Gail Bowen - Burying Ariel

Bev Pilon and Livia Brook were waiting for us by the commissionaire’s desk in the first-floor lobby. Livia appeared less haggard than she had in a week. Her skin was faintly pink, as if she’d spent some time outdoors, and her mass of grey and chestnut curls was pushed neatly back with a tortoiseshell hairband. Mercifully, she had decided against wearing the poppy-spattered shawl that Ariel had made, and her outfit was both simple and attractive: tan cotton jumper, white T-shirt, and Birkenstocks, the uniform for female academics of a certain age.

Bev Pilon’s look was corporate cool: a smart spring suit in apple green, honey hair artfully styled to look artless, makeup smoothly subtle. She beamed when she spotted Taylor, introduced herself, then took my daughter’s hand and headed for the stairs. Just as the ancient commissionaire noticed me struggling with the picture and came out of his booth, a cameraman from NationTV came through the front door. Kim took in the optics and waved off the commissionaire with a dazzling smile.

“Thanks, but we can handle this,” she said. Then, as cooperatively as the citizens of Mouseland, Bev Pilon, Livia Brook, and I carried Taylor’s canvas towards the rotunda where Marie Cousin and the grade-two class from Lakeview School were waiting for the presentation.

The ceremony didn’t take long. Livia presented Taylor with a plaque, then spoke gracefully of Ben Jesse’s commitment to making young people believe politics was an honourable profession. She quoted Ben’s comment that it was good for government when schools bring kids to see the Legislature in session, because when real children are present, our legislators are, occasionally, shamed into acting like adults. Bev accepted the jibe with a tinkling laugh and an impressive display of teeth. She gave Taylor a tiny Saskatchewan flag and a lapel pin, then summoned the cameraman from NationTV to get his interview. After my daughter had delivered her opinions on socialism, mice, and art, I went over to Marie Cousin.

“That was terrific,” I said. “And your subterfuge was brilliant. Anyway, I signed up as a parent-helper, so what’s next?”

Marie’s eyes were concerned. “You look a little weary,” she said. “Since the real purpose of your coming today was to see Taylor get her award, how about giving the tour a pass?”

“To use a word that Taylor tells me you believe should be kept in reserve, that would be awesome.”

The corners of Marie’s mouth turned up slightly. “Taylor told you about Cheops.”

“She did,” I said, “but at the moment, the idea of having the next hour to myself beats the prospect of seeing the pyramids by a country mile.”

We said our goodbyes, and then I joined Livia. She and I made our way back through the shadowy halls to the brilliant sunshine. After the chilly recycled air of the building, the warm outdoor air was seductively sweet. When Livia started towards her car, I was tempted to let her go, and head home to the lazy lounge on the deck, but the message of Ariel’s Web site was too urgent to ignore.

I went after her. “Livia, do you have a few minutes to talk?”

She shrugged. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“There’s a bench over there where we could have a little privacy,” I said, pointing to a green space between the Legislature and Albert Street.

We strolled along a path flanked by flowerbeds. In high summer, the area was a riot of colours and scents, but that May morning the spectacular beauty was still to come. Only the first tender green shoots of perennials and bedding plants were visible in the fresh-turned earth. The bench and the simple bronze memorial to Woodrow Lloyd opposite it were less than a minute’s walk away.

“I had no idea this place was even here,” Livia said. She moved closer so she could see the poem inscribed on the bronze. “ ‘The Road Not Taken,’ ” she said. “I haven’t thought of Robert Frost in a hundred years.”

“Most of us leave him behind after freshman English,” I agreed, “but I still like him.”

She came over and took a place at the other end of the bench, as far away as possible from me. “I assume you want to talk about the march tonight,” she said.

“Among other things,” I said. “Livia, do you have any idea who wrote that open letter?”

“ ‘To All Who Seek Justice’? I’ve come up with some possibilities. Nothing definite.”

“I thought at first it might have been Ann Vogel,” I said, “but she was a student of mine. I’m familiar with her writing. Even with the spell-checker and grammar check, she couldn’t have managed this. The constructions are too sophisticated.”

“I would have said Solange. She’s the one who travels in the really radical feminist circles. The women she knows wouldn’t stick at publishing an autopsy photo.” Livia ran a hand through her hair distractedly. “Why does it matter?”

“Because that letter is an incitement to mob action, and mobs are unpredictable and dangerous. This march would be a lousy idea even if Charlie Dowhanuik were guilty, and I don’t believe that he is.”

“Do you know something the rest of us don’t?”

“Just that Ariel had another close relationship that was causing her concern.”

Livia gnawed her lip. “Solange,” she said finally. “We should have been more careful.”

“ Who should have been more careful?”

“Those of us on the committee that appointed her.” Livia’s face was etched with regret. “Her references were… questionable.”

“The files for the short-listed candidates were circulated. I read them all. Solange’s letters of reference were glowing. Ariel’s letters were the ones that seemed doubtful. All her referees were positive, but, as I recall, at least two of them expressed reservations about her commitment to academic life. They picked up on the same ambivalence the committee sensed in her interview.”

“There were other considerations,” Livia said crisply. “I phoned all the referees, pressed them to give me more detailed profiles than a letter would permit. The people with whom Ariel had studied spoke so eloquently about her potential that I knew we had to have her.”

“Even if she wasn’t certain this was where she wanted to be,” I said.

“This was where she wanted to be. Joanne, when I met Ariel at the women’s retreat at Saltspring, there was an immediate kinship. Despite the difference in our ages, we were at parallel stages in our lives. We were both at that point where… what was it Frost said?”

“ ‘Two roads diverged,’ ” I said.

“That’s it exactly, and because each of us knew how the other felt, we were able to support one another. That was the mandate of the retreat: women empowering women.”

“And you empowered Ariel to continue to her studies.”

Livia’s eyes were shining. “Yes, and she empowered me to find my essential self.”

“So that’s why you supported her candidacy when she applied here.”

“It was a good decision. Solange wasn’t. As you say, on paper she was perfect. But when I spoke to her referees, all three of them alluded to psychiatric problems in her past.”

“Livia, if universities went through their faculties and fired everyone who’d ever seen a shrink, post-secondary education would grind to a halt.”

“Solange’s difficulties go well beyond trouble dealing with a stressful environment. She’s obsessive. She was obsessive about Ariel when Ariel was alive and she’s still obsessive about her. Wouldn’t you characterize as obsessive all the hours she’s spent riding that bike of hers? Even our students are concerned. A young man who was in one of Solange’s classes was at a loft party in the warehouse district a couple of nights ago. When he came out, he saw Solange riding her bike. It was two-thirty in the morning, Joanne. Our student offered to put the bike in his trunk and drive Solange home, but she just rode away. The student said Solange looked, and I’m quoting, ‘as if she needed professional help.’ ”