13 Lives

by Michael Pawlowski

  The thought that Gerald might abandon the religious brotherhood was becoming more probable with every passing week. He never returned to Staten Island and made it abundantly clear he would not do so while his father required his presence. In spite of this our parish priests offered him the opportunity to be a supervisor at the seminary’s summer camp in July of 1966. The offer was also extended to myself and one other senior altar boy. The three of us readily accepted the chance to enjoy the highlights of New York, while considering the prospects we might still have in the religious life. That time passed quickly and was eventful especially for Gerald. Arrangements were made for him to continue his final year in the seminary. That his father had recovered, was dutifully abstaining from alcohol, and was with the intervention of the priests able to maintain his job, all these provided Gerald with the chance to pursue his own vocational goal.

  In the late spring of 1967, my time working around the church was coming to an end. There were others similarly enthused to do the chores, while my school work needed more attention.

  Meanwhile it was family matters that once again altered Gerald’s intentions. His brother returned home. There was a fight. Gerald had to be there to intervene. At age twenty-one he was home once more to keep the slim chance of peace between his father and older brother. All that kept him going was his spiritual well-being that embraced his cultural heritage. On a couple of occasions when he had an opportunity to get away from home, he attended Martyr’s Shrine as there was no other place that so closely aligned him with his father’s ancestors.

  With his main concern being the animosity and troubles within the family, Gerald relinquished his interest in the religious brotherhood and idea of serving the needy in some foreign country. Nevertheless, in his heart, he never abandoned the call to assist others. He entered the social worker program at Seneca College. With my acceptance to the University of Toronto and our individual academic workloads, we were basically destined to go our separate ways.

  The Gasworks Tavern had become the author’s inner sanctum. Situated near the university campus, it provided a refuge from the stress of exams, essays, and the world in general. Especially in the early summer of 1971, the meat pie with chips, gravy and a beer in the dimly lit confines was a feast away from the tribulations of street life. This was also my oasis during those months of helping the young teenagers escape the talons of their pimps. It was in that venue that I was suddenly shocked to see my childhood friend once more.

  Gerald entered in black pants and a grey shirt. The dank coloured clothing was totally foreign in years past. His hair was considerably longer. His face was clearly marked by stress. Recognition wasn’t instant. There’s always the prospect of being mistaken. Gerald moved quickly to a table by the opaque window as if that was his regular spot.

  After staring for a moment, while my meat pie got cold and the beer got warm, I got up and went over to his table. “It must be him,” I thought as I ventured between tables. It was him.

  The salutations were instantly exuberant. We recalled so much about the events in the latter years of the 1960s, including the serious moments. Gerald’s father had passed away. I avoided any queries concerning his family. He did however offer that his brother ended up in jail, completed his sentence and entered rehab. After fifteen minutes the bartender brought me a new meat pie with a fresh beer. It was on the house. I had no idea Gerald had been a regular customer. He too received the same gratuity.

  His questions about my university years followed. I provided information, but avoided any reference to the request by Hell’s Angels to get the minors out of the strip clubs. As to why Gerald was downtown, the question was never asked. The thought was there however: “Did he ever complete his course?”

  The conversation provided further details of Gerald’s academic studies, advising that he had graduated and returned for an enhanced degree focussing on the needs of the homeless population. Urban street culture was to be the foundation of his final report necessary for graduation. He had until the end of August to submit same.

  Even though he had conveyed such information, the author to that time was still unwilling to reveal details of his own involvement with the homeless young women. That matter remained concealed during the conversation that day.

  After leaving the Gasworks, Gerald directed me to follow him from Yonge Street west for two blocks to Bay Street. There, across from the campus of St. Michael’s College, we stopped. Gerald then invited me to observe those entering the book store. “This is a major problem,” he blankly stated. His eyes remained riveted to the man wearing a trench coat in the late afternoon sun. I recognized him as a government manager. Later I was told that many government workers “are dependent on these stores.” We parted company after an hour and pledged to renew our acquaintance.

  That meeting did not occur for another week. We started our walk again from the Gasworks and returned towards the same book store. This time we entered. The musty odour was atrocious. The books on the shelves were all paperbacks, many were soiled or dog-eared. The cashier’s counter was on the north side. Diagonally, behind the merchant, there was a curtain shielding an inner room from the general public.

  Gerald walked directly to the east wall where he pulled a book off the shelf and forced it into my grasp. The cover clearly portrayed the name of a doctor and the title of his work. From cover to cover, in a series of seven chapters, it provided a vivid decree of incest involving minors. One didn’t have to read anything more than the ‘Summary of Chapters’ page to discern as much.

  “He’s not a doctor. Checked. He doesn’t exist.” Gerald was extremely terse, bordering on being irate. Once outside, he advised that, “Nearly every book in there is like that, each one suggesting it’s a psychological study on deviant behaviour.” His frustration was clear. He deplored that our country, our province and our city were allowing such establishments to sell gross pornography under the guise of clinical studies.

