13 Lives

by Michael Pawlowski

  Late in the conversation, Karen expressed gratitude that she was an only child and figured that that fact contributed to her ability to avoid crime. She called crime a “family trap”; as if defending and supporting family members widened the web of illicit activity.

  Her advice regarding employment was intriguing as she continued to ramble. When she talked of total loss automobile claims, Karen advised it was usual just to give the insured person cash and let him keep the clunker. In Thompson, there was one salvage yard and space was extremely limited. An insured person with several total loss claims on the same car was not uncommon. Evaluating native crafts that were stolen, burned, or damaged by flooding was becoming more difficult as prices were starting to escalate with the new tourist interest in native crafts. However the funds ended up in the pockets of the distributors—not the manufacturers or the vendors.

  During the latter portion of the conversation that December evening, Karen lightheartedly talked about her future. At one point she seemed certain that she would visit her mother. That was just wishful thinking.

  The New Year came, and the staff celebrated with an extra long weekend. The employees who combined those days with the Christmas holidays had not been seen for two weeks. Karen was not overly enthusiastic on that Monday, the fourth day of January. She walked into her supervisor’s office and handed him a note. January 15TH would be her last day. She said she had a job with an insurance company in Toronto.

  Regardless of any doubts anyone might have had, Karen talked highly of the prospect. For months after she left, queries about her produced the same repetitive response: “Haven’t heard.”

  6

  GERALD

  “No!” His reaction was immediate. The insurance supervisor clutched the corners of the report and stared at the blank wall in disbelief. “It can’t be!” His mind demanded the truth; but reality was not running away. It was right there in paper. The brief circumstances he knew from the preliminary report; but now the name. It stunned every sense. The victim’s occupation was similar. “It can’t be!” his furrowed forehead repeated the unbelievable possibility. He closed his eyes tightly, wishing he could reverse time and events: for them not to be there, or just for him to have said, “Don’t do that. Stop for just one second. Don’t go there.”

  Thoughts somersaulted with a dervish revelry tearing at every sense more with each moment. He reread the name. Nothing changed. Stone-faced with his chest pounding, he just for that minute closed his eyes. Thoughts of the past irrigated his mind, flushing the present reality with pleasantries of the past. Together they flooded the future within a realm that decreed, “Never again!”

  The insurance supervisor hoped with every prospect that the victim was not his friend. How spiteful could God have ever been to provide the setting in which he would be the one handling the fatality claim of his childhood companion.

  It was the autumn of 1982. The insurance supervisor had just visited the Norfolk County Fair. His firm had participated in the celebrations with a customer service stand. Being present in such communities was always beneficial for public relations. Although not absolutely acquainted with every avenue in that urban area, he was very much aware of the highway entering the city: one of the main access routes. Perhaps it would have been best in this case not to have any knowledge of the scene. However, being aware of such always added to the understanding of the circumstances.

  He reread the details once more. This report provided specific information as to location and apparent action prior to impact. Scenes photos, the driver’s statement, and a neighbour’s evidence were added to the one page police report. That’s all there was: no charges, nothing more.

  A police cruiser struck a pedestrian who was pushing a wheelchair along Highway 3. The supervisor repeated to himself what had already been made obvious in the preliminary advice. He silently cursed the brevity of the independent adjuster’s report, but knew he could not say more as that firm had a reputation for its quality judgements and detailed reports. Although it was the customary four pages in length with the additional attachments, the report seemed delinquent in essential details.

  Questions as to why there were no charges seemed obvious. He pledged to clarify that situation: not in a chastising tone, but rather in a manner as if he was wishing to fortify the defence. His insurance company provided insurance for the province itself and for several municipalities. This was one of those cities. In reality his office insured the vehicle, the city that might have owned the property for any road allowance or a non-existent sidewalk, and the province that had control of the highway and owned the vehicle. If fault did not lie with one of his insured entities, then seemingly it could rest with another. Perhaps the independent adjuster realized this and decided to be brief so as to avoid playing one insured against another.

  The failure to lay any charges was a benefit to the insurance company. It was indeed a rare occasion that a crown prospector would ever charge a police officer as a result of any motor vehicle accident. Evidence of impairment, excessive speed or gross negligence would definitely be required. In this case there was none. Perhaps it was the erratic action of the person pushing the wheelchair that caused the accident. According to the adjuster, that seemed to be the case.

  The supervisor returned his attention to the fatally injured individual. He was clearly the person pushing the wheelchair. The report advised he had been employed with a paraplegic association. The neighbour suggested she had seen him push that child back and forth to town on other occasions. The adjuster’s report included one photo showing the shoulder of the road that was mainly loose gravel. The available sidewalk, according to the adjuster, was in disarray and torn up in the area of a new housing development. That forced pedestrians and bicyclists to the shoulder of the highway.

