Wintersong. The Nickel Range Trilogy • Volume 3

by Mick Lowe

  That sort of outcome might have been averted by a chance encounter outside the Union Hall minutes before the meeting. Molly Carruth just happened to run into a worried-looking Jordan Nelson as he was heading into the Hall for the meeting. She was appalled at his attire.

  ”Whoah there, Jordy! Whaddaya think you’re doing there, Brother?”

  She eyed him up and down, taking in the business suit and tie, freshly creased pants, shiny black shoes, briefcase in hand. It was a sweltering, sunny May day. Could he really be this tone deaf?

  “Jesus, Jordy, you can’t go in there lookin’ like a million bucks in front of a membership that ain’t been paid in almost eleven months! They’ll eat ya alive for sure! Better get outta that monkey suit, my friend!”

  “What?” was the startled Nelson’s only reaction. In working class Sudbury men donned their “monkey suits” for only two occasions: a wedding or a funeral. Only bosses dressed up in a suit and tie. Carruth’s warning to Nelson may have averted his own funeral, as he quickly realized, double-timing up the stairs to his second floor office, where he hastily changed into a pair of blue jeans and casual short-sleeved shirt.

  Even just hurrying across the foyer outside the Vimy Room’s heavily guarded entrance doors Nelson could sense the mood of tense anticipation. The space was thronged with latecomers who couldn’t be squeezed into the standing room at the back of the big room. Reporters and television news crews milled among them. The air was charged with expectancy, as if awaiting a heavy weight prize fight. There was a strong, palpable, sense of rancour in the building. There would be blood.

  But there were a few sweet dissidents among the naysayers—those exceptions who would vote “no” to the contract offer—simply because they didn’t want to go back to work. The time off agreed with them. They were sleeping better. Their bodies had healed from the ongoing, unnatural straining of daily labour to produce a commodity used primarily to wreak havoc and destruction. Now, at last, the sun was shining! The birds were singing! Sure, they missed the money, but they felt better than they had in years. Money, the ten-month strike had taught them, wasn’t everything. It was time to go a-fishing.

  These placid few were, at best, only a tiny minority, as Jordan Nelson was about to discover as he stepped into the roiling maelstrom of the Vimy Room. The smell, the fetid odour of too many bodies too tightly packed in the now summer-like heat, hit him immediately. He swallowed once, then walked impassively through the throng to the stage. His passage, while not unnoticed, was not obstructed. Never in his life had he been so acutely aware of so many eyes watching his every move. The workers in the immediate area around him fell silent as he walked across the vast wooden floor of the Vimy Room. The hush was expectant, as if the silent observers anticipated that at any moment one of their number might step forward and take a poke at him, but no one did. At last he reached the short, narrow hallway to the right of the stage where, during the happier events hosted so often in this huge hall—wedding receptions, political rallies—beer was sold through a chest-high window that was shuttered now. He climbed the steps to the stage and paused again, just offstage in the wings, thinking of the anonymous death threat that had been recorded only hours before on the answering machine of one of his colleagues. He weighed the possibilities the threat was real, took another deep breath of the sweaty, stale air in the room, accentuated now because of the elevation of the stage, felt as if everything was closing in on him, decided that, on balance, there was every possibility one of the onlookers in the front row was packing a gun, squared his shoulders, and stepped out on to the stage.

  27

  The Wives, Divided

  The new contract offer left the Wives more deeply divided than ever. The split was over two principal issues:

  Should they, as an organization that had steadily gained in profile throughout the strike, take a position on whether the tentative agreement should be accepted?

  And, if so, should they urge acceptance, or rejection?

  On the first point the division tended to run along generational lines. The older women, long accustomed to the notion that their men were the breadwinners working outside the home and that their place was within it, argued strenuously that it was not women’s business, that the decision was best left to the menfolk, whose votes, after all, were the only ones that really counted.

