by Jon Wells
When he was 13, Cory moved back to Kitchener by himself, lived with an aunt. He attended St. Anne’s elementary school. Didn’t last long, though. The school was almost all white; the only black kids were Cory and a few of his cousins. A lot of the kids were from wealthy families, from good neighbourhoods, and he and his cousins were from downtown, broke.
One day Cory saw a white kid picking on his cousin in the school hallway. His cousin was a yappy kid, in Grade 4; Cory was in Grade 7. All Cory saw was this bigger white kid, in Grade 8, picking on his little cousin. Was the guy calling his cousin a nigger? Spitting on him? Cory lost it, fought the kid. Cory was not a big boy, and the Grade 8 kid got in some punches.
Cory’s hat fell off in the fight. A teacher picked it up and took it away. He was sent to the office, and then, later, Cory went to the teacher’s office to retrieve his hat. He was still burning.
“I want my hat back.”
“Say please,” he heard the teacher reply.
Cory got angrier; the teacher told Cory to just leave, and placed his hand on Cory’s shoulder. Cory snapped. He started screaming and hit the teacher in the face, over and over. A janitor jumped in to break it up. Cory got kicked out of school. Why did it bother him so much to have the teacher put his hand on him? He didn’t think he was obsessive about it. If a friend touched him, it was fine, but if a man put his hand on him in an aggressive manner, that was not only an insult, it was a threat. And if a man threatened him, he was going to defend himself.
Cory was suspended for four days; later he was kicked out of the school. They couldn’t expel him since he was under 16, but they basically said, “Don’t enroll again and we won’t charge you.”
He went back to Halifax. Then back to Kitchener. Back and forth. His mom moved back to Kitchener to be closer to him. He enrolled at Cameron Heights high school. Lasted about two weeks there. Was getting heavier into drugs, crime, living here and there. Got into crack; hung with a friend who stole car stereos, which they sold to drug dealers in Kitchener. Was convicted under the Young Offender’s Act for robbery.
One day, when he was about 15, he met a guy in Kitchener named Kyro Sparks through one of his uncles, Kyro was a year older, but they clicked; had similar backgrounds. Kyro had moved to Kitchener from Montreal when he was 16. A radical change from a crummy apartment in Montreal to living with an aunt who seemed to him well off, lived in the Doon Valley area, had a pool with a diving board. He missed some friends in Montreal, but how could anyone ever be upset about moving to a place like Kitchener, Kyro wondered.
His first day of high school at KCI, Kitchener Collegiate Institute, a staff member took Kyro Sparks aside. “I don’t want any big city gangsters coming in here causing trouble,” she told him.
So that’s it, thought Kyro. That’s what I am? I am from the big city. Yeah, that’s right. Other students, they were giving him the same thing: “Yo, bro, are you a Crip or a Blood?” Kyro grinned at it all. Didn’t think of himself as anything but a little snotty kid. But he started enjoying the attention, played it up. Started wearing different clothes than the others. Got in trouble. Around that time he started smoking a lot of marijuana. It was weird: in Montreal, guys bought drugs, did a bit, but sold most of it to make money. Here, the kids were rich. They bought it to get high, and that was it. Kids doing acid, smoking weed all day, skipping class every day. He was one of them.
In Kitchener he hung out with some friends who called one another by the nickname “King.” You know, King: pride of the people. Black people, Kyro reflected, they’ve been convinced they are slaves of the world, but it wasn’t so. In fact it was the exact opposite. So Kyro said, “What’s up, King? Here is my Queen.” That swagger came out in the rap music Kyro made. He even made a homemade album. He called it Heaven Sent And Hell Raising.
One day someone ripped off Kyro. Kyro and some friends took care of it. Went and got back what was his. There was a gun involved. In court they were saying that Kyro and the others were part of a gang called the Kings. Got 16 months for it, was put in the bucket in Cambridge, then Guelph, before being kicked out of there for carrying a concealed weapon in prison. Anything can happen in prison, right? Gotta be prepared, he thought. In jail he was getting more of the gangster thing, was grouped on ranges with guys from Toronto, gang members, black guys. “Yeah,” people told him, “you’re one of those Toronto guys.”
