Social Flutterby (August 11, 2011)

Toronto is a city in a hurry. The pace—visitors always remark on it—is more quick than fast, the people hurry and everyone is wheeling and dealing. “It used to be so sleepy, I hardly recognize WASPy old Hogtown anymore” Ardie said at lunch while Miss Cousins agreed that “allowing stores to open on Sundays” would draw people into the city, “and get rid of the stale air downtown.”

Queen Street was already well into a transformation that would see it evolve from fabric shops, furniture stores and light industry to artists, designers, galleries, restaurants and nightclubs. In time it would become give birth to a media conglomerate, a club district and trendy living spaces. People were now smugly announcing that they lived in a warehouse, or above a store, or behind a factory downtown.

Ardie observed that the Westbury Hotel on Yonge Street, once a fashionable address with a good dining room, was now nothing more than a trick-pad for the sex trade. “Friday night the dining room of the Westbury was always packed,” he said, “and men would be wearing black tie.” The office crew around the table was amused; “You’re dating yourself, Ardie, be careful,” Miss Cousins said, safely from behind her sunglasses.

She had been working well into the nights on various pieces, so she was feeling—and probably looking—a little worse for wear. Over the years I’ve been asked a lot of questions about Miss Cousins from curious people who know her work or her story. Generic responses usually suffice, and private knowledge remains just that: private. “I heard she worked on at least 10 or 15 paintings at one time,” one cocktail party guest once said. She was satisfied with the knowledge that Miss Cousins did, in fact, often work on more than one painting at a time. It was never necessary to be specific as most people are happy with vague.

No confidences are betrayed by revealing that her usual modus operandi was to work on a theme. The current theme—the one that caused her to work until 3:00AM and appear at lunch in sunglasses, slightly hung over—was food. Eggs and toast, sandwiches, fish, breakfast specials, hamburgers, bananas and other fruit, meatloaf with mashed potatoes and gravy. Side of peas. That kind of food.

Miss Cousins worked in her studio, sometimes with music and sometimes in silence, on any number of canvases over the same period of time. It wasn’t unusual for her to have perhaps four canvases in some stage of work, but not more than six. The sizes would be different, due to the studio layout more than anything else, and she would occasionally leave one to work on another, or “abandon” one for a few days, weeks or longer while her muse took her elsewhere.

The output from the food series was tremendous and the suggestion of another catalogue was eagerly accepted by the Boss. The last catalogue had resulted in a record-number of commissions and sales, and Miss Cousins wasn’t one to lollygag where business was concerned.

Ardie, too, had been spending industrious days and nights of late, exploring new business opportunities during the day and exciting new nightclub destinations every evening. Suddenly, formerly staid Toronto was hip. There were people, places and things that could only be described as avant garde. Trendsetters were being discovered and followed and Our Ardie Beebe was one of the popular in-crowd.

Zena Cherry, the long-serving social columnist (“dreadful gossip columnist” according to Beebe) who chronicled the activities of what passed for society in Toronto, regularly noted where Ardie had dined, visited, danced or been. Fundraising lunches for reputable—and often useless—worthy efforts were prime opportunities for meeting potential clients and for Ardie’s now flourishing antiques shoppe. He supported hospitals, of course, plus endowments to fight diseases that plague children, the homeless, shelters of every description, food banks, museums, heritage destinations, parks, animals (domestic; livestock; wild) and the Monarchist League of Canada. (“After all, we Queens have to stick together,” said Ardie.)

Miss Cousins put her chopsticks down and reached for a newspaper (not the Canadian Record, tsk tsk) and pointed out that Ardie had been spotted “at Toronto’s chicest new club” surrounded by “gorgeous models and some of Toronto’s best-known names.” She looked down the table, crowded with more people than usual today, and her eyebrows rose up above her sunglasses. “It seems you are becoming a social flutterby, Ardie, in danger of becoming the burned-toast of the town” she said.

Ardie took a long drag on his torch (right at the table; after a while it didn’t even seem unusual) and leaned his head back before exhaling a long powerful cloud of smoke up, up toward the ceiling and beyond.

“I don’t know about the gorgeous models, but the best names in Toronto must be George Edward Trick, realtor-about-town,” laughed Ardie. George Edward Trick was Ardie’s oldest and best friend. He was a well-known realtor and Ardie—and soon everyone—called him Tricky.

