13 Lives

by Michael Pawlowski

  As being the sole means to cope, talk of separating the children spread. Amelia was one of several young women who approached their parish priest stressing the need to keep the six children together. In turn, that idea was presented to the bishop. As a result, those six children did stay together. Volunteers helped with the maintenance of the family home. The parish absorbed the mortgage payments, while the diocese was ready to contribute if necessary. Women in the Catholic Women’s League provided meals or attended every so often to prepare some. Amelia’s mother was one of them. The children prospered academically, in social relationships, and later in life.

  Then, as if that was not enough, during the summer following completion of grade school, another one of their classmates took ill. Dizzy spells were present but seemingly inconsequential at first. Months later the young lady died of a brain tumour.

  In high school, Amelia’s talents continued to open doors, or perhaps opportunities for others to employ her skills. The number of Catholic families unable to afford Separate School Education or choosing the public school nearby was ever increasing. To ensure continuing Catholic education for those children, the priests established Saturday morning religion classes from October to May. Amelia became one of the select few to teach religion to those children.

  It bothered her greatly that, by her third year of high school, the number of families dependent on food baskets had doubled. Most new recipients were single parents. The increasing experience of divorce was rampant. Amelia loathed every suggestion that children of divorced parents didn’t suffer. Society presented suggestions that sexual permissiveness prompted most separations. Amelia rejected that theory. Sexual relationships were not part of her social itinerary, and she vowed to never let them be so. She contemplated the religious life in her youth, and still considered same while avoiding the temptation.

  In the final two years of high school, Amelia turned her attention from the Girl Guides to focus on charity work, ­particularly visiting the sick and infirm. She abhorred a reality in society that was all too prevalent. There were too many elderly citizens in those shelters simply because they were abandoned by their families. The irritating aspect was that the forsaken persons were generally those who had first financed the immigration of their families to Canada. Accordingly, that convalescent home received most of her visits. The grounds with a canopy of trees, winding path ways, decorative gardens, and flowing streams provided a spirited setting for the disillusioned. Because the complex was Catholic and operated by a religious order, the Stations of the Cross lined one pathway giving the residents and visitors the opportunity to share their faith. It was an inspiration, and Amelia gained much from the visits.

  What should have been her last year of high school, under the direction of the Sisters of St Joseph, proved to be her hardest academically. Grade 13 demanded completion of departmental examinations. Although she was fluent in both English and French, and had acquired some verbal skills in Italian from visiting the elderly; Amelia’s capacity at written examinations in English Literature, Grammar and Composition was lacking. As a consequence, in spite of all of her time generously spent for others, Amelia did not pass all of the required courses. She was ­successful in the second attempt which meant she graduated with her sister.

  Distrust, dismay, and disenchantment raged throughout society during that last year of high school in 1968. The murders of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy, coupled with the anti-war riots, cities ablaze, and communist invasions in Europe, brought home that the world was no longer a peaceful place. Apollo 8 circled the moon on Christmas Eve while starvation spread across Africa. More had to be done, and Amelia suddenly started feeling very inadequate. All of the joys and enthusiasm of Centennial Year and Expo 67 were being quickly cut down to earth.

  After high school, past friendships tend to become bleached memories of insignificant youth. With the start of university we parted. Amelia was no longer a part of that young man’s life, the acquaintance to whom she could confess her worries with assurance of utmost privacy. The author was that young man who attests freely to her accomplishments, her generous soul, and her aspirations for a better life for all whom she ever met.

  They taught each other how to look into a person’s soul and celebrate the goodness seen there. They did not date, nor did they ever exchange an overtly intimate moment. Amelia loved to talk, and the young man was keen to listen. If she had to stay late at the church rectory for receptionist duties, he would when called be there to walk her safely home. When the classmates got together for their annual bike trek, Amelia was always eager to ride; and he dutifully followed the group. A gentleman always did that, didn’t he? Being the last in the line of bicyclists was assurance that others would not be hit by a following vehicle. It was these almost seemingly inconsequential acts that perhaps attracted Amelia to his style.

  During their moments together, they remained abundantly clear that sexual contact was not anticipated. If they did embrace it was simply to share the warmth of each other’s need. She taught him the importance of looking inside a person to observe that person’s heart. Her laughter remained joyous, and her lively conversation was constant. They went in groups to the movies. She was so incredibly captivated by “The Sound of Music”. Amelia even asked him to take her to see the movie again. Actually, she viewed it five times. When the young man mentioned that movie was close to his heart, she asked for an ­explanation. He offered that his father had found refuge in that convent after the war. He had been, along with so many others in the Polish II Corps, abandoned after the victory at Bologna.

