Growing Up Next to the Mental Read online

  If only, I thought.

  I’d know pretty quick if the driver was a gabber, something I was in no mood for today.

  “That’s something down at the Waterford, hey, b’y?”

  Oh God. My stomach went queasy again.

  But I had to stay something in response.

  “Ah, yeah, always something down there.”

  “You guys should know. Your family’s lived back there for as long as I’ve been driving with Northwest.”

  A line like that, on any other day, had the potential for unlimited info sharing and reminiscing, but I just couldn’t pull it off today.

  “Wow. That long? I’m sorry—just dealing with a bit of a headache here . . .”

  “No problem-o. You still want Timmy’s? Coffee ain’t the best thing for a headache.”

  Well, thanks but no thanks for the unsolicited medical advice, Dr. Cab Driver.

  Yes. I was awful. But my stomach muscles were hurting from the anxiety of what lay ahead. I swear I could feel the ulcers metastasizing in my belly. On second thought, maybe black coffee wasn’t the best medicine at the moment.

  “Yeah, you’re right. Let’s skip Tim’s and right to Pippy. I’m afraid I’m not much for talkin’, though. Just so ya know.”

  “No problem-o. You’re the boss.”

  Good driver, annoying catchphrase.

  The rest of the run was quiet, save for the barely audible soothing sounds of VOWR, which lulled me down the road of over-analyzing what was about to happen instead of just letting it.

  I didn’t exactly have a squeaky-clean record at the News. I was still young and careless with few goals beyond partying, feeding, clothing, and housing myself, in that exact order.

  Kids, marriage, a mortgage, and pension plans were the furthest things from my mind.

  To sum up, while I considered myself a good reporter, I was still very much a loose cannon and likely viewed as more of a liability than an asset.

  So, I was prepared for anything, really. The worst, even.

  I might well be fired by my own father, and he would be justified in doing so.

  22

  I could sense the eyes creeping up over the tops of computer screens as I made my way along the far wall and straight to the publisher’s corner office.

  My light knuckle tap was instantly greeted with a terse order to “C’min.”

  He got up and closed the door behind me, pushing a barrel-style chair into the backs of my knees that sent a sharp pain through my right one as I landed in the seat.

  For a good ten seconds we sat there in silence, arms folded, face to face, separated by his desk.

  “What, may I ask, was that?”

  He was pissed, all right. And for very good reason. We had worked hard to establish a comfortable equilibrium between boss and employee, despite being father and son, an equilibrium that had, for the most part, been accepted as workable and not inappropriate.

  Initial complaints of nepotism, and sabotage of my stories just before they went to print, eventually subsided as I proved myself to be a capable journalist.

  “Well?” he pressed. “Why would you do something like that? And with a young reporter like that? You should be helping, mentoring, encouraging, not pulling some kind of rank—perceived or otherwise.

  “It’s exactly what some people are hoping for, Aloysius. People who’ve got nothing better to do than bet against ya, revel in your failure, and resent your success. And you walked right into it. Walked right into the . . . the shit for both of us!”

  The only other two times I’d heard my good Catholic father swear were at home, with the shocking phrase: “Piss on it!”

  In other words, this was officially serious now.

  “Well, I’ve got to do something this time.

  “Not just for the optics, but because you deserve reprimand just like anybody else. And as far as I’m concerned, you are anybody else at work. You have to be. It’s how it should be. And don’t give me this about not being well, or feeling sick. Aside from some cut on your knee, the Major said you were just fine when he dropped you at the Waterford earlier.”

  I was looking at my father, the publisher, but all I could picture was the gruff and cranky old J. Jonah Jameson.

  “And who told you to go there in the first place? What’s the matter with you?”

  Now, that last one was a good question.

  What was the matter with me? I had to know my actions would amount to insubordination, but I simply couldn’t cover any story about Jerry Monchy. That was final.

  “This makes no sense to me, Aloysius. You passing up a story like this. Last chance. Any explanation?”

  I simply stayed silent, while my warped mind conjured one of the more infamous one-liners from a certain metaphor-mixing premier in the House of Assembly. You buttered your bread, now lie in it!

  The completely foolish things one thinks of in times of crisis.

  “Fine. One-week suspension without pay. That’s it. Hands are tied,” he said, throwing them up contradictorily in Smallwoodian fashion.

  “And Aloysius. No more next time.”

  I made absolutely no protest. I knew he had to send a message of no special treatment. But I also deserved it.

  At least I still had a job. And a week off, to boot!

  We both stood up, and I almost asked my father what was for supper. Instead, I shook the boss’s hand and left in the same discreet manner with which I’d arrived.

  I was sure the eyes were peering again, but I was only focused on the exit and putting the entire day behind me.

  If only it were that easy. There would be the inevitable questions from inquiring minds that just had to know why.

  And what could I say?

  The easy and truest answer was that I wanted to focus on the White story and trial and wouldn’t be able to cover both when the hostage guy started appearing in court, if he came out of this thing alive. Problem is, that wasn’t my decision to make.

