Smoke (2 page)

“Fearless.” The boy shifts in bed, weighs his head down into the pillow.

“That's right.” The doctor drops his shoulders, sees that with no escape the boy has finally opened himself to these words, is hanging on to them—clinging to them as if they are strong ropes that might pull him to safety. He speaks more confidently now. “Wasn't long before the whole country knew them by name and no underworld operation went on without the Purple Gang taking kickbacks. I tell you, they tore through the streets of Detroit like bandits answering to no one. I still remember the first time I saw them in the flesh.” He holds his hands away from the boy's face. “You ever seen a fight?”

The boy tries to shake his head but can't. His green eyes water involuntarily.

“No. Well until you've seen a real fight up close you don't know how much pain a man can really withstand. Now listen 'cause this is something I've never told anyone. It was a Sunday like today. A hot and sticky night at the Motor City gym in an industrial area out on the Lower East Side. The place didn't look like much from the street, just a deserted old building waiting on condemnation. But the second you stepped through that shady entrance, paid the girl with the tight top and red lips for your ticket and walked down the hall into the main room, you were hit with more colour and sound than you'd ever seen or heard before. Picture it: a big rectangular space, an arena is what it was, and around the grey cement walls, close up to the ceiling, flags from all the countries of this world. Stars and Stripes, of course. Any other place you can think of too. And down to the bottom, at eye level, there were hand-printed signs for the fighters when they were training, in case they might want to give up. Quit. ‘Wasted talent is the oldest story in boxing,' said one. ‘Second place is the first loser,' said another.

“The crowd that night was mostly common folks blowing off steam in their workaday clothes, dirty boots, caps on their heads. A few in suits. I don't know where their wives were but something told me the girls they had giggling on their knees were standing in for the evening.” The doctor winks and then, feeling awkward, clears his throat. “There were young fellas too, the Bernstein brothers like I mentioned, and others more your age. I didn't know the place had been bought by the Purple Gang or I wouldn't have been there. Anyway, it smelled of old sweat, cigarettes and wet leather, ladies' perfume and all-beef wieners in mustard. You could hear bottles clinking—soda pop I thought— but when bills were exchanged under the counter I saw that it was something stronger. Could hear different languages too. Let me think now; Ukrainian, Polish, Spanish and Eye-talian.”

“You almost done?”

“Almost. It was mighty warm that evening, and just when I thought things would never get going the lights came on over the ring.” The doctor whistles long and high. “What a beaut. Floor the colour of sky on a clear day, and the ropes on all four sides bright as carnival candy. Each of the four judges was sitting on his side of the ring. The referees were there, in their white shirts and black pants. One of them ducked under the ropes. That's when I saw it: Abe Bernstein walking right up to a judge. I would've known him anywhere with his hollow-eyed mug always splashed across the front page of the papers. Bernstein pulled a thick wad out of his pants, peeled off a few bills and slipped them into the judge's shirt pocket. He leaned over and whispered something.”

“That hurts.”

“Hurts?” Doc John ignores his own trembling hand, the boy's burns being so raw. He raises his voice. “Julian Fingers Fontana versus Ruthless Eddie, now
that
hurt. But the fight never happened, see. The next thing I knew the announcer called both boxers and their coaches into the ring. There was a heated discussion, which I couldn't hear, and someone pointed to front row centre, behind the trophy table. There sat the rest of the Purple Gang, Raymond naked-chested and wearing boxer's shorts and boots, Izzy wrapping Ray's wrists and Joe passing him gloves. My heart somersaulted, I tell you. I sank down in my seat. Ruthless Eddie didn't look ruthless any more and Fingers Fontana couldn't stand still. I swear, if it'd been me I don't know what I would've done. Fight a Purple? There was no way to win.”

The boy fights the urge to yawn. He is unspeakably tired.

“Fingers Fontana and Ruthless Eddie had trained all year, were ready with their best techniques. Neither wanted to take a dive. Imagine fighting when you know there's no chance of it coming out fair. Imagine having no choice. Well Raymond stepped into the ring and the other Purples consulted each other. Joe approached and pointed at Fingers who turned whiter than a bedsheet. Fingers' coach nodded like a marionette, shoved a mouthguard into the fighter's mouth and pushed him forward. Ruthless Eddie was whisked out of the ring, more than a little relieved I suppose. When the second bell sounded Raymond beat it into the ring and Fingers was up against the ropes, in his own corner, faster than you could say Boo! Ray pounded on him like a hailstorm, like he was beating on some double-crossing thief. Upper cut, another upper cut, left hook, then right. Fingers had his gloves up in front of his face, couldn't manage to fight his way out. Didn't want to try. Finally there was an opening and instinct must've kicked in 'cause he jabbed Raymond in the forehead, snapped his neck right back. Fingers slipped out of the corner and went after the gang boss hard, like a hound smelling weakness, but Raymond hadn't taken as much punishment so he recovered fast and waled Fingers square in the nose. It broke on impact and bright red blood spurted all over his face and ran down his chest. Fingers grunted like an animal in a pen, charged at Raymond, forgetting who he was fighting I guess, and waled him in that spot under his rib cage. Right here.” The doctor points sharply to his own torso and the boy opens his eyes as widely as he can manage. “This area can send a big lug of a man crashing to his knees in seconds.”

“That what happened?”