  He then directed me to a series of book stores on Yonge Street that, in the midst of all of the runaway teens, were selling magazines committed to the excitement of child pornography. Such graphic depictions were not hidden away, but rather they were available for anyone to browse or purchase. Proof of age was never asked.

  Three days later we met again. This time I directed Gerald to the Zanzibar Tavern where he was shown the venue of my efforts. He candidly called me “a fool.” The comment related more to the association with the bikers than any other aspect. He then called me “brave.” There was a sense of respect, a sentiment we shared for each other’s efforts and enquiries. From there the step was simple: I would share my research with him in order for Gerald to complete his detailed report.

  Gerald had never taken this project lightly. He was determined not to just write about immorality or list the various stores and venues. Gerald committed himself to a complete analysis of the cause, the permissive nature of society, and the ultimate consequences. He wanted to prompt society and governments to act appropriately and close these venues of depravity.

  Gerald started his analysis not with the adage that ignorance was bliss, but that ignorance was the consequence of comfort. “Why bother when it doesn’t matter?” Accordingly he concluded that society, when it lacks understanding and knowledge, is never able to conjecture the consequence of any decision.

  “When the benefits of life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness can be summarized as being ‘permissive comfort’; then, ­society is exposing itself to perils it is unable to understand or control.”

  This freedom we claim as our privilege generates the expectation we can “observe and react while believing we can remain immune from the consequences of our actions.”

  “If he feels he is a victim of some ill-defined moral situation, then more than likely his audacity convinces him that everything is acceptable.”

  “If he firmly believes he is immune from the consequ
ences, then his initial observation and continuing perception are morally supported by his initial judgement and continuing resolution.”

  “It then becomes a situation when perceived morality allows immorality. The desire to maintain satisfaction becomes a freedom just as much as life or happiness.”

  Gerald concluded that initial interest can ultimately become a repetitive action, becoming passion, and then with acceptance it all becomes an obsession.

  At that point, compulsion is required to justify the continuing impulse, to the extent that the individual could possibly be considered no longer wholly responsible for any resulting crime. He never condoned any such activity, but saw the possibility that at some time society would wash itself of any involvement in the process of a person’s demise toward immorality.

  Also, one chapter was devoted to the horrendous attitude of society at the time, seemingly allowing child pornography and not preventing minors from becoming prostitutes. He asserted that that reality was known and those who were most in need or susceptible were not being protected.

  Gerald’s conclusion was simple: society had to do something.

  On Wednesday, August the 18TH, that forty-two page report was completed. The report provided the addresses of sixteen bookstores and seven strip clubs involved in the pornography and prostitution activities. Four copies were collated: one for Seneca College, one that Gerald would keep, one for the police, and the last to be delivered to the Office of the Premier. The three deliveries were completed the next day.

  Events followed quickly. Gerald received telephone advice that steps were already being taken and to do nothing more. There was another telephone call sternly advising to “cease and desist.” Gerald was handed his diploma before Labour Day weekend.

  Having completed that venture, we once again started to drift apart. We had been good for each other in matters in which we shared a mutual interest. After graduation I obtained employment in the insurance industry, meanwhile Gerald was gainfully employed with the paraplegic association.

  Injuries as a result of a serious motor vehicle accident brought us together once more in the summer of 1973. His office was located in the city’s east end. Our conversation was light and enthusiastic with each having much to say about the past. He was well-versed in all of the aspects of rehabilitation for the physically disadvantaged. Accordingly, Gerald was able to provide expert information on present equipment needs and the cost of future care. He was clearly at home in that venue with so many opportunities to assist so many individuals.

  During our discussion, he was constantly being called upon for his advice. Once the telephone stopped ringing, there were knocks at his door. Trying to arrange any evening together was prevented by his calendar of endless meetings. He was booked solid every daylight hour for the next six weeks. We parted company for the last time that afternoon, although we had not intended it to be so. In spite of never meeting again, friendship remained eternal within the smiles of accomplishment.

  The supervisor knelt before the grave of his dear friend. Brisk winds in mid November painted the solitary scene. All Souls’ Day and Remembrance Day Masses had all been completed. The scent of incense no longer lingered among the floral displays. The surge of visiting families had already dwindled to just a few. Inspiring verses of sacred hymns floated across the grassy expanse echoing between the tombstones to rebound off the walls of the mausoleum. There was no actual music, just the impression of angelic hosts celebrating the accomplishments of the deceased.

  He rose and stood there in silent respect for minutes more with his mind working overtime again wondering how he could assist someone, somewhere, somehow, to put forth the appropriate insurance claim for damages. Upon entering the grounds, the supervisor had asked the cemetery staff for information as to who paid for the grave, but that advice was refused. On one occasion years before, Gerald had mentioned a nephew—his brother’s son from a common-law relationship. He didn’t even know the child’s name. Perhaps he was in his twenties. “Where was he? Did he pay for the grave?” Or was it Gerald’s derelict brother who suddenly turned good in a moment of need?

