SIXTEEN
ST. JOHN’S
Ferry
St. John’s was much further from Montreal than Milton ever imagined.
The bus trip went fairly quickly through Quebec, hugging the shore of the St. Lawrence as it grew wider and wider. Hundreds of farms, sliver-thin, stretching from the water, up the valley to God knows where. The opposite in every possible way from the massive flat squares of Saskatchewan.
New Brunswick isn’t big, but the road winds through hills and bush and it seems like the dead of night even in the middle of the day, and it just goes on forever. The sun doesn’t start shining again until Nova Scotia. Then rolling hills to Cape Breton—the distillation of quaint maritime charm—then the world ends.
North Sydney is the end of the line. But it’s still 16 hours from St. John’s.
It’s further from Montreal to St. John’s than it is from Regina to Montreal, which is across most of a continent.
Newfoundland is so far from everywhere it has its own time zone.
Newfoundland is its own planet.
Milton dug into his bag of drug money and bought a walk-on ticket for a massive ferry, which is about 100 times bigger and costs about 100 times more than the cable ferry across Lake Diefenbaker.
The MV Caribou sails for six hours through the night across the Gulf of St. Lawrence to a tiny fishing village called Port aux Basques, where Milton will endeavor to find another bus to take him to St. John’s.
Milton tried to sleep on the floor of the ferry. But the gentle rise and fall of the ship through the night was just about more than his Prairie guts could stand. He turned a pale shade of corpse and fought nausea the entire crossing.
The second the ship docked, he was fine.
He walked off the ferry into a cloud of thick, cold fog.
It was Fall when he left Cape Breton, but the six-hour crossing was actually eight months into the past, into winter.
The thick, cold fog was like cement that pushed through his skin and meat and into his bones. When he looked down, he could barely see his own feet. At least, he thought they were his feet.
He made his way through a vast parking lot full of fog-hidden cars about to board for a return to Fall. Milton walked with his hands in front of him to avoid bumping too hard into anything that would sneak up on him in the fog. He made his way over to the ferry terminal and went inside to get a bus ticket.
The short, square woman at the counter—from what Milton could make out through her thick accent which sounded like Finnish without spaces between the words—explained, that:
“m’duckyissasin’boutdabussinb’ynotenoughtraffic for’ertokeeprunnin’folkslikeflyin’thesedaysI’sposebutif yasneedtogettoTownm’loverGerrythere’llgiveyaalift.”
She pointed to a guy in a neon Ski-Doo jacket smoking a cigarette and drinking coffee out of a Styrofoam cup sitting directly below a no-smoking sign. Milton assumed that meant he was the bus driver.
Gerry wasn’t the bus driver. There was no bus. Gerry was an entrepreneur.
When it wasn’t fishing season he’d supplement his pogey27 hauling lost tourists from Port aux Basques to “Town” in his 1997 Ford F-150 Extended Cab for $100 cash, and bring back 50-pound bags of potatoes and five-gallon pails of pickles and 48 double rolls of toilet paper and 5x7 high-impact plastic baby barn garden sheds and anything else his neighbours would order from the only Costco on the entire giant, empty island.
“Sorrym’sonshesfullerthanamummersgutontibbseveb’y ift’weren’tsomauzyI’dtakeyainthepanbutyerapttofreezesome dayonclothesouttheresureby.”
“How much for a ride?”
“Nawm’songotsafullloadgottacallGerryb’yhe’llgetyat’ CornerBrook.”
Gerry pointed to a rotary phone on the wall under a handwritten sign that read “Gerry’s Taxi – Dial 1.”
“Are you… Is that… Gerry… Taxi…?”
“Yesb’ydasrightgivesGerryacallan’he’llgetyatoawarm bedferdanight.”
“Gerry… Right…”
Milton, without taking his eyes off Gerry, walked backwards towards the phone and dialed 1 for Gerry.
The phone rang at the information counter, 15 feet away. Brenda picked up the phone.
“Gerry’scab.”
Milton had no idea what was happening or who he was talking to.
“Uh… Hi… I need a bus to St. John’s. Please.”
“Nawm’duckydisisGerry’scabyawan’Gerry’sbuswhich isn’tabusjustGerryjustluhissasinthere’snobusnomoresin butdassittheworldischangin’.”