Ardie and Tricky had been in boarding school together, and after being expelled together had travelled to Europe—“no where near a backpack, Kid”—before returning to Toronto and settling in, but not down. Tricky exploited his family and social connections and was soon a trusted name for old-families to call on when they needed a real estate agent who understood their particular sensibilities.

“Tricky asked me to help him celebrate his new condominium launch, and things got carried away,” Ardie explained. He looked at the column again quickly before admitting that there may have been “two or three gorgeous young men present, some of whom could have been models. I never ask what people do for a living because Mother said it was rude.”

Miss Cousins laughed over that one. “I am quite sure, Ardie, that you find out what their particular skills are soon enough.”

 

The Rat Race (August 9, 2011)

The Rat Race

The “miserable rat race” of work, business and industry were now in full swing. Miss Cousins had returned with plans, and the office hummed along with all cylinders firing. I was writing a catalogue to accompany a planned show and the endless revisions and discussions were cumbersome and annoying. Lunch—the fabled institution of Miss Cousins’ office schedule—evolved on some days into an ongoing planning session, and that is how Ardie came to our rescue.

Ardie had stopped into the office to see Miss Cousins and joined lunch, already in progress, at the urgent invitation of pretty much everyone; Ardie was always fun and his impromptu visits were welcomed. Today’s fare was a Chinese banquet, so another set of chopsticks and a plate were soon found and Ardie was soon ooh-ing over the General Tao’s chicken just like everyone else. (Miss Cousins gave good lunch.)

Miss Cousins was “bored to death” with all of the suggested ideas for the photo shoot planned to promote the upcoming show. The catalogue, she decided, should include photographs showing her artwork in the homes of real people. No more all white walls, contemporary interiors or lush museum settings! 

We discussed a few different ideas before Ardie interrupted Miss Cousins with a wet cough and suggested a few names and addresses where—he was “more than certain, Adelaide, more than certain”— the home owners would be thrilled to having their home photographed with a real Adelaide Cousins painting adorning a 

wall.

The catalogue, Ardie continued, would be a collector’s item in itself; why, some of the same owners might become patrons! (This was tricky; Miss Cousins could be difficult with patrons on the hunt for “something, anything really” to adorn the walls.)

I was directed to write the copy for the catalogue, which Miss Cousins would subsequently edit. The final product would be sent for professional editing and proofing, of course, but the original effort was in-house. A team of three graphic designers (hired by yours truly) eventually came up with a style and look that pleased Miss Cousins, and the cover eventually served duty on a poster, post-card and, much later, a calendar. The final product was so successful we used the dame three designers, year after year, for a long time.

Ardie had “all sorts of contacts and friends” we could “tap into with a simple phone call” and soon Ardie was recommending various people who had “homes with potential” for our consideration. First on the list was 12B, of course, as Ardie was feeling hard-up for cash and a little self-promotion goes a long way in the “decorating rat race.”

I had an uneventful evening at home on my social calendar; shared a quick hello with Jane when she arrived at The Campanile to collect Bethany, and waved to Habashaka as he headed over to Yonge and St. Clair on a domestic errand. The news about the shaky foundations—literally, as it turned out—of The Campanile did not serve as a catalyst for good times and merriment. Jane was securing a suitable mortgage and, with only a 6% ownership vote, the decision would not be one I could materially affect.

Miss Cousins was sanguine about The Campanile. “It will get sorted out, it’s just business.” She was working on more food images—they sold like hotcakes, pun intended, so why shouldn’t she crank a few more out?—and the office was quiet as I prepared to wrap up the day. She was smoking, sipping a cocktail and seemed in no hurry to be leaving. “I’ll drive myself home tonight,” she dismissed me in a friendly way, “see you tomorrow.”

I walked for a while before catching a cab up near Harbord Street. I slipped into 7A and bolted the door, not looking for company or entertainment of any particular kind. I was paying rent to live in the apartment now and, although deeply subsidized by my 6%, it was no longer free and the future was far less certain, economically speaking.

Ardie was a fury of activity; the antiques shop downtown was repainted, restocked and re-opened with much fanfare. Old clients were invited to 12B for drinks and a tour and more than a few of them subsequently contacted Ardie, the master, for consultations on updates, renovations, additions, deletions, makeovers and bare-to-the-walls, top-to-bottom overhauls.

Of course, new clients were the lifeblood of his business, and this is where a concerted charm offensive paid grand dividends. Every morning would find Ardie scanning the obituaries of The Canadian Record, looking for “good deaths.”