  The supervisor left the cemetery that afternoon feeling very despondent. In all respects, he had tried. Perhaps someone visiting the plot would pick up the wampum belt that he left hanging by the grave marker. On the reverse side, he had fixed his business card.

  He still visits the grave once every year to quietly reflect on Gerald’s life: that his native heritage was so much a part of his spiritual and social accomplishments. The last phrase of Susan Boyle’s ‘Abide with Me’ always joins the angelic chorus blowing with the wind beyond the expanse of willows and poplar trees across the wave of endless tombstones.

  Hold Thou Thy cross before my closing eyes. Shine through the gloom and point me to the skies. Heaven’s morning breaks, and earth’s vain shadows flee. In life, in death, O Lord, abide with me.

  7

  ADONIO

  The seventeen-year-old stared out the kitchen window, his eyes fixed to the enormity of the ice flow. As far as he could see, rough waters driven by the prevailing breeze swept sheets of broken ice from the west towards Buffalo. He had seen it every year, but never this much this early. In another month, or perhaps in just weeks, their journey over crests and through troughs would end, creating a formidable ice wall along the north shore of Lake Erie. Then like an invading monster from the glacial ice-world it was destined to cover the land: destroying docks, boathouses and shorelines.

  Adonio was more than anxious as he awaited the telephone call. It was planned, not by him, but by a distinguished-sounding gentleman claiming that he required information regarding events over which Adonio had no control and candidly had little interest. The other person insisted they meet, but the teenager refused. He chose to talk at this time only because his parents would not be home. That would have to suffice. A beige-coloured telephone, secured to the wall, hung there in silence.

  The teenager glanced around the room and peered into the den. It wasn’t much of a room, but it always served the family’s purpose. His parents didn’t have many friends, at least ones that they would invite into their home.

  Adonio always used the term ‘parents’ with grateful respect, bearing in mind George Smythie and his wife Tenia adopted him eleven years ago. So often he wondered what would have become of him if they had not been so charitable. Similarly he asked himself, but never his parents, as to why they even chose to adopt him. More than likely it had something to do with their inability to conceive. He had learned as much in his high school family life class. But in reality there seemed to be more than that because there was never any perception of reluctance or regret on their part.

  Adonio was never shielded from his past. Everything about his natural parents was made known to him. In 1969, the love child was born to a Mohawk woman in the city hospital. For years she had avoided the reserve as if wanting to end all relationships with her past. His biological father had encountered grave difficulties maintaining employment and turned to substitutes to accommodate his personal failings. By the time he was two years of age, Adonio was receiving care exclusively on the reserve. The number of temporary guardians with so much abundant time was countless.

  Then, out of the blue, this married couple in their thirties arrived expressing their intent to adopt a child in need. Perhaps it was his name that meant ‘eagle’, or his toothy smile. Whatever determined their choice made Adonio fly with joy among the eagles soaring free without borders.

  Even as a seventeen-year-old, he still expressed every possible sign of affection and gratitude for each act of kindness. He was well fed and had countless opportunities to participate in sports, and enjoy the company of numerous friends. These were not all his student peers, but included neighbours, family friends and even a politician. He was never overtly close to any of these, but possessed a persuasive personality making adults wonder about his p
oise.

  Adonio never forgot his heritage, and his adoptive parents were certain that would never happen. The belts, scarves, drum and relics were all symbols of his allegiance to the blood and community that gave him life. At least four times each year he’d return to the native environs, usually with his adoptive father, to share in celebrations and festivities. He had become a spokesman in his high school promoting improvements to the living conditions on the reserve. Twice the native community visited his school to celebrate the Spirit Circle.

  Each evening he would, by memory, recite the Great Spirit’s Prayer. The teenager obviously never knew Chief Yellow Hawk, but totally revered him as a saint. The prayer encompassed all of the spiritual and moral aspects of his being and culture. Adonio was so often prone to interchange the expression of ‘self’ with the term ‘creation’, because they were so much united in the Eternal Elder’s great design.

  Appearance-wise Adonio appeared to be native. His deep complexion and short-cropped hair suggested same. He loved bright scarves that were predominantly one colour. While others were adopting the new trend in turtlenecks, Adonio made sure his scarf was partly visible inside the collar of his shirt. He reserved the mix of colours for his wampum beaded-belts, one of which hung in his student locker.

  He never begged for more. His parents always provided an abundant flow of assets to the extent his private bank account was never empty. Adonio knew full well that he was very fortunate in that regard. There was at least one annual major vacation. In recent years there were two. He tried dating on one occasion, but that never succeeded. The fault, as he perceived it, lay with him, as inherent pressures on teens led him to suffer ill-defined expectations. Perhaps he was too forward, or maybe she had issues with his lack of whiteness.