Son of a Critch

by Mark Critch

  We got out of the cab and walked toward the white monolith that was the hospital. The closer you get to a hospital these days, the more smokers you see along its edges. There’s no more Canadian a sight than that of an old man shivering in a bathrobe as he struggles to have a smoke in a snowbank. He lights a match off his oxygen tank, lifts his mask to take a drag, and exhales before rattling out a good cough. Then he lowers the mask again to fill his lungs in preparation for another butt. You didn’t see that in 1981. Back then smoking was done inside the hospital. Patients could smoke right in their bed. Visitors would smoke in a smoking lounge where a blue haze hid the TV screen. Doctors would smoke while they told you that maybe you should quit smoking. Surgeons would actually put out cigarettes on your old lung during a lung transplant.

  Mom pulled me through the smoke-filled waiting room and into the smoke-filled elevator where we rose to the smoke-filled hallway of the fourth floor. Dad had been moved to a “special room” where children weren’t allowed. A nice old nun, all dressed in white, took me by the hand and knelt down to my level. Her kind eyes had the comforting glow of a light in the window on a snowy winter night, and I felt the fear leave my belly.

  “Now, Mark,” she said in a whisper of a voice, “your father is very sick. We’ve moved him into a room with other people who are just as sick. Everyone in this room has to be very quiet, and for that reason children are not allowed. But if you come with me and you promise to be very quiet, then you can come in for just a minute. Can you do that for me?”

  I nodded and she gently took my hand and pushed open the big doors that led into a ward for lost cases. The room was very dark except for small amber lights right above the patients’ heads. Some people behind closed curtains hacked up something from deep inside themselves. Others lay in total silence, comforted only by the steady beeping of some machine that reminded them that, despite appearances, they were still alive. Dad’s bed was in the far corner, and I recognized his pyjamas before I recognized him. He’d suffered an infection that had required an emergency surgery, and he’d lost a lot of blood. They weren’t sure whether he’d make it. I wasn’t much older than he’d been when his own father passed—nearly six—and looking back, I can see that realization in his eyes.

  “Mike, your son is here,” the old nun whispered in his ear. He looked down to see me, giving me his trademark wink. There were tubes and wires everywhere and I followed each line with my eyes. His IV stand held two bags, one containing blood and the other a clear saline solution.

  “On the ketchup and vinegar, are ya, Father?” I joked and he chuckled. The nun held a finger up to her lips to shush me. I hadn’t been aware of any other vertical people in the room until I spotted my dad’s close friend Brother Angel in the corner. Brother Larry Angel had grown up with my father, and the two remained close friends even though Brother Angel had been dispatched to Rome. He’d given me and Mike sets of rosary beads blessed by the Pope and a pen with an image of Venice on one side. When you tipped the pen a gondola would glide from one end of the city to the other. That pen was the most exotic thing in the house, and tangible proof of the existence of a world beyond Signal Hill.

  “Hello, Mark,” he said in his flat, droning Church voice. “We were about to say the rosary. I’d like you to meet a friend of mine here visiting from Rome.” Out of the shadows stepped the first black man I’d ever seen. He was also a priest, and was dressed in long dark robes and a black hat. His ebony skin was as dark as night and his bright eyes grinned at me.

  “The boogeyman!” I shouted. I am not proud of that. But at the time I’d never been as sure of anything in my life. This man had to be the boogeyman. Of course, I knew black people existed. My brother was a blues fan. I thought Sammy Davis Jr. was the most underrated member of the Rat Pack. My father was a boxing fanatic, and once when we were watching a Muhammad Ali fight he turned around in his chair and decided to impart some wisdom.

  “If you ever meet one, never say negro or coloured,” Dad told me very seriously. “They prefer to be called black. You got that?” I nodded, although I’d never heard of the two alternatives until that very moment. There was no racial divide in Newfoundland because the entire population was basically made up of a snowbank in pants.

