Patchwork Society

by Sharon Johnston

  “You show real understanding,” the student said admiringly.

  “Not without counselling. Womanizing, I’ve concluded, made Red feel manly.”

  Clara guaranteed the bank loan, and Ivy purchased a green Morris Mini in Toronto, which allowed her to drive back to the Soo rather than pay for the car’s delivery. She made the trip in two days, staying in Sudbury overnight. When she arrived back in the Soo, she was ready to begin her life as a single mother of two with a job. Now, turning left off Pim Street onto Hilltop Crescent, she stepped on the gas pedal. She knew the girls would be thrilled to see the new car. As soon as she was in front of her house, Ivy honked, aware that Clara would chide her, and the girls rushed out. Clara had kept them home from school to be at the house when Ivy arrived.

  Before they even inspected the car, Alice delivered an urgent message that their neighbour across the street, Milton Redman, had spanked Nora for showing his son, Marvin, her bum.

  “Well,” Clara said, “Mr. White did come here indignantly to justify his actions.” She rolled her eyes. “‘Mr. White,’” I said, “‘the first time children expose themselves, I call it science. If they do it again, I’ll tell them it’s bad. You shouldn’t have spanked my granddaughter.’”

  “Let’s inspect the new car with Granny,” Ivy said. “If a bum inspection is all that went wrong, you’ve had a good time while I was in Toronto.”

  CHAPTER 57

  Armed with the practical knowledge she had gained in her welfare course, Ivy settled into her tiny office on the second floor of the courthouse with twelve hundred files on her desk.

  “Get familiar with the cases before going on the road,” Russ said. “Old-age allowance, disability pension, and single mothers’ benefits make up most of your case files.”

  As she ploughed through case after case, Ivy found that desertion, alcoholism, and physical violence were the words that stood out. In each scenario, the person or family had to “qualify” to get any benefit. This troubled Ivy.

  “Wouldn’t ‘benefit from,’ rather than ‘qualify for,’ be a better way to express the need for social assistance?” Ivy asked Russ. “Means tests are degrading.”

  “I’m of the old school and believe recipients of welfare must prove their cases,” Russ replied.

  The Morris Mini was economical on gas but stylish enough to please her girls. Ivy also needed warm clothes if she was to be on the road in winter. The local weatherman predicted an Arctic winter. Most people ignored his warnings, but Ivy went to Friedman’s Department Store to buy practical outdoor clothes. Previously, she had dressed in Montreal chic. She joked with the saleslady after choosing a burnt orange car coat with a beaver collar, lined leather gloves, and brown wool hat with leather trim. “Will I look too stylish for my clients?” she asked, gazing at the dressing room mirror.

  “You look like a woman who can help them,” the saleslady responded with an admiring grin.

  Once Ivy’s divorce came through, the difficulties of a divorced parent began. Alice arrived home from school in tears one day. She didn’t want to fill in the mandatory form that asked: “What is your father’s occupation?”

  Ivy wrote “non-applicable” in the allotted space, but the teacher sent Alice back home with a note: “Put anything you want, Mrs. Donnelly, but you must fill in that space.”

  Frustrated but not wanting to make a fuss that would further humiliate Alice, Ivy wrote “boat captain” in the allotted space. “The question is to find out if a father has lost his job so the school can react accordingly,” Ivy said, disguising her indignation. She was facing her own challenges. The minister who had married her in the Anglican Church had passed her by at the Communion rail, never offering her the cup.

  Soon after Nora started school, she, too, arrived home crying. “The teacher strapped me,” she blurted through her sobs.

  Ivy arranged a meeting with Fanny Pace, Nora’s teacher.

  “Your daughter’s been swallowing her classmates’ goiter pills,” Miss Pace said indignantly as soon as Ivy took a seat in her classroom. “I found Nora standing at the fountain with her hand out. The pills taste like chocolate to ensure each child takes a pill.”

  “Well, I guess that’s why Nora liked swallowing them,” Ivy replied.

  “She’s showing off because she misses her father,” Miss Pace countered with a defiant cock of her head.

