Hardly Working. Betsy Burke

may have a few kids scattered around the world for all I know, but you’re certainly not one of them. Rest easy in the knowledge.”

      I couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye.

      “That’s not to say I wouldn’t be proud to be your father. But I’m not him. You’re too young to know about it but I can’t tell you how many men, myself included, wanted your mother to be the mother of their children. That woman was something special. Imagine she still is. Marjory Nichols had us all hopping like fools for the love of her. Damn her anyway.”

      I started to frown and then to laugh. He laughed, too, and suddenly my mother’s powers of attraction gave us common ground, something to grab on to, to make us old friends, as though he had been a constant visitor to the house for the last twenty-five years.

      He rubbed his face vigorously with both hands, like someone waking from a long sleep. He seemed about to say something but his words were replaced with a frustrated sigh. Until he finally said, “Listen. I do know who your father is.”

      I gave my own huge sigh of relief.

      He smiled. “Your mother probably didn’t want to have anything to do with it. Am I right?”

      “Yes.”

      “She can be a very stubborn woman.” His expression was odd, his blue eyes luminous.

      “You’re telling me. I mean, we’re talking about my own father and I’m not allowed to know anything about him. I’m only just realizing now how pissed off I’ve been with her for not telling me about him. Information is advancement, evolution. She’s not being very scientific.”

      Rupert Doyle chuckled. “Here, Dinah. Sit down.” He pointed to the scarred black bar stool. “Can I order you something? A beer?”

      “A coffee…” But then I saw the glass pot on the hotplate behind the bar, untouched brew with a scummy encrusted high tide line, so I accepted a soda water.

      Rupert Doyle said, “I can imagine how your mother probably feels about this and I don’t want to be responsible for starting a family war. They’re the worst. So you need to go carefully with this one. Your father is what I’d call a…difficult character…apart from the fact that he’s volatile…he has…he had the power to take people places where they didn’t always want to go.”

      “Who is he? Tell me something about him.”

      He stroked his chin. “Yeah…well, now. Let me think about this. I can do better than tell you about him. I can introduce you to him.”

      “He’s here? In Vancouver?”

      “Sure is. I’m just trying to figure out the best way to go about this.”

      “Why? Is there a problem?”

      “We really did not part as the best of friends.” Rupert shook his head and let a small bitter laugh escape.

      “Well, I’m not too secure about this whole thing myself. You’re scaring me a bit.”

      “Oh, no…don’t take this the wrong way…”

      “Mr. Doyle…”

      “Rupert.”

      “Rupert. I’d like to get a glimpse of him first. From a distance, you know? Not have to commit myself. Without him knowing anything about me.”

      “Sure. Of course, Dinah. In the interests of not prejudicing your opinion, I can see how you’d want to take your time before you decide whether or not you really want to get to know the man. You might take one look and decide it’s better not to. He might not want to have anything to do with you. Or me.” He laughed again.

      “What’s the problem?” I was picturing my mother with some impossible kind of man. A married politician? Another mad scientist? “Does he have a high-profile job or something? Would this create a scandal for him?”

      “No, no.”

      “Or is he some kind of criminal?”

      Rupert Doyle frowned then bit his lip. “There have been accusations, and he has felt like a criminal at times, but no. Or rather, it would all depend on who you asked. No, he’s not a criminal although he has been accused of being one.”

      “I don’t understand.”

      “Your father is a representative from a distinct moment in history. An icon in some ways. Not an easy history, not at all. I would say that the very fact he’s alive implicates him. Or so he would see it. You may have the chance to find out about it as you get to know him. If you decided you want to get to know him. But I think the person to give you all this information is your father himself. You need to hear the story from the horse’s mouth, as it were.”

      I shook my head.

      What was he talking about? I was as unenlightened as ever with all his beating around the bush. “Okay. So. Now. What’s his name and where do I find him?”

      “You can find…just a second, Dinah.”

      The man with the collapsed face from the front desk was standing in the doorway signaling to Rupert.

      Rupert held up an authoritative palm to him. “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” He turned back to me. “Listen, Dinah. Let’s do it this way, for the sake of Auld Lang Syne. And then we can catch up. I’d really like to catch up on your mother, too.”

      My face must have twisted a little. My expression made him add quickly, “And you, of course. Hell, I remember you when you were just a little—”

      The front desk man pointed his thumb toward the street, and said loudly, “Cab’s here.”

      Rupert said, “Look, we can…hell, I gotta go…got a production meeting at…” He looked at his watch and grimaced. “Christ. It started five minutes ago.” He slapped some money on the counter and started toward the door. I hurried along after him. His last words before he was out the door were, “You meet me here at seven Friday night and I’ll take you there myself. You have a car?”

      I nodded.

      “Great. Wouldn’t mind seeing the old picaro again myself.”

      I idly sharpened pencils. Ian Trutch was locked up with Ash. There were fleeting glimpses of him and whiffs of his aftershave hanging on the air, but that was all. Ash was looking delirious behind her thick lenses. She’d taken the clips out of her hair and let it down.

      Penelope was declaring all-out war on me. It’s amazing what a total lack of carnal knowledge, of real sex, can do to a person. I mean, at least if the rest of us weren’t actually having sex, we still had our experiences and memories to fall back on, but Penelope… Penelope was beginning to show the mental strain that comes with ITD—Incoming Testosterone Deficit.

      She had the war drums going strong when we got on to the topic of funds for AIDS awareness and sex education. She had a litany of sexual terrorism tales, nasty little stories on hand to make her case for chastity. Poor Lisa, who was genetically predisposed to being nice to everyone, to her own detriment, got stuck in the middle.

      Penelope smoothed down her calf-length black skirt and said, “Did you know, Lisa, that the introduction of sex education at too early an age has been known to cause trauma in adolescents? It’s been documented.”

      I smoothed my red leather skirt and said, “Did you know, Lisa, that too much pregnancy at an early age has been known to cause trauma in adolescents?”

      “Ah, jeez…ah, c’mon, you two. Cut this out.” Lisa, on the edge of despair, looked back and forth between the two of us, imploring.

      Penelope continued to inform Lisa. “Some schools have grade-schoolers practice putting condoms on the fingers of their classmates. What a disgusting thing to do to children. Now, in my opinion, that is exactly like telling a nine-year-old to go out and have sex.”

      I