Good deaths, Ardie explained, would involve “money, property, antiques and a war over the will.” One good estate sale could reveal a fortune of plunder for the antique shop. Tea sets and davenports and sideboards would be found, along with Chinoiserie, majolica and “God only knows what else!” as Ardie smoked over the paper, coffee cup nearby, intent on stoking his fortunes once more.

Ardie had to move quickly when it came to the Jewish community. He generally skipped funerals but had a week—give or take—to “hit the Shiva and really clean up.”

For the uninitiated, a Shiva is a proscribed period of time, usually a week, after which the friends and family of bereaved Jews will visit the family and comfort them in their time of loss. Friends, neighbours, colleagues and others will deliver food, good wishes, companionship and the sense of community everyone needs so badly during a time of loss.

The Shiva—with its rhythms and comforts—provides a concentrated opportunity to grieve, remember, laugh, cry and finally begin to move on. “Of course you have to eat, too, so don’t miss the buffet,” Ardie said as he corralled me one afternoon to accompany him to a Shiva up off Bayview Avenue.

We were only attending because the deceased was an aged aunt of Candis Mitzvah’s cousin-by-marriage, and Candis would be in attendance today, “dispensing coffee and cake” according to Ardie. “Oh, and sympathy. Of course.”

Needless to say, Ardie changed the tone of this particular Shiva. I offered a few quiet condolences and moved to the buffet—which was good, actually—and kept quiet as Ardie worked the room. Ardie greeted Candis and was then introduced to the cousin-by-marriage, and then he was almost immediately saying goodbye; he was just in the neighbourhood, he had heard the sad news, worried about Candis and her family, must dash, really shouldn’t intrude. Just wanted to wish everyone well. So sorry to learn about your Aunt; that type of thing. Ardie was smooth with his insincerity.

These people were not grief-stricken enough to let Ardie leave. Soon the scotch was flowing—who knew Aunty kept such a bar?—and Ardie had learned that dear Aunt Whatever had left some money to her daughter, who was now getting the full-court press from both Ardie and Candis, who was eager to promote her association with Ardie Beebe.

We left after an hour or so, and Ardie smiled as he sat behind the wheel of his car. “The poor dear suffered so much and her daughter got everything. Candis tells me she’s thinking of moving and, of course, she’ll need some help with wherever she moves.” He cleared his throat. “Lots and lots of help.”

 

Knight in shining Subaru (July 27, 2011)

Driving in the city of Toronto is something that comes naturally to locals and, it is often said, eventually to visitors. Back routes, side streets, street cars, cyclists, endless pedestrians and geography are the currency of long-time Torontonians, who must, often of necessity, commute across the vast landmass that is Toronto.

Short cuts are a respectfully acknowledged civic accomplishment. So, you’re in Midtown and you need to get to the west end of Queen Street? Or maybe you are aiming for King West and maybe from there a dash to Strachan and then the Queensway? Then you have to know to take St. Clair West, Christie Avenue south along Grace and then a jog to Gore Vale Avenue and—voila—you are on Queen West.

Of course, you won’t have the comfort of traffic lights all the time, so expect to have to dash across a few intersections, sidestep parked cars and drive with verve. But you’ll get there if you explore the city and you learn to navigate its many neighbourhoods and districts.

Leesa Mitzvah could zip across the city from her home in Forest Hill—you remember that she lived at home—to the Beaches using the Bayview Extension, Pottery Road, Mortimer Avenue and countless one-way side streets. An old-hand who loved to accompany her Daddy in the car as a child, Leesa knew she would be able to find abundant and free parking at a public school on Kippendavie Street. (You can consider that tidbit as a freebie.)

Her afternoon spent shopping with a girlfriend was delightful and they decided to grab supper together—Leesa was full of stories about Jack—and wrap up a wonderful day with a wonderful meal.

Leesa didn’t notice anything was wrong with her car until she shifted into reverse and there was a “loud noise” under the hood that could have been a “grating sound” or it might have been a “scraping noise” but it was definitely “a noise.”

Leesa Mitzvah was not without resources, as she had a credit card (courtesy of Daddy) and a membership in CAA, plus a cellular telephone. What she didn’t have was a lot of experience with cars that were, inexplicably, making “a noise.”

To give Leesa her due, she was a capable sort but her father had always looked after her. She was adored, and her parents were rich, so why shouldn’t she be a bit over protected? She was pretty and petite and got cold easy and cried when she was upset and couldn’t sleep when she worried. She didn’t like violent movies or mean people and she didn’t like being alone in a parking lot as night fell with a car that was making “a noise.”