“Is this… Am I talking… to you?”
Milton pointed at Brenda across the corridor.
“Y’sdearwhatcanIdoforye?”
“St. John’s! Please!”
“Gerrysay’e’adnomoreroomin’istruckm’ducksinthatis tooI’ll’avemeGerrycome’roundan’pickyagetyatoawarmbed forthenightsure’e’llbe’eredaoncesittight.”
“Uhm…”
Gerry finished his coffee, dropped his cigarette butt in the cup, got up, threw the cup out, threw some words at Brenda, and made his way out to his waiting truck. Milton followed him out and watched him climb into his truck.
There were five other men in the truck already, all of them twice Milton’s size, with moustaches, ballcaps, and a mix of snowmobile-branded winter coats. They all turned and looked at Milton, half-nodded, and, in unison, took sips from giant travel coffee mugs. Gerry got in the cab and started the engine. Nodded to Milton and drove away.
. . .
Gerry
Milton sat down on the curb, under the weight of the cold and fog. Just sat. Sat and stared into the thick grey abyss for a long, long time.
Sat and stared into the thick grey abyss for a long, long time and slowly lost all feeling.
He was on the run from a very bad man and the very bad men that worked for him. There was a price on his head.
A hit.
He didn’t even think hits were real. He thought they were some made-up movie stuff. But apparently not. Apparently, whatever is left of Leonard Cohen, or whoever took his place after he bounced down the highway, can post on Facebook, or something, that he will pay to have someone who done him wrong murdered, and just like that they are murdered.
And that someone who done someone wrong? That someone who crossed the most powerful and ruthless criminal and finest poet and songwriter in all of Canada? This time, that was Milton. Milton Ontario. Mike and Sherry’s son from Bellybutton, Saskatchewan. Milton Ontario, who on the advice of one of the worst people in all of existence to take advice from, has fled to Newfoundland— NEWFOUNDLAND!—to try and save his own life.
Hypothermia was beginning to set in, the kind you can only get from Newfoundland fog, as Milton got drowsier and drowsier sitting on the curb, trying to calculate how long it would take Leonard Cohen’s thugs to find him and throw him into the frozen sea.
He began to nod off, when a rust- and maroon-coloured 1992 Reliant K car squealed its worn-out brakes right next to him, almost running him over.
From the few syllables that Milton could make out, this was either the most Newfoundland hitman ever, come to take his life, or Gerry’s Taxi come to take him to St. John’s.
Either was fine at that moment, so he crawled in beside a middle-aged man with a face worn by weather and hard living, a thin grey moustache, a Polaris ball cap and an Arctic Cat jacket, with a travel mug of coffee in one hand and a cigarette in the other.
“ThenamesGerryb’yaftermefadderan’’isfadderbeforedat nowmesonyalookslikeadrownratfrozenintherainbarrel whereyaofftoIcantakeyaasfarastownyacan’aveyourselfastay inaproperplacem’sonliketheGreenwoodInnan’yecanget yerselfafinescoffatSorrentosderoneofdemrightfancyItalian placestookmeoldladythereBrendathemissusworkingthe counterthereforourannivers’rythirtysixyearsthisMarch pastwe’vebeenatitgoodlongwhileexceptforashortspell intherewhenIwasworkin’outwestan’heardshewasdiddlin’ GerryfromUpperFerryderyaproblydon’knows’ibut’e’s thafellawit’thequeereduparmtheregot’ercaughtintha winchon’eesbrudder’scrabboattwisted’erright’round likelicoricesoI’mupinFortMacan’’hearol’UpperFerryGerry’s diddlin’Bren’an’Igetswildgoesoffm’’eadforaweekstuck’er inevery’ookerIcouldfindan’whateverwasleftwentright upmenosenowm’sonInearlygotrunoffforthatIwasright wreckedan’Bren’callsmet’askwherethechequeisshes gotstabuytheboysnewbootsan’IjustsnapsrightIsaysto’ ’erIsays’LuhBren’Iknowsy’beendiddlingSkipperwith thetwistedflippersoy’ain’tgettin’onecentfromme’well m’sonshewasrightrottedwit’meturnsoutitwasIsleo’morts BrendawhoworksatthecountertherewitmyBren’datwas bonkin’TwirlyArmGerrynowmesonBren’smarriedtoo toTooTallGerryfromthaFerrybutdatain’tnoconcerno’ minenowisitb’ybesidesmykhack’s’boutrottedofffromall theFortMaccrackI’ad’erinferaweekstraightsowhoamI tojudgeIt’oughtthatwas’erb’yy’sm’sonIt’oughmean’ Bren’wast’roughbutb’yshe’sagoodwomanbetterdenI’d everbewouldn’tyaknowshetakesmebackwhenI’mbackon nex’longchangeevent’houghIgotthaclapbutdasitb’ywhat cany’dobeentenyearssinceneverbeenbacktoFortMacsince nom’sonthatplaceisnotfitnotfitatallnowwherewasitya wannagom’son?”
