Growing Up Next to the Mental Page 17

  “They’ll be lining the aisles for a go at you,” I joked. “Just the firemen alone.”

  “Ha. It’ll be more like a roast than a funeral!”

  His laugh was easier now, with almost no phlegm or even rasp.

  “Sometimes I blame myself, ya know. I knew better than most what he was going through. He sorta spelled it out for me at the Janeway a few days after he overdosed. Said he was pretty down, couple of guys on his back, they were pushing him to get me to do something about the doctors and stuff.”

  “So, that’s why you were asking me about bipolar that day.”

  “Yeah. He let it slip when I was talkin’ to him, after that whole thing during the storm. That was crazy. I’ll never forget seeing the lights on the snowmobiles coming up through the Mental . . .”

  “I remember. Well, I was on a beach in Florida, but I heard all about it. And what do you think you could’ve done about that . . . when you were twelve?”

  “I coulda told someone. But I was kinda worried it’d just make things worse.”

  The superintendent stood up, drank what was left of his beer, and started putting his coat on.

  “Aloysius Mooney,” he said, and sighed. “This is the point where I usually squat down and give you some tip or piece of advice. But you’re not that kid anymore, and I’m not that limber.

  “I don’t have some kind of magic Cap’n Mike moral to pass along this time, if I ever did. All I can say is at some point you gotta let stuff go, or it’ll beat you up inside. You’ll beat yourself up, and before you know it you’ll be your own bully.”

  That was it. I was my own bully. I wasn’t right if I wasn’t self-judging every action or thought I had. He may have opened my eyes to it, but at least I could understand and accept it was a problem. That was apparently the most important step.

  “Anyways, gotta go, Wish.”

  “Okay. Well, thanks,” I said, getting up for a farewell shake that morphed into a mutual, tentative guy hug with a few loud smacks on each other’s back.

  “I think I got it now, Cap’n . . . I mean, Superintendent Mike Byrne.”

  “We’ll see how super I am. Chemo starts first thing Monday. But as Yogi would say, it ain’t ova till it’s ova.”

  25

  I spent the rest of that weekend un-high and dry, trying to recover from Friday night—or should I say Saturday morning.

  I had every intention of getting out of The Rack by midnight, but all of sudden it was 2:00 a.m., and then three. And the rules clearly stipulated that if someone didn’t vocally bellow “last call,” then you could just stay as long as you damn well wanted, or words to that effect.

  It’s what we assumed he came out of his office to do just before 4:00 a.m.

  But Randy was nothing if not unpredictable.

  “Be discreet, record your drinks, clean up, and lock up when yer done.”

  He tossed the keys to the gutsy young man tending bar and was off like a . . . like a . . . whore’s drawers. Apologies, but that was then.

  I half considered piggybacking on Randy’s departure, but who was I kidding? A big open pool hall to ourselves after hours. There was only one thing to do at a time like that: call others.

  It took all of ten minutes for the crowd from a nameless bar up the road to arrive at the alleyway side door.

  The names of those partaking in the ensuing debauchery shall not be revealed here. I’m not that stupid. But suffice to say it was a who’s who of the city’s underworld. And yet, despite unavoidably reporting on many of them by day, we were able to coexist by night. Better than that, in some cases. A few I could truly call friends.

  It was simple, really. Stick to the facts during the day, and keep your mouth shut about everything else.

  I will admit it was impressive to see a solid representation of the city’s neighbourhoods that night/morning: the Brow, the Circle, Cabot Street, Kilbride, Rabbittown, east end, west end, and Torbay, too.

  It was a memorable time for many reasons, but two in particular stand out. Joey, with one pendulum swing of the butt end of his pool cue, drove a blue chalk square up though the ceiling tile like a missile. It was awesome. He also ended up winning the $225 pot in a three-ball tourney—sinking all three balls on the break without scratching in the thirteenth round. And he could barely talk or walk.

  Crazy.

  But I digress to the extreme, because the other reason that night was significant—nay, life-changing—was the topic being discussed at a table five feet in front of where I was standing at the end of the bar. All I really heard was something something something Wallace White something something something . . .

  I fully expected it to come up at some point. But not amidst people who might actually know him, or may have even roomed with him. I hadn’t planned to be at The Rack this late, either, when the odds of running into someone like that were considerably higher.

  Well, as long as they didn’t drag me into it . . .

  “Mooney there knows. He just saw him the other day, didn’t ya, my buddy?”

  Shit. Mooney knows what?

  This was the part where I usually smirked, nodded, and took a long enough swig till they moved on to another topic.

  Not this time.

  “How long were y’up to see ’im?” asked one of the two girls sitting with two guys.

  “Almost no time. Not even a minute.”

  “Did he have an earring in his left one?”

  “Not that I can remember. I don’t think he’d be allowed to have one in either, or any jewellery, would he?”

  I was careful to phrase my response questioningly rather than patronizingly, but it was an odd question from people who appeared experienced enough to know the difference.

  “Only a couple of minutes? I could getcha in to see him longer than that,” said someone a couple of bodies down the bar.

