Death Of A Policeman

 

On December 14, 1974, two Moncton police officers, Constables Michael O’Leary and Corporal Aurèle Bourgeois were shot to death and buried in shallow graves outside of Moncton. They had been searching for the kidnappers of a 14-year-old boy. The effect of their deaths on the families and co-workers was immediate and has lasted for generations. This historical fiction piece attempts to follow the life of one of those persons. Names and other information have been changed to protect identities.

Introduction

The rhythmic hissing of the ventilator is strangely calming to the woman holding vigil at his bedside. Last week, a nervous young doctor told her that her husband had “multiple cancers” discovered on the CT scan. Like an electrical grid map after a lightning strike, her mind shut down, unable to assimilate the information. Reg responded with determination and desperation that he would “beat this thing.” Now, as he lay in a coma, she struggled in an eddy of emotions, trying to connect the pieces of their life.

Reg Storey was born in southern New Brunswick. His community offered little employment to a high school dropout. While still young, he travelled to the old-growth forest of British Columbia, where he worked sixteen-hour days. He cut an imposing figure and never shied away from a co-worker foolish enough to challenge him to a scuffle. Returning to New Brunswick, his reputation as a tough but fair man followed. He was hired and trained by the local police force. After completing the program, on a fine summer evening, he met Rita Arsenault at a local dance. Reg was not a subtle man. He spied the pretty young woman as he entered the hall. Abandoning his police buddies and fortified with a few drinks, he walked over to introduce himself. Rita, who had just moved to the city from her home in Nova Scotia, found the man

 

charming in a rough sort of way. She made room for him among her friends, and the two fell into a conversation like old companions. He stopped in to visit many times after that. Three months later, they sat quietly in the corner of a local café while the snow fell heavily outside.

He couldn’t find a place to rest his big, brawny hands, so he impulsively kept pushing back his thick brown hair. Finally, he got the nerve up to ask young Rita if she would marry him. Without hesitation, she answered yes. Her mother was not thrilled when she was given the news. She liked the polite young man well enough, however, being a policeman didn’t pay very well, and at the same time, the city was dangerous.

But the young couple were determined to be together, and she relented. After a short engagement, they were married. They settled into their new life with the optimism reserved for the young. A year later, their first child, Sonya, was born.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 CHAPTER ONE

Thursday, December 12, 1974. Mike O’Leary’s patrol car blocked the entrance to the police station with the hood raised. It was 8:10 p.m. He and his partner, Aurèle Bourgeois, were trying to jump-start the vehicle. Their shift was supposed to start ten minutes ago. Aurèle sat in the car reviewing the day shift report. The two men shared a friendship built on a bond of trust, not unusual with police officers. A radio call can mean split-second decisions resulting in injury or death. Aurèle turned over the ignition while Mike jump-started the solenoid. He came around the front of the car laughing. Aurèle grinned, knowing something was up with his partner.

“Hey, I know that’s a good trick, bud, but I didn’t think it would make you laugh,” said Aurèle.

“In 19 days, this lad is going to be a corporal! Sarge told me I passed the exam.” Mike’s face beamed.

“Wow, that’s great news. You worked hard for it, Mike, congrats.” Aurèle jumped from the car and hugged his partner.

“I won’t be driving old clunkers like this one. And in 19 days, Angie and I move into that house we have been looking at. We are in for some good luck; I can feel it. Let’s get this rust bucket on the road. We will be off for a week after this shift. Time to get ready for the best Christmas!” Aurèle swung the car smoothly onto Main Street, humming his favourite Christmas carol.

“Why was the second shift kept on?” Aurèle wondered aloud.

“Yea, I don’t know, but after the Sergeant was talking to me, he and the Chief went into a huddle like something had them spooked,” responded Mike as much to himself as to his partner.

 

 

“I don’t remember seeing the Chief in the briefing room, after 6:00 p.m. since the Bank of Montreal robbery last year.”

Their conversation was cut short by an all-points bulletin. “All units be on the lookout for a 1968 to 1970 two-door Cadillac car with a light-beige body and a dark top, New Brunswick plate number Alpha, November, Whiskey, 315—possible Code 11. Use extreme caution. Subjects are armed. Stand by for further bulletins.” The two men looked at each other with concern.

“Well, bud, there goes hope for a quiet shift,” commented Aurèle as he stared into the dark December night.

*

The morning of December 13 was cold, and dampness had settled into the small apartment. Rita had been up during the night with their infant daughter, who was running a fever and had a worrisome cough. Rita glanced at the kitchen clock, 7:00 a.m. Reg was late getting off the night shift.

She had heard a lot of sirens the previous night, they’re probably raiding some bootleggers, she thought absently. A few minutes later, a car door closing announced Reg’s arrival. The pent-up stress in her shoulders began to melt. She put the kettle on the stove and set out his treat of molasses cookies and King Cole tea, his usual after shifts. Last night, Rita placed the matching teacups, saucers, and sugar bowl on the table. It was part of a six-piece setting her parents had given them as a wedding gift.

Before setting out the tea, Rita listened for the thud of Reg taking off his boots in the hallway closet. But instead, she heard his heavy steps as he hurried to the bathroom. She cocked her head to one side, listening as the tightness returned in her shoulders. Being the wife of a policeman was a challenging transition for Rita. The midnight shifts were the worst. There were few distractions, and Sonya usually slept. The silence was broken occasionally by sirens. Even worst still was when a shooting or big event caused the police scanner to buzz with activity, like last night. Reg didn’t want her to buy it, but it was her way of being close to him.

