by Mick Lowe
Both men paused to contemplate Burrell’s life story, the arc of it. “Ya know, I’ve been thinking of Charley a lot lately,” Jordan said at last.
“Yeah? How so?”
Jordan drew a deep breath. “I think it’s time we went balls-in for thirty and out.”
“Huh!” Jake was momentarily stunned that the union president was seriously contemplating going for the gusto when it came to the Holy Grail of collective bargaining in Canadian heavy industry, but it made sense. The stipulation that any worker could take his or her full pension after thirty years’ service regardless of age had long been a prized, though elusive, goal in bargaining. The removal of the “age factor” combined with years of service would remove a common barrier to retirement eligibility for many. Such a breakthrough, precedent-setting concession by the company would, in all likelihood, seal the deal. It would be difficult for the rank-and-file to reject that.
“Do you really think the Company would go for it?”
“Well, they want us back on the job pretty bad. If we tell them that’s what it’s gonna take to get us back to work … “
“Betcha old Charley still won’t take it,” Jake grinned.
Nelson sighed. “Oh, I know, and there’s lots more like him. But at least they’d have the choice …” The union president chose not to voice the obvious, knowing it was an article of faith among the union activists throughout the big Local: thirty years of service in a hostile, often lethal, working environment like a hard rock mine was enough for anybody, and in the name of simple human decency should be rewarded with a full, liveable pension, regardless of age.
“Well, brother, more power to ya, and to the whole Bargaining Committee.”
“Yeah, thanks, Jake.”
And with that the union president closed up his office, descended the stairs to the back door, and headed back down the road to Toronto. The strike had just entered its two hundred fiftieth day.
36
261
The Bargaining Committee returned, triumphant, just six days later. They had won a package that did include thirty and out, plus full Cost-of-Living-Adjustment roll-ins, wage increases in each of the three years of the agreement, and some improvements to contract language that would help the stewards police the agreement on the job. There was nothing not to like, and the bargaining committee, which was once again unanimous in urging acceptance, breezed through the membership meetings, which were pacific affairs in comparison to the stormy meetings of the previous go-round. Everyone sensed that the strike was winding down, and the vote to ratify was carried by a wide margin.
It was over. A ten-and-a-half month strike, two hundred sixty-one days, to be precise. Although it had been settled on the union’s terms, there was no celebration, no bust-up. Instead, everyone felt numb and more than a little bewildered. So, they would return to work. (More than a few felt better of it, choosing to book holidays instead, which drove the Company’s HR people over a cliff. Here they were, rushing to resume full production, and these crazy men, after ten months off the job, wanted to take a vacation?)
But mainly this new normal, which really was nothing more than a return to the old, familiar, albeit now half-forgotten, normal, was bewildering. What would happen to the clothing exchange, the food bank, the Scrounge Committee? It all felt strange, more than a little surreal. It would take days for the embattled rank-and-file before relaxation could seep in. Meanwhile, life moved on …
… It was Alice McCool who had insisted her son accompany Jo Ann to her ultrasound appointment.
In private, though never to her face, Alice had begun to refer to her daughter-in-law as “that poor girl.” An only child whose parents had passed on years earlier, Jo Ann had no family, especially in comparison to the prolific, roistering McCool clan who surrounded Alice and her husband Big Bill at every birthday and holiday.
Alice certainly never meant it in any sort of patronizing way—to the contrary, she idolized Jo Ann, never more than in those memorable moments when she and Molly Carruth, through their impassioned, quick thinking imprecations had carried the day, persuading a majority of the reluctant Wives to come out publicly against that first offer. ’Til her dying day Alice McCool would remain convinced that the Wives, public stand against the first, peremptory offer had swung the vote decisively. How appropriate. From counselling acceptance in the bitter, ruinous strike of ’58 to leading a proud, stubborn resolution to fight on in the strike of ’78, resulting in a pure, unalloyed union victory. The Wives had surely atoned. But it was because they had known their own history, and learned from it, as Alice knew all too well. Still the McCool matriarch worried about her daughter-in-law’s first-ever pregnancy while she nervously awaited a call as to the outcome.
So Jake was with Jo Ann in the darkened ultra-sound room as the apprehensive mother-to-be lay flat on her back, big belly exposed, covered in some cold, oily-feeling goo as the ultrasound tech rolled a small wand over her belly, accompanied by strange, squishy sounds out of a loudspeaker mounted beneath a screen which the operator studied intently.
After what seemed an eternity she turned, smiling, toward the young couple. “Everything looks fine, just fine. Congratulations.”
“C-Can you tell us when I’m likely to deliver?” Jo Ann wondered aloud, anxiety clearly evident in her voice.
But the ultrasound tech only shook her head. “Afraid not. That’s pretty chancy, always. You’re in your third trimester, that’s for sure, but beyond that, unless we know the exact date of conception, which few couples ever do …”
Jo Ann and Jake looked at each other, and blushed slightly.
“Uh, actually we do know,” Jake offered. “It was exactly 261 days ago.” He thought of the long, apprehension-filled night before the strike had started. It seemed another lifetime.
The ultrasound tech returned her tool to Jo Ann’s belly, and rolled it around some more.
She turned to them again, wiping the goo off the sensor. “And have you figured out a name yet for your little boy?”
This was unexpected. Jo Ann looked up at Jake, and was surprised to find him a bit misty-eyed.
He nodded once, and all he said was, “Bill.”
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