  “A Man for All Seasons” similarly captured her heart and soul. It was in her comments regarding defense of the papacy that he understood her commitment to the religious life. Amelia knew more about the reformation than most. She was most abrupt with her opposition to Protestantism in the sixteenth century that tried to eradicate the Corporal Works of Mercy. It had been the intention of Cromwell and Cranmer to decrease their importance with the argument that there was no need to strive for sanctifying grace when indulgences were anathema. “Can you imagine: what would they say if Martin Luther wrote the hymn, Amazing Grace?” At times her humour and quips could be cynical. However, to Amelia, her faith justified such expressions.

  On one occasion someone mentioned the many who were tortured and even burned at the stake by both sides during the Reformation. Amelia was suddenly silenced. That was strange. She had often held that the end justifies the means, but at times dismissed that theory to accommodate a morally reasonable approach.

  If there was ever an occasion that might have been considered a ‘date’, that occurred in the middle of August of 1968. High school graduation was two months in the past. He had been accepted at the University of Toronto starting September. Her noviciate would commence in November. After taking public transit, they boarded the ferry for the islands. There they spent the day talking aimlessly about everything. She was more direct than on other occasions. The elderly being abandoned, homeless children, loose morality, the growing drug culture, and the riots in Chicago the week before—all were given appropriate time to vent her frustrations.

  After lunch at the dock restaurant, they continued their walk from Centre Island to Ward’s Island. That route followed the path that brought them close to the beach. The young man recalled his earliest memories of the islands: the wooden walkway and the old stores where his parents had purchased his first plastic shovel and pail. Those buildings were no longer there. The memories received much description.

  After passing by the small Anglican chapel they rested sharing the one beach towel he had brought from home. Amelia was unusually serious.

  “I am Cree,” she spoke matter-of-factly. He didn’t understand, failing to hear her expression with the wind rustling the leaves in the poplar and maple trees. She repeated, “I’m Cree.”

  He thought he understood her words, but they didn’t make sen
se. She was blonde with a fair complexion even in late summer. She mustn’t have said “Cree.”

  Amelia continued with the explanation that her mother had heard from her family who still lived in a suburb of Montreal. Information was not complete but there was enough there to affirm what Amelia’s parents already knew: that her father’s father was Cree. She continued the tale, extrapolating freely to make sense of what she had previously heard. Together in those moments they were the most serious words they had ever shared.

  “What does this mean?” His question tried to establish the consequences of the information.

  She mumbled quietly, “I don’t know.”

  He asked, hoping for her negative reply, “Will you leave?”

  She had no answers to provide reassurance that the happy times would not suddenly disappear. Other children moved away with their parents. However this, she said, was different. Would she force herself to move because of who she discovered she was?

  Her answer was not clear. For the entire day Amelia was humming one of Ian and Sylvia’s recordings. The melody and lyrics of “Someday Soon” had always been one of her favourites. Then she turned to another song that echoed moments of uncertainty. The song “Changes” composed by Phil Ochs, eventually blossomed into lyrics that she sang quietly. By the time she reached the second verse, her words were clearly discernible.

  Moments of magic will glow in the night.

  All fears of the forest are gone.

  But when the morning breaks they’re swept

  away by golden drops of the dawn of changes.

  Passions will part to a warm melody

  as fires will sometimes turn cold.

  Like petals in the wind we’re puppets to the

  silver strings of souls of changes.

  Your tears will be trembling.

  Now we’re somewhere else.

  One last cup of wine we will pour.

  I’ll kiss you one more time, and leave you

  on the rolling river shore of changes.

  That was her answer.

  During the return trip onboard the ferry they shared their observation of the skyline. It was destined to change with the construction of several office towers. “Nothing remains.” His words were sincere. He hugged her, holding her close in the evening breeze. They parted company that night with his kiss to her forehead. Friendship remained but as acquaintances they would go their separate ways.

  Twenty years pass quickly when one is preoccupied with both trivial and serious activities, and is quite unable to discern the difference. The young man was older now. Friends in the neighbourhood and at university had disappeared into obscured horizons. Grey clouds covered most rainbows. Every aspect of employment proved stressful. Then, fortunately, office environs provided the opportunity to meet a young lady whom he delightfully married. That she was so much akin to Amelia in style and virtue created his Xanadu.

  Years later, the concept for a reunion prompted enquiries to locate old friends. Only seven could be found, and each of those conveyed reluctance. Questions provided answers, some of which no one wanted to hear. Seeking a positive alternative, the young man prompted himself to enquire of the clergy at his old parish. There were some details about Amelia’s family, and that information was freely shared.

  Amelia did not remain in the convent. Her family returned to Montreal so that her mother could take care of Amelia’s grandmother. Recessions had not been good for her father, and so he turned to self-employment. Amelia too returned to Montreal; and with that limited advice, information went silent.