  I’d seen lots of Chinese people in person. And I’d met a few Indian families who lived in the city as well. But at this time in my young life I had yet to see a black person. I’m sure I would have acted sensibly if I’d met a black man in church or at the mall. But after a day of self-induced hair trauma, an afternoon of wondering what sad fate allowed me to get a stuffed toy, and having seen my father in some kind of palliative care ward, I was a little on edge, to say the least. I did not see a kind priest from another country, dutifully saying the rosary next to my father’s hospital bed. I did not see a person upon whom I should leave the best possible impression of my homeland. I saw the boogeyman, and if he wasn’t there for me, then surely he’d come to take my weakened father to Monster Alley.

  I dove under the hospital bed, clutching my bunny in a grip that would have impressed Lennie from Of Mice and Men. In what I’m sure was meant to be a helpful move, the visiting priest got down on his knees and reached out his long arms to try to scoop me out.

  “Little boy, little boy,” he repeated in a thick accent. “Come to me, now. Come. Come. Smile. Little boy. Smile.” This was also the first time I’d heard a Nigerian accent. His good intentions were like a match to gasoline and soon the whole room went up in the flames of cultural exchange. He kept saying “little boy” and I kept screaming “boogeyman!” as the nun and Brother Angel, on their own knees now, struggled to pull us apart. Buzzers sounded, invalids moaned their disapproval, codes were spoken over PA systems, doctors were called. Mom, oblivious, flipped through the pages of a Chatelaine magazine in the hallway.

  Finally, my father, who’d just been at death’s door, sat up in bed and threw his legs over the side. He looked down at me. “Mark!” he shouted. “Get up from under this bed!” Forced to choose between the threat of damnation from the boogeyman and certain death by my father, I settled on the devil I knew and crawled reluctantly from my hiding spot.

  The visiting priest no longer seemed so scary now that he was standing next to the light over my father’s bed. He laughed a hearty laugh that immediately made me like him. Now I felt as though he was the only person keeping me alive at that moment.

  Dad feared priests. Even though he had many as close friends, he revered them. They could do no wrong in his eyes, and so whenever they were around he’d be on his best behaviour. A year before, Brother Angel had come for dinner and we were sitting in the dining room around one of Mom’s well-cooked turkeys. I was all set to dig in when the old man started to say a prayer. “Dear God in heaven, thank you for these gifts, which we are about to receive through your merciful bounty. Amen.” I was shocked. We never said grace in our house. I wanted to say something, but immediately thought better of it. Then the devil on my shoulder made me think of the American sitcoms I so loved. What would Jack Tripper do in this situation? He’d probably point out that we never prayed before meals and then Mr. Roper would get mad and threaten to kick him out of the apartment and the studio audience would roar and they’d be forced to break for a commercial. I went for it.

  “Why do we only say prayers when there’s a priest over?” I waited for the gales of laughter. Surely Mom would say, “Oh, that Mark!” Dad would chime in, “Mary, can I see you in the k-i-t-c-h-e-n?” and Brother Angel would do a spit take, water spraying all over Mom’s turkey, which was in desperate need of hydration anyway. None of that happened. Instead, Dad stood up and yelled, “Mark! Get out!” This had never happened before. I sat there, stunned. I was terrified and had no idea what to do. I desperately wanted to take the words back. I would have given anything to never have said them. I felt myself fly from the chair as Dad’s strong arm grabbed my wrist and pulled me up. He sat me on the back step. Soon I could hear him making excus
es for me in the other room. I felt my bottom lip trembling, then my chest started to heave and I let loose a bucketful of sorrowful tears. Misty the cat rubbed herself against my back to try to calm me. Even the cat could tell I regretted it.

  I could hear Brother Angel telling the old man that it was okay. Saying grace wasn’t that big a deal, and now, at least, God would be in our thoughts in an authentic way when we sat down to dinner. Dispassionately reciting some learned lines by rote was no different from saying no prayer at all, he added, and it brought you no closer to God. He argued that my joke had actually reminded him to thank God for his meal in a more meaningful manner, and he asked Dad to go easy on me.

  My father returned and sat next to me on the back step. He told me he was sorry, and that I hadn’t said anything dishonest. I hugged him and apologized. Then we all sat down and Brother Angel gave a truly lovely blessing. We had a great meal. And the second he left, the old man told me that if I ever pulled another stunt like that with a priest in the house he’d kill me.