  For now I just wanted to eat something and get back to the solitude of my apartment, then have a long shower to clear my head, which could now legitimately be described as “troubled.” I had to get my shit together soon or run the risk of ending up where I always believed I would some day—the Mental.

  The last thing I wanted to do was hang around the office waiting for another cab, so I walked the ten minutes to Hotel St. John’s, where there was an unofficial lay-by.

  I was in luck. The Bugden’s guy looked crooked as sin, his left hand flat to the side of his head, propped by an elbow into the window.

  Almost fifteen minutes from the office to Water Street and not a peep out of ’im. Not even to announce the $22.50 fare. Instead, he just tapped the numbers on the meter with his fingernail.

  Things could clearly be worse, I thought.

  I did my best Frogger impersonation to get across Water Street to Coffee and Company—best brew, chocolate, and paninis downtown, bar none. Come to think of it, a bar was the only thing it was missing.

  “The usual, Wish?” asked owner Brad, a past high school buddy. We’d even double dated on graduation night.

  “Yup, thanks,” I said, the $16.50 cost of my ham, Dijon, and Swiss cheese panini with gourmet coffee reminding me how important it was to even have a job in the first place.

  “Actually, scratch that. One of them cream-topped hot chocolates instead, please.”

  “Sure thing.”

  One black coffee in the morning was all my body could handle before I got shaky, and it was now mid-afternoon.

  “Figured you’d be down at the Waterford with that whole hostage-taking thing,” said Brad, dodging two employees behind the counter as he went about filling my order. “Everyone that comes in is talking about it.”

>   “Yeah, I was down there, but it’s a long story. Got a couple of other things on the go at the same time, and . . .”

  “Wish Mooney, there y’are! Thought I might find you here.”

  I certainly knew the VOCM reporter’s face, but I had zero chance with his name. And I had no time to run the alphabet, unless it began with an A.

  Yes! Andrew. That was it.

  “Hey, Andrew,” I responded, confidently nonchalant.

  “There’s a few people trying to reach you, ya know. Surprised you’re not down at the Waterford.”

  “Yeah, I was down there, as I was telling Brad here, but we got someone else on the hostage beat today.”

  “Haven’t ya heard? That’s over now. They got the doctor out safe and sound, and buddy, too. Some guy Munch or March?”

  All I heard was “doctor.”

  “Mooney. You all right?”

  I mustn’t have looked all right, however that looks.

  Of course it was one of the doctors. It just hadn’t occurred to me because the constabulary said “staff member,” which back in the day was everyone else. Or maybe it was just the officer’s phrasing, “member of the hospital staff,” that threw me.

  I began Rolodexing through the images of Waterford physicians in my head, ranking them from least to most likely to be the one, apparently and thankfully unharmed.

  And then another gut-wrenching reality sank in: he’d told me that both he and Frankie didn’t like a doctor. But I’d never asked, and he never offered. And just like everything else involving Jerry Monchy, it was filed under no harm, no foul.

  Until now, unfortunately.

  “Monchy. Gerald Monchy,” Andrew said with a tone of accomplishment.

  I wanted so badly to just say it, to correct him, to show I was in the know. But he might ask how I knew, and I would have no safe answer.

  “Are you sure it’s Gerald? That’s one of those names that trips everyone, right? They can’t even get it right on the docket most of the time. If it’s Gerald it must be Gerry with a G. But if the christened form is Jerry, then it’s usually Jerry with a J . . .”

  He looked at me strangely, like when he had asked if I was all right. Another good question, I thought.

  “Anyway, um, like I was saying, that’s over down there,” he said, wondering what to make of my grammar rant. “Non-life-threatening injuries, as they say. No injuries at all, from what the cops are sayin’. Now it’s all about security and stuff down there, especially after you got in to see White on the same day.”

  Brad was just placing my order on the counter in front of me when his ears perked up.

  “You got in to see that guy?” he said, only fake-offended that I had yet to share that little nugget with him.

  I suddenly found myself sandwiched between two of those aforementioned inquiring minds.

  “It all happened pretty quick—wasn’t really that much to it.”

  “Not according to the health care corp.,” added Andrew Whatsisname. “They’ve already sent out a news release saying they’re reviewing all their security protocols and stuff, to ensure patient, staff, and visitor safety on a go-forward basis . . .”

  Some politician somewhere had just recently coined that phrase, and it was already the most overused on the planet. On a positive note, it helped weed out the truly out-of-touch human beings who continued to abuse it with oblivion.

  “Anyways, now that I found ya, would you be up for a little quick and dirty about what happened with White?”

  I had to admit the novelty of being the news instead of reporting it for a change was tempting, and I almost sat down with him right there and then. But I only had one life left at the paper, so I politely declined, wisely opting for permission before forgiveness this time.

  “How ’bout I check with the office first and get back to ya?”

  “Not a problem. Here’s my card. Lemme know as soon as ya can, though.”

  “Will do,” I said, turning to find a table.

  “On second thought, Brad, can I get this to go?”

  23

  A choir of angels hit a beautiful double-octave C chord as I closed and latched the door to my apartment behind me.

