by Mick Lowe
When he reached surface, Jake discovered someone had jury-rigged an old black-and-white portable TV in the shaft house. He paused to watch the coverage.
It looked like it had been a bright, sunny day down in Dallas. The grainy black-and-white images were shown over and over—the presidential motorcade passing by, the President and First Lady in an open-air black Lincoln convertible, both of them happily waving to the crowds, and then, suddenly, something indistinct happened in the car, and someone in a dark suit—presumably a Secret Service agent—was scrambling to climb into the President’s car from the rear over the trunk lid, Jackie Kennedy, her arm outstretched, was trying to pull him aboard, and then the front part of the motorcade, including the big black Lincoln, accelerated and pulled away, out of sight. The President had been shot, the announcer intoned somberly, and had been taken to Parkland Hospital in Dallas for emergency surgery.
Then Walter Cronkite appeared. President Kennedy, he announced, was dead. After he said that, Cronkite, appearing overwhelmed at the news, removed his eyeglasses and looked away from the cameras.
The TV set was no hell, the reception was even worse, and occasionally a passer-by would stop to fiddle with the set’s rabbit ears to try to pull in a better signal, but Jake stood, mesmerized, and watched the afternoon’s events as they were played over and over.
Eventually he came to his senses and headed for the dry.
Even in the familiar surroundings of the shower room with the near scalding-hot water hitting his skin like tiny needles and the steam beginning to rise around him, Jake felt weird. Between the new drill and the day’s events down in Dallas he sensed he was on the verge of some strange new world.
24
Halftime Show
The rest of the weekend remained gloomy and chilly, threatening snow, but the snow would not come—only a cold rain blowing in on a north wind beneath the swiftly scudding, leaden clouds—and so Foley Gilpin and Spike Sworski were both grateful for the respite provided by the Canadian Football League semi-final game that Sunday afternoon.
It was, quite literally, the only game in town. The big American television networks had decided to continue their coverage of the Kennedy assassination and pre-empt the day’s roster of National Football League games, but the executives of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation elected to televise the Canadian game—JFK wasn’t their President, after all—a national distinction that was heartily welcomed by both men that gloomy Sunday afternoon.
Anyone inclined to credit the slanderous accusations made by the Steel raiders against Sworski that he had somehow benefitted improperly from union funds during his tenure as Local 598 president should simply visit his friend’s house, Gilpin reflected.
A modest storey-and-a-half bungalow on a hill overlooking the Coniston smelter, Spike’s residence, which he had inherited from his father, was unprepossessing in the extreme. Still, on this chill and gloomy November afternoon it was a warm and welcoming refuge in a world that seemed to be spinning madly out of control.
Foley had settled comfortably in front of the TV set with a cold beer, still intent on learning the intricacies of Canadian football, at once so similar—and yet so different—compared with the American game to which he was accustomed. There was no doubt that the overall talent level was inferior up here north of the border—the players were all NFL rejects, after all—but Foley, long a Bears fan, found himself intrigued with the nuanced differences in the Canadian game—the larger field, the extra player on both sides of the football, and, most of all the fact that offences were allowed only three attempts, rather than four, to advance the football ten yards for a first down. Logically, the Canadian rules should have militated against high-scoring games. Instead, as Foley was learning, the Canadian games were often wildly wide-open, high-scoring affairs that reminded him of the sandlot touch football games of his youth. The product was often a game that was more entertaining than its much more bally-hooed, over-hyped NFL counterpart; or at least that was Spike’s contention, and Foley wasn’t so sure his friend wasn’t right.
Even as the Americans mourned the shocking death of their charismatic young President, Canadians had life-and-death political issues of their own: all eyes were turned to the Prairie province of Saskatchewan, where Premier Tommy Douglas had, a year earlier, introduced a provincially funded medicare scheme intended to provide free medical care to everyone in the province. The move had proved hugely controversial, especially among Saskatchewan’s doctors who feared the plan would ensnare them in a web of bureaucratic red tape and perhaps even impose a cap on their lucrative salaries. They threatened to strike in protest, but Douglas stood his ground. The battle lines were drawn, and the nation held its breath. Here in Spike’s living room, opinion was decidedly mixed on the matter. While no one sided with the doctors, Douglas’s party, the Cooperative Commonwealth Federation, or CCF, aroused strong emotions because of its close working relationship with the United Steelworkers of America. The CCF, a social democratic party, was in competition with the Communist Party of Canada for the allegiance—and sometimes the votes—of progressive Canadians. This sectarian feuding on the left often became bitter and vitriolic, and this, too, was an element in the Steel raids in Sudbury. Because the party was the political bedfellow of Steel, both Foley and Sworski adopted a healthy skepticism when it came to the CCF.
And so when an announcer for CBC News interrupted the game for “A Special News Bulletin” both Gilpin and Sworski expected it would concern Saskatchewan, but, the announcer concluded “We are joining our American affiliate, NBC News, to bring you the late breaking developments in the Kennedy assassination …”
“What’s this now?” Gilpin sat upright.