It took several more pleading-not-understanding-a-word minutes, and three more never-ending Gerry stories—about his dog Coot who’s “gotsagirlfrienduptheroadan’keepstakin’ offafter’ercan’tevenlet’imouttopiss’imselfor’e’llbegonefer t’reedays”; his son Little Gerry Jr, who’s “smartasawhipbut uglierthanthearseendofasculpinwhichain’tgreatbutbetter thanthereverseI’spose”; and his mother Bertie, who’s “olderden daGrandeBanksan’crookedasallsinan’willknockyaonyer arseifyacross’erbless’er’eart”—about 45 minutes, for Milton to reverse negotiate with Gerry to drive him all the way to St. John’s for $150.
Milton had offered $500, but Gerry insisted that was much too much, that he couldn’t possibly do it for more than $100. Milton countered with $300, Gerry with $50. Milton, confounded by Gerry’s negotiation style, which he would discover was an island-wide phenomenon, offered the original $500. Gerry said, “ifyaneedstapaysomet’ingdasfinebutIwon’t takemorethanone-fiftyanddasit.” So that was it. But Milton planned on tipping generously for the 900 kilometer cab ride.
Amongst his never-ending stories, Gerry attempted a conversation with Milton. Or at least he’d stop every so often for a draw off his cigarette, which would give Milton a chance to say something.
With some prompting, Milton carefully told Gerry some of his story: about how he was from Saskatchewan—to which Gerry interjected with a story about working out west and his cousin who’s “stillgoin’at’eroutder’e’sinGrandeCache drivin’truck’elikesitalrightbetterdenworkin’foralivin’”—about how he was a famous poet and how he knows Leonard Cohen, “the singer one,”—to which Gerry interjected with a story about his wife Brenda, “Lennyder’e’sdafellawhosoun’s likeBren’whenshegetsondaLambsb’yy’sm’sonlikeder garglin’rocksthebothof’em”—about how he’d gotten tired of the big city hustle and bustle in Montreal—“y’sm’son udderdenEdmontonIain’tneverbeeninaplacesobigasdatan’ Ican’tstandsittoocrowdedeveryoneupyerarsealldatime”—and how, at the suggestion of his roommate from Newfoundland, he was coming out here for a while.
Those were the magic words, “roommate from Newfoundland.” It launched the pair into a protracted game of six-degrees of Noddy.
“Who’s’ean’who’s’esfadder?”
“You wouldn’t know him, he’s from St. John’s.”
“IknowsplentyafolksfromTownm’sonbesidesnoonefrom TowntheyallfromtheBayan’movestotown.”
“Well, his name is Noddy.”
“Nom’son!Y’don’tmeanNoddyButtsfromdaSea’orse?”
“Butts?”
“Y’sb’yalittlemout’yskeetalwaysgoin’on’boutConfederation and’owwe’swasrobbedan’somerealtinfoil’atshit’boutyaybig.”
Gerry held his hand up a few feet above the seat of the car.
“Yeah, that’s him. Wow! Small world, eh?”
“O’m’sonnotsmall’noughwhyoneart’wouldyoudo anyt’ingdatdullsticksaysmesondatfellaisnotfitnotfitatall don’beatanyofdatwhatever’e’sgotyaintogetonoutdaonce b’y’eain’tfitain’tfit.”
“Now you tell me!” joked Milton.
Gerry wasn’t joking.
A few hours on through the thick, thick fog they pulled off at a gas station on the edge of a town called Badger. Gerry fueled up the car after fighting with Milton to not take any money.
“Ye’ungry?”
