Causeway: A Passage From Innocence (40 page)

From my narrow perspective when I was growing up during the fifties, there were only two people born in 1943. I was one of them. The other was Ian MacKinnon, who lived just over the hill. My relationship with Ian was often testy. Consequently, I often considered myself the
only
person born in 1943.

My understanding of this demographic anomaly was rooted in the precocious knowledge that it somehow took a man to activate the reproductive power of a woman and that in 1943 most men were too busy with other things to see to that task. They were in a horrific war fighting for our survival or otherwise “away” earning a livelihood.

I owed my unique existence to the fact that my father spent the war working in a mine which produced a mineral called fluorspar. This mineral was used to manufacture aluminum for fighter aircraft, bombers, and other necessities of war. My parents were thus able to live together, as did Elsie and Alex MacKinnon—Ian’s parents. All the other married young men, I eventually concluded, had been away in 1943, working, killing, or being killed.

In childhood, significant age differences are measured in the span of a year or less. During the fifties, everyone except Ian MacKinnon was either significantly younger or older than I was. This created, along with a sense of privilege and destiny, a peculiar feeling of alienation, and, from time to time, even loneliness. It was perhaps a condition of my isolation that for a long time not
much happened where I was living—a small Cape Breton village, population approximately a hundred infants and ancients, plus Ian and me.

The normal response to absences—of people and/or external stimulation—is to turn inward. We instinctively compensate for deficiencies in the real world by imagining a richer and more interesting one. In addition, the senses become alert for evidence in older people of past or hidden lives that were enriched by romance, adventure, conflict. Stories become substitutes for reality—in my case, a reality that was untroubled, predictable, and frequently boring.

Out of some deep human instinct, the elements of story surface naturally and give experience a shape and purpose. In the beginning, stories become play and games become stories. The activities of childhood are organized as narratives. In playing house or playing war, roles are assigned, informal scripts articulated. Later, we discover ready-made narratives around us. Later still, we discover larger, distant cultures, but the response is the same: impressions and insights organize themselves as stories. Today, there is a vast industry for the production of amusement. But the elements are still essentially the same: love, hate, greed, virtue, and conflict conflate into narrative.

Stories arise from a universal impulse to escape the limits of time and space imposed by our common mortality. Life is transient, but a good story can assure a special moment in a finite life, a measure of permanence.

My earliest memories are of my mother recounting classic stories from memory; of old people chilling a kitchen with earnestly told tales of dire events foreseen by special people, or of the restless spirits of the not-so-dead; of shaping anecdotes from a chaotic world. In a good story, even the most ordinary occurrences become hilarious or terrifying or instructive. Thus, I came to an early understanding that there are few things more valuable than a good story and few gifts greater than the talent to tell one well.

S
EXTUS WAS
standing just in front of the liquor store, a bag of booze under his arm, squinting. I was coming from the drug store, keeping close to the brick because there was a wicked rain dashing against the pavement. A typical Saturday. November 19, 1983. I remember the date because it’s close to an anniversary I don’t often forget…though I wish I could.

Until that moment, my plan had been simple and not unusual for a Saturday: buy a flask, call Millie, drop by for supper, watch the hockey game, maybe go home, maybe stay. Depending on her cheer.

Well, I said to myself.
There’s
a bunch of options all shot to hell.

The style of him caught my attention first. The overcoat was practically dragging on the ground. Flapping open. Belt tied casually behind. First I thought: a politician. Then I saw that familiar, unmistakable profile. Jesus. Look at him. I felt a great knotted ball of fear and anger and excitement.

There was nothing stopping me from turning on my heels right then and there. Pretending I never saw him. Just carry on the way I have for thirteen years, recovering from the last time. But I was in the grip of something stronger. Curiosity. And, yes, pride. I wanted him to see that I haven’t just survived these thirteen years. I have grown.

He plucked his little reading glasses from his face, flipped the overcoat open, and plunged them into the breast pocket of a
fancy camelhair jacket. As he turned to walk away he spotted me.

“Johnny,” he said, amazed.

I looked, trying to act like I didn’t recognize him, but I could feel the flush on my cheeks.

He, of course, pretended not to see my reaction. There are people like that, who know how to project whatever they want, no matter what they feel. I just go blank, which is useful in my work. I work with people. Or personnel, as they’re called now.

Just look at the bugger as he strides toward me, not a doubt showing. The onus is on me. It would only take a word, a hesitation of the hand. But already shamed, I blurt recognition and catch his hand with a studied firmness.

It is soft. He couldn’t miss the scratchy hardness of mine. I have one of those Scandinavian woodstoves in the living room for extra heat. I split my own wood. I’m bony and fit because I’ve been running and sober for seven years.

“You look great,” he says. “Life’s obviously good to you.”

“No complaints,” I say. “You’re looking,” I begin, searching for a truthful word, “prosperous.” And in a gesture of self-confidence that makes my knees watery, I pat the bulge of flesh swelling over his belt like dough.

He laughs and sucks it in.

Sextus is my cousin. First cousin. Around here that’s about as close as a brother. Closer, in a lot of cases. He’s the only son of my father’s only brother. The late Jack Gillis. Uncle Jack. Finest man that ever lived.

