But the change had begun almost immediately. The vice-principal stood at the door with a sheaf of papers in one hand, calling out names in a booming voice, and assigning each name to a class and a room.
“Carter, Raymond. C-17. Mr. Dunphy’s class. Basement level. Room 111.”
Ray had no idea what the man was talking about, but he noticed the student whose name he’d called before Ray’s was going in through the door. He decided he should follow suit.
“See you at lunch,” he said to Ward.
They did meet for lunch and walked home together after school. But soon Ray had football practice. And Ward had met some new guys in his class . . .
It turned out that C-17 stood for the seventeenth of seventeen classes of grade tens, thirty students per class, more than five hundred in all. Just in grade ten! That was more than the total number of students in Richmond’s entire primary to ninth-grade student body. Q.E.H.S. was the Protestant “and other” high school for all of Halifax, meaning it attracted students from as far north as what remained of Africville to as far south as the affluent south end. Ray had never met a Jew before high school; most of the south-enders, he guessed, had never met a black person before.
Not that the classes themselves were all that mixed. Close to half the students in C-17 were black. They accounted for all but a handful of the school’s entire black population. C-17 was the class for the dumb newcomers—Mr. Dunphy was known, even to his face, as Dr. Dummy—as well as the even dumber ones repeating the grade for the second, sometimes third time.
Ray wasn’t dumb; he just wasn’t smart enough to know he was being railroaded out of his future. His father would have known if he’d been paying attention. He’d fought similar battles for Ray’s brothers, and for Ray too when he was younger. But Lawrence Carter had become so consumed by his own war with City officials he’d lost interest in almost anything that didn’t have to do with Africville relocation.
Ray didn’t put two and two together until the beginning of grade twelve, when he went to the guidance counsellor for help in picking a university. She told him he wasn’t in the university prep stream; he was in the “general program.” Which meant he was qualified only for vocational school or the lower rungs of the workforce.
“You didn’t know you weren’t in the university stream?” The guidance counsellor was incredulous.
“How was I supposed to know?” Ray demanded. She was making him angry.
“You just should have, that’s all.”
“What can I do now?”
She laughed. “Well, you could go back to grade ten and start over. Other than that . . .”
So Ray had sat in the auditorium that morning listening to all of the speeches about their collective future, hearing the scholarship announcements—this student to McGill, that one to Dalhousie—and planning his own escape. He had his train ticket already. He was leaving in two weeks. He wondered what it would be like sitting in the passenger car and passing the rubble of Africville, past the house where his father, the last holdout against progress, continued to live, past all the ghosts of his childhood. After a week in Montreal to see Expo ’67, he’d continue on to Toronto, where he was going to live with his brother, go to trade school or get a job doing . . . something. He certainly wasn’t going to stay in Halifax.
Ward was. Ward had a scholarship to Dalhousie University. Ray had already heard the principal announce it: “Our Head Boy, Ward Justice . . .”
Ward hadn’t ended up in C-17 with Ray and the dummies. He’d been placed in C-3, Mr. Golden’s homeroom. C-3 was for students expected to go on to university. There were no black kids in C-3, but there were plenty of kids from the south end. Ward, in fact, was the only one of their Richmond class to make it to the exalted level of C-3. Except for Jason McInnes, of course. Jason, their other best friend from junior high, had done even better. He’d ended up in C-1 with the science and math whizzes. That much was fitting. Jason had been the top student in their class back at Richmond, Ward second. But what about Ray? He’d had the third highest average. How had he ended up in C-17?
Whatever the reason, Ray believed now it had marked the beginning of the end of his friendship with Ward. Ward began hanging out with the kids in his class. They introduced him to other south-enders. Someone invited him to join Hi-Y, a collection of social clubs modelled on fraternities, with Greek names and initiation rites. No blacks invited, at least none that Ray knew. And then they elected him as their class representative on Student Council. And one thing led to another. And finally he was Head Boy.