His identity, cultivated as a boy in Montreal, reinforced in Kitchener, was now formalized in prison. Was he a badass? That’s what he was told. And he was doin’ it. Kyro was like, “Okay, it is what it is.”
His friendship with Cory McLeod was interrupted by jail time. Cory was put on ice first, for armed robbery; he did time with his buddy Dwayne. They were 17. Dwayne got nine months; Cory, 15. Later, Cory was also charged in a stabbing attack. He proclaimed his innocence, was certain he’d be found not guilty in the end. Some guy ratted him out that hadn’t even seen who attacked him; just threw Cory’s name in there.
He decided he wasn’t going to stick around to learn his fate. He hit the road, for Hamilton — a place to lie low for a while, out of sight of the Kitchener police, hang with his girlfriend, Sherri Foreman, and figure out his next move. Funny thing: in Hamilton, Cory ran into Dwayne, and the guy had become a born again Christian. No more drink, weed, sex. Totally committed his life to God. Sherri started calling him preacher boy.
“This man did all this shit with me, now he’s found God?” Cory said.
He laughed at him. But they hung out. Dwayne wanted Cory to come to church with him. Think about getting baptized, turning it all around like he had. Cory was dubious, but went to church with him one day.
“I think there’s someone in here who needs to be saved,” said the minister.
Cory grinned.
“You set me up,” he said to Dwayne.
“You gotta come get baptized,” Dwayne told him.
“Right.”
Cory thought about it, though. Might be something to consider. But he would put that off for a while.
In January 2005, Cory, 19, was still on the run in Hamilton. Kyro Sparks, 22, hung in the city, too. Kyro had worked through temp agencies on and off in Kitchener. Had his forklift licence. Maybe he could get a job in Steeltown, he figured.
They hung with their girlfriends, Katrina and Sherri, at an apartment on Upper James Street. Cory and Kyro started to frequent a bar just around the corner from the apartment. They’d get some food, play pool, drink some beer, double Crown Royals, Grand Marnier. The bar was called O’Grady’s Roadhouse.
While his childhood buddy Art Rozendal had been living in Winnipeg, Bill Murray finished Grade 8 at Oneida Public then went on to Cayuga High School. As his senior year wound down, Dofasco came recruiting for their steel mills, and Bill got hired. On a summer day in 1980, a month or two after he started on the job, Bill came home from work to find Art in his driveway. He had come home. And in the driveway with Art was an old Buick Gran Sport GSX. It was like they had never been apart; they picked up right where they left off, and the next night they’re working on the Buick.
Art dreamed of being a veterinarian, and got accepted at the University of Guelph’s acclaimed veterinary school. But money was an issue. To save he was living at his mom’s place off Mohawk Road. He never did enroll at U of G. A more immediate way to earn a solid living was using his expertise with tools and machines. He wanted to get hired at Dofasco like his friend Bill, but there were no positions open. He was able to walk right into the job at Big Steel competitor Stelco, though. He worked as a millwright, or industrial mechanic — someone who maintains and repairs machinery. He was stationed in the coke ovens.
Whenever Art and Bill’s shifts coincided, they spent time off working on cars at Bill’s place. He had a big garage out in the country. They could fit half a dozen cars in there, put them up on blocks — old street rods, muscle cars. Art loved his Buicks and Bill was a Chrysler guy. They always checked newspapers for spare parts, went to c
ar shows — part of a network of car guys in the area. Sometimes they fixed cars for resale; other times just did it for fun. Put the radio on, listen to some Zeppelin, and crack a few Old Vienna beers. Art had a special affinity for body work, chrome, paint. Given Art’s roots, cars had long been his focus, but he could have just as easily have been a commercial artist, perhaps a sculptor. He had that kind of imagination and ability.
Art was Bill’s best man at his wedding in 1982 — that same year he met a 22-year-old woman named Brenda Merrill. She was a year older than Art, had grown up in the Bruce Park neighbourhood on the Mountain. Brenda had hazel eyes, red-brown hair, and small features. She never believed in love at first sight, and did not love Art off the bat. But when they met, she instantly locked eyes — it was like she could stare right into his soul, feel his kindness, empathy. She knew from the start she would marry him someday.
