“One Friday afternoon in June, Harry Carson, another railway porter, showed up at my room and asked, ‘You hear about that Grenadian kid?’
“He was talking about an island boy who’d had the audacity to ask for the manager of a bank that morning, seeking employment as a clerk. Harry and I shook our heads.
“All through the next week, Harry kept bringing me news. The upstart, whose name was Melvyn Hill, tried two more banks, the City Hall, two mining companies and The Winnipeg Herald, spreading word of his high school diploma.
“Finally, Harry asked me, ‘Who does this boy think he is, Ben?’
“I said I didn’t know, but I wished him luck.
“‘Ain’t no luck gonna get that boy a white man’s job.’
“I left town on a run down east and back. Two nights on the train plus one in Toronto, shining shoes, carrying luggage, making beds, mopping floors, dusting windows, keeping out of trouble, you know. Trouble, in those days, meant instant dismissal. There was an old porter used to say, ‘Trouble’s like air coming tru the winda. You can’t shut the winda and you can’t stop the draught; you just step aside so you don’t catch cold.’
“In Toronto, I spent the night with a cousin to avoid the bunk-bed flophouse the company ran on Huron Street. When I got back I learned from the inspector that the company had just trained Melvyn Hill.
“‘We’ll put him in your car on the next trip to Toronto,’ the inspector told me. ‘Show him the ropes. Let me know how he does.’
“Melvyn Hill had piano fingers. That was the first thing I noticed: no blisters, no calluses. He was short and had little meat on him and was neither photo handsome nor fighting ugly. Small eyes that hardly blinked. Chin that stuck out. And dark skin. Not high yellow. Not brown, like mine. This baby was black.
“Though I didn’t speak to Hill except when necessary, I was glad when the trip ended. He hardly spoke during the entire trip, made a fuss about cleaning toilets, refused to eat with other porters and went out alone on his night off in Toronto.”
Ben had eaten his soup and he was fussing with a glass of water.
“Hill was made a full-time porter at a salary of eighty-seven dollars a month, plus tips. They put him on the spare board, meaning that he didn’t work a regular train run, but filled in for others here and there. Weeks passed before I saw him again. But I heard Harry muttering about him from time to time. ‘He acts like he knows it all. He thinks he’s better than us.’
“Almost a year passed. One day while Harry and I were sitting on a window ledge upstairs in the Porters’ Club, I saw a middle-aged coloured man with a serious, dignified face walking our way. Pressed grey suit. Polished shoes. With him, a woman who was also well dressed. A white woman, one hundred percent white. And that wasn’t all. Two boys toddled behind them. They had straight, dark hair. The younger one’s skin was very light. Almost white. The boys wore yarmulkes, which I saw as the family crossed Main at Sutherland, walking north.
“Harry and I thought they were quite a sight. Neither of us heard the footsteps on the stairs, and suddenly I found myself face to face with the coloured man in the suit. For a moment I didn’t know what to say. The man stood tall and with perfect posture. His eyes were light brown and his greying hair, curled and cropped close to his head, was clipped above his large ears. He was in his mid-forties. Behind us, the room had fallen silent. The man said he was looking for me. Said he had recently been to porters’ training school, and was supposed to start Monday in my car. He introduced himself as Alvin James.”
Mahatma tapped his fork on the table. “Alvin James? Aren’t we getting off track here, abuelo?”
“Patience. Alvin James was the first black man to graduate from the University of Manitoba with a Master’s degree in sciences. Also, he had converted to Judaism because his wife was a Ukrainian Jew. That’s why we called him ‘the Rabbi.’
It wasn’t meant to be derogatory. Quite the contrary. Even though he was educated and had tried to get other jobs, all he could find was porter.
“Of course, the other porters held him in awe. Some went to him with questions. One asked him to help fill out an income tax form. Alvin James complied. Another two porters had him settle a dispute. All this time, Melvyn Hill was running to Toronto and back. So for more than a year, Melvyn, Harry, Alvin and I worked the same train down east and back.
“Melvyn pestered Alvin James all the time with questions about books and university. He even started dressing like the man, always in a jacket and tie.
