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Fifteen minutes later, it was Barnum and Bailey’s out on the front lawn.
“It’s bloody madness out there!” Dad said, pacing in front of the living room window. His face flushed with anger. Madness shone brightly in his eyes. He punctuated the air with his cup, sloshing more tea onto the carpet. “They’re mucking up my lawn, the bastards.”
“Archie,” Mom said, angrily, “you’re spilling tea over my good carpet.” She’d clamped her hands against the side of her face, shaking her head.
“Forget the carpet, Esme, it’s the lawn I’m concerned about. I spent a fortune on it, and those television people are bloody well ruining it. I’ve a mind to sue the bastards.” Tea was dripping off his wrist now.
Mom was straining in her bed to see what was happening. “They’re coming for you, son,” she said, as if announcing an alien invasion. “They’re coming!”
“Move your arse out there,” Dad said, “and face the paparazzi! They’re ruining our grass.”
“Aye, the grass,” Mom said. “We spent a fortune on it.”
I sighed heavily. My dad was right. I’d created this monster and I had to face it. I felt like the little boy who’d once lived here and was being told to go to school and apologize for talking back to the teacher.
I bolted for the door. Panic ate me up. What was I going to say? Anger stung me. What right did these pricks have to invade my privacy like this?
This is it, I thought. Everyone from my past will know the true me, the lying idiot who ran away from Hamilton and came back with his tail between legs — no trophy, no best-seller novel, no hit records. All the people in high school who ignored me will now have more reason to, and they’ll think even less of me than they did then.
And I was out the door onto my parents’ porch, flashbulbs blinding my eyes, a throng of reporters flooding the lawn and sticking cameras and microphones in my face. Behind them, a number of kids on bikes and skateboards had followed the trucks and were hanging out on the sidewalk, pointing, thrilled with all the excitement. The black unmarked car was parked down the road. I could see that CSIS wasn’t going to be rescuing me from this.
“Can we have a few words with you, Mr. Love?” called out a hip reporter from City-TV; he looked to be all of twenty.
“Yeah, I guess so.” The wall of reporters had blocked my route down the concrete walkway.
Run, run while you can!
But I couldn’t. Lead had filled my legs. The wind dragged a heavy sulfurous stink across my lawn, courtesy of Dofasco, Hamilton’s steel factory.
“Are you still in contact with your old buddy Steven McCartney?”
Feeling sick inside, I knew that the truth just wouldn’t do. It was just like the CSIS interrogation. I’d done such a good job of lying about Steven that now the truth would sound like a lie.
I knew I had to be very careful with this lie. “I’m in frequent contact with Steven, but on his terms and not through the usual channels.” As soon as I said it, I knew it was the wrong choice of words.
The reporters jumped excitedly on that. The CBC reporter’s resonant voice cut through.
“Are you saying, sir, that it’s too dangerous for McCartney to use phones and email? Just what is it that Mr. McCartney is doing now that puts him at such risk?” Leave it to the CBC to cut to the chase so quickly.
My heart thumped loudly. I had to be careful now that CSIS was involved.
“Actually, last time I talked to Steven, he was working on some music, stuff like that. Nothing dangerous.” I tried to sound convincing. My stomach was in my throat.
City TV piped up again. “What kind of music?” This was right up their alley, with their young urban audience.
“Well, Steven was always a fabulous singer. Just ask anyone from our high school, Irondale Collegiate. He had, I mean, has a fantastic pop voice. And he can mimic any one’s voice, note for note. He was—is the most talented guy I’ve ever met. As far as I’m concerned, he’s a superstar.” For a moment, I’d forgotten all about the press on my parents’ front lawn. I was back in my heyday, with my buddy Steven and the full potential of life ahead of us.
The excited buzz brought me back to the present. The questions came from all directions.
“What kind of music is McCartney writing?”
“Will we be seeing a CD release soon?”
“Who’s producing his release?”
“Any concert dates in the area?”
“Any chance he’ll be including a date at his old alma mater for their fiftieth anniversary coming up later this month?”
To be honest, I don’t know how I answered the questions. I know I said yes to a couple of them, but I’m not sure which ones. And I’m not sure the reporters knew, either. All I know is that the next morning the Hamilton Gazette reported on its front page that super pop legend Steven McCartney was planning to make a stop on his world tour in his old home town of Hamilton. Irondale Collegiate would be proud to host his hometown debut at their Fiftieth Anniversary Concert on Thanksgiving Weekend, Saturday, October eleventh.
I had three weeks to find my potentially dead friend, turn him into a pop star, and present him to the world. Three weeks.