It wasn’t just Ray and Ward who’d drifted apart, of course. Jason wasn’t part of either of their crowds any more. He’d joined the math club, and Ray rarely saw him. Perhaps it was all just a natural evolution, like minds finding each other. Ray was not without his crowd. His friends were the jocks, the guys on the football and basketball teams. Ray was a runningback on the football team, a point guard in basketball. Sports became his claim to school fame, his cachet with girls, his own ticket into another world.
Becky Rutledge, who’d been his girlfriend for most of grades eleven and twelve, was a south-ender. Ray was convinced that it was their being opposites—she was rich, he was poor; she was white, he was black—that had attracted her to him in the first place. Was the same true for him? Probably. That and the fact their relationship came with a certain built-in intrigue and risk.
They’d met at an end-of-season team party. Becky was a cheerleader. Short. Cute. Curly blond hair. And bubbly. Ray still wasn’t sure how they’d fallen into talking that night, but, very quickly, it was as if they were alone in the crowded, noisy rec room. By the end of the evening, they really were alone. Together.
That was one of the many things Ray still hadn’t figured out. As soon as they’d become a couple, they no longer seemed to fit in with any of their old friends. It wasn’t race. Or was it? No one mentioned that, of course, but no one seemed to know quite how to relate to them when they were together. Ray’s black friends ignored Becky; Becky’s friends would forget to tell her about upcoming parties. It was as if, by getting together, they’d crossed some invisible barrier that now kept them apart from everyone else.
Everyone except Alice. Alice was Becky’s best friend. The go-between. That was because Becky wouldn’t tell her parents about Ray, so he couldn’t call her on the phone. And he couldn’t pick her up at her house when they went out on a date. Instead, Becky would call Alice, who would call Ray: “Meet her at the field behind Gorsebrook at eight.”
Afterwards, he could only walk her to within a block of her parents’ house, and the best he could hope for was a goodnight peck on the cheek. “Someone will see.” Luckily, Becky got her driver’s licence near the end of grade eleven. After that, she could borrow her mother’s car, a red Mustang—“she made Dad get it for her after she had her last nervous breakdown”—almost whenever she wanted it. They spent a lot of time in the car, much of it in the back seat. Sometimes, they steamed up the windows in a parking lot beside the harbour near Point Pleasant Park. But Becky wasn’t keen on it; it was too close to her house, she told him, and her mother’s car was too distinctive for anonymity.
One night, Becky drove them to a graveyard in Fairview, ostensibly to show him where her great-grandfather was buried. “He owned slaves or something, I think,” she said, then added, as if it were funny, “just joking.” She’d brought a quart of vodka she’d stolen from her father’s liquor cabinet. They drank it straight from the bottle. And then they made love. It was the first time for both of them. Becky cried, but when Ray got nervous and tried to pull out, she held him close against her. “Stay inside me. Please.” Later, she joked that her great-grandfather must have been rolling over in his grave. “That’s why the earth moved,” she laughed. The graveyard quickly became their trysting ground, their secret spot. Her great-grandfather must have got pretty dizzy, Ray thought now. But after th
at first time, Becky made him wear a rubber, “just to be safe.”
The secrets grew and the mysteries multiplied. Becky was worried that the principal or one of the teachers might tell her father about them. Her father was on the School Board and seemed to know all the teachers by their first names. So they stopped holding hands in the hallways between classes. And they stopped going to the Friday night dances at the Y because Becky’s mother was on the board there. They spent more and more time alone together in the back seat. Until Becky broke it off. “I think we need to slow down for a while, maybe see other people,” she announced one night just before she dropped him off at the end of the pavement on Barrington Street. Becky wasn’t the only one who was worried about parental reactions. Ray’s father had become increasingly vitriolic in his condemnation of white people, and Ray wasn’t sure he could trust him to hold his tongue around Becky.
Becky said she wanted to break up—“for a little while, to see how we really feel”—because their relationship had become too intense. Ray wasn’t convinced that was the real reason.