  And now I’d embarrassed him in front of another priest, but this was a hospital, not our house, so I had him on a technicality. Dad, fuelled by anger and a burning desire to get out of the hospital to spank me, made a full recovery. He got back to work just in time for the biggest scandal to ever hit the island—and it exploded right at his desk. It was a thousand ulcers in one headline. The biggest story of his career, and he was helpless to report it.

  * * *

  —

  Dad’s friend Wally was a radio god in Newfoundland and Labrador. He was one of the stars of the VOCM morning show, and the brightest star in the sky of local celebrity. In the church of public opinion, Wally was practically sainted: he’d collect donations of toys and deliver giant boxes of them to the children’s hospital every year, and was a volunteer fireman known to run into burning buildings if it meant he might save a life. He was even voted citizen of the year for his volunteer work.

  Everyone on the island listened to Wally’s traffic reports. He’d describe the latest snarl in his “On the Spot” hits, often from the station’s parking lot. I’d look out our kitchen window and see him talking live from inside the parked vehicle. “Wally here in my Chevy Blazer with an On the Spot traffic report from the Boulevard. There’s a two-car smash-up blocking the inbound lane and I can see the ambulance just pulling in here now. Yes, the fire department is using the Jaws of Life to free the lone occupant remaining. Ladies and gentlemen, the sound of twisting metal is unsettling. I don’t know if you can hear it now, but I certainly can. And, ladies and gentleman, they have the driver free! The ambulance workers are taking her on a stretcher now and I’m glad to report that all hands are alive! This is Wally with an On the Spot traffic report.” He was so good that if I wasn’t watching him with my own eyes I’d never believe he was sitting in the parking lot. He’d describe how fast traffic was moving in his imaginary lane even as Misty lazily criss-crossed between the tires of his truck, scratching herself.

  Wally was known for his big booming laugh. He drove the yellow VOCM Chevy, which was outfitted with two orange lights and could be seen at every major event in the city. Wally would broadcast from each grand opening, sports game, and charity event. When Mom’s water broke she called the station to inform Dad, and he sent Wally to pick her up and drive her to the hospital. Dad was on air, after all, and wouldn’t dare leave. The Chevy Blazer sped her down Kenmount Road with lights flashing. The station’s slogan in those days was “Drive safely, arrive alive. VOCM cares.” I arrived very alive, eight pounds, nine ounces. Poor Mom.

  The world turned upside down when news broke that Wally had been charged with molesting a child. I was doubly shocked—I’d never heard anything bad about Wally, and I’d never heard of molestation. It wasn’t something that came up in small-town news. The allegations ripped through the province like an earthquake. In our house it was as though an atom bomb had dropped. The most trusted citizen in town had been charged with something so horrid that the general population couldn’t even imagine it. But when that man is the guy who drove your pregnant wife to the hospital, it shakes you to the core.

  VOCM’s Open Line program took the daily pulse of the province. The premier would call. Other politicians, too. But more importantly, the people would call. They’d call to complain about the government. They’d call to throw a verbal bouquet of roses to a deserving soul. Sometimes they’d call just because they had no one else to listen to them. I’d heard that “VOCM” stood for the “Voice Of the Common Man,” and Open Line was the reason why. But where they once called in to rail against the bigwigs that made life hard for everyday citizens, they now called to rail against their one-time hero, Wally. Every radio in the province was tuned to the station to see how it would deal with the crisis.

  HOST: Good morning, Line Five. You’re live in Newfoundland and Labrador and to all the ships at sea. What’s on your mind today?

  LINE FIVE: You’re a dirty child molester, ya bastard! Why don’t you go fu—CLICK!

  HOST: We seem to have lost you, caller. Line Two! What’s on your mind today?

  LINE TWO: You dirty buggers! Try that with my youngsters and I’ll grab you by the pecker and turn you inside out, ya dirty—CLICK!

  HOST: Technical difficulties here today. We seem to have lost another call. I’d like to take this moment to remind everyone listening who might have a phone in their hand that today’s topic is “What vegetable grows best in a Newfoundland garden?” Line Three, you’re on the air.

