The Minister of Lands and Lakes peered dubiously into the murky waters. On her instructions, extra crews had been assigned to the spring clean-up, clearing dead fish, tree branches and whatever muck washed up on the man made beach. She'd shrewdly selected a June day: after spring run-off had flushed the deep harbour waters; before the algae blooms and climbing coliform counts of summer. She'd had the water quality experts in her ministry run tests as recently as that very morning. "Just don't swallow any of it," they said. She'd have liked it better if she could see to a depth greater than six inches.
"Are we going in now, Mommy?" asked the youngest of two girls at the Minister's side.
"Tell her, Brigette."
In a quiet sing-song, not to be overheard, the older daughter said, "She never asks us to do anything she wouldn't do."
The little girl smacked her hands together, jumping up and down at the water's edge. The Minister put on her game face and turned to face the crowd of photographers gathered where sand beach met park grass. "From the waist up please, guys?" though it wouldn't do any good. Within the hour her Bartlet Pear image would be humming down the information highway for the amusement of news-room hacks across the country. She instantly regretted taking her advisors' suggestions to wear the bright yellow neoprene diving suit. She'd look bigger in the black, they'd told her. Well, hers was the natural shape for a middle aged woman. That these delayed adolescents found it amusing was just another example of their inability to accept her political success.
"Let's hear it, Madame Minister," a reporter piped up in his best world weary voice.
She clenched her smile. "This bay is suitable for swimming today due to your government's commitment to improving the environment. In the last two years we have spent-"
"Are you saying the harbour's no longer polluted?"
She held the smile, but her jaw began to ache. If they would just be patient she could tell them all they needed to know. "There is, of course, still work to do," she could almost feel the sudden heat of Brigette's alarm. "Rest assured, your government, and me personally, are committed to making the waters of Canada safe for all our citizens."
"OK. Got it," a scribe called. "Show time."
The Minister pulled a yellow rubber hood over her head, positioned her snorkel and goggles, took a child's hand in each of her own and stepped out into the shallows. Judy, the youngest, broke free and ran ahead, splashing. At knee depth, Brigette shook loose and refused to go any further. She knew her mother wouldn't discipline her in front of the news geeks. The Minister advanced alone, locking her eyes on the tree-lined south shore to avoid thinking of the steel mills and chemical plants that for decades had dumped effluent downstream. When the water came up to her midriff, she squatted and pushed off into a sort of dog-paddle. In a few moments she was comfortable enough to think unkind thoughts of the Mayor and Provincial Environment Minister who had each declined her invitation to take the plunge. Well, that was their loss. She'd soon be known as the one politician in Canada who backed up her words with deeds.
"Mommy, mommy. You can clean that up." It was Judy. She was pointing at a tangle of weed and colour that had appeared from the depths and was drifting toward the beach. The Minister was unenthusiastic. Photographers raised their cameras. She was going to have her picture taken, either cleaning up the bay or walking away from the mess. An aide offered the handle of a wooden rake used earlier to groom the beach. It would do brilliantly. The Minister threw the business end into the mass and pulled. Whatever she had hold of, it was heavy and barely moved. She dug in and heaved. It came free and rolled in a swirl of blue plaid jacket, green sea weed and white bloated flesh. A cheek floated loose. Fish had been at it. The Minister yelped and fell back into the water, sucking the opaque green liquid down her snorkel tube.
"Gross," said Judy.
"Way cool," Brigette laughed.
Photographers fought for the angle that would give them both bodies: floater and choking politico. Scribes hugged the shore where the minister seemed most likely to beach. Aides, dependent and on expense accounts, plunged into the cool waters, eager to provide assistance. "Do you know anything about that?" the most senior of them whispered, nodding toward the corpse. "Never mind. I wouldn't want to know if you did," he said as they approached the reporters. He put his head down and cleared a path through the shoreline scrum.