“Yeah. Raymond dropped like he was praying for forgiveness and pretty soon the ref was calling six … seven … eight seconds on him. He staggered back up and the room went woolly. Half the place was cheering for Fingers and the other half was booing him. Folks didn't know how to react. Some beat it out of there. I froze when I saw the rest of the Purple Gang sit back in their chairs and open their jackets to let us have a good look at their hardware. Izzy crossed his legs, I remember that. He crossed them leisurely and lit a cigar. The ref went through the motions of collecting the judges' results, reading them and holding the fighters' arms over their heads by the wrists. He made the announcement, kind of singing it the way they do. ‘And the winner is … Frrrrom the red corner, Raaaaaaymond Bernstein!' Well, you can guess what happened next. Fingers shoved the ref, and his coach jumped into the ring to hold him back. All three remaining Purples hopped the ropes and stood behind Raymond. Other folks were standing on their chairs, shouting obscenities at the judges. And what did the Bernstein brothers do? They straightened their jackets and adjusted their ties. Abe pulled out a sparkling .38 Special and pointed it at Fingers. He twisted the barrel in the air, like he was taking aim, and just as Fingers squeezed his eyes shut and sucked in what he thought was his last breath, Abe pulled the trigger. It fell on an empty chamber and when Fingers opened his eyes Abe and the whole Purple Gang roared. The worst part was seeing Fingers' face cave in. Before he'd been filled with heavy wet sand and now he was a dry, hollow man. He didn't care any more what happened to him; that was plain. The sight of him empty like that has stayed with me all this time.”

“Not fair.”

“No.” Doc John sets his brush in the basin of tepid water. “Not much in this life is.” He pats his hands dry on the front of his white coat, looks up to meet the boy's eyes. “But I suppose you already know that by now.” He turns towards the basin to carry it out into the hall and the boy reaches for his arm, holds him by the wrist.

“Did they kill him?”

“Fingers Fontana? No. Not that night.”

The boy releases his grip, closes his eyes and drifts off with thoughts of the Purple Gang. When he wakes hours later, in the black of night, he listens for the old man's voice but finds that it isn't there. Only the story remains.

PRIME, TIE AND CURE

Despite the sweltering heat of September 1958, in homes and stores and church basements on the sandy soil, the village of Smoke is looking forward to its hundred and fiftieth birthday. The big parade, the bake sale, the dance in the town hall are one year away although Hazel Johnson has marked the celebration on her calendar and volunteered to organize the new flag selection committee. Alice Gray, the doctor's wife, is eager to prepare her Sunday schoolers for a rendition of “God Save the Queen” full of such patriotism—such spirit—that her United Empire Loyalist ancestors won't help but shiver in their graves. And everyone assumes, despite recent family tragedy, that Tom McFiddie, wealthiest grower in the region and president of the Tobacco Growers Association, will be the one to lead the parade up Main Street.

On Main Street, meat is bought at Williams' butcher, hair cut at one of three barbers and the bakery visited daily by most wives. Deposits and withdrawals are made at the Bank of Commerce across the street from the hardware store. There are churches of course. The United, a yellow brick structure, built over a century past, sits gleaming on top of Palmer's Hill. The large copper bell rings daily, reminding even the most reluctant churchgoers of the value of toil and labour for the soul. An Anglican stone building snuggles into the side of the white pine woods on the east end and a red brick Baptist church stands directly across the road. Catholics travel a few miles south to LaSalette to worship. Most speak about the importance of decorum, modesty and good citizenship all in one breath, but
genuine
faith exists only for those who, like Doc John, understand that a lie is sometimes the best way to preserve the truth.

In the early-morning hours an enchanting fog rises and settles over the river that trickles more than pours, joining countryside to village, over frog ponds, the mill, the abandoned cannery and the Old Coal Road. Some say the place got its name because of that fog, others say it's because the secret of transforming the landscape from one of the poorest in the country to one of the richest is hidden here. People in Smoke have primed and tied tobacco for decades, cured it in kilns and then stripped it, burning the mouldy and bruised leaves out behind their barns. The fumes off a rotting heap are not something soon forgotten and they blow clear across southwestern Ontario.

On each tobacco farm there is one bunkhouse with a cot and hydro for the curer—a southerner who migrates north after the Carolina and Virginia harvests. He is hired for the season and paid by the kiln. French-Canadian boys come from Northern Ontario and Quebec, having heard that they too can make their fortunes if they get themselves hired on as primers for the short, intense season. While waiting to be placed for work, they sleep in a section of a barn or near the Tillsonburg unemployment office. Local teenagers socialize under the streetlight at Main and Dover in the early evening or smoke cigarettes at the foot of the cenotaph inside the park. Most attend church functions, as this is where social life is at a high. The rest of the time they work in the fields for long hours or behind serving counters at the greengrocer's or the dry goods store, all the while
tap tap tapping
their feet to Buddy Holly and Elvis Presley and quietly, religiously, yearning for a life less predictable.

Tom McFiddie's property boasts one hundred acres, thirty-five of them tobacco, and a large brick house. The kitchen often smells of rice pudding, which his wife, Isabel, makes from one of Mary Walpole's
London Free Press
recipes. His farm, over the years, has employed more workers than any other industry in the region. Tom knew tobacco was for him the first time he heard tell of it growing on Smoke soil, for growing tobacco is a gambler's trade, as sure as betting on the races. He enjoys this. He gambles on the weather, he gambles on market demand, he gambles on producing a good enough quality of leaf to bring sufficient money at auction. Every day on the farm is a gamble and if there's no hail, no frost and nobody passing out or quitting, then he can rightfully feel that he's done his job well and that this ravishing hell has been run as smoothly as it can be run.