Sworski hurried back from the kitchen, reaching behind the TV set to stop the picture from rolling uncontrollably.
“We take you now to Dallas, where the man suspected of shooting and killing President Kennedy was himself gunned down just moments ago. The videotape you are about to see was provided to us courtesy of NBC Television News …”
Another announcer’s voice took over the narration on the videotape. “Here he comes now,” the announcer said as Oswald was led into the room by a pair of burly Dallas cops in white Stetsons who towered over the slender, almost waif-like, handcuffed figure. Then something dark appeared in the bottom right of the screen, Oswald flinched, and then winced, and disappeared from view. “He’s been shot!” The announcer’s voice rang out. “Lee Harvey Oswald’s been shot!”
Gilpin was out of his chair in an instant, headed for the door. He began to struggle into his overcoat and galoshes.
“Hey! Where ya goin’? What about the game?” demanded Sworski, startled by his friend’s sudden reflex actions.
“I dunno, man,” was all Gilpin could answer, as he shrugged into his coat. “But I gotta go.”
And that was very much the truth—Foley Gilpin had no idea where he was going. But he hurried to his car and backed out of Sworski’s driveway before ever stopping to think about that.
Where was he going? He headed toward town, toward his apartment, still too dazed to think much about what he was doing. He turned on the radio, feverishly twisting the tuning knob, in search of the latest news from Dallas, which was pouring in. Oswald had been taken to Parkland Hospital for emergency medical treatment, the same place Kennedy had been taken just two days earlier. His assailant had been immediately wrestled to the ground and arrested. He had already been identified as Jack Ruby, a Dallas nightclub owner. The story was breaking very fast as Gilpin drove down the hill from Sworski’s and turned onto the back road to the city, a narrow twisting route that ran through a narrow defile between black, rocky hills, studded with skeletal birch and poplar, their branches stripped bare by the cold wind and drizzle that was falling even now. The way led through a random scattering of modest houses and a rail siding—less than a village—called Rumford.
News reports indicated that Oswald was being led away for questioning a
t the time of the shooting. Clearly someone hadn’t wanted him to talk, Gilpin surmised.
When he entered his apartment, Foley Gilpin was surprised to hear his phone ringing. He’d made very few new friends in the city, and certainly the Union Hall would be closed today.
“Hello, I’m looking for Foley Gilpin,” said a familiar voice as Gilpin picked up the handset.
“This is Foley,” he answered.
“Foley, old friend, this is Hildy!”
“Hildy!” Gilpin was astonished to hear the voice of his former colleague. But now there was something new in that normally breezy self-confident voice—an undertone of self-doubt, even—perhaps of supplication.
“Uh Foley … Look, I know you’re no longer at the paper, but I wonder if I might have a moment of your time?
“Can you tell me everything you know about the CIA?”
Part five
Insurgents in Power
25
Insurgents In Power
Even as heart-rending tragedy—the funeral of a President, the farewell salute of John-John to his father, the lighting of the Eternal Flame at Arlington—continued to unfold before a sorrowing nation glued to the television, in a nation to the north the countdown continued on Spike Sworski’s term of office.
The pros and cons of Sworski’s five-year tenure were played out in a visceral, often downright nasty, leaflet and rumour campaign that brought little credit to either side. A whisper campaign had it that Sworski was a closet Communist—or at the very least a fellow-traveller—who had secretly grown rich during the ’58 strike, even as strikers and their families were reduced to rooting for potatoes just to have enough to eat. Hoople and his cronies, the other side countered, were really nothing more than Steelworker shills, concealing their real allegiance until there was no turning back. Once their true colours were revealed, the big Local’s dues dollars would begin to flow south, to Yankeeland, out of the members’ control, never to be seen again by the Sudbury rank and file.
The snow came, finally, on election day, the usual first snowfall: heavy, wet stuff that delights school kids and vexes their parents as they hassle with snow-clogged streets and tire chains.
Despite the weather the voter turnout was heavy at the ballot boxes which had been placed in every shaft house and surface plant across the Basin.
As they came off shift, individuals who comprised the great, roistering mass of the Sudbury rank and file stood patiently in line, awaiting their chance to cast a vote that would determine the fate of the largest union local the country had ever seen. They waited, for the most part, without complaint even though they were anxious to leave the workplace for the day, and were losing precious minutes in the comfort of home with their wives and children. This day had been a long time coming, and each was moved, by spite or solidarity, to have his say in the selection of his Local Union leadership for the next five years.
As the lines cleared and the early gloom of December descended over the Basin, the city waited with bated breath, anxious to learn the outcome of a titanic struggle that had split it down the middle for so long, a microcosmic version of a global conflict in which the fate of all humankind weighed in the balance.
Jake gulped down a hasty dinner before racing back into town, to the Union Hall, where he knew the first results would be reported. The second floor was packed, abuzz with tension, and filled with reporters, most of them very young—not much older than Jake.
He found Sworski pacing endlessly, chain-smoking, looking pale and drawn, fearing the worst.