With growing dread she realized that with her parents unreachable—they were seeing a play with the Sterns—and with her brother out of town she might have to call Uncle Harry for help. He would tell Auntie Esther who would call the theatre and demand that they inform “Mr. and Mrs. Mitzvah that there was a family emergency!” and by that time it would be darker and colder.

To give her credit where it is due, it was with some reluctance that she called Jack at home and—getting his answering machine—left a calm message asking him to call her back. She turned the car on to keep the heater warm, and noticed that she had half a tank of gas. She made sure the doors were locked, again, and was reassured that they were.

She waited a few more moments with the radio on quietly so as not to drown out any possible ringing of her cellular telephone. She called Jack again—maybe he just stepped out to get cream or maybe some Diet Coke—but hung up before the machine picked up.

She turned the car on again, checked the fuel level and turned the heat up. She would have gunned the engine a bit but she was worried about running out of gas. She considered calling Uncle Harry again, rejected the notion, and wondered about walking up to Queen Street and hailing a cab.

But if she didn’t get a cab she would be outside, far from home, and it was chilly out. If she did get a cab it might be dirty—a dreaded fear—or being driven by “some weirdo” who might be crazy and then she would be dropped off outside the large mansion that the Mitzvah’s called home and she would be all alone with a weirdo cabbie racing his engine behind her.

Almost as an after thought did she call her own answering machine where she heard the comforting voice of Jack Grade, informing her he would call her later—“to say goodnight”—and that he was having supper with his mother and father.

Leesa called Jack’s office and was routed to the after-hours service. Her vaguely frantic message—replete with a mention that her car was making “a noise” and that her father was out and her brother was away and she didn’t want to call Uncle Harry—got her nowhere but her message was duly noted. She then called Ardie’s number and, reaching Habashka, blurted out her tale of impending danger and woe.

With his calm demeanour and his soft voice, Habashka calmed the “dear child” down, took down her telephone number and reassured her that help was on the way. He then called Roy Davey—his opposite number, so to speak—over at Beebe’s house and passed on the message. He then called Leesa back and informed her of what he had done.

Five minutes later Habashka was speaking with Jack—he was “very, very grateful Habashka, and I really mean it”—who was already on the way to save Leesa Mitzvah from her cold, lonely and imperiled car.

Would danger be avoided?

In the early days of cellular telephones people didn’t really fret too much about talking and driving. Jack thanked Habashka—who had been around for years, he suddenly realized—and then called Leesa and spoke to her as he drove across town. Just knowing he was on his way, and hearing his sweet voice, was enough to untangle what was left of her now jumbled nerves.

When his Subaru appeared in the parking lot Leesa Mitzvah wanted to cry. Jack parked and trotted over, smiling, and wasn’t at all sorry to miss supper if it meant that he could rescue her from a dark, foreboding parking lot.

Soon Leesa was sitting in Jack’s car—with the doors locked—while he tinkered with her car, called a tow truck and diagnosed a shot bearing. Everything would be fine; he would drive her home and her car would probably be ready by tomorrow night. If she wanted to, she could use his car tomorrow (she couldn’t drive a stick shift, as it turns out, but this was no time to confess that) and he could “take the subway” to work the next morning. It would not be an imposition.

“I just don’t like to see you upset” he said, his face a handsome smile.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, and he took her hand and told her never to worry, that “you’ll always be able to count on me, Leesa” and she kissed him again and soon they were alone in a dark parking lot next to a public school on Kippendavie Street and it wasn’t so cold anymore.

Success one shiva at a time (July 26, 2011)

Jane’s call suggesting breakfast before work was a welcome one; worry about The Campanile—and what the future might hold—made for a sleepless night and I wanted reassurance from her, or from anyone, that we would be able to navigate the tricky shoals we were currently crossing.

The Campanile was a beautiful and graceful old building and although my claim to it was definitely in the minority I was still concerned that the wonderful dream of owning it—along with the cheery group who constituted the partnership—would disappear in a flood of lawsuits, penalties, punishments and fees.

We met on College Street near Spadina and opted for our favourite greasy spoon. I would later be able to walk down to the office long before the daily routine got too hectic.

Jane was all business, black coffee and bagels. We would need to obtain a mortgage on the property and we needed it done quickly. We could mitigate any ongoing problems by forking over the settlement to the condominium board adjacent to The Campanile and—Jane had high hopes here—asking them to relent on taking most of our front yard. While plans for a new, broad semi-circular driveway were being bandied about by the condo board, we were certain that historical leanings would encourage them to sell our own front yard back to us.