Because there were only the two, each named the first-born after the other. I’m named after Uncle Jack. This fellow is named after my old man. Not the Sextus part. That’s actually the second part of his name. His first name is Alexander. That was the old man’s name. Sandy for short. He’s been dead now for years, since November 22, 1963. The day they shot Kennedy. Almost twenty years ago.

Our name is common around here. But none of the other Gillises are related to us. So seeing him brings back memories. Most of them bad because of everything.

He’s really been gone longer than thirteen years. Last time I saw him was just after Uncle Jack’s funeral. But he’d been gone a long time before that. He’d already made a name for himself away, writing on newspapers. Then he wrote a scandalous book. And then he stole my life and ran with it. For a long time I had to block everything out when I heard his name. But I rebuilt and eventually he just blended into the miserable part of the memory. It means nothing to me now.

But here he is. He shifts his hand to my arm, clutching my coat just above the elbow.

“Long weekend,” he says, by way of explanation.

I remember. He’s a teacher now. Or something.

“Just got in. Jesus. It’s good to see you.”

I am suddenly speechless.

“I was planning to drop in on you, out at the old place. You’re still there, of course? We’d have a drink. Jesus Christ. Wow,” he says, face animated. “Just look at you.”

I half laugh. Allow a look of surprise.

His smile holds firm, though I know he’s reading my mind.

“No, no, no,” he says. “We’ll have lots of time to talk about all the old stuff.”

http://www.cansocauseway.ca/history.html

A tribute to the Canso Causeway, this extensive site covers the celebrations that took place in 2005 in commemoration of the fiftieth anniversary of the causeway’s opening. The site includes a historical timeline, interesting facts, and a photo gallery, all dedicated to the landmark.

http://archives.cbc.ca/IDC-1-69-250-1269-10/ on_this_day/life_society/canso_causeway

Go back in time to watch a video of the opening of the causeway.

http://gaeliccollege.edu/index.php

Visit the home page of The Gaelic College, founded in 1938 in Cape Breton. Learn about the study of the Gaelic language and this institution’s dedication to preserving Gaelic culture.

http://www.capebretonisland.org/

For all would-be travellers to Cape Breton, this website highlights the area’s attractions, with an emphasis on exploring the island’s diverse history and colourful heritage.

http://www.cbc.ca/fifth/

The home page of
the fifth estate,
the award-winning Canadian investigative journalism program for which Linden MacIntyre is a host.

To receive updates on author events and new books by Linden MacIntyre, sign up today at www.authortracker.ca.

The inspiration to write a memoir was not mine. My friends and literary representatives, Don Sedgwick and Shaun Bradley, first raised the idea with me. My initial reaction was a profound lack of enthusiasm. I told them early on that I was suspicious of the genre, because while I have felt comfortable writing journalism and fiction, I felt uneasy about the extent to which a memoir—especially a boyhood memoir—must rely on the subjectivity of memory. I decided to proceed when I discovered that there were abundant sources, some of them objective records, against which I could test the accuracy of my recollection of events that occurred half a century ago. Without the assistance of these sources, I would not have dared to begin.

My cousin and friend, Archie MacIntyre, was unfailingly generous with time and reminiscence during a particularly crucial period of his own life—the final stages of a desperate battle with cancer. He never hesitated to make time available to me, spoke frankly on the basis of his own extraordinary capacity for remembered detail, offered valuable advice and even read a first draft of my manuscript. His memories of growing up on MacIntyre’s Mountain and our shared reminiscences about our grandparents, Peigeag and Dougald, gave the project an element of pleasure that I hadn’t anticipated.

Besides the many relatives and friends with whom I shared a seemingly unusual childhood—being caught on the threshold of the future while the voices of history still rang loud and clear in our daily experience—I had access to important media and archival resources. The Gut of Canso Museum offered a profusion of relics, reminders and records; the Public Archives of Nova Scotia provided access to newspapers from the period. Of incalculable value were the microfilmed back issues of the
Victoria-Inverness Bulletin.

The Bulletin,
as we knew it, was part of a tradition of community journalism that is sadly rare in these complex times, since the lives of ordinary people and their communities are seldom deemed worthy of media attention.
The Bulletin
and its many anonymous correspondents faithfully recorded the comings and goings, sorrows and celebrations, of its readers. Today, viewed from a vast distance in time and space, these records constitute a priceless people’s history and a benchmark against which we can measure our progress and our losses.

To friends, relatives, archivists, and the selfless volunteers at the museum in Port Hastings, my deepest gratitude and apologies for unavoidable errors and omissions.

Once launched on the project of remembering, I was fortunate to have the guidance and help of a remarkable team of professionals at HarperCollins Canada. I’m especially grateful to Jim Gifford, Noelle Zitzer, Katie Hearn, Debbie Gaudet, and Phyllis Bruce for editorial advice and reassurance that the stories of people who were largely invisible in the sweep of history are really timeless and, in their potential for inspiration, universal. Thanks also to Rosemary Shipton.

I am also grateful to my wife, Carol Off, for her forbearance as I wrestled with many ghosts in what was sometimes an emotionally challenging project.

Alistair MacLeod was kind enough to read a draft of the manuscript and to respond with timely encouragement, important suggestions, and warm reminiscences about the history and the heritage we hold in common.