This wasn’t the way he’d planned to begin his law career. And it wasn’t his only choice. Ezekiel Abernathy had offered to take him on as an associate, but Ray had turned him down. Ray had articled with Abernathy, a black Barbadian who’d graduated from Dalhousie Law School in the late fifties, married a local girl from across the harbour in Preston and then set up private practice out of the basement of his house in the north end of Halifax. As one of the few black lawyers in the city, Abernathy handled the civil legal work for most of the city’s black community. But few could afford his fees, so his was a hand-to-mouth existence at best, and it only got worse after Abernathy took Rayon as an article clerk after he graduated. Ray should have been grateful when Abernathy offered to make him an associate. But he wasn’t. It wasn’t fair, he knew, but Ray had developed a prejudice of his own—against black immigrants who came to Nova Scotia and thought they were smarter, better than the locals. Abernathy had never said anything derogatory about any of his local black clients, but Ray sensed that Abernathy looked down on them. And on him.
Ray didn’t need that. And he didn’t go to law school to spend the rest of his life a poor man. So, after he turned down Abernathy as politely as he could, Ray made an appointment to see Jack Eagleson. He asked Eagleson for a job.
Eagleson laughed. “You’re not serious, are you?”
Ray was stunned, then indignant. “Yes, I’m serious. Of course I’m serious. Weren’t you the one who said the legal profession needed more people like me?”
“I was. And it does. But it’s not that simple, Ray,” Eagleson said. “You have to understand, I have to think of my partners, our practice. I don’t want you to think I’m prejudiced. I’m not. But I have clients who are . . . well, not so enlightened. They wouldn’t like it if we had a black man working for the firm. They might decide to take their business elsewhere. And then my partners would be upset with me. And you couldn’t blame them for that.” He paused, waited for Ray to acknowledge the wisdom of his words. Ray didn’t. “Listen, Ray, there are lots better ways to be a lawyer than being stuck in some big stuffy law firm like ours. Did you ever thinking of going out on your own, hanging out a shingle? You’re smart. You’d do well.”
Ray had been too angry to reply. But he’d taken Eagleson’s advice. Perhaps because there seemed little choice. And now here he was sitting alone in his empty new office with no furniture and no clients.
Perhaps, after the installer finished hooking up his phone, Ray would call Rosa. All through law school, he’d imagined this day, the day he’d start his new career, the day he’d go back and make things right with Rosa and the son he’d become more and more convinced was really his. But now there was no going back. After little Larry was born, Ray had sent Rosa a cheque for one hundred dollars and a note promising to help out as much as he could. She’d sent the cheques and the note back with no other reply. He’d got the message. Still, he’d harboured the fantasy that, once he became a practising lawyer, she’d agree to start over. But that was before . . .
He’d heard about Rosa and Ward. Aunt Annie again. “She’s taken up with that friend of yours,” she said, “that white boy used to visit out home. Nice young man. Done all right for himself, too. But he’s married. And not to Rosa. It’s all supposed to be very hush-hush, but nothin’s ever that quiet round here, you know what I’m sayin’. But I’ll say one thing for him. He got Rosa to quit all that bad stuff she was doin’. And he’s doin’ right by little Larry, too. So he can’t be all bad.” Aunt Annie paused, looked Ray in the eye. “I just wish she’d taken up with one of her own kind. Someone like you.”
There was a knock at his office door. The door opened slightly and a man leaned his head into the room. “Mr. Carter?”
“Yes.” He was a young, Oriental-looking man. Ray looked at his watch. It was just after eleven in the morning. Maybe he’d have time to scrounge up a chair this afternoon. “Great,” he said to the man. “The phone goes over here.”
“Phone?” The man looked puzzled.
“You’re not from the phone company?” Ray said.
“Phone company?”
Oh shit. “Look, I’m sorry,” Ray said quickly. “My mistake. I just thought you were here to install the new phone . . . uh, what can I do for you?”
“I was looking for a lawyer.” The man looked around the empty room. “Are you taking clients?”
Ray jumped down from the table, extended his hand to the man. “Absolutely,” he said. “What would you like?”