“Nobody will pay fancy rent to live in a building that sits behind someone else’s parking lot” Jane explained. “We have to work on that damn condo board and we should expect a hard, difficult fight.” Jane was all business when it came to numbers. She looked Queen Street West, of course, but she was very much a Bay Street girl when it came to commercial matters.

We would have to apply to raise the rents above the allowed increase, and some of our longer-term tenants—more than 40% of the tenants fell into this group—would see their rent discounts ended. The Campanile was “haemorrhaging cash” and this needed to stop. Rent discounts had been negotiated by some long-term residents who argued that since they lived elsewhere for up to half of the year a regular, annual increase wasn’t warranted. Under the reign of The Secretary this had been allowed.

Jane’s gloomy outlook wasn’t over. She sipped her coffee and returned to her notes.

The staff would have to drastically reduced. Given the declining occupations of most tenants there was no need for the number of car jockeys, valets, cleaners, engineers and others who populated the monthly payroll. With many of our tenants decamping to Florida, Arizona, Mexico or other warmer winter climes there was a corresponding drop in the level of service expected at The Campanile. Two car jockeys would suffice now, and some work would be spread among the remaining staff. Jane would deal with staff matters personally, as she didn’t live at the building.

Jane saved the best news for last.

“Sorry, Kiddo, but you’re going to have to pay rent to live at The Campanile.”

The mortgage payments would require a hefty monthly amount to keep the building solvent and under our ownership. As a fractional owner with the smallest ownership tranche, my rent was affordable but it meant that my plans for interior decoration and car ownership were no longer feasible.

“Ardie will get worse news this afternoon, if that is a comfort” she said, between gulps of coffee. Packing to leave she added, “He’s going to have to pay to live in 12B or we need to rent it out, we can get a fortune for that unit and we need the cash flow.”

I paid for breakfast—since Jane was looking after the books for free it was the least I could do—and strolled down through Chinatown to the office. There was no need to hurry as Miss Cousins was away and not expected back until the next week.

Work was a blur; preparing the catalogues for two upcoming gallery events kept everyone busy. By the end of the day I was surprised to note the time, and looked forward to going home and spending a quiet night hunkered down in front of the television.

Ardie had left a note for me with the doorman; supper at 8?

I had time to shower, have a drink, and arrived at 12B from the lobby. Getting to Ardie’s apartment involved taking the elevator from 7A down to the lobby, buzzing Ardie up in 12B, and then riding the same elevator directly into his hallway. It was a gracious arrival.

Ardie was frantic. His meeting with Jane had been “a bloody nightmare” when he found out that he would need to “rent my own damn apartment in my own damn building” or else find himself “living above a sewer-grate with the best antiques in town!” Jane, he claimed, had been “unreasonable” to his entreaties to understand the position he was in. “She only cares about the building!”

Jane had spent a busy day. She had breakfast with me and then she had a lengthy long-distance chat with Miss Cousins on the telephone. Miss Cousins was the majority shareholder and, under the strict terms of the late Secretary’s will, could “pull rank” on us and dictate—to a certain extent—how business would be transacted.

Ardie would be paying rent to live in the luxury that was 12B.

Ardie exhaled a long, malodorous plume of second-hand smoke and gestured around the living room. “Take a look at what might have been!”

Ardie mixed a pitcher of strong cocktails and we sat in the living room—“it was going to be something, really something”—while Ardie reported on the scene last night Chez Grade.

“He stood up, mentioned something about Leesa’s car backfiring or needing a boost, and then marched right out. Rose was just serving supper” and he had “never seen anyone walk out on my sister Beebe before.” He smoked furiously.

Supper following Jack’s hasty departure was a less-than-gay affair. In the absence of Jack, poor old Tom Standish was left without any visible means of support and his conversation with Clemmy turned awkward. It turns out that they both hated wet weather and were prone to headache when the barometric pressure changed quickly. “Hardly the chatter that leads to romance,” commented Ardie, while pointing out that “Tom Standish is very handsome but terminally dull.”

Margery was quiet and Beebe and Ted were more than a bit surprised that Jack hadn’t managed to sit through a few bites of supper—“after all, he arrived late and unexpected and a place was set for him”—before dashing off to “save that Mitzvah girl” from having to deal with the auto club by herself.