  Such reasoning drove the younger women—and especially the always outspoken Molly—crazy, though Carruth was in the unique position of having a foot in both camps, even though she was no longer anyone’s wife. This latter was not a point lost on any of the older women, though they were too polite to say so. For her part, Jo Ann tended to side with Molly, who only snorted derisively when one of the older women made what she, Molly, considered to be a thinly-veiled call for a return to the “barefoot and pregnant in the kitchen” days. Molly’s guttural derision was not lost on the ladies of the old guard, who eyed one another with a now familiar “who let this renegade in here?” look.

  It was left to Jo Ann to remonstrate. A more tractable sort than the short-tempered Molly, Jo Ann, at least, was also a stay-at-home wife wholly dependent on her husband’s paycheque, like so many of the older generation. “Look, I know this is difficult,” she began in what she hoped was a genial, conciliatory tone. “We’re none of us used to telling our fellas what to do, right?” Her innocent, wide green eyes, filled with mischief, belied her tone, and for a moment only startled. Baffled silence greeted her words, followed quickly by a burst of appreciative laughter, an earnest that the tension that had filled the room was also bursting. But it was one thing, as they all knew, to chide their partners into a minor course of action over the kitchen table, quite another to weigh in—in public, yet—on the most important decision any of them might make in a lifetime. “But we’ve earned this by the way we’ve supported this strike through thick and thin. I know we’ve never done this before, but we’ve never been here before. A ten-month strike, and we’re still standing! Who could’ve ever imagined such a thing? This is a new day, and a new time, for us, and for all the women in our community. Two hundred days into this thing, it’s too late to turn back now! We must take a position on this offer!” Another silence greeted Jo Ann’s sudden, impromptu eloquence. The traditionalists looked at each other almost sheepishly as if to determine who would offer rejoinder, but no one rose to the task.

  Instead, Molly seized the moment. “Question! Madam chair, I call the question!”

  The community activist, grateful that the acrimony had disappeared from the meeting for the first time in months, responded quickly. “Okay, by a show of hands, it is moved by Jo Ann McCool, seconded by Molly Carruth, that we take a public position on this offer. All those in favour … All those opposed …”

  28

  Security Detail

  His hotel room phone was ringing as Cash McCallister stepped out of the shower. He’d become addicted to scalding hot showers ever since that night he’d gotten soaking wet in that goddamned icy water after he’d blown the first transformer. The weather had turned warmer now, but he just couldn’t seem to shake the winter chill out of his bones. You could take the boy out of Texas, but …

  Likewise this goddamned shithole of a town. He just couldn’t seem to shake it. “Yeah?” he growled into the receiver, making absolutely no attempt to disguise his foul temper.

  He recognized the voice of his case officer back in Langley and simmered down a bit, intrigued almost despite himself. Very unusual to hear that voice over an open, unencrypted, line, which this was.

  “Listen, we need your help up there.”

  “Yeah? What’s up?”

  “Need you on a security detail. It’s urgent.”

  “Security detail! For who?”

  “Canadian ambassador. He’s there right now. Wants to meet personally with the union and the company over that strike, get a handle on what’s going on. Pentagon boys
are twitchier’n ever over their nickel stockpile. We need you to go with him.”

  McCallister rubbed his still-wet hair vigorously with a bath towel. “Huh! Why can’t you just send in the Marines?” The U.S. Marine Corps, he knew, were tasked with protecting U.S. embassies, and their personnel, the world over.

  “Can’t. They’re stuck back in Ottawa, minding the store.”

  “Uh huh. So whaddaya want me to do?”

  “Contact Enders personally, find out his itinerary, and cover his every move when he’s out in public. He’s there right now. Staying at your hotel, actually.”

  “Yeah, well it looks like this whole situation is almost over, anyway. Union’s got a new agreement and the voting on it starts any day now. Betting is they’ll go for it. After ten months out on strike, how could they afford not to?”

  “Well, Big Tom is there to make sure it’s gonna end ASAP. Go see him, won’t you, and get set to stay close ’til you can put him on a plane back to Ottawa?”