It turned out his name was Lee and he had bought some land in Fairview where he wanted to build a small apartment building. He needed someone to handle the legal work. “I spoke to Mr. Eagleson and he suggested you. He recommended you very highly.”
Eagleson? Recommended? Very highly? Fuck, Ray would never understand white men. “Well why don’t you come in and we can talk . . .” There was no furniture. “Second thought, why don’t we go get a coffee and you can tell me the details?”
Ray only hoped that Mr. Lee would spring for the coffee.
Ward knew it had to be serious when Junior called with instructions to meet for dinner that night at Claudie’s. Usually Jack, Junior and Ward got together at the Halifax Club, or the Royal Nova Scotia Yacht Squadron, or the Chester Golf Club, places they would be sure to be seen. Claudie’s was a fish-and-chips joint in the north end of the city, a place where they were unlikely to be seen by anyone who mattered. Which seemed to be the point.
Last month, Jack had chosen Claudie’s when he wanted a quiet place to layout the scenario he had concocted for Ward to replace Seamus O’Sullivan as party leader. Dan White, one of Jack’s most trusted allies, had been primed to serve as Ward’s stalking horse. Late in the summer, Jack had explained, Whitey would make a speech questioning whether O’Sullivan could lead the Liberals to electoral victory, and threaten to raise the issue during the party’s annual meeting in October. As a result, Whitey—and not Ward—would become the lightning rod for angry O’Sullivan loyalists. But Whitey’s speech would also pop the cork off what Jack was certain was the bottled-up discontent of many among the party’s rank and file. Jack would then stir in a few well-timed leaks of secret poll results showing Ward—but not O’Sullivan—defeating the Tories. This would be followed by statements from members of the provincial executive loyal to Jack urging O’Sullivan to step down for the good of the party. And then by the establishment of a Draft Justice movement launched by another Jack surrogate. Junior, Jack said, was quietly raising money for Ward’s war chest.
Although Whitey wasn’t due to give his speech for another four months, Jack had begun to tantalize favoured reporters with rumours of internal discontent with O’Sullivan and growing support for Ward as his replacement.
“By October,” he’d added, with one of his booming laughs, “Seamus will see the writing on the wall and be pleased as punch to answer a ‘call’ to the Senate. By the end of the year, you’ll be Mr. Premier. At twenty-seven! Youngest ever! How’s that sound?”
“Great.” Ward’s “great” had been more unenthusiastic than he’d intended. For his part, Jack had hardly seemed to notice Ward’s discomfort.
Tonight’s gathering at Claudie’s seemed to be Junior’s meeting. Somehow, Ward didn’t find that comforting.
“So, gentlemen, what’ll it be?” Shirley had been a waitress at Claudie’s since Ward was a teenager picking up takeout orders of fish and chips for Friday night family suppers. Shirley hadn’t been paying attention as she approached their booth, but now she recognized him, grinned a greeting. “Ward! How wonderful to see you!” Shirley was somehow related to the shop’s owners, who originally came from Eisners Head and knew Ward’s parents, so she considered him part of her extended family.
But her smile disappeared when she saw Junior. “Mr. Eisner,” she acknowledged curtly. The mere sight of Junior brought back bitter memories for many fishing families from Cabo
t County, especially those who, like Shirley’s relatives and Ward’s parents, blamed Junior for forcing them to leave their hometowns forever.
Junior opted not to acknowledge Shirley’s disdain. “Well, darlin’,” he said, “what’s fresh?” Claudie’s had no printed menu, just a chalkboard on the wall where the day’s catch was pencilled in, then erased as supplies were depleted.
“Everything,” Shirley answered icily, gesturing over her shoulder. “It’s on the wall. Like always.”
“It is that,” Junior said with a chuckle, as though Shirley had just been kidding. “So let’s see what looks good.” He eyed the list. “How about some of your best clams and chips, darlin’, and don’t spare the grease.” Junior laughed. Shirley didn’t. Ward, trying to please them both, offered a fleeting smile and silence. “Oh, yeah, and gimme a Keith’s too, will ya, darlin’? A quart.”