  LINE THREE: Yes, I’m calling from Nagle’s Hill in St. John’s.

  HOST: Yes, yes. Go ahead, caller.

  LINE THREE: I was just calling to say that I had a wonderful strong year for cabbage in my garden.

  HOST: Cabbage, you say? You hear that, ladies and gentleman? This gentleman is calling in to say that he had a grand year for cabbage! And that’s all he has to say. So, tell me, sir. What would you say is the secret to growing such wonderful cabbage as you have grown in a Newfoundland garden this year?

  LINE THREE: Well, now, to tell you the truth, I have a radio plugged in by an extension cord and I used to play your radio station to my cabbage plants as they grew.

  HOST: Is that so? You don’t say! Do you hear that, ladies and gentleman? Line Three says that the secret to growing great cabbage in Newfoundland and Labrador is to play them this very radio station as they grow. Isn’t that amazing?

  LINE THREE: Yes. It’s true. In fact, I was trying to remember your slogan. What is it again? “Drive slow and get where you go?” Or is it “Easy in the car and you will go far”?

  HOST: No, caller. It’s “Drive safely, arrive alive.”

  LINE THREE: Watch out for Wally if you’re under five—CLICK!

  The old man fell into quite the funk as the whole station went into damage control. I couldn’t accept it was true and waited for someone to tell me that the whole thing was a misunderstanding, but that day never came. Everyone at school knew my father was on the radio. So when I arrived the next day, I found I’d become a bit of a celebrity myself.

  “I heard your fadder touches youngsters, spaz.” Fox’s older brother, Middle Fox, was waiting for me when I got off the bus. His younger brother shoved me into his chest by the book bag attached to my back. “Oooh, gross. Little fella is trying to kiss me,” the older Fox lied.

  “Frig off,” I said, making for the school, only to find my path blocked by Fox’s oldest brother, Silver Fox. I still couldn’t tell if he actually went to our school or if he just hung out there a lot because he had nowhere else to be. I’d never seen him inside the building and he didn’t ever appear to be carrying any books. It wasn’t hard to be the biggest kid on an elementary school playground if you were supposed to be in high school.

  “Ya know what VOCM stands for?” he asked me. “Voice Of the Child Molester.” I pushed past him, begrudgingly admitting to myself that he’d come up with a pretty decent burn. I was about to step into the school when I found m
yself face to face with yet another of them. The kid who blocked my way was in the same grade as Middle Fox, but a year or two older. Synthetic Fox folded his arms and said, “I heard your father touches youngsters, spaz.”

  “Your dumb brother already said that, idiot.” I tried to shove my way past this knockoff-brand bully.

  “What was I supposed to say again?” he shouted back to the other Foxes.

  “Stop him,” Silver Fox shouted, and my shoulders jerked back as the older boy yanked me backward by the book bag and onto the pavement, knocking the wind out of me. My lungs were as empty as an upturned hot water bottle as I lay on my back, gasping. The eldest Fox hopped onto my chest and slapped me backhanded across the cheek.

  “Not so tough now, are ya?” he hissed an inch from my face. His foul breath made me thankful I couldn’t yet inhale. It must have been one of the other brothers’ turns to use the toothbrush that morning. “Fox, c’mere,” he barked as all his brothers stepped forward. “Not ye, you,” he said, pointing to my arch-nemesis. “I’ll hold him while you get your revenge smacks in.” They were terrible at being bullies. I was a weird little kid who’d never played with other children before I met my torturer. Now his entire band of brothers had to join forces to defeat one nerd. Fox knelt down to hit me with two firm jabs to the stomach. Then they released me back into the wild like a tranquilized and tagged polar bear.

  The rest of my day consisted of dirty looks from every kid I encountered. Some shook their heads to show their pitying disapproval. Others came up to tell me that everyone who worked at my father’s station was a pervert. I was the human embodiment of their disappointment. Those who were angry could take that anger out on me. Those who wanted to feel superior had someone to “tut, tut” at. I could feel their eyes on me and I could think of nothing else. The lessons floated from my teacher’s mouth and into the thick fog that surrounded my head. Nothing was getting through. I went home in a daze, wondering if this fresh hell would ever pass.