He’d been pressing her about the graduation dance. He wanted to make graduation their “coming out” event. He would pick her up at her house and meet her parents. They’d see he was okay, he assured her. Besides, they were both adults now, high school graduates, so they could do what they pleased, regardless of what their parents thought. Her “No” had been emphatic.
So Ray wasn’t going to the prom tonight. Who cared? He was tired of high school anyway.
“. . . the party is always looking for bright young men like yourself. Why don’t you come along with Ward next week? We’re going to pick a candidate for the election. Maybe I can get you a job on the campaign . . .”
Who? What? Ray had been so lost in his own thoughts he’d clearly missed an important part of this conversation. Who was this man? He remembered now. The man had been talking with Ward and his family when Aunt Annie first interrupted them. At some point, Mrs. Justice had introduced him. “This is Ward’s friend, Mr. Eagleson,” she’d said awkwardly as if she wasn’t sure how to explain his presence. “Mr. Eagleson’s a lawyer.” As if perhaps that explained it.
Eagleson was smooth, polished, assured. He simply took over the conversation. “Yes, well I met Ward here at a conference we had last fall for young leaders and I was so impressed I just had to come and see him graduate.”
“Ward’s going to work for Mr. Eagleson this summer,” Ward’s mother said, still trying to make the connection to the older man’s presence, as much for herself as the others.
“He is that, Mrs. Justice. And I’m delighted. Ward is a smart boy.” He turned then to Raymond, whose own brain was still in the back seat with Becky. “You must be Ray. Ward’s told me all about you.” He had? “Maybe I can find a spot for you too. Everybody thinks the election will be late summer or early fall, and we’re going to need all the help we can get to get rid of those Tories.” He smiled indulgently at the adults. “Pardon my electioneering,” he said. “Sometimes I can’t help myself.” Ray’s father scowled. Eagleson turned back to Ray. “Here, let me give you my card. Just in case I can help in any way.”
“I’m not staying,” Ray said finally. “I’m moving to Toronto. Next week.” That wasn’t quite true; his ticket was for two weeks from now, so he could have attended the nominating meeting if he’d wanted to. But he didn’t want to. There was something about Eagleson he didn’t like. He was too smooth, too self-assured, too ingratiating.
“Well, no harm in trying, is there?” Eagleson said, as if he hadn’t caught the undertone of hostility in Ray’s voice. He handed Ray his card. “If you change your mind, the offer’s open. Well,” he said turning back to the others, “I must be getting back to work. Mr. and Mrs. Justice, thank you for letting me share this moment with you. And it was very nice to meet you too,” he said, addressing Ray’s father and Aunt Annie. And then he was gone.
“Well,” Ward’s mother said to Aunt Annie, eager for it all to be over, “I think we should be going too. Desmond needs to get back to work. And I have to finish getting Ward’s suit ready for the dance tonight. But it was very nice meeting you.”
“You too,” Aunt Annie said, turning back to Ward. “Now don’t forget to come and see me. Make your friend here bring you,” she said, poking Ray in the ribs. “I’ll have the licorice waiting.”
Jack Eagleson ushered Ward into his office. He closed the door. “Sit down,” he said. His smile was almost conspiratorial. “I’ve got a special job for you this morning, Ward.” There was a big leather suitcase on his desk. Eagleson sat down behind it, patted it with his hand. “All very hush-hush.” He laughed his patented Jack-laugh. It was a booming, deep-in-the-bowels laugh that inevitably drew attention to itself, like a noisy, smelly fart in church. Ward had decided that Eagleson’s laugh, which had at first struck him as self-conscious, even phony, probably wasn’t. Still, it embarrassed Ward to be with him in public when he let loose. He was glad they were alone this morning.
Ward was nearly a month into his summer job as a messenger for Eagleson’s law firm, McArtney, Eagleson, Cullingham & O’Sullivan, and so far, it was . . . well, boring. If he wasn’t delivering briefs to the courthouse or picking up property documents from other law firms, he was playing the office gofer. Still, he shouldn’t complain. The money was good, better than what his friends were making. With a scholarship to cover his tuition, he would end the summer with plenty of spending money for university.
