15
Hum Harbour Daze’s Steering Committee met in the curling club’s boardroom. Boardroom was a grandiose description for the cramped, grey paneled room with orange plastic stacking chairs and scarred folding tables inherited from the Junior High that closed a few years back. There was a glassed trophy case with four top-heavy trophies and a single piece of art on the wall—a framed 1950’s print of Her Majesty the Queen. Four venetian-blind covered windows faced the parking lot. When the meetings got boring, you could watch kids skateboarding across the cracked pavement.
The committee normally included Carrie Hunter, (chairperson)—who was glaringly absent—Ross Murray, (committee treasurer), and Vi Murray, (Hum Harbour Daze publicity secretary and Ross’s second ex-wife.) Vi and Ross came to verbal blows at least once every meeting.
Reverend Innes was our events coordinator. My oldest brother, Sam, was in charge of fireworks and lobster boat races. And there was me. I represented the Downtown Business Association, and until tonight, I was in charge of nothing.
We sat around the long table sipping take-out coffee while Vi read the minutes of our last meeting and Ross read his treasurer’s report. I had a hard time focusing. My mind kept drifting towards my unwanted assignment: ensuring the choice of a new parade marshal went smoothly.
After Ross and Vi, Reverend Innes, resplendent in his rainbow-bright Innes tartan vest, stood and updated us on his progress. Rusty’s midway would begin setting up Wednesday. A record forty-three entries were expected in this year’s parade; as usual, a local radio personality would be parade judge. Buddy’s Dilemma, a popular Celtic rock band, was confirmed for the dance that followed the crowning of the festival queen. Sixty-seven vendors had purchased table-space at the farmers’ market/craft sale.
Reverend Innes tugged his vest. “There’s a slight complication with the venue, however.”
Only half listening, I stared out the window. A man I didn’t recognize strolled across the parking lot. Normally, I wouldn’t have registered his existence, but these weren’t normal days. Claude Oui was dead. Before the man climbed into the pickup parked by the dumpster, he whipped off his cap to rub his forehead. His hair was blue-black—like mine. Apart from his hair, though, he was perhaps the most un-noteworthy person I’d ever noted. I turned back to the meeting.
“We can’t use the curling club for the craft sale like we’ve always done.” Reverend Innes rocked up and down on his toes.
Vi continued tapping on her laptop. “Where will it be, then?”
“I’m checking into other options,” Reverend Innes said, “but time’s running out. If anyone has any suggestions?”
We all stared at the table, afraid if we made eye contact we might inherit the job.
He heaved a weighty sigh and sat.
Sam reported on the lobster boat races: how many registrants they had so far, how many heats required to name a winner, the details of the trophy ceremony—which included a piper, speeches by several politicians, and trophy presentation by Wee Claude, our beloved Highland Heavyweight Champion.
Which brought us to the issue Carrie’d asked me to oversee. Selecting a new parade marshal.
“So who’s gonna do it now?” asked Sam. “‘Cause if I’ve gotta ask the mayor or old Bill MacSween, our member of Parliament, I’m gonna have to get on it right away. And then there’s the programs. I’m thanking my lucky stars I never got into town to get them printed because I’d just have to do it again on account of what happened.”
“Tragedy.” Reverend Inness straightened his vest as he stood. “Such a tragedy. Tomorrow is Claude’s memorial service, but perhaps we could honor him with a minute of silence during the festival’s opening ceremony?”
Vi sniffled.
Ross leaned forward. “Sure, Reverend, but right now we’ve got a more pressing concern.”
Vi gasped. “More pressing? How can you be so callous?” She slapped her forehead with the heel of her hand. “Oh wait, I forgot. Callous is your middle name.”
Reverend Innes cleared his throat. “People, please.”
Ross ignored him. “Come off it, Vi. It’s not like you’re any more busted up than the rest of us.”
I recoiled at the implication. This might not be the place for tears, but was he actually suggesting we didn’t care? That we weren’t grieving? If I looked at him, I knew I’d either start calling him callous along with Vi, or start crying. I said to the group at large, “Have we any suggestions as to who might take Claude’s place as parade marshal?”
Ross ignored me, too. “I mean, we’re all sorry about what’s happened. Claude was a fine man, an asset to the community, and we’re all going to miss him equally.”
That made me feel a little better. Louder, I repeated, “Have we any suggestions as to who might take Claude’s place as parade marshal?”
Ross continued, “But this isn’t the time or the place to let our emotions get carried away.” He finally managed to look sheepish—hard for such a big man.
Following Reverend Innes’s example, I stood. “Any suggestions?” I asked for the third time.
“We could invite Bill MacSween,” said Sam. “I mean, if the man’s coming anyway for our lobster boat races.”
“He’s done it for the last three years,” Ross said. “I thought the whole point of asking Claude was to get away from the political overtones of having our MP presiding over the parade.”
Reverend Innes’s chair scraped the cement floor when he stood. “Let’s not get off track.” It scraped again when he sat.
“We wanted Claude because we wanted an athlete. Someone who could appeal to the young people. They’re happy to drink at the dance, but they don’t care about the rest of the festival.”
Reverend Innes frowned, as did I. “I don’t think you can make such a generalization,” he said. “I know several young people who are happily engaged in the festival. Take our Gailynn, for example.”
Still standing, I bowed slightly to acknowledge my status as resident young person. “Does anyone else have a suggestion for parade marshal?”
Ross rested his folded arms on his ample girth. “Well, if we’re looking for a local athlete with a good name, then I think we need to consider Danny-Boy Murdock.”
“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
Ross swiveled in his chair. “Why?”
“Because,” I said, “It would hurt Carrie. She’d think we thought Danny-Boy could replace her husband. And she specifically asked that it not be Danny-Boy. To go against her wishes would be too cruel.”
“Carrie’s got to get over that accident, especially now that Claude’s gone.”
“How can you say that?” I asked.
Vi looked up from her laptop, her eyes misty. “We’re not suggesting Danny-Boy could fill Claude’s shoes. When you love someone and then you lose them—”
Ross muttered, “Good grief.”
“—there’s no one who can replace them.”
Ross glared at his ex-wife. “How would you know about loving and losing?”
Vi burst into tears.
I rifled through my purse and pulled out enough tissues for both of us. We blew our noses in unison.
“If Bill MacSween and Danny-Boy Murdock are both unacceptable,” I said, trying to get the meeting back on track, “have we any other suggestions? Could we make the festival queen our parade marshal?”
Reverend Innes hooked his thumbs in the arm holes of his vest. “Maybe we don’t need a parade marshal this year.”
“Hum Harbour Daze has always had a parade marshal.”
On and on it went, Ross’s words growing harsher by the minute. It made me wonder if his gout was acting up, because there was no excuse for that kind of insensitivity. And as the former queen of full-steam-ahead insensitivity, I should know.
Order became impossible. Ross and Vi faced off with another argument.
Sam pounded the table. “Why not Danny-Boy?”
Reverend Innes wrung his hands. “People, please.”
The curling club manager stuck his head in to see what all the ruckus was about. One look and he withdrew.
Finally I climbed on my chair and shouted, “I call this meeting to a close! I’ll email each of you. You can propose names for parade marshal and email them back to me! Whoever gets the most nominations wins! Thank you!”
Is a meeting considered a success when the women cry?