Shirley looked at Ward. Was it a look of anger or pity? Ward couldn’t tell. “I’ll have the same,” he said quietly.
“Me too,” added Jack. He also seemed more subdued than usual.
Shirley wrote it down, turned on her heel and left. “She’s a cold old fish, that one,” Junior said before Shirley was out of earshot. “Don’t think she likes me.”
Ward didn’t say anything. He hoped Shirley would bring the beer soon.
“So, how was Florida?”
Ward had expected as much. Junior was predictable, always finding less than subtle ways to remind Ward of the favours he’d done for him. Usually these reminders were an appetizer to Junior’s main course: a demand for yet another favour. Paving contracts for Junior’s construction firm. An appointment to the Fisheries Loan Board for a friend. Ward knew what tonight’s demand would be.
“Great,” Ward answered. Ward, Victoria and the kids had spent the last week at Junior’s condo outside Clearwater.
“Weather good?”
“Great.”
“Only problem is you have to come back, eh?” Junior said with a laugh. “That’s what I always find. Halifax gets the worst fucking springs . . . Makes you want to slit your throat.”
“Yeah.” Ward glanced out the window. It was snowing lightly. It was April.
“How’s the wife? She like it down there?”
Junior rarely ever asked about Victoria. Was this a message that he knew about Ward and Rosa? Did he? Ward wouldn’t be surprised. Jack might have told him. “Victoria loved it,” Ward answered. “We all did. Thanks again.”
“Yeah, well, you know, Florida’s a great place for rejuvenating the old sex life. A little fun, a little sun, a couple of them fruity rum drinks and suddenly it’s time for a little ‘chitty chitty bang bang.’”
Ward didn’t respond. There’d been no chitty chitty, and certainly no bang bang. One night, after Victoria and the kids were asleep, Ward had slipped out of the condo and gone to a pay phone to call Rosa. But he hadn’t brought enough change and they were cut off after only a few minutes.
“So,” Junior said suddenly. “You get a chance to think about that thing we talked about?” Ward knew Junior had been circling the airport of what was on his mind. Now he was landing the plane.
“Yes, I did.”
“So?”
“I don’t think so,” Ward said.
Ward had reached his decision a week ago, right here in Claudie’s, his father sitting where Junior was sitting now.
Desmond Justice had been more than surprised when Ward called to invite him for supper at Claudie’s; he’d been suspicious. Ward couldn’t blame him. He never invited his father anywhere. The only times he saw his father these days were when he and Victoria and the kids stopped by for one of their occasional, perfunctory Saturday afternoon visits. While Victoria and his mother retired to the kitchen for tea—his mother fussing over her granddaughters while Victoria reported on their latest accomplishments—Ward and his father would sit silently in the living room, his father’s attention riveted to whatever was on ABC-TV’s Wide World of Sports that afternoon. Sometimes it was tolerable. A few months ago, they’d watched George Foreman stop some ex-con named Ron Lyle in the fourth, punch-filled round of what the announcer, Howard Cosell, called “one of the most exciting and titanic struggles in the entire history of boxing.” The closest they came to a conversation that day was when his father asked Ward if he thought Cosell was wearing a wig. “It doesn’t look real to me,” he said, and Ward hadn’t disagreed. They’d watched the rest of the show in silence.
So why had he called his father out of the blue last week and asked him to meet him that night at Claudie’s?
Junior. Junior Eisner, and guilt. For more than a decade—almost, in fact, from the moment they’d moved to Halifax—Ward had managed to bury, and then throw dirt on, the memory of the man his father had once been. It wasn’t entirely Ward’s fault, of course. His father had chosen to inter those parts of his history, too, not to forget erecting a wall of disappointment between himself and his son’s accomplishments. Nothing Ward did seemed to please his father.
It wasn’t until after he’d become Fisheries minister that Ward finally began to put his father’s life back into some perspective. It had begun with his first briefing as minister; Ward’s deputy came to that meeting with stacks of reports and studies, even a few doctoral theses on current issues facing the province’s fishery. There was also a thin paperback, which his deputy seemed almost embarrassed to give him.
