise to you now—before moving to a cozy table with a window. Ardie smiled and ordered wine and told me I was handsome.