When he came into the kitchen, his face was ashen. He dropped heavily onto his chair, rubbing his face as if to erase a difficult event. "What’s goin’ on Reg?” Rita asked as she poured the tea. “You look as though you’ve seen a ghost.”

“I hope to Christ I haven’t.” he responded as he picked up his cup with a shaky hand. “It’s bad, Rita, as bad as it gets. A couple of low-life punks kidnapped the son of Abe Luckovich, the restaurant owner. Mike and Aurèle Bourgeois were out looking, but now nobody knows where they are." Mike and his wife Angie were part of a circle of friends made up mostly of policemen and spouses. Mike and Reg had worked together when Reg first joined the Force. The four men were well respected among the front-line crew and management.

“It’s a full call out. Lads from another shift are backing up the call sheet. They couldn’t reach Mike and Aurèle on the radio. When a crew member went to their last known location, the car was empty, and nobody was around. We think the dirtbags got them.” Standing with the teapot, Rita suddenly felt weak as she tried to take in what was happening.

Willing herself not to fall, she slumped into the nearest chair and looked across to her husband, his face contorted in anxiety. She sensed their quiet, predictable life was tumbling out of control and they were powerless to stop it.

She reached for Reg’s hand. The speed which he pulled back caught Rita off guard, leaving her momentarily confused and lost. “I’m okay; you don’t need to worry about me,” Reg said with determination, as much to himself as to his wife. “When we catch those sleazy bastards, we’ll string them up by their balls,” he said, gulping his cup of tea and putting his service cap and equipment back on. “The Chief says we need everybody on this one. Will you and the baby be okay, eh? I will call you later.” He picked up a package of Mackintosh cream toffee. Rita made sure one was always on the hall table. It was his stress reliever since he stopped smoking. The start of the police car’s heavy engine was followed by a trail of headlights that swept the wall. He was gone.

Rita turned on the radio to drown the silence and the worried voices in her head. At times like these, she felt adrift, alone. It was increasingly this way when something threatened their routine. It seemed Reg was trying to shelter her from its effects; instead, it left her feeling shut out, unable to be a full partner in her husband’s life. The shrill, metallic sound of the telephone pulled her from the dark void into which she was falling.

“Hi, Rita, it’s Angie.” Rita’s throat contracted, and she again felt light-headed. She struggled to find her voice. The result was a hoarse whisper.

“Hi Angie, how are you holding up?” she asked.

“I’m not doing well,” was the response. “The telephone’s been ringing steadily, and other wives are calling. I know most of them mean well, but Jesus, Rita, I don’t want to be talkin’ with a bunch of nosey crepe hangers.” Angie was from Newfoundland. She and Rita shared the same offbeat view of people and events. They bonded the first time they met.

“The Chief and his ass lickin’ lap dog Sergeant Fitzpatrick were here snooping around. Gawd, I can’t stand either of them. The Chief is sayin’ all that syrupy stuff about Mike. Last week, he was ready to can him when Mike spoke up about cops beating up the bums on St. George Street for no reason. And that Fitzpatrick pullin’ out the plastic evidence bag, lookin’ for the bathroom. Does he think I don’t know he was going to get hair samples from Mike’s hairbrush in case they find him dead?” There was a pause that seemed like an eternity. As much as she wanted to, Rita didn’t try to fill it. “He’s not dead, is he Rita?” Angie’s pleading voice was a whisper now. As her friend’s voice trailed off, Rita found the strength in her own. Over the years, this interdependence defined the two friends.

“Angie, you and I have been through a lot with our husbands. We know they are good men and good cops. We have to trust that Mike knows how to take care of himself and Aurèle is the same way. They are out there doing their job. When Sonya wakes and has breakfast, we will come over. You can try and beat me in a game of forty-fives. And I’ll be watching you, don’t cheat!”

Angie responded, her voice firming up. “Girl, you got to learn to play by Newfie rules. I can teach you,” she replied, cheered.

“We will be over in about an hour.”

Rita hung up the receiver with dread hanging over her, but it was outweighed by her determination to stick by her friend. When she went in to check on Sonya, the baby stood up in her crib, smiling. A hand on her forehead confirmed the fever had broken in the night. A wave of relief washed over the young mother as she gathered the baby in her arms. The joy was tempered with concern as she recalled the anxiety Angie was experiencing.

As she changed and bathed Sonya, her thoughts turned to Reg; where was he now? He would be obsessive in searching for his friend. She hoped he would not compromise his own safety in the hunt. What must he be feeling? The look on his face earlier had frightened her. A combination of resolve and fear she had not seen in him before. Why would he not talk about how he was feeling? When they were young, she found the tough, unwavering facade an attractive quality. But now they were married with a child. Their small apartment was cramped, and their limited budget was always stretched. These were thoughts and concerns they should be sharing, but from other situations, she had learned of Reg’s belief in the division of labour. His was his paid work. Hers was to keep house. The two worlds were not to mix. After breakfast, she bundled up Sonya securely, and they headed down the street to hold vigil with her friend.

 CHAPTER TWO

Radio silence had been ordered since the abandoned police car and Mike’s portable radio were found a mile north of the city. The fear was that the kidnappers had Bourgeois’ portable and could hear where the units were being directed.