“I’m sure you’ve already got your own copy of this,” he said as he handed it over. “But Bernadette—she’s the Department’s librarian, you met her this morning—she said we should include it anyway. I think she just wanted to make sure you knew we had a copy.”
Ward had never seen it before. The book was called Troubled Waters: Nova Scotia Fishermen Fight For Their Union And Their Future, 1964. The grainy cover photo, obviously photocopied from a newspaper page and blown up, showed his father standing in front of the Sara Eisner, his arms crossed over his chest, managing to look both defiant and awkward at the same time, as if he’d only reluctantly agreed to pose for the photo. That much was almost certainly true. His father hated to have his picture taken.
The book’s author was one of the college professors from Halifax who’d supported the fishermen during the strike. Ward tried to place him from the author photo on the back cover, but couldn’t. All the college professors—unnaturally thin with scruffy, wispy beards, dressed in almost identical corduroy sports jackets with thin, loosely knotted ties—looked the same to him. Although the professor’s “firsthand account of this classic class struggle between oppressed workers and their capitalist oppressors” was as much about the professor’s minuscule part in the strike—he was on the organizing committee for one of the Halifax protest marches—as it was about the strike itself, it was clear he regarded Ward’s father as the hero of the piece. “Desmond Justice, a self-effacing, salt-of-the-earth worker whose rough, calloused hands belie his innate understanding of the Marxian dialectic for which Cod Capitalism is the thesis and Unionism and Revolution the antithesis, single-handedly united his fellow trawler-men in class struggle with their capitalist oppressors.”
For all its Marxist bullshit rhetoric, reading/devouring the book that night had brought Ward’s long-lost memories of protest and picket lines, his feelings of pride and paternal love, flooding back into his brain. And with them, a tidal wave of guilt. Guilt for everything, but especially for that lunch at the Halifax Club when Ward had allowed Junior, a capitalist oppressor if ever there was one, to transform the crushing of the fishermen and the permanent black-balling of his own father into “some problems” best filed and forgotten now. Have another drink? Ward had gone along. Why? Because going along meant Junior would underwrite his election campaign. So Ward could become the politician Jack wanted him to be. And Junior needed him to be.
Ward had become that politician, their politician. Occasionally, he would
step outside himself for an instant and catch a sudden, side-long glimpse of his new life, and realize it wasn’t his. He wondered how his life might have turned out had he chosen it for himself. But he hadn’t. As always, there was a price.
He was only surprised he hadn’t seen it coming. Had this been their plan from the beginning? Find someone weak and malleable, buy him an election, connive to make him minister of the right department, flatter him, sweeten the pot with interest-free mortgages and forgivable loans, months in the country, weeks in the sunny south, and then, after he has well and truly taken the bait, jerk the hook in deep and haul him aboard. Ward couldn’t be sure if it had been that Machiavellian or if there’d simply been a fortuitous collision of time and circumstance, but he did know he had been deeply hooked.
Now, Junior wanted payback—Ward’s support for him to buy a fleet of factory freezer trawlers from Poland. Instead of allowing foreign-owned fleets to wipe out the fish stocks with their trawls and floating fish processing factories, Junior wanted Ward to help Eisner International do the dirty deed itself.
And do it with taxpayers’ dollars. Junior wanted Ward to make the provincial Fisheries Loan Board lend Eisner 100 percent of the cost of buying the vessels, interest free. “I want the same deal I gave you, you know, prime minus prime,” Junior told Ward, which also happened to be a convenient way of reminding him who held the mortgage on his house.
But there was more, and worse.
Junior wanted Ward to lobby the federal government to exempt Eisner International from the rule that Canadian fishing vessels must be Canadian registered and crewed. Junior planned to hire Thai workers to run the vessels and do all the fishing and processing, which would slash the company’s operating expenses to about a quarter of the cost of a Canadian crew. And put Canadian fishermen and plant workers out of jobs.
“It’s the only way we can compete with the big bastards,” Junior had insisted when he’d outlined his plan to Ward last month. “Fishing’s global now and we’re playing with the big boys, so we have to find every advantage we can.”
Reparations Page 32
