Mackenzie King era at all, this interruption could do him no good whatsoever. He wondered at the propriety of evicting a deceased prime minister from one’s room. It wasn’t covered in
The unwelcome visitor continued to pace.
He glanced at the clock. Two A.M. Exam in six hours. Milton considered exorcism. What would one use to banish the ghost of a Liberal prime minister? He dived for his Diefenbaker text.
Before he could locate a sufficiently inflammatory passage, the ghost discovered a newspaper that Milton had been saving to line his leaky boots. He bent down and studied the front page carefully: unemployment statistics, a picture of an overcrowded nursing home, an article on inflation.
“I see you’re having another Depression,” he remarked.
“Actually, it’s my nerves,” Milton confided. “I can’t sleep, but I’m taking sedatives and considering lightening my class load.”
“I was referring to the country!”
“Oh.”
“There was a Depression during my term as well,” said the ghost. “I got the country out of it, of course!”
Milton nodded. He decided not to mention that Mackenzie King’s solution to the Great Depression was called World War II. There was always the chance that even an oblique reference to the Fuhrer might bring him goose- stepping into the room to join the debate. There were the neighbors to consider.
Mackenzie King plodded to the laundry-laden armchair and sank down on-or rather, through-the pile of clothes. He put his head in his translucent hands. “What a disaster!” he moaned. “I am the only one who can possibly save Canada-and I’m dead!”
Milton considered the problem; perhaps he could profit from providing assistance. If there were such a thing as ghosts, then perhaps spirit-writing was also possible, and he could persuade a grateful Mackenzie King to get his impending exam ghost-written, as it were, by Diefenbaker. Unless, of course, the Liberals’ imprecations had been correct, in which case Dief was now residing in a much more tropical region than Ontario.
“Do you see much of Diefenbaker?” he asked casually.
“What? Old fellow? Rides a unicorn? That’s not important! Pay attention. I am trying to save the country!”
“Well,” said Milton doubtfully, “perhaps you could do it in an advisory capacity. Are any of your favorite mediums still alive?”
“I’ve tried that. I’ve spelled out messages on the Ouija board until my head spun, but my contacts couldn’t even get an appointment with-” He waved his hand. “You know-what’s-his-name.” The apparition shook his head dolefully. “Once I even appeared at a government reception. They mistook me for Larry Reynolds.”
Milton sighed. He supposed that he would have to help: saving the country took precedence over passing History 604, but he didn’t expect any gratitude for it. Nothing ever went right for him; he’d known that at the age of six, when he bit into his chocolate Easter Bunny and broke out in hives. How could the Dominion of Canada possibly be saved by a shortsighted, mild-mannered, pedantic, mediocre-He looked again at Mackenzie King. Then again…
“Could I suggest a compromise?” he ventured.
The ghost brightened visibly upon hearing the magic word. “Compromise?” he said eagerly.
“Yes. I was thinking that instead of meddling-er-intervening directly in domestic policy, you might tell your ideas to me, and I could see to it that someone in Parliament hears them.”
“You have influence?”
“A certain amount.” Milton smiled, wisely deciding not to mention that his parliamentary contacts consisted of his presence on the mailing list of the M.P. from Moosejaw.
The late prime minister tapped his fingers together. “Well… I suppose you’ll have to do,” he said grudgingly.
“I’m better than nothing,” Milton reminded him.
“Humph! Well, I always did have a fondness for ruins. All right, then. Pay attention. Get a pencil. I shall begin.”
Milton ferreted out a pencil from the debris on his desk, turned to a clean page in his course notebook, and looked expectantly at the speaker. This would be easy. Graduate students in history are able to take down lecture notes in their sleep. Unfortunately, this is what Milton did. The sonorous cadence of the William Lyon Mackenzie King political address was even more soothing than his literary efforts. Milton’s hand diligently jotted down the words, but his mind had warped out to blissful oblivion. Occasionally a phrase like “social credit” or “contra-cyclical financing” would penetrate his stupor and reverberate through his own reveries, producing nightmares of political farce. The Western Grain Stabilization Act became a circus performer from Manitoba who juggled loaves of French bread… The Western Grain Stabilization…
Milton returned to consciousness to see that the late prime minister had indeed worked his way round to that topic. Suppressing a yawn, he forced himself to listen. After much rambling and personal digression, Mackenzie King began to outline his political plan. A few minutes later Milton was wide awake. This fellow’s ideas weren’t so ridiculous after all. Quite sensible, really. But what was this bit in his notes about prostitutes? He must have dreamed that part… What was he saying now? Soon Milton found himself leaning forward, saying excitedly: “Yes! Yes! That would work! What else?”
“Well, it’s quite simple really…”
Milton suddenly noticed that the clock, whose alarm he had forgotten to set, said 7:30. He was due in class in half an hour! It seemed a pity to interrupt such brilliance, but he had his academic career to think of.
Milton ventured to interrupt. “Excuse me, sir,” he said timidly, raising his hand. “I have to be getting to the university now.”
“In a moment,” said the ghost, and went on talking.
Five minutes later, Milton decided that he would have to be firm. “I have a test at eight. I must be going now.”
The great man frowned. “I haven’t finished yet,” he said peevishly.
“Really, I have to leave.”
“Well… I suppose I’ll come along. We can talk on the way.”
Milton got ready to leave, idly wondering whether the rest of the class would be able to see the visitor. Would he be invited to address the class? Perhaps the test could be postponed in his honor. Milton grabbed for his coat, scarf, and briefcase while the ghost continued to lecture steadily; in his present spectral state, it was no longer necessary for him to pause for breath. They left the room together, nodding and gesturing about various political details.
“… Registered Retirement Savings Plan…”
“Yes! Yes! I’ll make a note of it!” Milton scribbled furiously.
“… Temporary Wheat Reserves Act…”
“Of course!”
They continued down the hall, the ghost orating happily, while Milton nodded and noted, until they arrived at the end of the corridor, where a left turn would take them to the stairs. The deceased prime minister, deep in a monologue about taxable income, continued to walk straight ahead, passing gracefully through the brick wall. Milton, attempting to follow, slammed face-first into cold, solid reality. As the last strains of the voice reached him from some great beyond, Milton dabbed at his profusely bleeding nose, and reflected that Professor Paulsen had been right after all: you could follow Mackenzie King just so far…
A WEE DOCH AND DORIS
HE STOOD FOR a long while staring up at the house, but all was quiet. There was one light on in an upstairs window, but he saw no shadows flickering on the shades.