  Okay, so it wasn’t much, but at that moment it was the sweet, elusive sanctuary I’d been seeking since the 10-39. I was already in the kitchen, which led out to a large, open-concept living room. Single-man’s bathroom with shower to the left, bed space to the right separated from the living room by a sheer beige curtain. And beyond the bed a small, mind-your-head door leading to nirvana.

  It was the only reason I ended up renting the place: a rooftop deck, entirely visible through a pair of square, floor-to-seven-foot-ceiling glass panes. And beyond all that, the “peace of resistance,” an unobstructed view of the harbour, Signal Hill, and the Narrows. It stopped me in my tracks every time I arrived home, day or night—but especially nights like the crisp, clear February one before me now.

  Time check: 5:43. Just enough time for a beer on the deck before the news, which I could watch but not hear from out there.

  The coverage, as expected, was almost identical on both stations, right down to the understated, safe-as-boring caption: Man Charged With Unlawful Confinement.

  Gave me chills.

  The self-aggrandizing introductions ended, and into my living room came the chosen ones: the macho men and fetching ladies otherwise known as TV anchors.

  How many of Dad’s three “favourite” clichés would they or the writers drag out tonight, I wondered, knowing he’d be watching and wondering, too.

  “C’mon, Tense Moments!” I shouted at NTV. “I’ll take Tense Moments for five hundred dollars, Alex!”

  I was remarkably upbeat despite my snafu of a day. Maybe it was the scrumptious panini and first beer of my unscheduled week off hitting just the right spot. Whatever it was, I’d take it. And more of it—but first the news.

  “Our top story tonight . . . some tense moments at the Waterford Hospital in St. John’s today . . .”

  Bingo! I shoulda put money on it. I even picked up the phone to call Dad but quickly laid it back down.

  Both NTV and CBC went live from outside the main entrance with now anticlimactic backdrops, the day’s earlier mayhem long since replaced with routine comings and goings.

  Thus the switch to earlier footage, including arrivals and departures of emergency vehicles, officers going in doors and coming out others, crouching low while scurrying to and from vehicles with flashing lights.

  And still the “unlawful confinement” characterization by both outlets.

  “It was a hostage-taking, people. For fuck’s sake, call it what it was!”

  I was alone in frustration, yet I still looked around in dread after shouting a word that we wouldn’t have dared whisper at home.

  But all that took a back seat to the first video they finally flashed of two bravado-filled cops emerging from the very door that Jerry with a J had opened and closed for me several times many moons ago, proudly leading their cuffed catch to the open rear door of a police car.

  It was Jerry with a J, all right. Even with his head bowed to hide however much his face had aged, I could tell—the brown comb-over gone and reduced to two patches of grey bookending his bald skull.

  So many things about my life next to the Mental were surreal. But this had to be the most surreal of them all, supplanting even the body in the river.

  I scoffed as one of the cops placed a hand atop his prisoner’s head, pressing down so he didn’t smack it off the top of the door frame as they placed him in the back seat of a squad car. I always found that routine so funny and counterintuitive to the whole rough-and-tumble conflict of arresting a bad guy.

  The only saving grace was that he hadn’t hurt the doc or himself, which kept the
top story brief before the logical segue into the other big event that preceded Monchy’s antics—namely, my antics.

  Unsurprisingly, neither network named the newspaper or the reporter who was up shootin’ the breeze with Vlad the Impaler on the hospital’s—ahem—most secure floor. It would kill them to credit the competition with a good get, but they’d shout it from the rooftop decks when the others screwed up.

  Fact is, they would’ve had stronger coverage had they taken the high road, named all the players, and—God forbid—called our paper for comment. Not that I was complaining. The hospital crowd wasn’t happy about that. But without a first-hand account of my trip to the fourth floor, they were stuck with regurgitation of a news release and file footage of the Pen and White’s perp walks.

  “Meanwhile, the Health Care Corporation of St. John’s has announced a full-scale review of its security protocols in the wake of today’s back-to-back lapses.” End of story.

  I hit mute on the remote, turned up the stereo, and stepped out on the deck to grab the second of three India Beer I’d stuck in the snow—much more effective than the ancient Frigidaire in the kitchen.

  I glanced at the TV as I re-entered, and the bottle hit the hardwood floor in all its frothing glory.

  Mona Carter was on the screen.

  I was suddenly colder than the beer running into and along the cracks of the weathered and warped tongue-and-groove.

  I scrambled in search of the remote, which, of course, had somehow burrowed itself down between the pillows of the couch. I couldn’t have hidden it any better if I’d tried.

  Mrs. Carter was standing in front of the Waterford, a true stone’s throw from where her son had died, holding up a placard with three simple words: replace this place.

  It was not the first time she’d held her one-woman vigil outside the decrepit 143-year-old edifice. Her appearances usually coincided with the anniversary of Rodney’s death or birth, causing many a driver to conclude she was on a day pass.

  “. . . but I really felt like I had to come here today because what happened sums up what’s wrong with this place. It’s so old, they got places in there they don’t even know about anymore. And that goes for a lot of the patients, too.”