Despite the ban, the radio chatter continued as officers followed up on dozens of public reports. Reg snatched the mic from its holder. “Jesus Christ, boys, stay off the radio. Those bastards are listening. Call if you have something; otherwise, contact Sarge on a landline.” The radio went silent. Reg was a young officer but respected and, in some cases, feared by all ranks. He and Morel had covered over two hundred miles since starting the double shift at eight that morning. He glanced at the dim numbers on the car clock to see it was nearly 1:00 a.m. December 15. He hadn’t slept for almost twenty hours, aside from the fitful naps he got in the break rooms. The adrenaline coursing through his veins would prevent more until they found Mike.

They used Morel’s car to avoid unnecessary attention. They had a portable radio and a cherry light in case they had to move fast. The rain and snow mix stopped; now a cold front had moved in, making driving treacherous. They pulled over to look at a city map. The cords on Reg’s neck felt like live wires as he chewed furiously on the toffee bar.

“You and Mike were good friends, eh Reg?” Morel attempted to ease the tension.

“What the fuck do you mean by saying, were?” Even in the muted light, Morel could see the lividity in his partner’s face. He considered getting out.

“I’m sorry, Reg. I wasn’t thinking straight.” A heavy silence crept between the two men. Several tense minutes slipped by in silence.

“Yea, Mike and I were wet behind the ears, rookies. We were sworn in the same day and were partners for a while. Man, that guy’s instincts were keen. He used his head where I, maybe, used my hands too much. Fuck, I did the same as you, talking like he is dead. He isn’t, he can’t be.”

Reg’s voice was lost in a hoarse whisper. He struggled to get out of the car, feeling it was crumbling around him. Try as he might, but he could not breathe. A sudden and violent weight was crushing his chest. Sweat seeped from every pore in his body. 

*

Rita and Sonya walked alone on the street, usually buzzing with morning traffic. Joyful Christmas music played from a small grocery store as they passed. Pretty lighted ornaments dazzled Sonya, who was snuggled warmly in her stroller.

She carried on a lively conversation with herself as they came up to Angie’s house. It was a modest two-story building in a quiet part of the city. Mike had worked hard to landscape the yard, and even in December, it stood out among others. Angie was a creative seamstress. Her handiwork was evident in the intricately designed curtains seen through the windows.

Angie opened the front door as Rita approached. “Hi! I was watching for you two,” she said excitedly. She scooped up Sonya, much to the delight of the baby, who was obviously comfortable with the routine. “How’s my little princess?” she asked as she rubbed her nose on her belly. This brought squeals of delight from Sonya. Angie and Mike were not able to have their own children and were awaiting word on an adoption application. She had raised several of her siblings after their mother died from cancer when Angie was fifteen. It was obvious to Rita, watching her dote on Sonya that she would be a wonderful mother.

“The fever broke overnight,” offered Rita. “The mustard plaster you made is a miracle cure. She stopped coughing an hour after you left.”

“Yea, I swear by it. Mom used it on all of us, even when we got older. Jesus, the smell!” They both laughed freely for a moment. “I put the tea on and have some of those molasses cookies you and Reg like.” Angie said as she placed Sonya on a thick blanket with toys she had bought. “And I took the phone off the hook. Sergeant Snaggle Puss said he would send a car over if anything happens.” Rita smothered a chuckle at the reference to Sergeant Fitzpatrick as she joined her friend on the couch.

“It looks like you’ve been cleaning," said Rita, pointing to the mop and pail in the corner with several rags.

“I went through the house twice, even the windows. Next thing, I probably will start scrubbing the sidewalk.” Angie replied as she filled their cups with hot King Cole tea.

“That’s better than watching the TV,” answered Rita. “They are really working hard. Reg came home for a few minutes and is staying on till they find him. I know Mike would be doing the same if it were him who was missing. They are two peas in a pod for sure.”

“Yes, they are. Remember that time they did over the upstairs bathroom? The cursing and swearing, mostly Reg of course.” The two women laughed fondly at the memory.

Angie’s face darkened. “I know he may be dead. We talked about the possibility. He took out a big insurance policy, so with the police pension, if he is gone, I will be okay. And you know Mike and his ‘prepare for anything’ motto? He planned and paid for his funeral. He asked Reg to do the eulogy. We were laughing, Father Dolan would have to warn Reg, no cursing.” Angie’s voice fell away as she gazed at Sonya, asleep with a stuffed toy.

“God, please don’t take him. I miss him so terribly. What would I have to live for?” Tears streamed freely from her dark eyes. Rita said nothing. But she held her friend firmly and quietly.

*

Reg sat on the frozen ground beside the car, struggling to breathe against the weight on his chest. His uniform was soaked with sweat. Morel crouched attentively beside him. “Here Reg, take deep breaths into this bag, slow deep breaths. Pretend you don’t smell the bologna sandwich my wife packed in my lunch. That’s it, slow and steady wins the race, deep breath in, hold, deep breath out.” Reg’s breathing slowed and became more regular.

“I don’t know what the hell came over me. Maybe it’s a heart attack. Christ, this can’t be happening now when Mike needs me.”

“I’m no doctor for sure, but I think you may be having a panic attack,” said Morel as he leaned heavily against the car door. “The first one I had; I was five years on the Force. A neighbourhood kid got run over by a drunk. Two months after, I was a mess with flashbacks, panic attacks, the works. Francine, my wife saw it all. When I came off shift one day, she and this nerdy guy were in our kitchen. He is a psychiatrist and they work together in the psych unit. I was super pissed with her. She told me how my crazy behaviour was freaking her out and scaring our baby girl. I think I bawled more that night than I did all my life. Anyways I agreed to talk with Ken. Reg, no shit, I don’t think I would have made it without that guy’s help. Francine, she stuck by me. It must have been so hard for her. I thought that I had to handle everything and show no emotion. That bullshit we men are told has messed up too many good guys.”