  McCallister agreed to the unexpected assignment, and began to liaise with the U.S. ambassador to Canada as ordered. The only place that really concerned either man was the visit to the Union Hall, where Enders was intent on having a private sit-down with the union President and strike leader, Jordan Nelson. Neither man had spent much time inside a Union Hall and neither knew what to expect. From what Cash had observed in his few months here, the strike had become a free-for-all, and the local nickel workforce hereabouts were about as alien, unpredictable and dangerous as the Wild Men of Borneo. The two men agreed to meet again in Enders’ hotel room toward the end of the week.

  29

  One Tough Meeting

  There was no shooter in the front row, but for Jordan Nelson what came next was almost as bad,

  He’d no sooner gavelled the meeting to order than a rank-and-filer none of them recognized was on his feet, approaching the stage at a run. The veins on the side of his neck were distended, and he was vituperative with rage. He seemed the very embodiment of a membership whose every hope and dream had been gashed, whose every sacrifice over that long, fraught winter had been for naught. “Nelson!” he bellowed. “Nelson! You fuckin’ guy!”

  “I thought you were different! I believed you’d never sell us out! But now you bring us this?” He brandished the glossy Pittsburgh propaganda leaflet over his head for all to see. “I lost my house! My wife left me! And this is all I get? Well, I say, fuck you! And fuck this shitty sell-out deal!” And with that the irate rank-and-filer retreated to his seat to a smattering of applause.

  Jordan Nelson watched this outburst with apparent stoicism, at least to the casual outside observer. But a more attentive watcher might have noticed the white-knuckle death grip with which he held either side of the wooden podium behind which he stood. At last, after clearing his throat and pausing, head down for a decent interval, the strike leader looked out over the crowd, which awaited his reply in expectant silence.

  “Look, we know how much you guys have gone through out there on those lines, and my heart goes out to the Brother who just spoke, it really does. But this bargaining committee has worked hard, and brought back what we believe is the best agreement possible at this time. Believe me when I say we left nothing on the table! But now, soon, at the end of this week it’ll all be up to you. And we’re urging you to vote ‘yes’ to this agreement, to end this strike, so that you can walk back through those gates with your heads held high! Thank you!”

  Nelson’s words were also greeted with a smattering of applause, of roughly the same amplitude and intensity as the overwrought striker had received, a fact not lost on the members of the bargaining committee. The early auguries that the deal would be accepted were not good.

  The meeting was a sweaty, over-amped four-hour grind, which Jake McCool observed from the floor. As its participants made their moody exit Jake stood his ground, awaiting the Bargaining Committee, and especially his friend, Jordan Nelson. He looked drawn, and his shoulders slumped.

  “Hey Jake.”

  “Hi Jordy.”

  “So, whaddya see, whaddya hear?”

  The pair stood close together, keeping their voices down, as the last few rank-and-filers left the Vimy Room.

  Jake shook his head. The buzz on the floor, both inside the meeting and outside of it, had given the appearance of a membership badly divided. “Boy, I dunno, Jordy. They seem about evenly split. This deal may just not fly.”

  The union president gave a weary sigh and, as he turned toward the doors, it seemed to Jake, his shoulders slumped even further.

  “Rough meeting, eh, Jordy?”

  “Yeah, one tough meeting.”

  30

  The Wives Take a Stand

  The vote by show of hands had been so close that, much to the community organizer’s exasperation, she had been unable to get a clear count. It hadn’t helped that people were milling about the room.

  “I’m going to need a standing vote. Everyone please stay in your seats until the vote is called!” she snapped.

  No one will ever be sure of the impact Jo Ann McCool’s sudden burst of eloquence had on the outcome—or on what would come later—but the standing vote revealed a razor-thin victory for the “yes” side. The Wives would take a stand on the agreement. But what would it be? Once the buzz in the aftermath of the vote count had abated, the debate over this second crucial question began in earnest. Arguments in favour of the agreement echoed sentiments heard all over town: the strike had gone on long enough—too long, in fact—and its further prolongation was more than they could bear. Besides, what was the point? The bargaining committee had unanimously recommended acceptance. Why, even the feisty Jordan Nelson had declared there was nothing more on the table, or so it was rumoured around town. Why send them back down to Toronto if there was nothing to be gained?