  In spite of his supervisory role, he was always pursuing “the truth”. That is how he described his position: one in which he weighed the evidence and only then made the decision. Two months before this occasion the supervisor had celebrated his tenth anniversary in the industry. He was not like his seniors who always seemed determined to take the easier path that was less complicated by all of the facts. He was also unlike the juniors who preferred everything to be so simple. “The truth,” he whispered to himself while searching between the lines for what ­wasn’t said.

  “Where’s the photo of the damaged wheelchair?” His notation was made on the side of page two. There was reference to the approximate cost, but common sense said that may not have been a basic model, especially if it was capable of being directed into town.

  “Photos of the road: from a distance, at the scene of impact, and of the shoulder—where are they?” One was not enough. That was fundamental.

  The final portion of the report once again raised the supervisor’s temperature. “No evidence of liability.” That conclusion was almost abhorrent. In Ontario, any driver striking a pedestrian is wholly liable for the accident unless he could prove the pedestrian’s negligence. It was called the ‘Reverse Negligence Rule’. How and why did that adjuster, so revered in the industry, reach his conclusion?

  The supervisor paused, closing the report and leaving it front row and centre on his desk. A pile of files to the left corner would have to wait. His normal coffee break was no more than two minutes to grab a coffee from the dispenser and return to his office. Perhaps it was his facial expression or his manner that morning that prompted his staff to avoid him. Sitting once again in his office he perused the report.

  “Gerald Taylor.” The name was abundantly clear. The ­victim’s birthday of April 14, 1947 was clearly evident. The supervisor repeated his ultimate wish, “It can’t be.” However, it was, but he refused to accept the obvious reality. Any ray of hope would help. Was there another person named Gerald Taylor with the same date of birth? The same occupation was another element that could not be discounted. Yet his mind was still racing for the possibility
that coincidence did not definitely mean assurety.

  The supervisor then telephoned the independent adjuster with a question he had never asked before: “Where is he buried?” His trembling hands did not rest while he waited for the return call.

  The child’s injuries diverted his focus only for a moment. The infant was eleven years old, known to be paralyzed from the waist down before the accident. His injuries were definitely severe, including fractured ribs, a rotator cuff injury and cuts and scars to his face, arms and chest. The wheelchair was basically demolished.

  The immediate thought reflected the supervisor’s compassion and understanding. “How much is a rotator cuff injury worth for an able-bodied person? How much is it worth for a child who requires both shoulders for mobility?” There would be serious discussions later on that claim’s value, as there had been to that time no reported jury assessments with those specific circumstances. Candidly, no lawyer in his right mind would take such a case involving a paralysed child to a jury.

  The probabilities, that his friend had died as a result of negligence by a person his company insured and that the file was on his desk, dumbfounded him no end. If this ‘Gerald Taylor’ was the same person who was his friend, the supervisor silently committed himself to doing whatever was necessary to make sure Gerald rested in peace. The author shares this narrative having been the supervisor at the time with the insurance company in Hamilton.

  We first met in September of 1958. I was at the time elated, as any nine-year-old would be, to attend my first altar boys’ club meeting. It may be hard now to imagine a world where parents could trust their child to trek to a house about a mile away for a gathering in a basement. The home was occupied by the parish priests while the church and rectory were being built. The basement was one large room with painted walls and an area rug. There was a television, record player and a table with chairs. I had been an altar boy just four months before that occasion.

  Gerald was there appearing very dignified even though he was just two years older. I immediately looked up to him for guidance and direction. There were other boys there, much older; but it was Gerald who had that helpful demeanour as he welcomed the younger altar boys into the activities or made sure they felt comfortable in spite of any shyness. There were more than twenty boys present on that first occasion. The number attending on the second Friday of every month for that first year continued to be approximately the same in spite of heavy snow or icy conditions. The priests always prepared snacks or mini-sandwiches. There were dart games with sticky nerf balls. Instruction was quick, and meetings usually lasted about an hour. Many of the boys also belonged to the Boy Scouts, so friendships were already shared by many.

  For Christmas Midnight Mass, Gerald asked me to be one of the acolytes. That honour was much appreciated. After that we served many of the important occasions together. It was indeed a respect that filled my heart with an enthusiasm for everything spiritual. Serving daily mass, before school, became common place. Gerald did the same until September when he entered high school.

  After school, chores around the church caused us to meet often. The priests relied on one of us to be present at all masses on Sundays in the event of emergencies. During the week we took turns cleaning the pews, sweeping the steps, or doing gardening chores. This was an age of spiritual vitalization where ­immigrants from every community in Europe had a special ­devotion for particular saints. Accordingly, preparations for such occasions were paramount. It meant so much for so many ­parishioners.