“Hill was so enamoured that he told us a story about Alvin James. Apparently, the Rabbi had found twenty dollars in the bedding of a passenger and had jumped off the train at White River, Ontario, to give it back. Harry Carson said the Rabbi was a plain fool, giving up good money. But Melvyn said it showed that Alvin James had class. And that Negroes would never get ahead by dishonest means.
“A couple of weeks later, the passenger wrote a letter to the superintendent, praising Jamesand enclosing a hundred-dollar bill. Here’s the stinger. Alvin James refused that too. Though he did suggest the hundred be used to buy new mattresses for the company’s flophouse on Huron Street in Toronto. The superintendent lost his temper when he heard that. Alvin didn’t get the hundred, and the flophouse stayed the way it was.”
Ben Grafton was starting on his meal now, an omelette with mushrooms and tomatoes. “Now we jump to 1940 when everyone was talking about enlisting. Well, just about everyone. Alvin was too old to go to war. And Harry wanted nothing to do with it. He said, ‘White people wanna kill each other, they don’t need my help. Anyway, I got myself a good job.’
“Melvyn applied to the Air Force, did not hear back, tried again three months later, and was told the Air Force was filled up. He applied once more and was contacted shortly thereafter for testing. Melvyn became an Air Force man. They wouldn’t let him fly a plane, navigate, operate guns or aim bombs, but they let him do tarmac duty for two years. Then they taught him how to service aircraft. He stayed on ground crews in Canada until 1944 and finally made it overseas.
“I became an Army private, went overseas in ’44. You know all this. When we got back in ’46, we found that job doors didn’t swing any wider than before the war. We got our old jobs back. Before we had a chance to see any of our old buddies, the Rabbi died. You should understand that I had just come back from a war that I was sure would kill me. Melvyn, ten years younger than me, was exhausted from the war. Neither of us could accept the news of the Rabbi’s death. We’d seen all kinds survive in Europe. Why that man, of all people? He was a good man.
“Harry Carson was too upset to work the trip back to Winnipeg. In Sudbury, a doctor had to shoot tranks into his butt. He was a mess all the way home. When the train carrying the Rabbi’s body got back to Winnipeg, we learned that he’d died in a fire at that flophouse. The worst part was that the company blamed him for the fire.”
Ben stopped and fingered the napkin beside his plate. His omelette was only half eaten. When Mahatma coughed into his hand, Ben roused himself and went on.
“We went to a shiva, a Jewish wake that lasts seven days, in the Rabbi’s home. I had my only suit pressed. We passed a hat and in two hours collected one hundred dollars. That was a lot of money in those days. Later, we heard the Canadian Transcontinental had offered the Rabbi’s widow only fifty. At her house on Bannerman, we met John Novak and the Rabbi’s widow, Deanna, and her two boys, now about ten and twelve years old. I was fascinated by their pigmentation. Peter, the older one, was brown-skinned, but I might not have guessed that Alvin, the ten-year-old, was born of a Negro father. Alvin Jr. seemed almost as light as his mother.
“I gave John Novak the envelope from the porters. He was impressed. He steered me toward two chairs in a corner and told me, ‘The company says the porters had been drinking and partying and that Alvin had been smoking in bed.’
“He knew, like I did, that Alvin didn’t smoke. He wanted to know why, if there was a party going on, only Al
vin got killed. How come he was the only person in the house?
“I told him what I could. That the flophouse had two rooms upstairs, each with six bunk-beds, but that the company never filled the place. Porters resented staying in bunk-beds while white train crews slept in hotels. I hated the place and usually stayed with my cousin. Most porters avoided the place. Slept with relatives, girlfriends, whatever.
“The Rabbi stayed there out of principle. He said nobody would end segregation if porters avoided the place. He said black people had to fill that place up and keep filling it until someone took notice. But the porters wouldn’t listen. It’s true that the men partied there, sometimes. About a year before, some of the boys had a real shindig there. They brought girls in and tomcatted and drank until neighbours called the police.
“After that, the doors were locked every night at nine-thirty. They came early in the morning to let you out. It was stupid but the company wouldn’t do a thing about it. But Alvin kept staying there. He wouldn’t give up. And that flophouse, that dignity cost him his life.