  “Strapping Nora won’t help. I told my daughter that every child has a gland that needs the iodine in the pill or a big bump will grow on the neck. I showed her a picture of a goiter. Nora will swallow only one pill from now on.”

  Ivy left Miss Pace’s chalk-smelling classroom with the cruel reality that her girls were the only children in the school to have divorced parents. It was an unexpected benefit that Clara, who had been a distant mother, was now throwing herself into enjoying her granddaughters. She had become a vital presence, permitting Ivy to do her job without worrying.

  The courthouse was a stimulating environment. Lawyers, criminals, reporters, police officers, witnesses, and couples waiting to be married paced back and forth in the hallway. Some fell asleep on the same bench where Ivy had waited to see Adam Wright. If Adam was in the courthouse on a case, he never failed to stick his head in to see how she was doing. Ivy knew some of the corridor-pacing characters from her welfare work. It wasn’t unusual for Magistrate Langdon or one of the lawyers to ask her questions “off the record” about family circumstances that might mitigate a committed offence. She offered information concerning sickness, unemployment, desertion, abuse, and death, which might influence the outcome of a case. The lives of her clients mattered.

  Many of Ivy’s clients were Native families. They lived on reserves east or north of the Soo, where some houses resembled temporary shelters. She had come to know more about the hurdles facing Native people when William Martin had recuperated at Clara’s. He never talked about his years at the residential school. However, like Albert, his grandfather, he loved to talk, and Ivy was a good listener.

  It was the intervention of Dr. Chas Greer that insured William would have the modern artificial limb that had been denied his grandfather. Alcohol abuse plagued some of the reserves, and Ivy was often involved when these issues resulted in problems for the families. Clara would accompany Ivy on these calls for safety. In an effort to understand the law surrounding Natives and alcohol, Ivy sat in on a court proceeding. The owner of a bar was being fined for posting a sign: NO INDIANS.

  Magistrate Langdon clarified the law for the courtroom audience. “Natives have the right to purchase alcohol in a bar but not in a government outlet.”

  Ivy had heard of the “Indian List.” The only person she knew on this list was a doctor’s wife. She left the hearing with a better understanding of the issue. The government believed alcohol was the problem and ignored the pitiful housing conditions and many other hardships on reserves. She could see that the opportunities she had for re-education wouldn’t be given to a Native person.

  “I condemn government prejudice as much as Clara does,” she muttered back in her office.

  CHAPTER 58

  Among the hard-nosed lawyers in the courthouse, Ivy had a special place, since she was the only woman they considered educated. Marc Russo was a softer sort of person than the other counsellors. He was a shy man and a confirmed bachelor, which suited Ivy, and they became friends. Her outgoing nature complemented his more restrained personality. He was quiet with a dry sense of humour that Ivy appreciated. Alice and Nora thought Marc was marvellous. He could pull napkins out of his ear and perform many other magic tricks. Entertaining the girls, he made up stories, mostly about heroic Italians. He was the celebrated native son of the Soo’s west end community.

  Ivy hadn’t realized how much going through a divorce and finding a job had changed her until a lawyer, waiting for his turn in court, came into her office with a coffee. “My wife admires you for staying active in the May Court Club. She thought you’d find the ladies boring
. She did say she found you a bit flighty when you came back from Montreal.”

  Ivy smiled. “That’s a backhanded compliment, but I’ll take it.”

  “I think that’s how my wife meant it.”

  Marc entered the office just as his colleague was leaving. “You’re looking a bit downhearted.” He grinned. “Are you up for some Italian food?”

  “Just a little thoughtful today. Do I have time to make a quick call on the way to lunch? I have a client who has to sign a form to get the government to send her old-age allowance. It’ll only take a minute. She lives on John Street on the way to the restaurant.”

  Marc agreed, and they left the office. After driving to the client’s place, Marc waited in the car while Ivy popped in to complete her errand. As soon as she returned, they drove on to Cleto’s Restaurant, which was packed with corpulent Italian men enjoying wine and pasta.

  The waiter knew Marc and led them to a quieter table near a window overlooking Gore Street. Ivy watched as the patrons twisted their forks and shoved spaghetti in their mouths. She did the same, checking with her napkin that she hadn’t dribbled sauce on her chin.

