The vote by show of hands had been so close that, much to the community organizer’s exasperation, she had been unable to get a clear count. It hadn’t helped that people were milling about the room.
“I’m going to need a standing vote. Everyone please stay in your seats until the vote is called!” she snapped.
No one will ever be sure of the impact Jo Ann McCool’s sudden burst of eloquence had on the outcome—or on what would come later—but the standing vote revealed a razor-thin victory for the “yes” side. The Wives would take a stand on the agreement. But what would it be? Once the buzz in the aftermath of the vote count had abated, the debate over this second crucial question began in earnest. Arguments in favour of the agreement echoed sentiments heard all over town: the strike had gone on long enough—too long, in fact—and its further prolongation was more than they could bear. Besides, what was the point? The bargaining committee had unanimously recommended acceptance. Why, even the feisty Jordan Nelson had declared there was nothing more on the table, or so it was rumoured around town. Why send them back down to Toronto if there was nothing to be gained?
Like Molly Carruth and her husband Jake, with whom she had discussed the matter at length, Jo Ann secretly harboured the conviction that a “yes” vote on the contract would mean the end of Jordan Nelson. He would join the long line of Sudbury strike leaders who’d failed to gain a contract that met the membership’s sky-high expectations and who were summarily defeated in the next election. Like Molly and Jake—and even many of the Wives here in this room—Jo Ann had the utmost respect for the young union leader. Ergo, in order to save him it was necessary to defeat him. No one on the “no” side, as they began their impassioned perorations, disclosed this sentiment, of course. Instead were heard the usual critiques of the offer commonly heard in the coffee and barber shops—and even the hairdressers’ salons—wherever strikers and their wives congregated: it was a good agreement, yes, but it certainly wasn’t a great agreement worthy of a ten-month strike. So the bargaining committee had to go back down to Toronto—so what? No one knew what would transpire this time; perhaps the Company would table the great offer this time, the one it had had in its back pocket all along. And so on and so on. The arguments raged endlessly that week, destined to be resolved the only way they ever could—by the vote of the membership. And, like everyone else in the Nickel Capital that week, the Wives searched their souls and reached for the nettles …