“He was the only man in that house. And even though firemen axed down the door, they were too late. They found him right there, dead on the floor.”
Ben looked up at Mahatma. “I told all this to Novak in so many words. It was at the funeral, remember, and I didn’t know that he was a lawyer, or that he would soon earn a seat on City Council and later become Winnipeg’s first communist mayor. I didn’t know that Novak had contacts with reporters and civil rights groups across the country. Or that he would come after all us porters to testify about that flophouse and get even with the company. All of us except Melvyn Hill, that is. He wanted to get ahead and he knew that testifying against the company could hurt his chances. He told us, ‘I’m going to climb the ladder, make something of myself. You should do the same.’
“‘Nobody gave me no ladder,’ Harry said.
“‘Then make your own,’ Melvyn said.
“We argued with him and told him he was being a fool and an insult to his race. He said he was going to law school and would become a judge and one day we’d see who was the fool.
“I’ve never seen Harry get so mad. His voice sunk down as low as a gravel pit, and he said, ‘You could live like Methuselah for a thousand years, but still you’d never be no judge!’
“‘There’s no point talking to you!’
“Harry snared Melvyn’s collar. ‘You know something, boy? Your shit smell just like mine.’
“Melvyn wriggled free. ‘You’re disgusting.’
“Soon after that Hill quit the railroad and went back to school.”
Mahatma sank back in his chair. He let out a long sigh. His work, the long hours put into the Polonia Park story, the tension stemming from his suspension and now Ben’s description of his railway life had exhausted him. He thought again of Melvyn Hill bloodied in Polonia Park.
“So he finally went to school?”
“And made judge,” Ben said. “I never thought he’d do it.”
“Do you see him much now?”
“From time to time.”
“And where’s Harry?”
“Still hanging around the Porters’ Club. It has changed names and it has a café upstairs, now. He runs it.”
“When did he retire?”
“Years ago, son, just like me.”
PART FOUR
Forty-eight hours into his two-week suspension, Mahatma Grafton invited Chuck Maxwell to dinner. “Let’s not talk about work,” Chuck said.
“Bad day, eh?”
“Don’t even mention it. I don’t want to say a word about it. Do you know what Betts…” Ben entered the room, bringing tea for Chuck. “Aren’t you people having any?” Chuck asked.
“Black people can’t drink tea,” Ben said. “It affects our livers.”
Chuck laughed. “You know something? I’ve never thought of Mahatma as black. If you know what I mean.” Chuck saw Ben’s eyebrows arch. “I mean, I hardly notice his colour!” The eyebrows lifted higher. “What I’m saying is, when I see a black person, I don’t notice his colour. As far as I’m concerned, he’s white, just like me.”
“Isn’t that the most amazing thing?” Ben said. “And until you brought it up, I never thought of you as white, either. I thought you were black.” Ben cleared his throat and went off to make dinner.
Chuck laughed. “What a guy. Your old man comes across so deadpan, I’d hate to play poker against him. Say, you know what they did to me at work today? They gave me a memo saying my writing is sloppy. They’re building a case against me. When they’ve got enough memos on record, they’ll sack me. All this is giving me an ulcer!”
“How did you ever end up in journalism, Chuck?”
“I didn’t start as a reporter. I started as a copy boy. You’re talking way back. You’re talking 1962. You’re talking high school drop-out down on his luck and flat broke. You’re talking copy boy at The Herald for twenty bucks a week—message boy, actually, the guy who got everybody’s coffee and scanned the copy from Reuter and Associated Press. You’re talking two years of joe-jobs until they finally gave me some work on the city beat. So I’m no Shakespeare, I’m no Hemingway. But I was a good journalist in my day. I broke my share of scoops. I was a man of the people and still am. I know what it means to make fifty bucks a week. I did it for years. And what do I get for giving the paper the best twenty years of my life? Harassment! What happens if they sack me? What else can I do? News is the only thing I know.”
“Let’s go out for a walk,” Mahatma said. “It’s snowing. It’s nice out there. When we come back, we’ll have dinner. My dad is making cornbread.”
Chuck brightened. “Cornbread! Sounds great!”