Over a cold supper Ardie began to plot. He had no intention of leaving 12B and even less intention of “going down without a fight.”

Ardie, you see, was industrious where his lifestyle was concerned.

“There’s no getting around it; I’ll have to start dropping in on shivas again,” Ardie intoned, as if he had just announced he intended to parachute behind enemy lines, “because I can always make money at a shiva.”

Charmingly Unannounced (July 21, 2011)

We agreed to meet with Jane again later in the week where we could learn what our options, few as they might be, were. Ardie poured stiff drinks and immediately began to predict the worst. From being “on top of it all” we were going “to get screwed again” and he’d never get back what he had already spent on 12B. All seemed lost.

Ardie got himself another strong one—I was still sipping my first—while bemoaning the possible fates that awaited him. “I’ll be decorating when I am 80, hawking my wares like a hooker downtown!” he predicted. Gone were the visions of ease and comfort, all thanks to “those bastards in that damned condo!” and “some corrupt judge, I’ll bet my life on it!” who had ruined his dreams for the future. 


Now he would never realize of his dream of retiring and “living a simpler, quieter life” (away from the interior decorating rat race, whispered Jane, picking up her bag to leave) and “taking it easy.” Jane’s departing glance to Ardie included the advice to remember that while we owed money, we did own the building, albeit with Miss Cousins as the majority shareholder. She would have an update for us by the end of the week.

Ardie had another drink before he left to join the Grades for supper, a rare occurrence at this time of the year as it was customary for Ted and Beebe to be travelling now. The demands of Ted’s business, sadly, served to keep them home this year. Beebe was “picking up some slack” and having various members of the family over now and then.

Suppers were augmented by Sunday brunches with lunches at the club and mid-week dinners and specific restaurant destinations and Chinese food all mixed in for good measure. Margery was a frequent guest now that she was back in the city proper, and Beebe was keeping an eye on her just in case she continued to “act up!” and “make a fool of herself” again.

Jack had lately been in the habit of stopping in—charmingly unannounced—to “have a home-cooked meal” with his parents during the week. It was a fun fiction that both Ted and Beebe rather enjoyed. They loved Jack, who was fun and full of life, and adored spending time with their handsome, charming son. Everyone did.

This cosy filial attention had been noticeably absent of late, and Ted and Beebe were happily surprised when he showed up—a welcome gate crasher—the same evening Ardie, Margery and Clemmy were dining in. Tom Standish, a VP at The Canadian Record, was the sixth guest. Tom had been included at the suggestion of Ted, who liked Tom and invited him home partly to see if there would be any interest with Clemmy.

Jack’s arrival did not upset the evening, and he was warmly welcomed. There was no question of their not being enough food; Beebe administered a household and the roast would feed the family, staff, guests and any misfits or drop-ins who might happen by.

The household, to borrow a quaint term, included Ted and Beebe, of course, plus Roy and Rose Davey, the quiet married couple who lived above the garage and who were part of the family. Rose was the housekeeper and cook while Roy—who had once worked on the printing presses for the Canadian Record—was cast as a grounds man, sometimes a houseman and often a handy-man and not infrequently a jack-of-all- trades.

Once a week a cleaning lady arrived to help Rose with the heavy cleaning and twice a week landscapers arrived to attend to the yards, trees, gardens, pool and other outdoor duties, overseen by Roy.

All of these people would be fed. Sandwiches would be offered, cold drinks dispensed, and coffee offered twice daily to visiting workers of any sort. The Daveys ate separately, of course, in their apartment where Beebe explained “they could enjoy their privacy” after serving and tidying up when the Grades ate at home.

Rose was an excellent cook, a reasonable baker for cakes and desserts, and kept their very large Rosedale mansion humming. They were discreet and had “been with” the family for many years, always included at family celebrations. Ardie suggested that Rose had been a “doting type” with the Grade children when they were young, hinting that she played a significant role in bringing them up.

On this particular night Rose had taken the trouble to prepare a magnificent standing-rib roast. It was—as was her custom—roasted to perfection and served with traditional accompaniments; Rose had grown up in Scotland, and preferred the homey, comforting palate of her youth to the tastes of today.

Jack joined the group as they were having drinks in the Grades’ large and comfortable library, where they usually entertained family and close friends. Fond hellos and gracious welcomes. Ardie noticed that Tom Standish was foundering a bit with Clemmy so he hollered a hello to Jack and steered him over toward Tom, who was either out of his league with Clemmy or uncertain how to behave around the boss’ daughter.