  “Do I seem flighty?” Ivy asked Marc, tilting her head. She expected an honest answer.

  “What on earth makes you ask that?”

  Ivy related the lawyer’s comments about his wife’s opinion of her.

  “I think you’re fun, not flighty.” Marc kicked Ivy’s shoe under the table. “What’s up?”

  “Looking back at my life with Red, I think what I thought was funny was actually inappropriate. I believe it hurt Red.”

  “So get it off your chest, Ivy. It’s not like you to be so morose.”

  “There was talk in 1941 that Red might run as the Liberal Member of Parliament. Lester Pearson was in the Soo to check out the situation. Red was financially secure, a father of one child, and had a family that went back three generations. People still remembered his grandfather, I.J., the oversized chief of police. Red seemed an ideal candidate.”

  “As a philanderer,” Marc said quietly.

  “That wasn’t well known back then. I was to entertain Pearson in the evening. Red took him out on Lake Superior during the day. Pearson returned to the Windsor Hotel to change and then arrived with two colleagues for dinner. He had visited the Soo earlier in 1935 as part of a royal commission on price spreads. Pearson was an important man in the federal public service. I organized a lovely dinner with venison pie as the main dish and chocolate éclairs for dessert. In retrospect, what I did wasn’t funny.”

  “So what was so terrible that it’s still bothering you so many years later?”

  “It was the comment about my flightiness that brought back the memory.”

  “So what did you do, Ivy?”

  “I put shaving cream in everyone’s dessert. I had proper desserts in the kitchen to serve once the joke was over.”

  Marc laughed. “So what happened? You were playing a prank to lighten the atmosphere.”

  “I thought a successful man like Pearson would enjoy the joke. And he seemed to. ‘I wouldn’t be much of a statesman if I didn’t know the difference between shaving and whipping cream,’ he said, handing back his dessert. But Red never got the nomination. I think subconsciously I was angry about his philandering. I never confronted him. Maybe that was my way of getting back. It was a flighty moment, and I wouldn’t do something like that again.”

  “Then that would be a shame,” Marc said. “Your éclair ruse had nothing to do with Red not being nominated, and it sounds like you had a fun evening.”

  CHAPTER 59

  Ivy’s frequent road trips on business had made her an excellent winter driver. Despite occasional encounters with wildlife, snowdrifts, and glare ice on the highway, she felt safe on the road. Ivy wasn’t as confident, however, about her trip by air to Wawa. It was mid-February, and as the weatherman had predicted, very cold. She was to travel north with Keith Messenger, an experienced bush pilot. This was Ivy’s fourth month as a welfare officer but her third trip to Wawa — her first by air. Previously, she had taken the Algoma Central Railway train. She had six files in her briefcase and had reviewed them all before leaving to make sure there were no missing government forms to be signed.

  Keith was a man’s man, and weather rarely provided him with a reason not to fly. That morning, while it was still dark, Sergeant Stuart accompanied Ivy as she left her house. The provincial police officer normally on call for northern trips was unavailable, so the sergeant filled in. Keith greeted them at the airport, leaning against his ski-equipped Norseman. He asked Ivy to sit with him in the cockpit.

  “Don’t worry. I’ll get you home to sleep in your own bed,” he reassured her as he revved the plane.

  There was nothing to see but blue sky, white snow, and forest. Two hours later, they landed on Wawa Lake in the middle of a raging snowstorm. A car with chains on the wheels clanged across the frozen lake to meet them. Drifting snow made it hard to see the shoreline, but the experienced driver managed to get them off the lake and into town where Keith had business. Ivy went on with Sergeant Stuart and Stan Nahdee, a local Cree, who was to drive her to the homes of her numerous clients. Stan lived outside Wawa and was familiar with the area.

  Her last call was to Stella Brownlee, a Cree woman whose file Ivy had inherited from Russ Thompson. The wind had picked up, leaving drifts that narrowed the navigable roadway. Every road sign was buried in the six-foot snowbanks.