  Another seventeen years passed, and the world of social media allowed for more determined enquiries. More friends were located, and with them, information. Amelia’s sister became a teacher and remained gainfully employed. As for Amelia, it was reported that she left Montreal and was working in social services distributing clothing to the needy. “The Corporal Works of Mercy in action,” was the young man’s immediate thought.

  Within weeks, further information provided by clergy in Montreal confirmed she had truly returned home. Amelia was working with the Cree Nation providing clothes and nourishment. She had accomplished that which her soul had deemed to be most important. Her God was being satisfied with the aid she gave to those seeking her God. Those in the Cree Nation who Amelia touches with her kindness have reason to convey their appreciation.

  3

  EMILY

  She sat in the restricted quarters, the stool wobbling beneath her frailty. Unable to escape the pressure of her occupation, the young girl buried her face in her palms. Long deep breaths failed to ease her sorry state. Her tears she could no longer hide.

  The room was no more than a large cubby hole provided by her sponsor. After more than a year, she still didn’t even know his full name. There were other terms describing his job, and more direct cat-calls describing her profession. She had done well. There was some applause. That really was the only reasonable expectation. Intelligence was not a factor. Having any esteem only got in the way. Flashing a broad smile and being able to enticingly ease flimsy attire from her thin frame were the only required skills. If there was an alternative, she would not be here. However, life affords few options; and God had never been kind to her.

  In her fourteen years she had seen so much and shown more so as to attack the heart and soul of any principled individual. As the next girl entered the room, young Emily lifted her face from her palms to silently acknowledge the other stripper’s presence. Nudity had become so commonplace in their lives, so much so that morality no longer intruded upon her dignity.

  Peter Graves treated the summer student with some respect, as much as he could muster for anyone who was not his client. Confined to the stockroom on the second floor basement of the Ferguson Block, they worked together on a new government program: sending the appropriate Gross Weight Transport stickers to all of the provincial trucking firms. Graves would have ­preferred to be by himself. It wasn’t just a matter of style. He had another agenda.

  It was the third day of June, 1971, payday for the government employees. All paydays were good for Graves. He was going to be busy that lunch hour and then extremely occupied in the afternoon hours. That was the norm. Inner city standards were determined by their silent acceptance, not their validity, and clearly not by those established in the suburbs.

  Peter Graves, still only twenty-three, had the respect of his co-workers and residents of his select community. He was acknowledged to always be the one to make generous donations to those in need. He carried himself confidently as if immune from any ill that could interfere with his plans.

  There were no visible tattoos. Peter was always clean shaven and discussed any issue with a professional air. He was not tall nor heavy set. He had muscles mainly across his shoulders and upper chest. At about five-foot-six, he never drew anyone’s immediate attention to his presence. However, to the influential in suburban society, he would not be welcome.

  Graves belonged to the Hell’s Angels. That was his true job. The government stockroom position with the Ministry of Transportation and Communications was his side-line. That position basically allowed him to earn a ‘legitimate income’ and file the appropriate tax return. He didn’t have to do what the pimps, bikers, dealers and traffickers had to do to keep National Revenue at bay. Graves did not have to file a tax return for self employed income declaring his occupation as ‘consultant’. He was basically nondescript except for the many that required and expected his services.

  He never drove his bike to work except on the occasional Friday when he had to be on the shores of Lake Huron in the evening.

  Among the so-called criminal elements of inner city society Peter Graves had incredible immunity. He had friends in Satan’s Choice: an unheard of alliance, constantly involved in deadly turf wars. His friendships, though not open, provided access to information that kept Gr
aves’ hands clean and his territory secure.

  Drugs were his game. On average, every payday, he pocketed over $16,000 from government employees alone. In today’s currency that would be approximately $100,000. Working in the government, he was very much a fox in the henhouse. His customers were young and well-attired. The stockroom on the basement’s lower floor was the hub of his operations. The stash was there, concealed in and behind boxes. He had enough $25 or $50 packages to satisfy all of his customers. There were a select few that required significant quantities so that they in turn could distribute the marijuana to their own clients.

  Graves had his specific sources for the product. Lunchtime on Wednesdays he’d be at Union Station awaiting the CN Train and the delivery from Peterborough. The scenic venue of the Trent Canal provided the least suspicion. Similarly he had a supplier in the most prestigious area of Toronto—Post Road. Who would suspect anyone in the multi-million dollar mansions whose owners generously supported the politicians of the various governing parties?

  Peter Graves kept his distance from the prostitutes and pornography. He had sufficient knowledge of these, enough to provide more than significant details of the intricacy of the operations. Other Hell’s Angels members had been assigned those tasks to secure and patrol each of the locations. The entire program was complex, with the constant potential for sudden ­conflict. Locations had to be established, security had to be arranged, utilities had to be assured, pimps had to be organized, girls had to be obtained, customers had to feel secure, and people had to be trusted. The police also had to be assured that everything was within accepted standards, when in fact everything within the bikers’ operation was a crime.