Jack was gregarious, fond of his sister, and falling in love with Leesa Mitzvah and happy to help old Tom out with wingman support. Clemmy tended to be quiet, after all, and wasn’t the easiest person when it came to small talk.

Ardie cornered Ted and began to tell him the news about The Campanile when Roy lowered the lights in the centre hallway, a signal contrived to let Mrs. Grade know she should begin urging her guests into supper.

The group was just sitting down when Roy leaned over and told Jack he was wanted on the telephone. He was briefly gone before returning and—kissing his mother and Aunt Margery and suggesting a game of squash at the club to Tom Standish—announcing he had to leave immediately; Leesa’s car wouldn’t start and it was dark outside and she couldn’t reach her parents on the telephone. Her brother was out of town.

Rose made her own horseradish sauce, and the roast was just-right pink and served with too many delicious accompaniments. The tastefully decorated and beautifully appointed room—tricked-up by Ardie—had eight French windows that overlooked a terrace leading to a well-manicured lawn and colourful garden. There was a good portrait of Beebe’s parents above the sideboard, and the breakfront displayed Great-Grandmother Grade’s sterling silver tea set. Even the guests were unique; a publisher, his formidable wife, two family members and a rising executive.

It was from this enchanting place, with its charming people and comfortable abundance, that Jack Grade bolted because Leesa Mitzvah told him that she was frightened and she didn’t have anyone else to turn to.

Briefly Legal (July 20, 2011)

Briefly Legal

The “interesting developments” that Jane referenced in relation to The Campanile—did I mention I was having shutters installed?—required a meeting at Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope. Once again we were ushered into a quiet boardroom, offered refreshments, and politely informed that “Mr Cope would be with us” shortly, a comment that made me think we were attending a séance in the hopes of communicating with the dead, and not awaiting a lawyer to arrive.

Ardie stretched and wandered over to look out the window, pointing out various city landmarks from our aerie, so many floors up. Miss Cousins was silent and Jane sat across from her, almost hidden behind a stack of file folders she unpacked from her shoulder bag.

Mr Andrew Cope, Jr., arrived and I was struck by how his wan appearance. He looked like he hadn’t seen daylight in years; pale skin, dun-coloured hair and light-coloured eyes left him with an almost unhealthy pallor. He greeted Miss Cousins first as she outranked the rest of us in age, gender, tenure as a client and wealth.

Both Ardie and Miss Cousins were smoking, using a saucer as an ashtray.

For the uninitiated, professional bad news—whether delivered by a lawyer, a judge or a doctor—is never delivered slowly. The same principle that applies to removing bandages is followed by professionals eager to drop a bomb: Do it quickly and it will all be over soon.

The long-standing property-line dispute between The Campanile and the condominium next door had been settled, and not to our advantage. We were being sued for damages and Mr Andrew Cope, Jr., advised us that settling soon might mitigate some of the damages, but we would also be on the hook for costs and other, assorted fees from lawyers, engineers, property surveyors and an architect.

The new property assessment provided by the City of Toronto indicated we were in arrears with our property taxes and a work order from City Hall demanded that we “upgrade terraces, roof-top spaces and all balconies” within a strict timeline or face penalties for failing to meet new building code requirements.

The only good news—such as it was—was in reference to the parking garage. We might be able to go another two years before extensive reparations would be required. This work would require several months to complete, and was estimated to cost several hundred thousand dollars.

The room was silent while we absorbed the news. Jane reviewed some spreadsheets and noted that we were “solvent” but that the repairs demanded by the city would deplete our cash reserves and “the small contingency fund” she had been building. (We had a contingency fund?)

She also made it clear, however, that legal damages owed to our neighbours the condo were beyond what we could afford. Anticipating this problem she silently handed out mortgage options for us to consider.

Ardie lit another cigarette and inhaled deeply, stopping only to cough.

Miss Cousins scanned the numbers, her eyes flicking past the rows of columns, before looking at Jane and raising her eyebrows in question. “How bad is it, Jane?” she asked, her voice calm. Her voice displayed no trace of just having heard bad news.

“It’s bad. We’re broke.” Jane also delivered her professional news without fanfare. We were going to take our medicine whether we wanted to or not.