Reg’s breathing was more regular now, and he felt a chill creeping up his back from the frozen ground. He got up slowly. Morel reached down to help his partner up. Reg recoiled, pushing the arm away. “I’m okay, I don’t need help.” He leaned heavily on the car to steady himself. “Let’s run up to where this road meets the Old Line,” he said brusquely as he wiped the mud off his uniform. He walked quickly to the driver’s side and was already on the radio. Morel picked Reg’s cap off the ground, shaking his head; his partner had heard nothing of what he offered.

*

Sonya was awake, gazing at her mother and Angie with that cherub look reserved for infants. Rita lifted her child from the blanket and placed her gently in her friend’s arms. The transformation in Angie’s face was immediate and complete. Sonya raised her chubby arms in delight as her tiny fingers discovered Angie’s face.

“Angie, I know you are in a terrible place. I would do anything to push away the darkness if I could. This will sound crazy, but I wish Reg and I had the love you two have. You have stared the possibility of Mike’s death in the face together and he had the courage to plan for it.

I do love Reg, but we don’t have what you do. He shuts me out anytime crap is coming down the pipe. He thinks he has to protect me as if I am weaker than him because I am a woman. His dad was the same. I imagine it goes back generations. Angie, that’s not love, that’s wanting to control, and it’s eating us up. Jesus, what am I doing babbling on when I came here for you?” Rita looked over at Sonya and Angie, who always had that gift of bringing joy to the little girl. Angie smiled as though recalling a happier time.

“Mike’s dad was a kind and gentle man. He and Mike are the same. They listen more than talk. I do enough talkin’ for both of us.” She laughed, then turned away.

Angie shifted her weight on the couch and stared listlessly out the window. A figure appearing on the walkway shook her out of her stupor. She bolted for the door and tore it open. The man holding his plumbing tools took a step back in surprise.

“I got the part for the washer Mrs. O’Leary. Sorry I should have called ahead. I can come back when it’s more convenient.”

“Yes, that would work better. We will call you, thanks.” said Rita, who had slid between Angie and the door. The serviceman nodded and was gone.

Angie slipped back to her seat. “Thanks, Rita. That guy musta’ got a scare from my crazy lady look. Man, I am so wound up.”

“That’s nothing,” said Rita. “The same guy came to our place to unplug the toilet, last month. I was up half the night trying to open it, and Sonya was bawling like a cow left in the back field. I opened the door with a plunger in my hand. Never saw a man so afraid of a woman!” They broke into spontaneous belly laughs. Sonya, watching from her place, joined in with plenty of giggles. “Okay,” announced Rita; “Miss Sonya and I are parking our asses here for the night!” she paused, looking over at her friend. Angie’s response was to return her friend’s earlier deep hug. Nothing more was needed.

*

Reg was behind the wheel of Vince Morel’s car as it crept along the streets, now slick with ice. The wipers fought uselessly against the constant freezing rain. “There are too many things wrong here. It isn’t adding up. The Luckovich kid was kidnapped around 11p.m. Thursday. The family made the money drop at 3:45 a.m. Friday near the Riverview mall.

Our guys didn’t tap the line the kidnappers used to talk with Sarge and the Chief, so we had no units who could have picked them up. On top of that, nobody thought to tell the Mounties. They could have set up roadblocks going into Salisbury a few miles away. At least the kidnappers released the child, and we know he is safe, but nobody has a clue where the kidnappers disappeared to. I’m not liking this at all Vince. Now we hear two of our guys were wasting time tailing the Chief’s own car when they should have been looking for the kidnappers. Why was he out there and why did he not let anybody know? Was he trying to set this up so it would be his show? It’s a Keystone Cops episode and nobody is laughing.”

Morel, who had been silent after his partner’s collapse, now came to life. “Reg, what we know is Mike and Aurèle were tailing the kidnapper’s car after they dropped off the kid and picked up the ransom money. They called in. That was about 4:00 a.m. Friday. There has been no communication since then. With the kidnappers and our two guys missing, we can assume the two parties met. And we also have to assume that since Mike and Aurèle have not called back, they are still with the kidnappers. We don’t know what happened. Where would they have taken our lads with the ransom money? It can’t be far but Mike and Aurèle are extra baggage for them. I’m thinking it has to be in an area off a side road within a five-mile radius of where we are.” Morel turned the car on to Coverdale Road. He squinted to read the car’s clock. It read 5:45 a.m. Saturday. “We are going to search every side road and driveway through to Salisbury. I was raised not far from here and I know this area like the back of my hand. We won’t quit Reg, we can’t!” Reg began to look at his partner in a different light. The private battle he was fighting had an ally he could trust.

Al and Me

 Al and I met when I was 43. He was 38; I think. Truth in gay men online encounters is subjective. That’s where the story begins.

My life at forty - three was hanging in a balance, a single misstep threatening a plunge into the unknown. I was married with a wife and child, living in a conservative rural community. He lived an urban life, with his wife and daughter. We rarely touched on this part of our lives. Our chat room aliases ignored inconvenient tags like, MGM (married gay male), GMK (Gay Married with Kids). We disguised ourselves among the hidden. It was a schizophrenic existence. Our alternate selves never left our sides, providing ample room for guilt and self-doubt.