  The chores around the church became rather multi-dimensional, even including bringing meals in sealed containers to the construction workers who were building the new rectory as well as to the shopping mall across the street. Men’s and women’s groups drew our attention, too, with their need to prepare the parish hall for their meetings. A simple expression of gratitude was basically the sole remuneration.

  Gerald also developed a curiosity that summer with baseball, suddenly becoming quite excited about Warren Spahn and the Milwaukee Braves. He hadn’t shown any real interest in the sport before then. However when Spahn recorded his 300TH win in August of 1961, he was most amazed. I never really understood his interest in that particular pitcher as Spahn was left handed and Gerald was clearly right handed in everything he did. Perhaps he was thinking of me.

  In September of 1961, I entered grade seven in our parish school. Gerald at the same time was enrolled in the regional public high school. There was always quiet discussion about good Catholic students who would enroll in the public high school system. So often, the murmurs became ridicule.

  I never questioned him. Even though we had known each other about three years, we rarely spoke of our family life. I was aware of his father and brother, but his mother was never mentioned. There was more than one occasion when I wondered what life was like without a mother.

  It was just before Christmas that year that he called me to attend his house. I did so dutifully bearing in mind the sense of urgency that he conveyed. Gerald had been downtown picking up boxes of altar-bread for several parishes. “Can you deliver those to St. Edward’s and St. Gabriel’s?” After the affirmative response, I was on my way. At times my bike was my best friend.

  At his home, Gerald had shown me his room. Behind the cross on the wall there were two eagle feathers. By the closet door a wampum belt was hanging, fully displaying the zig-zag pattern mixed with bright circles of coloured beads. A drum bearing an ornate skin occupied one corner of his dressing table. He had a strange radiance while I observed those relics of his ­heritage.

  It was during the following Dominion Day weekend that he spoke more of his family. Gerald’s father was “Indian.” He then quickly added the term, “Chippewa.” All of that at the time, in 1962, did not mean much. We lived in a multi-cultural community in north-end Toronto, so any reference to any cultural difference was insignificant in the broader picture.

  Rumours started persisting about his brother who apparently “ran into trouble with the law.” No one asked questions, but occasionally Gerald had to cut short his time with others to return home quickly.

  Subsequent discussions revealed his father had difficulty keeping a job. He advised that his mother just left shortly after his fifth birthday. Gerald continued that subject by noting that his brother who was two years older took their mother’s passing much harder. He then added that his father never recovered.

  So often our conversations reflected his appreciation of God’s grandeur. Everything about every aspect of nature drew his attention. I had no real appreciation of that sincerity at the time, other than to conjecture that perhaps he was keenly interested in botany or geography. Conversations eventually included the environment and ideas of worldwide catastrophe. National Geographic in January 1964 had released an article on the potential devastation that could be caused by Antarctica’s melting ice. That prompted several more discussions.

  Gerald’s interest in creation embraced all phases. Whenever he chose to get a touch serious, the flow of the conversation would quickly turn to a series of queries concerning the fortune of the few at the cost of many. The inequality of wealth and distribution of assets were becoming more and more his main interests. In the course of one such discussion, he attributed his views to his native heritage. Such expressions began to give more meaning to the artifacts in his room. More and more he talked of sharing the wealth and assisting others. He was as much Chippewa as he was Catholic.

  Gerald did not return to grade ten in the public school system. Instead, he entered the seminary in Chicago with the Scalabrini Fathers in September 1962. There he planned to complete the last three years of high school and spend one further year as a novice before becoming a religious brother. It seemed strange to me that he would consider an Italian-speaking religious order, bearing in mind his aboriginal heritage. However, it was the efforts of our parish priests that may have prompted the decision. They helped
Gerald’s father obtain a permanent job, paid for Gerald’s tuition and were themselves members of the Scalabrini Order. When I last met Gerald that year on the Thursday before Labour Day, he was elated with the decision. I felt ecstatic for him because he was destined to succeed.

  Distance interrupted the friendship for several years after that. Gerald would be home during the summers of 1963 to 1965. In that last year he spent just a few weeks in Toronto before attending the seminary on Staten Island for a week. That was planned to acquaint him with the residence for the coming year, while introducing him to working with the homeless and needy in mid-Manhattan.

  By Christmas of 1965, Gerald was home. His father had taken ill, and his brother was nowhere to be found. Care providers were attending, not from the parish, but from a community north of Aurora. These persons would be later identified as being from the tribal community in the Barrie region. Specifics of who belonged to which tribe seemed to be becoming less important. All native issues at that time were considered generic matters involving persons belonging to one great big family under the auspices of Indian Affairs. It was truly these aides, attending to Gerald’s father, who rekindled his trust with the native culture. Nothing was ever said until years later about any addiction to alcohol. Gerald cursed his father’s habit over which his father had lost control. He let that be clearly known whenever he felt alone.