“I guess. I can just grab something here.”
“Nom’sondisain’tfoodwe’llstopinonm’cousinlivesjust updaway.”
Gerry pulled the car onto a small, narrow side street with a few small houses.
Badger made Milton homesick for the first time in a long time. It was the same patchwork of little houses that weren’t old enough to be historic but not new enough to be nice, like Bellybutton. Just with much thicker fog.
Gerry turned into the driveway of a small white house with red shutters and as he drove up to the house a man in plaid chopping firewood emerged from the fog. He looked just like Gerry. His name was Jerry.
Gerry and Jerry spoke even quicker. It was just a blur of mashed together vowels and apostrophes. Milton would catch every tenth word or so. Something about this fella from the mainland who knows Noddy Butts from the Sea Horse, followed by great laughter and head shakes.
Jerry waved Gerry and Milton inside. The small house was warm and humid and smelled like fresh-baked bread. Inside was Jerry’s wife, also Brenda, who immediately began fussing over her guests.
“Comem’lovetakeaseatletmefixyaaplate.”
Gerry and Jerry and Milton sat around the round kitchen table with a plastic sheet over a white lace tablecloth.
Gerry and Jerry hummed and buzzed back and forth at one another. From the bits Milton could decipher, there was a lot of talk about the weather, the woods, their sons out west, nan, and more laughter and disbelief that “disfella’ere” knew “datdimButtsfella”.
In no time, Brenda put down a plate piled high with canned ham and white bread sandwiches, and mugs of milky tea.
“G’wonnowfillyerbootsm’duckies.”
The sandwiches vanished and tea disappeared, and Gerry and Jerry seemed to have covered every possible topic there was upon which two cousins could possibly discuss, all in less than half an hour, and Milton and Gerry got back in the K-Car and pulled back on the highway.
Gerry returned to his life story. They were rounding the 1992 cod moratorium “daarsefelloutta’erb’y,” and heading towards the difficult years that landed him out west in a work camp, far from Brenda and the boys, with nothing and no one “‘ceptferdabottlem’sonan’datdon’loveyabacknone.”
Going the speed limit, and only stopping for gas and a feed of fee and chee28 in Gander, about halfway, it takes a mortal human about ten hours to make the trip from Port aux Basques to St. John’s.
Gerry though, including a stop for lunch in Badger, and for smokes in a town called Goobies, which appeared to Milton to just be two gas stations on either side of the highway, plowed his antique K-Car through the thick fog with the accelerator pinned to the floor. He pulled up to the bright orange front door of a bright green row house on Upper Battery Road—perched on the cliff face next to the harbour in the most picturesque neighbourhood in the entire city, if ever the fog cleared long enough to see it—in less than seven hours.
“Thereyebem’son.”
Milton thanked Gerry effusively and held out $300 in greasy drug money.
“N’awm’sonIcan’ttakedatfromyayerknottedupwit’dat Buttsfellayou’llbeneedin’allda’elpyacangetg’wonnowtake caresayerselfb’y.”
No amount of insisting could change Gerry’s mind, so Milton, thinking he was clever, left the money in the door handle of the car after he shook Gerry’s hand and got out. A week later an envelope with $300 in greasy drug money and a note came in the mail:
ye forgot this in me car.
-Gerry
. . .
Fog City
Milton stepped out of Gerry’s K-Car into the thick, cold, dark fog of St. John’s. Noddy had given Milton an address and not much else, just “my uncle Greggy will look after ya.”
This was the place.
The Battery neighbourhood was a cluster of houses and shacks stuck to the rock face that descended from Signal Hill—a high hill that guarded the entrance to St. John’s Harbour and overlooked the entire city—down to “The Bubble,” the city’s sewage outlet pipe that fed raw sewage directly into the harbour.29
Most of the houses in the Battery were built quickly by amateur carpenters after most of the city burned to the ground in 1892. With winter coming, they were slapped quickly up on the jagged cliffs.
Every 40 years or so an avalanche or rockslide down the hill would dump a few of the houses into the harbour, or hurricane winds would rattle the houses overnight and dozens would wake up to find their roofs floating in the water below.
A hundred years ago, this was prime real estate for fishing families to get easy access to the water. Now it was full of professors and artists and students.