Early on, I could tell that Al was a doting father to Marion, a high school senior. They would walk their dog around their neighbourhood, and she would chat about her life. Marion was bright and often challenged his conservative middle-class views on current events. He was proud of her independent nature. In some ways, I envied their relationship. My son Sheldon was about eight years old. He was already showing aspects of what would become his defiant and challenging personality.  

Al’s wife, Darlene, was a senior administrator in the private sector. Their relationship and mine was nearly casual. I think it was the path of least resistance for all concerned. But it doesn’t adequately consider our children’s best interests. As a result, we were left with half-lived lives.

My job required travel outside the province. Following a month of online conversations, we met. A port city always attracted me. It was at what had become my favourite watering hole over the years, a rowdy downtown Irish bar called The Split Crow. I was into my second beer when he came through the door. Using pictures we shared (all G rated), he was recognizable at about five feet ten inches tall, and his light brown hair was greying at the temples. Moving from the bright summer afternoon sun into the cool dark interior of the bar caused him to walk cautiously. We exchanged greetings, friends. He wiped the sweat from his brow, clearly yearning for a more tranquil setting. After a couple of drinks, he relaxed a bit. We talked about the city and its historic harbour. His knowledge of the local area and its significance was impressive.

We talked about our jobs. He was desperately unhappy with his work in a massive government bureaucracy. His work had long since extinguished his initial intellectual curiosity. I watched as he scanned the room with a mixture of curiosity and unease.

A popular local band wound up the crowd for the evening performance. Groups of young men enjoyed a midsummer outing. We surveyed them with a practiced gay man’s eye and jokingly shared a few lurid comments. Had I been solo, I would have chatted up someone who caught my eye and returned the look. I had discovered an aspect of my gay character I was unaware of. I was a bit of a lone wolf, not interested in banter. Seeing an attractive man, I observed his group comfort level. In my insecurity, I limited myself to masculine-looking and acting men. I’d approach intriguing individuals, start a conversation, and gauge their reaction.

Al’s strategy tended toward passive, preferring observation over approach. At the end of the evening, however, we both agreed, at our age, we were late to the party and not too skilled in modern dalliances.

That warm summer night came to define our activities during my visits, peppered with occasional sojourns to the local gay bars. We interspersed these jaunts with walking tours of the city and many enjoyable restaurant meals I wouldn’t ordinarily visit. This was Al’s world, and he was gracious in sharing it. 

We continued with our regular emails and occasional phone chats, updating each other about ongoing life events. Encounters between men who are gay often lead to sexual events. Ours would not go in that direction. We found ourselves in a unique state of finding a trusted friend. When Gary, my future husband, entered my life a few years later, it felt like Al had made space for him. He tried to introduce Gary to new culinary experiences with little success. Undeterred, Al made extra efforts to befriend my young partner, and we three enjoyed lots of laughs and conversations. 

In 2004, Al was granted extended sick leave because of his growing depression. It was a tremendous relief. He talked about the places he and Darlene would visit when Marion went to university the following year. It was the most outwardly happy I had ever seen him. I still have a picture of Al shovelling his driveway after that year’s massive blizzard. He has this crazy grin and a mound of snow twice his height behind him. He told me it took three days to clear the snow as he met neighbours he had never spoken to before. It was a snowy block party. 

About a month later, Al complained about being tired and unable to catch his breath. After a visit with his doctor, he called me to at my. He was whispering. I assumed he didn’t want Darlene to hear. He had tested positive for HIV. He spoke in a cracked and weak voice. Al’s doctor was optimistic about controlling his condition, but Al hadn’t told Darlene. We talked about how she might handle the news, and he agreed it was best to share the news with her. The following week, he called, sounding more optimistic. His treatment had started and the early blood results were promising. But weakness consumed him, sapping his strength. They agreed not to tell Marion, as it would distract her from focusing on end-of-year exams and university applications.

I visited Al in the early spring of 2005. A small restaurant, our regular spot, became the setting for our talks and watching others. My first view of him was shocking. My friend had aged thirty years. His once youthful face was gaunt; his skin, wizened. He wore a winter parka despite the warm day and shuffled with the gait of a man twice his age. He threw himself onto the chair, exhausted. A wide grin spread across his face at my arrival. If he had seen my shocked look, he didn’t show the isolation he must have felt.

He asked about Gary and how our relationship was developing. Al being Al, he couldn’t avoid requesting any salacious details I could offer. Satisfied that we were doing well, he leaned in to share his own news. He had full-blown AIDS. Two days before, a scan had shown lesions on his liver. He reached over and placed his hands over mine. I shivered, unsure if it was because of his chilled skin or the sudden reality that my friend and I were about to embark on a dark path.

I let him take the lead in conversation. He talked about Marion; she had completed her exams and would graduate with honours. His face lit up when he reported her acceptance into the prestigious university’s science program. She hoped to go into medicine. His unabashed pride as a father was palpable. He had shared the news of his sickness and prognosis with her. Since his initial diagnosis, he dreaded the moment, anticipating she would respond with vitriol and bitterness. Instead, she gathered him in her arms and held him, saying nothing. Life offered him unprecedented solace. We talked a bit more, but it was apparent he was tiring. He promised to be up for a more extended conversation during my next visit.

As I walked back to my hotel, I considered Al richly blessed amongst those who suffered. He had a wife and daughter whose love was steadfast and a person who he could call his friend.