  I didn’t recognize the voice or, after a quick gawk, the face. A friend of a friend was my guess. But I didn’t care. I’d had my fill of outlandish offers of “great stories” at that hour in the morning. I just wanted badly to change the subject.

  “I tries to avoid the work and shop talk down here. But if ya wanna call me tomorrow, or Monday, about it . . .”

  They never usually called. But that was my last resort. It could resolve the problem or exacerbate it. In this case, thank the Lord, it worked like a charm, and the circus concluded peacefully about three hours later.

  * * * * *

  I got in the door just after 8:00 a.m., my five-minute walk of shame significantly shorter than the ninety-minute booze-fuelled jaunts I could pull off from Water Street to Cowan Avenue via the train tracks at four in the morning.

  I almost—and I stress almost—cursed the big windows that welcomed the rays of the hour-old sunrise into my living room/bedroom.

  A single Advil washed down by a tall, lukewarm glass of water and I was out, despite the rays. The single guy’s luxury is collapsing unconscious and face first on the made bed in his clothes, with zero fear of repercussion.

  * * * * *

  I opened my eyes against the cream-coloured duvet about six hours later, stained as it was by drool. Undeniably hungover but nothing that a good feed of fee and chee from the Big R—formerly Rice’s—couldn’t cure, though. Throw in a can of A&W Root Beer and I was in hog heaven.

  * * * * *

  The weight and grease of that knocked me out for another two hours, until I came around with cringe-worthy reflections of the night before. There was only one thing to do at a time like this: a spliff on the deck.

  It was just what I needed to slow things down and allow me to chronologize, prioritize, and attempt to rationalize what I’d done to deserve the last few days.

  Like most of my misfortunes, I had trouble accepting that I’d b
rought it all on myself.

  Which—let’s face it—I had.

  Ripe for the fall at every turn—that was me in a heartbeat.

  But I’d always felt that things were preordained. That everything happened for a reason. And what came around went around, depending on the good or evil choices you made.

  When you come to a fork in the road, take it.

  How could I forget?

  On the muted TV, the Bruins were playing the Leafs in Toronto, which always conjured memories of Sittler’s ten-point game almost exactly twenty-one years earlier.

  It provided the perfect percentage of peripheral distraction to prevent my mind from working too hard to solve my conundrum: to wit, what to do about Monchy and White upon my return to work.

  Would I even be permitted to touch either story?

  And then, just when I thought I had a handle on the whole fate and karma thing, the cordless phone—which was somewhere in my tiny confines—began ringing. And ringing. And ringing. Who could possibly be calling at 10:17 p.m. on a Saturday night?

  Was I gonna answer it? Absolutely not.

  If it’s that important, Mom would say, they’ll call back.

  Which is exactly what they did then. Now I was nervously thinking along the lines of parents, siblings, extended family.

  I hauled my ass off the couch and concentrated on locating the phone from the trajectory of the next ring.

  Bingo. Bathroom. Gross. But yes, I disinfected it and washed my hands before pressing talk.

  “Hello?”

  “This Wish? Mooney?”

  “Yeeeah.”

  “You still wanna get in to see White again? You said to call.”

  “Ah, yeah. Yes,” I said, suddenly significantly sober. “Who’s this again?”

  “Keith. From The Rack last night.”

  Okay, so I didn’t know him by name, either, but now I wanted to.

  “Riiiight. Keith. Sorry, man. Took me a second. It was a late night. So, um, can you do that? I mean, they still got to okay it, and so does he.”

  “Well, he’s kinda my brother, so I think I could set it up.”

  Holy shit. I did everything in my power to suppress even the subtlest hint of excitement or enthusiasm, but it wasn’t easy—if I was successful at all.

  “Um, sure. If you could . . . or if you think you’d like to do that, or he’d like to do that, I’d be all over . . . I mean, I’d be open to that.”

  Smooth. Very smooth, Wish.

  “Okay. I’m visiting Wally tomorrow, and I’ll call you back on Monday. I think it might help him get some shit off his chest. What’s he got to lose, really?”

  Hard to disagree there.

  The second he hung up, I exhaled the greatest sigh of relief in the history of sighs of relief.

  What the hell? Just like guys after one-night stands, the great story ideas never called the next day. I’d thrown that offer on the table at least a dozen times, and no one ever came through with the killer yarn they were promoting in the bar.

  Not that I should be complaining.

  And it was “Wally,” not Wallace. I made particular note of that, harkening back to the importance I placed on getting the preferred derivation of the name right—dead or alive.

  I spent most of a dreary wet-snow-and-rain Sunday researching just how many rolls of red tape stood in the way of me getting together with White again.

  I was buoyed by the “in” I now apparently had through his alleged brother. And the more I thought about it, the more it made sense to double up and put in a request to see Monchy, too.

  After all, what did I have to lose?

  26

  Rest assured I was not foolish enough to proceed without the boss’s blessing.

  “Go ahead, send in the requests, by all means, but nothing else till your suspension’s up next Monday.”

  I could live with that. It was also, coincidentally, the day White was due to return to court. And it wasn’t like I was getting a response before then, anyway.