Mahatma slept in on the third day of his suspension. He woke up at ten, made coffee and lay on the living-room couch, listening to Vivaldi and thinking how much more pleasant the music was than the sound of radio news first thing in the morning. Ben came in with a bag of groceries. He asked, “Hey, son, ready for lunch?” Ben normally ate breakfast at six, lunch at eleven and dinner at five.
“Are you crazy? I just woke up.”
For Mahatma’s breakfast and Ben’s lunch, they ate grilled cheese sandwiches, for which Ben used three-year-old cheddar. “Man-o-man, I love that cheese,” Ben mumbled as he ate. “Stuff’s so good, it would make you fight your relatives.”
Mahatma picked up the next line, which he had learned as a boy. “It’s so good, it’d make you beat back your grandmother—and dare your grandfather to stick up for her.”
“You know, son,” Ben said after eating, “you ought to do some fighting back of your own right now. About that suspension they handed you.” Mahatma felt his chest tighten. He, too, believed he shouldn’t take the suspension without a fight. “Now take it easy,” Ben said, “I’m not telling you what to do. I’m just saying what I would do, if I were you.”
“Okay, go ahead.”
“I would reclaim my honour. You’re a Grafton, and—”
Mahatma finished it off, “And Graftons aren’t ordinary people.”
“You’re not really just going to sit back and do nothing but eat meals on Spanish time until your suspension ends?”
“No. I’ve already been thinking about something. Didn’t you tell me once that an old friend of yours works for the Manitoba Provincial Police?”
Mahatma met Sgt. Reynolds Wilson in the Princess Street doughnut shop. He had no trouble spotting the man. “He eats orange crullers,” Ben had told Mahatma. “He eats about ten a day. He also happens to be black. He’s so black he’s almost blue.”
“Reynolds Wilson?” Mahatma asked, offering his hand. “I’m—”
Reynolds Wilson kept his arms on the table. “You’re five minutes late.”
Mahatma sat down. “Sorry. Doughnuts any good?”
“I stick to crullers. You want a bite?” Wilson let out a snorting laugh that sounded like a car backfiring. Mahatma took off his coat and pulled out a notepad.
“Put that away,” Wilson said. “Whatever I say is off the record. As a matter of fact, we never even met. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“We never met and this is off the record.”
“Good.” Wilson smiled now. “Any son of Ben Grafton must have a few decent genes. I’m gonna count on your honesty, but I’m going to enforce it too. Last guy who double-crossed me had the lifespan of a cruller.” Wilson let out another snort.
Mahatma frowned. “Can we stop pissing around now and talk some details? A friend of mine named Georges Goyette was taking photos at the Polonia Park riot. Two cops grabbed his camera. I want the photos.”
“I’ve gotta go now,” Wilson said. “Nice meeting ya.” They stepped outside. A gust of cold air bit Mahatma’s face. “Suppose an unmarked envelope comes your way,” Wilson said.
“If it does, I won’t know who sent it.”
“Why do you think I agreed to see you today?” Wilson said.
“Tell me.”
“I used to work the trains with Ben. He saved my son’s life in 1964. Kid was about three. We were standing on the sidewalk by the Porters’ Club, chewing the fat. My son got loose of my hand and ran right into Main Street with a truck coming on strong. I froze. Couldn’t move. Couldn’t even yell. Ben nabbed the kid like a shortstop nabbing a line drive. Fished him off that road just in time and whoosh, the truck went by.”
“That’s quite a story,” Mahatma said.
“Don’t tell me things I already know.”
Mahatma sighed. “Goodbye, Mr. Wilson.”
Reynolds Wilson walked into the wind.
Ben Grafton heard the mailbox open at five in the morning. He heard a car drive off while he put on his bathrobe. By the time he got to the door, nobody was there. Just an unmarked envelope inside the mailbox.
The photos showed scenes of mayhem. Mouths torn wide with shouts and agony, arms swinging, people stumbling, hair and backs cluttering the photos. In one, a police officer swung a billyclub at Jake Corbett’s head. In another, an officer grabbed a woman by the hair. In a third, an officer punched a man in the throat. Mahatma studied the photos over and over, revolted but delighted.
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