My last visit with Al was in the late summer. Reviewing work emails, I noticed an unfamiliar address. It was Al’s wife, Darlene. She got my email address from him. I had not met her, preferring to avoid any uncomfortable moments with the wife of a gay friend. Her message was direct but sincere. Al’s condition had deteriorated over the past week. Her silence notwithstanding, his physician delivered grim news: his life was over. Then the most extraordinary thing happened: she asked if I would visit him. Al had told her about our friendship, and she felt it was important that I say goodbye. Gary would also be welcome. I was astonished.

Two days later, we pulled up in Al’s driveway. Without the circumstances, the event would have felt unreal. Here I was with my partner half my age, visiting a man I had befriended in a gay chat room. Darlene welcomed us. She directed us to the sunroom, where Al sat snoozing.

She said he was excited about our visit and had insisted on shaving that morning, but even that was too much and he had fallen asleep afterward. He didn’t wake up as we came around to take our seats opposite him. His breath was barely audible and came sporadically. Jaundice had discolored his once-tanned skin.

Gary and I whispered so as not to startle him, but Al slowly opened his eyes and smiled his welcoming smile. We began with our usual banter, which dissipated as the moment weighed on all of us. Then, I did something that still surprises me today. I reached over, took my friend’s hands, and held them in my own. The warmth seemed to bring Al comfort as a few errant tears slid down his cheeks.

I smoothed them away, realizing how incredibly deep and blue his eyes were. We said nothing for a few moments. Words were superfluous. He thanked us for the visit and wondered what brought us down his way. I invented a nearby meeting, yet I believe he detected my falsehood.

We talked about how we met and embarrassed Gary by describing some late nights at the gay club. The visit was, by necessity, brief. Following Darlene’s signal, we left for supper. He apologized for missing out but promised to join next time. We would all go to a fancy restaurant where Gary could not find hamburgers or fries. I embraced him, knowing it would be our last. When we reached the front door with Darlene, we heard the soft sound of Al snoring in the warmth of the sun-filled room.

Gary came to the funeral with me. It was an early October day, sunny and mild. This marked Gary’s first close friend’s funeral; I worried about his response. Throughout my time as an altar boy, I learned to steady my emotions during these events. We took seats near the back of the church. A few moments later, the minister began his walk from the altar to greet the family.

Sometimes, despite our best intentions, life throws us off balance. The choir’s hymn marked that moment for me. A tidal bore came rushing against the wall I had built to protect myself from feeling my emotions. The wall disintegrated. The overwhelming emotion left me gasping for air. I struggled against drowning in grief. It was the loss of my friend, combined with the reality I could not hide how I was feeling. I felt exposed and alone. Gary’s hand on mine was like a hot knife. I recoiled, leaving him startled. The emotional cascade slowed as the choir took their seats. I heaved myself into the pew, spent. While the minister continued the service, I tried to shore up my defences against another emotional tsunami. But as the service concluded with a familiar hymn, I was once again caught in roiling emotions. 

I attempted to pay my respects to Darlene, but the result was a jumble of words which did nothing but put her in an awkward position. I left the church as people stared at this person, probably thinking he was one of Al’s sex partners. It was a mixture of sympathy and scorn. The embarrassing event left me struggling to understand what had happened to my defence shield, which had kept me fortified for decades. I don’t think I had the resources to pursue an answer. I was unprepared.

Reflecting upon twenty years of considerable personal development, I recall that day. First, I should shift the focus off me and onto Gary. Picture a young, recently out gay man’s love for a closeted, older married man. You try to find your place in the hall of mirrors built by this older man and then you meet one of his friends, who is also married and dying from AIDS. At his funeral, you see your partner collapse before you. We have remained together and now, as my husband, with quiet determination, he is helping me to replace that emotional facade with self acceptance. There are lots of retreats on the battle field but knowing he is there gives me confidence in finding the real me.

PostScript addition: I add this note to examine Al’s fatal pursuit of another man’s affections and spent the years I spent playing sexual roulette, hiding from myself. How does it happen that I’m the one who got to meet this young man whose love has outlasted my growing-up period?

Compassion characterized Al’s friendship. Maybe he also loved me. Self-absorbed, I disregarded it; return was impossible, undesirable. But he stayed and taught me more than he learned. My aging mind recalls a poem. “The Prayer of an Unknown Soldier” speaks to our feeble attempts to design our own world while ignoring the chances of growing from the negative circumstances that befall us. The poem reflects what Al and Gary have shown me. “I asked for all things so I might enjoy life, I was given life so that I might enjoy all things…I am among all men most richly blessed.” Allan Gray rest in a peaceful graveyard with a granite marker. His wife Darlene’s name is inscribed beside his.

A Question of Faith

       Illustration by Terry Matthews

October 07, 1825 7:30am

The dawn cracked like a scar on the cloudless sky. Dew lay miserly on the few remaining plants. It had been four months since rain had fallen. John Jackson tended to his duties as Sexton of St. Paul's Anglican Church in Bushville. The small but dedicated congregation had erected the building in the Spring and Summer of 1825. It sat prominently on a knoll close to the river. John was honoured when he was asked to oversee its maintenance and operation. He and his wife Ann had lived in the Miramichi Valley for a decade. They had made the dangerous journey from their native Scotland with two sons, William and Charles. The boys,

now fifteen and thirteen, were joined by three brothers and a sister (Margaret). The period leading to and a year after the voyage from Edenborough had been unseasonably cold with constant rain. The crops failed, forcing the Jacksons and thousands of other Europeans to escape famine. A volcanic eruption on Mount Tambora, Indonesia, the previous year had spread a layer of ash across the globe, blocking out the sun for months. The memory of that uncertain period had dissolved with the promise of a brighter future for the young couple and their children.