Art fell hard for Brenda. He’d had girlfriends in Winnipeg, but nothing too serious. Brenda was different. She was funny, outgoing, said what was on her mind. He talked her up to his friends all the time, unabashedly telling them how amazing she was, how much he loved her. They never really talked marriage, but discussed buying a house together. In May 1983 they viewed a house on Carrick and knew it was the one. They put an offer in, even though neither of them had much money. Art had a solid job but spent most of his money on cars. He said he would sell his blue Trans Am.
They headed to Jackson Square for lunch. Afterward, Art went off on his own for a bit, shopping. Later, back up at Brenda’s family home, hanging with Art, Brenda was thinking, I just bought a house with a man; we’ve never talked about marriage, and we’re not engaged. What am I doing? She had just finished painting the last coat of red on her nails at the kitchen table, when Art pulled out the ring he had bought hours earlier and proposed. After teasing Art — “Couldn’t you have at least proposed in the park or something?” — Brenda slipped on the diamond.
Brenda and Art wed on June 8, 1985, at New Westminster Presbyterian Church, the reception held at the old Glass Workers Hall down on Barton and Lottridge Streets. A couple of years later, they moved from their house on Carrick into the home that had belonged to Brenda’s family. Art renovated and expanded the place, Brenda’s mom lived downstairs in a basement apartment. Their first son was born May 20, 1986. Art named him after his father, Neil. Their second son, Jordan, was born September 3, 1989.
Two years later they went through a tough time. Brenda had two aneurysms, right around Art’s 30th birthday. When she got out of the hospital, they decided to renew their vows, having a refreshed appreciation for their love and lives. Rev. John Hibbs, who had married them, did the honours.
Their son Neil was diagnosed with epilepsy in Grade 6. Neil was teased at school after he had a couple of seizures. A couple of kids called him “devil child”; it drove him to tears. But Neil thrived on love and laughter at home. His dad had a madcap sense of humour that Neil inherited. Art loved watching comedies with his kids; the animated movie Ice Age was a favourite, especially the squirrel in the quest for a single acorn that eluded him.
Back in Winnipeg, meanwhile, Art’s brother, Darren, had hit tough times. He had a young son, but he and his girlfriend had just split up. She moved east to Mississauga and took the boy. Darren wanted to be closer to him. Although he felt some reservations about it, he phoned Art one day and asked if he could stay with him for a while until he got his own place.
Art and Brenda with Neil and Jordan.
Hamilton Spectator.
“When can you be here?” Art said without hesitation.
Darren had kept in touch with Art since he left Winnipeg, and knew how big his heart was, but this time even he was taken aback. Art was married, with kids, a house, and Darren hadn’t seen him in a while. And yet Art had instantly invited his brother into his home? But that was Art.
Back in Hamilton Darren was again connected with his brother, and the huge family dinner gatherings at the Rozendal house that Art was famous for organizing. Art had extended family spread around southern Ontario, and of course there was his mom, and sisters Debbie and Sandi. His dad, Neil, had now settled up in Ironbridge in northern Ontario with his second wife, Esther, and Art often drove the boys up to visit.
At home for Thanksgiving, Art set tables together stretching the length of the living room and dining room, packing in 15, 20 people — family and friends, aunts, cousins. Art stood, formally thanking everyone for coming, said a prayer. He often cooked the food, too, famous for his double chocolate cheesecake, or his marinated barbecued steaks — both recipes he gleefully refused to share.
Christmas was legendary at the house. Art made a huge show of it. When Neil and Jordan were young, he would put a tiny pine cone in the Christmas tree holder, get them all around it and sang “O Christmas Tree.” Then the kids would go to school. When they came back, the full tree would be up.
“Look!” Art would exclaim. “The singing paid off!”
Art doted on his boys as they grew, always surprised them with unusual present wrappings he created himself, and built each of them their own custom-made theme beds. For Christmas 2004, Art bought Jordan a chopper-style bicycle that was only available in the U.S., and a computer for Neil. He unveiled the gifts Christmas morning in the garage, wrapped in unique boxes that he’d created.
