Free Going Fast by Elaine McCluskey Page B

playground, a refrain of “What’s wrong with your mother?” It was relentless, and you encouraged it. At the time, I attributed your cruelty to the fact that your husband was having an affair with Mrs. Uxbridge, the gym teacher. Often, I saw them leaving the Holiday Inn bar, then parking by Grand Lake.
    Now, I realize that was no excuse. You were simply a bad person with an evil heart
.
    Katherine Redgrave
    Glenda’s stare turned petulant. “We’re working on the arrangements now,” she told Katherine. “It’s complicated.”
    â€œOkay.”
    â€œI may have to take some vacation.”
You don’t believe me, do you?
Glenda’s look bore the rage of involuntary spinsterdom.
You think that only women like you find men
.
    Katherine sighed, knowing that Ottawa had been full of thirty-ish career women who had dated too many men from too small a circle. Katherine had seen them walking home in Mad Bomber hats, chi-chi glasses, and jogging shoes. Some decided to surrender, to immerse themselves in work and a close circle of friends who met for Sunday brunch, Gatineau weekends, and skating parties for the lonely. Some turned to booze, ultra-marathons, or the sanctum of fringe feminism. Some carried on hopeless affairs with hopelessly married men; others married the first man who asked them and, to everyone’s surprise, blossomed into motherhood with such brilliance that others found them painful to be around.
    â€œYou don’t see any problems?” Katherine asked.
    â€œNo.” Glenda’s eyes were as hard as a strap.
    â€œWe are not attempting to interfere in your personal life, Glenda, but the
Standard
is a concerned about how this reflects on us, on our being objective in our news coverage. It is not a normal situation.”
    Glenda’s face froze at the word “normal” and her jaw jutted with defiance. “I am well within my rights. All my personal affairs are being conducted on my own time.”
    â€œI am just pointing out how the personal lives of journalists are sometimes hampered by their professional obligations. It’s like running for a political party or being involved in —”
    â€œMy lawyer is prepared to make a Charter case out of this.”

11
    For thirty minutes there had been a stream of visitors into Turmoil’s dressing room. Fight night brought out the has-beens, the wannabes, and the distant relations, the kind of people who drifted to funerals and testimonials for folks they barely knew.
    Ownie saw an ex-champ named Darren make his way across the room. Darren grabbed the arm of his friend, a pony-tailed goliath with feet too small for his body. “Hey, Ownie, this is my buddy Zach,” Darren shouted in a voice like a broken muffler. “Ownie here had me for twelve fights. He wrote the master plan when I took the Canadian title off Losier in Montreal.”
    Ownie nodded. “Losier quit after that and took up window dressing.”
    Darren laughed. His body was so tumid, Ownie noticed, that he could have been wearing a padded suit. His face was irregular, as though it had been patched with fibreglass and then painted flesh-tone. He had a fibreglass patch on one brow, another on his cheek. On his head, which looked like it was covered with bee stings, was a blue seafarer’s hat.
    â€œDarren.” Ownie pulled the ex-champ close. “You know me, man.” Ownie paused and Darren nodded his rebuilt head. “You know I always give it to you straight.”
    â€œNever steered me wrong.” Darren looked anxious.
    â€œYou look great,” Ownie declared. “Tops!”
    â€œYeah?” Darren blew out relief. “I’m feeling healthy, Ownie. I’m feelin’ good.”
    â€œYou’re comin’ on, man, you’re comin’ on. I can tell.”
    Darren eased away, and Zach followed, teetering on an invisible balance beam. Johnny moved in to fill