The neighbourhood was interwoven with a series of impossibly narrow streets that began as footpaths. In most places there was just enough space for a small car to pass between the front door of one house and the back door of another. When it snowed the usual several feet each winter, many of the streets became unpassable and cars just piled up on the one road in and people hiked the rest of the way.
Milton got none of this.
The entire place, Newfoundland from Port aux Basques to this bright green house he stood in front of on the eastern edge of the world, was socked in with fog. He could just make out the width of the house in front of him. He knocked on the bright orange door.
Milton nearly fainted when a man who looked exactly like Noddy, just slightly older, answered the door.
“Hi. I’m Noddy’s friend, uh… Morgan Murray.”
Man-Noddy smiled a wide prodigal-son-returns-home smile and hugged Milton.
“Come in, come in. Welcome to Newfoundland, Morgan. Noddy told us his dearest friend would be coming. It’s great to meet you.”
Standing behind the man was a woman with long grey hair, warm brown eyes, and a rough grey sweater. She hugged Milton too.
“Welcome, Morgan. It’s so nice to meet you.”
They took Milton into the kitchen, gave him tea, opened a package of Jam-Jams and sat around the kitchen island getting to know one another.
Greg Butts was Noddy’s uncle. He studied seabirds and taught marine biology at Memorial University. His wife, Susan, who moved here 25 years ago from Milton, Ontario, “for a one-year post-doc,” researched middle-class alienation and taught in the Women’s Studies department.
All Noddy had told them was that his roommate was interested in seabirds—specifically seagulls—and wanted to do his master’s with Greg.
Greg explained how the deadline for admissions had passed and the semester was nearly over, but since he was the associate dean, he might be able to call in a few favours so Milton/Morgan could start right away.
They asked Milton about where he was from, how long he’d lived in Montreal, about his job—which he said he lost due to the economy, to great sympathy from Greg and Susan—and about his interest in seabirds.
Milton didn’t mention the poetry or that he was on the lam from Leonard Cohen, the most dangerous man in the world, nor the several-teen-thousand in drug money or loaded gun in his backpack, his only piece of luggage.
Neither of them had seen Noddy for a long time. They were glad to hear he was still alive; they had been worried about him. Not worried enough to try and track him down and see, but that “since his mom and dad died, he sort of went off the deep end and got in with the wrong people. It sounds like you are a good influence on him.”
Milton mirrored their concerned, solemn faces back to them and agreed.
“I try.”
When the tea was all gone Greg took Milton into the damp basement and showed him to a small spare room with only a bed in it.
“It’s not much, I apologize, these old houses don’t have a lot of room. But you are welcome to stay here as long as you’d like, or find a place on your own. If you do stay, we’ll work out some rental arrangement to cover food and expenses, but we’re more than happy to have you stay with us. Sue and I never had kids so it’s nice to have the company.”
They made plans to go to the registrar’s office on Monday. Milton thanked Greg, closed the door behind him, crawled into bed, and slept for 24 hours.
. . .
University Entrance Exam
The registrar was a sweet, mousy woman, who flipped through Milton’s handwritten application to the School of Graduate Studies for a master’s degree in Marine Biology while Greg and Milton sat across the desk from her and watched.
“This all looks fine, Mr. Murray, except for this here.”
She turned the paper towards Milton and pointed with a pencil to the section listing his previous education.
“I’m sure it’s just a mistake. Where you put diploma in Artistic Sciences at the, uh, Polytechnic University of Saskatchewan, did you mean a double degree in Arts and Sciences from the University of Saskatchewan?”
Milton agreed.
“Very well. And he meets the admission requirements for the program, Dr. Butts?”
Greg agreed.
All three signed an admissions form, the registrar handed Milton a temporary student ID card, and Milton/ Morgan Murray, was officially a grad student.
Milton knew nothing about seabirds, nor marine biology. It took him five years to finally complete a two-year diploma in a made-up discipline at a soon-to-be-bankrupt Saskatchewan trade school. But he wasn’t about to protest against this act of bureaucratic kindness, even if it was a horrible mistake.
He followed Greg through a labyrinth of underground locker-lined utility tunnels that connected all the buildings on campus, up several flights of stairs to the top floor of the Science Building, and down a hall with a trash can every fifty feet catching drips from the ceiling, and through a door marked “Marine Biology.”