He was even thinking of buying that 1961 VW Beetle Billy Henderson was selling. Billy, whose father had bought him a brand-new, baby-blue Chevy Camaro convertible for managing to graduate on his second try, was the reason Ward had this job in the first place.
That’s not what Mr. Eagleson said, of course. Mr. Eagleson still claimed he’d “discovered” Ward at that leadership conference. But that wasn’t quite the way Ward remembered it. The conference had been organized by the Second Century Canada Club, which, despite its lofty title, existed to recruit bright young high school students into the Nova Scotia Liberal Party. It was funded by the party but run by student Liberals from the local universities. They organized weekend “leadership conferences,” to which they invited high school student leaders. Although there were panel discussions and even occasional speeches by senior Liberals like Jack Eagleson, the real purpose seemed to be to give underaged high school student leaders the chance to get drunk at party expense, thus making them more amenable to joining the party—if only for its parties.
It worked for Ward. Much to his father’s disgust, he had joined the party six months ago. But Ward had been less interested in Liberal parties—or even Liberal politics—than in the fact that party membership might help him land a summer job.
Billy Henderson, who was more an acquaintance than a real friend but who seemed to have a way of attaching himself to whoever he thought was going places, had told Ward he’d have a better chance of getting hired if he joined. Billy’s father was the president of a Halifax constituency association, and Billy promised Ward his father would put in a good word for him.
“It’ll be great,” Billy said. “We can work together.”
But Billy—who wasn’t, in fact, involved in any extracurricular activity other than going to the leadership conferences, and then only because his father insisted he be invited—got the only job at party headquarters, at least until an election was actually called.
“As soon as the Tories drop the writ,” Billy’s father reassured Ward, “there’ll be jobs for everyone.” To tide him over until then, Mr. Henderson said he’d speak to Jack Eagleson, a family friend who was a senior partner in the city’s biggest law firm. “I’m sure Jack can find something for you.”
Ward did remember Eagleson—sort of—from the Second Century conference he’d attended in the fall. Eagleson was physically striking, tall and lean, probably in his mid-forties. His fresh, unlined face, topped
by a Beatles mop of prematurely white hair, gave him an air of eccentric, professorial gravitas. As did his choice of clothing: wrinkled corduroy sports jackets and colourful cravats. Ward was coming to realize that if you were to-the-manner-born, as Mr. Eagleson certainly was, you could get away with being unconventional. Everyone else had to dress and act according to their place in society. Or the place they aspired to.
Eagleson had made what Ward remembered as a boring after-dinner speech, something predictable about how everyone had a civic duty to get involved in the political process, and then shook hands with each of the three dozen or so students individually. What seemed remarkable about that at the time was that Eagleson knew all their names and even managed a quick, confidential chat with each of them as he moved through the group.
“Ah, Ward, nice to see you, delighted you could join us tonight,” he’d said, pumping Ward’s hand as though they were long-lost buddies. “I see where the Q.E. hockey team’s having a good season.” Then he leaned close and whispered in Ward’s ear, “That fellow next to you on the right. I should know his name but I just can’t think of it right now. Can you remind me?”
Ward was startled. “Ah, that’s Billy Henderson, sir.” How could he not know the name of his close friend’s son?
Ward didn’t actually speak to Eagleson again until he was invited to interview for the messenger’s job. Once again Eagleson greeted him effusively, as if they’d shared a life’s worth of intimate secrets. By then, however, Ward had become more skeptical. He remembered what had happened that night after he’d reminded Mr. Eagleson of his friend’s son’s name. “Ah, Billy,” Eagleson had declared, grabbing Billy’s hand and shaking it. “Wonderful to see you here tonight. Hope your dad’s well.” And then he’d leaned in, as he had done with Ward and the others, and whispered into Billy’s ear. Eagleson’s uncanny ability to know everyone’s name wasn’t so uncanny after all.
Reparations Page 10