11:00am

John answered a loud rapping on the vestry door. A terror-stricken resident grabbed John’s coat and pulled him outside, pointing wordlessly to the western horizon. The azure blue sky was erased by a coal black cloud thirty kilometres wide and towering kilometres high. His first thoughts were the safety of Ann and the children. He raced to their home and directed William and Charles to gather the bedding and soak it in the river. He and the boys worked to place the wet materials on the wooden roof. Ann was busy distracting the younger children while leading them to the cellar. He reasoned their stone house would not be a source of ignition. If the fire jumped across the one-quarter-mile river, they would be secure in the earthen crawlway.

2:00 p.m.

Word had come from Nelson that Malcom's Chapel, the Catholic Church, had been destroyed. In a miraculous turn of events, the rest of the community was spared. Several ships loaded with masts bound for England had been caught in a rain of flame and were charred to their water lines. Like most Miramichi residents, John Jackson had no experience with forest infernos. But he had studied the historical documents brought from congregants' homes to make a church library.

One of the papers described previous incidents which occurred in the region. He recalled with fear and some hope one of the characteristics of a big blaze. Crowning is a product of the firestorm. The superheated embers are carried at extended intervals often giving the perception that a structure has combusted spontaneously. Jackson prayed fervently that this phenomenon would spare him and his family. John looked across to Rosebank and Douglastown. He wept as he witnessed a single sheet of flame nearing forty metres in height and kilometres in length bearing down on the area. Across the half-kilometre distance, he heard the shrieks of terror from man and beast as they sought a common refuge in the water.

John began to realize that the Bushville side was not experiencing the worst effects.

His thoughts turned to how he might save his church. He ran the short distance to the church, where earlier he had placed buckets of water around and sheets provided by neighbours. He had placed a ladder high enough to gain access to the peak. Jackson spent the remainder of the night laying the wet materials across the roof. The valiant effort worked, and as the grey smoke filled, dawn broke, he felt a moment of joy and triumph. As the black curtain diminished, John recognized a fellow parishioner half stumbling up the wagon path from the direction of John's home. His clothing was burnt, and his face blackened. His voice was strangled from acrid smoke as he told Jackson the unimaginable news that Ann and three of their beautiful children were dead.

 

October 08, 1825, 8:00am

John Jackson looked over the site of his massive defeat. His lovely Ann and three of their children were gone forever. Trapped in their stone house, they suffocated as the waves of flame stole any oxygen in the area. The remaining children had been taken to a temporary hospital. The sound of the painful screams calling for their mother reverberated in his head. Mercifully, they later died from their injuries.

Conversations with his God, when he pondered risking the safety of his family to save his Church, left him wanting. Jackson died alone six months later in February 1826. Ann and her children are buried in the cemetery of St. Paul's Anglican Church, which stands intact today, a conflicted symbol of religious devotion and the recognition of the price one person had paid for it.

 

 

Conclusion

Statistics help explain the scope of the 1825 Miramichi fire. Sixteen thousand square km (6,000 sq. miles) of forest land was burned in an area extending approximately 150 km (90 miles) northeast of Fredericton. The track of the fire moved to Newcastle, Douglastown, Bartibogue on the west and Nelson, Bushville, Chatham and Napan to the east. One hundred and sixty people died. Nine hundred homes and structures were destroyed.

Over the years, an idealized version of the recovery has become a legend. The Miramichi is portrayed as a Phoenix, rising from the ashes, leading to the re-emergence of a prosperous region. The truth is somewhere in the middle. The town of Newcastle suffered the most deaths and property loss followed closely by the hamlet of Douglastown. The initial fear that 3,000 woodsmen spread throughout the Miramichi Valley had perished was proven unfounded.

 In addition, there was a common belief that the maelstrom had consumed all the lands. That also was overstated. Crowning and spot fires leave sections of the forest untouched. A survey five years after the fire concluded that a large portion of marketable timber remained intact.

These notations do not diminish the courage and determination of the Miramichi people. Many immigrants decided to remain and rebuild their independent communities and eventually their commitment to a united city over a century later. As time went on, the population of the Miramichi Valley did not match the growth of neighbouring counties, but it gradually recovered. The export of solid white pine masts to the British Navy dropped. That was a result of negative press more than a reduction in fibre availability. The vacuum was taken up as Britain expanded its colonial possessions, needing more ships and supplies. And so, the lapse in exports was short-term.

The Miramichi region eventually assumed its place in the province of New Brunswick and the Confederation of Canada. The fire of October 7, 1825, has become a footnote of our history. The strength and determination of the people continue to grow.

 

NOTE: The author gratefully acknowledges Alan MacEachern's "The Miramichi Fire: A History" as a source document.

He Came From Away

 December 1968, I was fifteen years old. It is an age that blends personal doubt with the potential of discovery. The previous year, I tacitly accepted I was gay and began to move parts of me into a dark closet.

I saw life events differently earlier on than many of my peers. I enjoyed reading books beyond my grade level. Where many kids preferred to be in a group, I was comfortable being by myself. The Miramichi River by the family home was my playground.

While I was comfortable with seclusion, an odd thing began happening. I was becoming the reluctant leader of a misfit group I hung with. It may have had something to do with being physically rugged and able to talk my way into and out of situations. (Locals called it “the gift of the gab.”)