  Like Molly Carruth and her husband Jake, with whom she had discussed the matter at length, Jo Ann secretly harboured the conviction that a “yes” vote on the contract would mean the end of Jordan Nelson. He would join the long line of Sudbury strike leaders who’d failed to gain a contract that met the membership’s sky-high expectations and who were summarily defeated in the next election. Like Molly and Jake—and even many of the Wives here in this room—Jo Ann had the utmost respect for the young union leader. Ergo, in order to save him it was necessary to defeat him. No one on the “no” side, as they began their impassioned perorations, disclosed this sentiment, of course. Instead were heard the usual critiques of the offer commonly heard in the coffee and barber shops—and even the hairdressers’ salons—wherever strikers and their wives congregated: it was a good agreement, yes, but it certainly wasn’t a great agreement worthy of a ten-month strike. So the bargaining committee had to go back down to Toronto—so what? No one knew what would transpire this time; perhaps the Company would table the great offer this time, the one it had had in its back pocket all along. And so on and so on. The arguments raged endlessly that week, destined to be resolved the only way they ever could—by the vote of the membership. And, like everyone else in the Nickel Capital that week, the Wives searched their souls and reached for the nettles …

  31

  The Wives Speak Out

  The Wives’ debate over whether to publicly oppose the new agreement was as contentious as its predecessors, and it ran along well-worn lines. To the organization’s rank-and-file members it was a question of passionate conviction. But to the community organizer presiding over it, and therefore standing somewhat detached from it, the whole thing was a wonder. How far the women in this room had come in ten short months! Many of them had never flown on a commercial airplane. Even a long distance phone call was an expensive, intimidating luxury, out of reach to most. Yet now here they were, deliberating on whether to stand at odds with the mighty Steelworkers Union, publicly breaking ranks with them for the first time.

  And it was this very
provincialism that galled Molly the most. The Wives who supported the contract were the Old Guard, who tended to see every question from the point of view of their kitchen, their pillow talk, their family. What was his opinion? How would he vote on the contract? His opinion was the only one that really mattered. But, as many of them realized, that ship had sailed. They were anxious, always, to declare their independence from the women’s movement. The mass media had done all it could to stigmatize the early feminists, casting them as “bra burners” and “women’s libbers,” yet oddly here were even these most socially conservative women being drawn into a debate about doing the unthinkable. Molly had a much wider view of the strike, which had turned her world upside down. She had travelled all over the country because of it, been honoured as a labour hero, given impassioned speeches that were greeted by roaring, thunderous ovations, heady experiences she had never expected, and would never forget. She well understood the high expectations the entire Canadian labour movement had of the Sudbury strike. They were carrying the banner for everybody.

  “But we’re making history here,” she pleaded. “We can’t just give up now!” No one, she realized, argued that the agreement was worthy of all that they had gone through, only that to oppose the Bargaining Committee’s unanimous endorsement was too bold, too audacious. It was the same old same old: the world is so big and we are so small, stay as we are. “What about all those smaller unions out there?” she demanded. “They look up to us, and if we accept this agreement it’ll look like a defeat, and they’ll say, ‘If they couldn’t do it, then what’s the point in us takin’ the bosses on?’” Molly paused to give her words a chance to sink in. This time, it was Jo Ann who rushed into the breach. “Question! Madam Chairperson, I call the question!” Jo Ann knew, as they all did, how heartily sick everyone in the room was of these endless, debilitating debates. The call to a vote came almost as a relief. The community organizer briefly recapped the gist of the resolution on the floor: they would issue a press release announcing that WSS (their organization had now evolved to the highest, most-established org-order, the acronymic) had decided it could not support the Tentative Agreement. This did not mean, however, they no longer supported the Bargaining Committee, Local 6500, or the strike itself, only that this particular agreement was unworthy of such a lengthy strike. They believed the Bargaining Committee could do better, and they urged the Committee to return to the bargaining table and consolidate their gains.