Carl Jung
Palace Pier in its Heyday
I wake up just past 8 am and realize I slept in and Bill Hay will be expecting me around nine.
No time for breakfast―just a quick shower and takeout coffee and croissants from Tim Hortons .
I eat while driving, alternating munching on cheese croissants and grumbling to myself about Ember.
The girl's invaded my dreams again. What else is new? It's the act I've known for all these years...
And then, dense as I am, it finally dawns on me. She's been in my dreams for as long as I can remember.
Pay attention to your dreams, was the last thing she said to me.
Am I that fearful that I automatically shut out anything that might upend my placid world―like having lived a life with her back in the Thirties?
Well, denial isn't just a river in Egypt―with me, it's a way of life.
I park the car in my reserved spot, brush off croissant crumbs from my lap, take a last gulp of now-lukewarm coffee and head up to Bill Hay's penthouse office with its commanding view of the lake.
The guy unnerves me―his assignments always push my boundaries. I mean, who wants to interview the mafia and be on speaking terms with mob bosses? Well, I have to do that.
Hell, Carmen Galati sent me a Christmas card last year...a religious one at that.
Just Crazy. If I offended him he'd put a hit out on me but send my family a mass card in sympathy.
I don't need this crap―maybe I should just resign and get it over with.
I'm ushered into Bill Hay's office where he' s swivelling as usual in his office chair, alternately staring off into space and then gazing out at the lake and the Toronto Islands in the distance.
"See those islands out there, Emerson?" he says, apropos of nothing.
I nod. They look dark and enigmatic today, wrapped in mist and a small lake squall.
But I'm not sure he even noticed my gesture, because unflinchingly, he just drawls on.
"I sent a cub reporter out there once to write me a feature article on the mysterious lake light. Folks said it was from a haunted lighthouse. I figured he couldn't mess up that assignment. I was wrong."
"How did he mess up?" I ask, laconically.
"He was convinced he met a girl from the past out there. It really screwed up his mind―left reporting after that and became a teacher, last I heard."
I don't know what he expects me to say to that, if anything.
"Funny thing though" Hay goes on, "our readers loved that article and wanted more. But Newson was so damaged after that he was no use to me or anybody. It's a cautionary tale. The assignment is never just the assignment―you never know where it's going to take you, but you have to follow it to the end."
"Something to keep in mind," I muttered.
Yeah, like thanks Pops―that's one to grow on, I mused cynically to myself.
"I don't usually listen to suggestions, but I got a call from a friend,Eliot Granger—he’s a Psych Prof at U of T."
I instantly began to panic. Maybe Ember put the Prof up to this. I'm not volunteering anything about the Prof's Mandela Society unless I'm forced to reveal it.
"Eliot wants us to do a feature on the old Palace Pier—he wants it to be an investigation of paranormal events reported there. I figure you can decide and just do a nostalgia piece if you want. I remember my folks telling me about the Big Bands that used to play there in the Forties."
"Yeah, I heard about its past too. I'll get on it and see where the story takes me."
He nodded, "You do that, and Emerson, try not to get too messed up by where the damn story takes you. I don't want to lose another good reporter."
"I'll do my best, Boss."
I don't ever get any positive feedback from Bill Hay, so his telling me I'm a good reporter was incredibly encouraging.
This might turn out to be a great opportunity after all, whether or not Ember put the bug in the prof's ear or not.
I thought at first he’d be demanding my resignation, but I can see he was after something different, thankfully.
But I do need a kind of resignation—in the sense of accepting whatever life throws at me. And that, I think I can manage.