The early returns put Spike handily in the lead, but they were all from Frood. The race tightened as results from the other mines that sprawled across the Sudbury Basin poured in over the next several hours. Then the count from the surface plants came flooding in, and Spike’s early lead was obliterated. By eleven o’clock he was down by a thousand votes and the matter, as the most percipient observers knew, was all but decided. The union secretaries who’d also come in to watch the results were red-eyed and shocked, watching in stunned silence as the future of their workplace began to shift before their eyes. President, vice-president, treasurer, recording secretary, all their bosses, were changing literally overnight. Who were these new individuals? What would they be like to work for? Suddenly uncertainty was the order of the day.
And then, just before midnight, it was all over. There were no more votes to count. Spike and his entire slate had been swept out of office by a wave of rank-and-file discontent. Spike retreated to his office, the secretaries departed for home and the reporters hurried off to file their stories.
Foley Gilpin surveyed the shambles of overflowing ashtrays and abandoned coffee cups that littered the suddenly deserted floor.
“Wanna go for a beer?” he turned to Jake.
“Sure. Where?”
“Downstairs?”
“Okay. What about him?” Jake motioned toward the closed door of Sworski’s office.
“Just a minute—I’ll go see.” Gilpin disappeared into Spike’s office. He re-emerged moments later, looking sombre.
“Should we turn off the lights?” Jake was heading for the stairs.
“Nah, let him do it.”
“Will the last member of Mine Mill please turn off the lights, eh?”
Gilpin merely grunted at Jake’s attempt at gallows humour and followed him down the stairs.
The bar in the Mine Mill Hall was in the basement, a spartan, high-ceilinged, strictly utilitarian space dedicated to the serious consumption of beer, and to the conversation that came with it. It was a largely male preserve restricted to union members and their guests, whose names were pencilled into an imposing ledger book kept beside the bar. Jake signed Foley in and they settled in with their drinks.
“How’s he taking it?” Jake looked upwards to indicate the executive offices two floors above.
“Oh, pretty hard. Why wouldn’t he?”
Jake shook his head. “I still can’t believe it. Why did it happen, do you think, Foley?”
“Oh, ’58, I think. The rank and file just never forgave him for that … and, of course the smear campaign didn’t help, either … That, and Spike does have his arrogant side, you know.”
Jake frowned at this criticism of a man who they both considered a friend. It felt like kicking a man while he was down.
“Oh, come on, Jake, you know it’s true—look at the way he’d shut down any dissent at the membership meetings. Those things have a way of catching up with you.”
“So what’ll happen now do you think?”
To Jake’s surprise Foley responded by making a slashing gesture across his own throat.
“Really? They’ll let you go? After you quit your job down in the States and all?”
Gilpin smiled ruefully. “Worst career decision of all time. But yeah, I’m a goner. I’m just way too close to Spike. They know that …”
“Gee, that’s tough. Sorry to hear it, Foley. So what’ll you do now?”
Gilpin shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe some freelancing. I hear through the grapevine the Globe’s always looking for a reliable Sudbury stringer …”
Jake nodded, impressed. The Toronto Globe and Mail was one of Canada’s best papers, the closest thing Canada had to the New York Times.
“And so what happens to the Local?”
“I’m not much of a betting man, but if I was, I’d bet we won’t be sitting here five years from now. In some other Union Hall, maybe, but not this one.”
“Shit. We need this union!”
“Oh, there’ll still be a union, just not this union.”
Foley looked abruptly at his watch. “Well kid, I’m not much looking forward to the morning after upstairs, but I guess I better be there …” He reached for the draft glass in front of him, drained it and slammed it back down on the table in quiet emphasis.
The action shook Jake out of his reverie about the future, and he reached out for his own glass and finished his beer.
“Yea
h, and I’ve got an early cage … Need a ride?”
“Naw, I can walk home, thanks.”
And with that the two men parted, to make their separate ways through the snowy streets of Sudbury.
As with any community tethered to the exigencies of a continuously producing heavy industry through the umbilical of labour, the working day in Sudbury begins at an ungodly early hour.
The McCool household was no exception. The morning after the union election found its occupants stirring well before dawn—Big Bill out to get his morning papers, Jake sleepily reaching for his first cup of coffee, Alice preparing to start the breakfast that would power her son through a morning of heavy labour underground.
It was still pitch dark outside as Jake took his place at the kitchen table and his father settled in beside him with the newspapers, still redolent of cold air and printer’s ink and fresh newsprint. Rising super early so that he could catch an early morning cage was a habit Big Bill had never broken, even in his retirement years.
“Too bad about Spike, huh?” Jake ventured to his father.
The big man only grunted as he scanned the front page of The Toronto Star.
“And how is Spike?” Big Bill asked finally, peering over the top of his paper.
“Taking it pretty hard.”
“Sorry to hear it.”
Jake knew that was true.
“He’s paying the price for that strike,” Alice chimed in from the kitchen.
“True,” agreed Big Bill.
“But Dad, you told me once that he had no choice—that he was carrying out the will of the membership,” protested Jake.
“Ye-es, but the company forced the issue, made us strike when they wanted a strike. Spike was caught in between. Terrible timing. Classic squeeze play.”