  “My notes show Mrs. Brownlee lives in that house coming up,” Ivy said.

  Stan stopped the car, rolled down the window, and leaned out to brush snow off a mailbox. “It says Brownlee.”

  Sergeant Stuart shifted to speak to Ivy in the back seat. “Are you sure you don’t want me to come with you?”

  “Stella trusts me,” Ivy said. “She’s been to my office in the Soo on several matters. It’s a complicated family situation, and I have to deliver some bad news.”

  “How long will you be?” the sergeant asked.

  “As long as it takes.”

  Stan laughed. “We’ll wait on the road buried in snow.”

  Sergeant Stuart jumped out into the blizzard and used his foot to lever the back door open, which gave way with a crunch of scraping metal. Then Ivy passed the sergeant her briefcase and scrambled out.

  “If you fall in a snowbank, we’ll know where to find you in that orange coat,” the sergeant quipped.

  Ivy pulled the brown fur collar up and the hat down over her ears and trudged through the snow of the unshovelled walkway. I shall buy taller boots, she thought as snow packed in against her ankles. Plastic sheets stapled over the windows billowed and flapped with each gust of wind. Ivy hesitated before stepping into the plywood porch that leaned away from the blowing. She rapped hard, and Stella, wearing a brown jersey wool skirt and pink sweater, came to the door in her deerskin slippers. A mongrel dog growled in the doorway.

  “Does he bite?” Ivy asked, separating herself from the dog with her briefcase.

  “Come in, Mrs. D. The dog’s fine. I didn’t expect you’d come in weather like this.” Stella took Ivy’s coat and hung it on the tip of an antler that served as a coat rack. “Put your boots by the stove to dry.” She moved away from the door. “You’d be comfortable on the sofa. It’s the back seat of a Studebaker. We’re lucky to have any furniture at all.” She sat on an iron cot piled with blankets, then motioned that her daughter, Cindy, and her boyfriend were asleep in the bedroom.

  The flimsy hollow door had a hole in it that Ivy assumed was a kick from a boot. “Stella, you’re in a tough situation that I hope to mitigate.”

  Heat radiated from a wood stove where a bucket of melting snow caused small drips to sizzle on the stove. Stella leaned over and tossed in a log.

  “Is the pump frozen again?” Ivy asked, contemplating the piles of dishes, laundry, and liquor bottles.

  Stella shrugged. “I pack that bucket to the top with snow and half an hour later I got nothing but
two inches of water, hardly enough to make tea.” She cocked her head toward the bedroom. “They wouldn’t have hangovers if they’d been drinking tea. Her boyfriend just laughs when I suggest that.”

  “That’s why I’m here, Stella. The courts are worried about sending your granddaughter back. Sylvie’s in a nice home with kids her own age. And she’s doing well in school.”

  “What right do the courts have to decide what’s best for my family?”

  Ivy slid sideways on the green vinyl sofa to get off the spring pushing into her buttocks. “It’s a wonder this place hasn’t burned down.” She stuck a finger into a cigarette burn on the sofa. “Alcohol and wood houses are a bad mix.”

  “Mrs. D., I’m a good kokum.”

  Ivy came over to sit beside Stella on the bed. “I know you’re a good grandmother.”

  “It’s the boyfriend who’s the problem. Every time they get drinking, he gets angry.” She took in a large breath and let it out with an audible sigh.

  “Listen, Stella, each punch has been recorded at the hospital. Do you want your granddaughter to grow up seeing her mother being hit?”

  “I don’t see no good coming of a Cree child growing up in a white family.”

  “I’ve seen Sylvie and she’s happy,” Ivy said. “I can get Cindy into a rehab program. She needs to be sober for at least three months before the courts will let Sylvie return. Stella, you have to kick the boyfriend out. Since you have legal custody of your granddaughter, you must sign the form to allow the foster parents to keep Sylvie for another three months so she doesn’t go into a government home. Trust me, Stella.”

  “It’s not you I don’t trust, Mrs. D. It’s the damn system that’s so stacked against us.”

  Ivy stood up. “Do you want me to haul that man out of bed and send him packing?”