Greg introduced Milton to Brenda, the department secretary, “who runs things.” He started rhyming off a bunch of different forms and Brenda began handing them to Milton with rapid-fire instructions.
“Now, my love. Fill all of these out to get your library account and email set up, this one is for your supervisor, is that you, Greg? Get this filled out and signed by Greg, and this one is your thesis proposal, it doesn’t need to be done right away, but by the end of the term it will need to be approved, this is a year-long program, not two, so you just have to complete a major research paper, not a full research thesis, it’s a new thing the university is trying, and this one is to choose your classes, you need to take at least six over the year, three are required and three are electives from this list, classes start again soon, so if you have any questions about choosing, Greg here can help you with that, I don’t know your situation, but if you need financial assistance fill out this form for student loans, the deadline is next week, so we need to hustle on this one, and this one is for department scholarships, the deadline was last Friday, but we can sneak yours into the pile when no one is looking, just get it back to me by the end of the day, this one is for a TA position, you’ll help with marking and maybe some teaching depending on what Greg is teaching next term. Any questions?”
“Can I borrow a pen?”
. . .
Grad Student Lounge
Greg led Milton back down the hall to the Grad Student Lounge: a plain cinder block room with one small window, one small table, and several small chairs.
A student, a tall guy in cargo shorts and dad sandals with socks—in spite of the weather—was in the room fiddling with cables attaching the one ancient computer to the one ancient printer.
“Ross, this is Morgan, Morgan this is Ross Saunders.”
They “hey’d” at one another as Greg left and Milton sat at the table and began shuffling through the forms.
Ross grew increasingly frustrated with his cable-fiddling and picked the printer up off its little cart, and tossed it against the brick wall, bits of plastic busting off and skittering everywhere.
“Fucking thing! At Queens they didn’t have shit like this!”
He sat down across the table from Milton and pulled a joint out of his bag.
“You mind?”
Milton was surprised how quickly grad school started to resemble working in a call centre.
“No, go ahead.”
“Want some?”
“No thanks. I’ve got too many forms to fill out.”
“Yeah, fucking place is all still paper and pen like it’s the fucking stone ages. And why do they need all that information? The corporatization of the university is a travesty, they can’t even get a printer that works, yet we have to pay all this money, it’s fucking madness.”
As Ross smoked the printer rage away, they swapped origin stories.
Ross was from Oakville, but did his undergrad at Queens in Kingston. His thesis, a second draft of which he was trying unsuccessfully to print, was titled: “Changing Migratory and Distribution Patterns of Egretta Thula in Northwestern Atlantic Maritime Climatological Zones Characterized by Warming Sea Temperatures and Increased Salination, 1983-2003.”
He responded to Milton’s blank stare by explaining, “It’s about how global warming is fucking with Egrets.”
Milton kept staring blankly.
When it was Milton’s turn, he stuck to the fiction of graduating from the University of Saskatchewan and explained how he’d taken a gap year to live in Montreal, but was looking forward to “hitting the books” to pursue his passion: seagulls.
“Seagulls? Are you serious? You know marine ornithologists call them searats, right? I mean, they are totally overrepresented in terms of biomass share because of how they proliferate on land. There was a petition circulating around ornithol conferences last year to get them declassified as seabirds and reclassified as terrestrial birds. One conference I was at, one ornithol suggested they be renamed Dirty Birds, someone else Dump Pigeons. It was hilarious.”
“No… I didn’t know that.”
“Yeah, it’s a big controversy right now. I’m surprised you’re not up on things like this, coming in to study them and all.”
“I’ve been swamped with other stuff lately. I guess I’ll have to catch up.”
“Well, the Seabirds Student’s Association is hosting a screening and a debate tomorrow. Some hippie made a movie called Dirty Birds about dump seagulls in India. It’s sort of become the objet d’art for the declass-side of the debate. It should be fun. Though I wouldn’t want to be you. It’s pretty lonely on the non-declass side.”
“Wait, what? Dirty Birds?”
“Yeah, you seen it?”
“Um… no… But I’ve heard of it.”
“Well you should come, tomorrow night at seven at the Great Auk Pub.”
Ross took one final drag, flicked ashes behind the radiator next to him, got up, took his things, pushed the smashed printer back into the corner with his foot, and left.