Ardie insisted that we could “reason and negotiate” with the condominium board and “come to a sensible solution.” At this point the senior partner of Chartwell, Bidmore & Cope coughed discreetly—unlike the rumbling hacks Ardie had been serenading us with—and pointed out that this was not the case. The condominium board of directors wanted money, half of our front lawn, all of the side garden and expedited action. The dispute over the property line has lasted for the better part of a decade and our neighbours were in no mood to wait longer for resolution.

We had arrived separately but left together; I took the wheel of Miss Cousins’ car, who rode shotgun, while Ardie and Jane sat together in the back. Miss Cousins lit a cigarette which was interpreted by Ardie as an invitation to light one of his own. I lowered my window a crack and felt the tingle of fresh air—this was back when Toronto had lots of fresh air—slip into the cabin.

We were on Avenue Road, crossing Davenport, when Miss Cousins pointed out Jack Grade, dashing out of the Avenue Road Gourmet Shop, toting a large bag of goodies and hopping into the passenger seat of Leesa Mitzvah’s double-parked car. Leesa leaned over and gave his hair a good-natured rumple, before quickly entering traffic.

Ardie just smiled and said that the day seemed to be going from bad to worse and then asked to be let off first; he was having supper with Beebe and Ted and he didn’t want to be late. We rode home in relative quiet, the silence disturbed only by the discreet sound of the motor and the flicking of Ardie’s lighter as he tried—desperately—to light another cigarette.

Sunshine at Morning (July 19, 2011)

Sunshine at Morning

Ardie’s carpet picnic worked like a tonic and the next morning I got up and found myself down at the office. Miss Cousins was taking a few days off—which meant she was working but not downtown—and the office quietly hummed along in collegial silence. Without Miss Cousins in attendance the daily lunch ritual ended and everyone seemed to welcome the change in routine. There was more to the office than art, and Jane arrived to review some rent rolls and leave some paperwork for The Boss to sign.

Jane had changed her look and had “evolved” from Goth-Girl to Queen Street West hipster. She still wore black—and lots of it—but she now looked just a touch more mainstream. Her make-up included a lot of white powder as foundation and her overall image was creative, leading edge and a bit more grown up.

Nobody welcomed her new look in a manner heartier than Ardie. “You don’t look like a mother’s heartache anymore!” He was good natured, but it wasn’t exactly a joke. Ardie liked things to be “just so” and a Goth-inspired accountant-cum-single mother didn’t suit Ardie’s tastes. “Did you donate your old clothes to a bike courier?”

Jane laughed and rolled her eyes. “I am too old for some things now, Ardie, and my wardrobe is one of them.” Jane dropped a heavy leather shoulder bag on the floor and looked around the office, seeing who was in. Even her shoes were different: classic Dr. Martens had been replaced by offerings from John Fluevog, then the up-and-coming footwear designer taking Hip Toronto by storm.

“We need to have a meeting about The Campanile, as there have been some interesting developments,” she said, casually, handing me an envelope of cheques for Miss Cousins to sign. I wanted to ask what “interesting developments” could entail but had learned not to push Jane for details unless they were readily offered. In due course, all would be made known.

Jane’s transformation coincided with another, slower, but equally welcome change in appearance, tone and demeanour.

Sra. Cabral had quietly started to inject subtle shades of colour into her clothing, giving up the unrelieved black she had worn since her husband died. Jane wasn’t certain how long Sr. Cabral had been dead, but she was the first to notice that the good widow was now sporting dresses in dark gray and lavender. “I think she’s decided to end official mourning,” Jane noted one afternoon, “I wonder why?” she asked with an arch smile.

It turns out that an “evening romance” between Habashaka—“that sneaky DEVIL!” hollered Ardie with a laugh when he found out—and Sra. Cabral had developed at The Campanile. He was quiet and courtly and she was old-fashioned and matronly and they were both lonely and before too long a Sunday drive after church had turned into an afternoon visiting Habashka’s house north of the city. Soon suppers were being shared in the kitchen of Sra. Cabral’s homey apartment, conveniently located off of the lobby at the Campanile.

No one was more shocked—or happier, as it turns out—than Jane was when Sra. Cabral announced one week that she wouldn’t be available to look after Bethany on Friday afternoon; she was “going away for the weekend” and she wanted to get her hair done before leaving town.

Jane was a sport; she smiled, kissed Sra. Cabral on the forehead (she was so petite) and whispered “I am so happy for you, Darling” while Sra. Cabral—at her age and with her dignity—blushed and giggled.

There was an air of romance in the air then and nobody really knows if romance is a bug that is airborne or spreads through contact. Nobody really knows.

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?