  Nonetheless, and in the interest of expediency, I hand-delivered both inmate interview requests to the Justice Department at Confederation Building first thing Monday morning.

  And lo and behold, Monchy came through for me two days later, his legal aid lawyer offering up times on Thursday or Friday since Jerry’s calendar, upon his ascension to the infamous Waterford fourth floor himself, had freed up considerably. Not that it was chockablock to begin with.

  Even the Justice comms director—clearly more accustomed to drafting the standard “we regret to inform you” salutation—was taken aback by the prisoner’s consent, as few and far between as they were.

  “I honestly can’t recall the last request that was granted,” was her comment, or words to that effect. But then, she didn’t know the history, either. Still, no one else did.

  Let’s face it—I was psyched for the exclusive, and the potential stroll down memory field. Which is why it killed me to put it all off until I was back to work on Monday. It might even have to wait till Tuesday, since I wasn’t missing White’s reappearance—as if he was part of some magic trick—for the world.

  * * * * *

  By the time that Monday finally came, my nerves were raw. Beyond raw, really. More akin to frayed and drained.

  “I got one nerve left, and you’re gettin’ on it,” the Man of a Thousand Songs, Ron Hynes, would tell the gab bag in the back of the bar.

  I had none left. And maybe that was a good thing. Numb to it all. The return to work, the pending sit-down with a chunk of my childhood, and God knows what with the whole White affair.

  I hadn’t heard anything back on the request to see him, leading me to speculate as to whether it even got to him first nor last. I toyed with just blurting out the question during the perp walk, if the opportunity presented itself. Best play that one by ear, I thought.

  Since Provincial Court proceedings began at 9:30 a.m., thirty minutes before Supreme, I had some time to check the docket to see who made the weekend honour roll.

  I’d been there and done that ten years earlier. Young, invincible, short-sighted. Tied one on at the Breezeway Christmas party and tried to drive home in a friend’s Jag. I saw the Boys in Blue coming the other way too late and pulled over even before their lights went on, initially stopped for speeding in the absence of any erratic behaviour. I even walked the unofficial straight line.

  But it was the telltale bloodshot eyes, breath, and Breathalyzer that sealed my fate that night.

  I wasn’t surprised to see Monchy’s name up there again as lawyers for the Crown and defence, as well as interveners for Justice, the health care corp., and the doctor-hostage resumed haggling over applications that would ultimately decide if he should be tried as a sane or normal person.

  There was fascinating precedent being bandied about but nothing that would produce a story for next day’s paper and, more importantly, hadn’t required the accused’s attendance in court.

  I was lost in the small, faded print on the pages pinned inside the glass display case when I was startled by two soft taps on my right shoulder.

  “They’re bringing Monchy up now,” whispered the golden blonde ponytail from Supreme Court as she passed without stopping.

  “Right now?” I asked, just slightly louder than her utterance, momentarily lost in the view as she sashayed away. It’s a wonder I even noticed her head nod in the affirmative.

  And speaking of heads, I had to get mine in gear. Aside from his recent arrest on the news, I hadn’t seen Jerry with a J since I was in high school.

  So, this should be interesting, to say the least. Perfect timing, too, since all of the other reporters were staking out Supreme Court with still fifteen minutes before White was due to show.

  I loitered no
where near the door Monchy would come through but close enough to see when he did, keenly aware that “now” in court time was never really now. “Now” could easily and unforeseeably become an hour or more. And don’t get me started on “soon.”

  But this sheriff’s officer was clearly an accomplished professional with good intel and great, um, smarts. I couldn’t see her going out on that “now” limb if it wasn’t now, or really close to now.

  About three minutes after the heads-up, there was a commotion behind the door leading to the holding cells, and out he came, cuffed at the wrists and ankles, with dual escort. I half expected him to be wearing something from the Mooney basement collection, but those days were long gone. And the door was always locked now, anyway.

  Too bad, though, ’cause the grey Tely 10 T-shirt and royal blue Adidas sweatpants from the court clothes bank did nothing for his mid-sixties persona.

  I followed at an unnoticeable distance and quietly took a seat in the back row of Courtroom #3. I was cutting it close if I had any designs on getting across the street to Supreme Court for White’s arrival.

  I stepped outside the courtroom to update the newsroom, then slipped back inside, the creak of the door causing all hands to glance my way, including the accused.

  They were still waiting quietly for the judge as I sat back down. Monchy motioned for his lawyer and whispered something in his ear. The sharp-dressed man checked his watch, then the clock on the wall, and made his way to the door, directing me to follow with his head.

  “You’re Mr. Mooney?” the lawyer asked the moment we were out in the hallway.

  “Yes, I am.”

  “We spoke on the phone, about a time for the interview. My client says he’d like to have a word with you before that, and so would I, actually. This isn’t going to take long in here. Do you have a few minutes once we’re done?”

  “Um, yeah. I have to run over to Supreme, but I can be back for, say, ten thirty?”

  “Perfect. See ya here then.”

  I was gone in a flash, realizing it was unlikely the White matter would start on time but unable to take that chance, either.