For Valentine’s Day 2004, Art presented Brenda with a crown and dressed up in full knight’s regalia as Sir Arthur. “Dear Lady,” he wrote her. “Allow me to introduce myself. I am your knight for the day.” He wrote messages on white cards, each accompanied by a gift:
First, a fine love potion noted for its ability to start your day in the most delightful way, much as your smile does to mine. Second, a flower so fair but not as fair as thee. Third, treats for the taste buds that match your nature. Please note, they are also a bit nutty. Fourth, jewels to match the sparkle in your eyes. May you wear it always knowing you are my Queen. Fifth, words crafted by the greatest artisans in the land to woo you, it being said I sometimes don’t say it often enough. And lastly, my undying love and devotion. I hope to have you near me always!
Happy Valentines,
A
One night, remembering that Brenda had once said that just once she’d like to dance to music in the rain, Art put a speaker out on the porch, pulled her out into a rain shower on the driveway and danced with her.
“Art,” Bill Murray joked later, “you’re making the rest of us look bad.”
Art laughed. He was just being himself; didn’t care how it looked to others. Perhaps he had instinctively gone the opposite of his old-school father, not just feeling love but openly expressing it.
And that went for his male friends, too. Art was a rugged-looking country boy, with thick mustache who stood five foot nine and weighed 200 pounds — although Bill swore he was six feet — a gear-head, hard hat-wearing fixer of heavy machinery, and yet he had the biggest and softest heart around. Among his friends he was known for The Hug. He would hug a buddy upon seeing him. It wasn’t gushy, or phony, just a sign of genuine affection. Other guys could feel that kind of emotion, but hadn’t the nerve to express it. Art put it out there, unafraid.
At work this ability allowed him to play the peacemaker on occasion. He needed his friends to get along. On the job at Stelco, if he ever saw a couple of the guys going at it, arguing, he would intervene. “C’mon, guys, we don’t need the fighting, we’re brothers,” he said.
Brenda and Art loved the Bruce Park neighbourhood where they lived. It was tight-knit; everyone knew everyone else. One of the places they had started to gather some evenings was a roadhouse a few blocks away. It wasn’t the fanciest place, just a wings and beer place in a strip mall, but the location was perfect and the food was good. They could walk there, with their sons, have a few beers, dance. Brenda would get a burger, Art hot wings. They knew everyone there.
On Friday, January 14, 2005, Art had just got off a night shift and returned home at 9:00 a.m. from Stel
co. It was cause for a celebration of sorts, the end to a series working evenings. He needed a rest, but first he took Brenda to McMaster Hospital for a cardiac stress test. When they got back to the house in the afternoon, he had a nap. Bev, Brenda’s sister, called the house around noon, checking up on Brenda. Art answered. Bev had just got back the week before from England; she had a girlfriend over there whose husband passed away suddenly on Christmas Eve, and she had gone over for the funeral. Art was very close with Bev and always liked talking with her. He wanted to know all about her trip, and how her grieving friend was doing.
“What are you two doing tonight?” Bev asked.
“Might go out. Why don’t we get together tomorrow night?” Art said.
“Okay, let’s do it.”
“Talk to you later. Love you.”
Saturday afternoon Art drove his youngest son, Jordan, to work at McDonald’s. The plan was that Art, Brenda, and Neil would head out for dinner, and Jordan would join them after he got off work. At 6:30 p.m. the three of them left the house. It was a clear, cold night; the ground was snow-covered but the sidewalk bare. It took them maybe 10 minutes. They usually knew most everyone in the place. Tonight would be different. Their lives were about to intersect with a few young men they had never seen before. Art and his family walked in the door at O’Grady’s Roadhouse on Upper James Street.
— 6 —
Cruel Cowardice
Art and Brenda greeted staff they knew well, like Cheryl, a waitress, and the bartender Michelle. They sat with Neil at their usual table. Art wore blue jeans, belt, checked blue shirt tucked in, white Nike running shoes, and work socks. Brenda wore heels, white shirt, jeans; Neil, jeans and black T-shirt. Art and Neil ordered hot wings, as usual. Brenda got fried mozzarella sticks and a salad. Art ordered a pitcher of Canadian draught.