On a sunny, cold December day, one of my friends, Michael, came by to announce that a skating party was being held that afternoon at our local outdoor rink. Michael had a serious nerdy look that would become popular in movies featuring the 1960’s. He was a good guy. But he always had a nervous chatter going on. On this day, he was really wound up. 

“It’s going to be a blast. I heard there is supposed to be music. And you know there will be lots of hot girls,” he said. “C’mon, get your skates. I will wait for you.”

Skating was near the top of the many athletic skills I had not mastered. Still, my mother had overheard the conversation and was standing behind and prodding me to go.

“That’s a good idea, Douglas. You need to take a break from reading. Your skates are up in the attic.”

While my older brothers were good skaters, they had not taken the time to pass along the skill. I was okay with that until this moment. Michael persisted, and I knew Mother would not give up, so I reluctantly climbed into the attic for the skates. And, of course, there they were, hung up with the other pairs belonging to my brothers. I looked them over, hoping to find them dull and rusted, but not a chance. They were shiny and sharp. 

I then remembered that Mom told my oldest brother, John, to bring mine with him to be sharpened. I was out of options and cursed as the closing attic door narrowly missed hitting me on the head.

Michael and I walked the short distance to the community rink. He was nattering on like a wind-up toy monkey while I was getting a headache. My final hope was that the school custodian, cranky old Bert, had forgotten to flood the rink the previous night, or maybe a hole had opened up and swallowed the ice!

As we rounded the corner, we met a bee hive of activity with parents dropping off their kids. The rink was packed with skaters, and the music was blaring. 

Michael saw the rest of our oddball gang and walked over to them, immediately chattering about the many “hot babes” on the ice. Michael and the other guys started toward the warming shack, where most people put on their skates.

  I chose a snow bank to avoid attention. I slowly pulled on the skates and began lacing them up.

“You guys go ahead. I will be out in a minute,” I said, trying to sound casual. “My laces are all knotted up.”

I understand the theory of skating is to glide by pushing your right foot out, followed by the left, creating a fluid motion. I was a good student because I could read and understand the theory. It was the same in Boy Scouts. I had many theory badges, but throw me a rope and tell me to tie a sheepshank? I hope somebody’s safety didn’t depend on me. 

On this day, theory and practice met. I stepped onto the ice with a death grip on the rink boards. My friends came from the warming shack, saw me and flew across, stopping and spraying a shower of ice crystals.

I tried to act cool by leaning one arm on the rink boards but realized too late that it threw off my balance. I fell on my butt, landing like a sack of potatoes. A chorus of hoots and laughter greeted this.

“Hey, I slipped. I hurt my foot yesterday!”

The world of teenagers is something like the animal kingdom. The strongest rules the pack until one day, one or more of the followers spot a weakness in him. David, my cousin and confidante, was the first.

“Holy Jeez, you can’t skate, can ya?”

At first, I blustered. “Damn right, I can and beat you any time! I haven’t been out since last winter, just a bit rusty.”

But the others smelled blood. Kevin was beside me and began showing off by skating backward; he was good.

“Skate out to center ice,” he taunted.

I didn’t move; if I tried, I was bound to repeat the first fall. My secret was out.

My friends had not known until now that their leader was a cow on ice.

“Yeah, have your fun. It’s not my fault I got a rotten pair of skates,” I protested angrily.

“Ah, it’s okay,” said David, suppressing a laugh. “We can get a chair and push you around the rink!”

The humiliation was complete as they roared with laughter. After a bit more ribbing, they offered to show me how it was done. Kevin said he would hold me up, but that was too shameful to accept. I went hand in hand along the boards, climbed over to a snowbank and dejectedly took the skates off. 

Afterward, I walked over to our school in the same yard. Free hot chocolate and cookies were being served by some of the parents.

“It’s a great day for skating, eh?” the lady at the table offered, passing me a drink.

“Yeah, it sure is, and lots of people too!” I replied enthusiastically, still trying to maintain the self-imposed facade. When I returned with the hot chocolate, my buddies were skating effortlessly around the rink, some holding hands with girls.

I had already planned a quiet exit when a guy I had seen from another class came over. We chatted easily about the big crowd and the ice conditions. I was back in my element of theory, so I was comfortable. His name was Gerald. I had seen him in another group at scout meetings. He was about my height and build with black wavy hair and deep blue eyes that seemed to look right through me.

I began feeling awkward, unable to direct or anticipate the conversation, but something told me it was okay. As we talked about school and scouts, I realized how much we had in common. 

Our conversation swung over to books we had read. We debated, and time flew by. It was neat talking with a guy my age about things that interested us both. I felt a strange mixture of emotions I had never experienced. I liked it a lot, but at the same time, it was scary.

In the back of my mind, I wondered if he was setting me up to walk away laughing, accusing me of being gay. That humiliation would be too much to handle. In this small rural community, an accusation like that had destroyed some persons I knew. 

Even at my young age, I had worked hard to create an image of masculinity that would fit the village narrative. With my few previous sexual experiences, I attempted to make an emotional bond, but with each, I was pushed away. The rejections reinforced my decision to be alone and to bring my shame with me.

Gerald didn’t push me away; instead, the conversation and laughter kept flowing as the skating party began to wind down and parents returned to retrieve their kids. My friends came around the corner to announce they were headed down to Marg’s canteen, our local hangout. I said I would follow shortly with no intention of doing so. After they left, our conversation turned to movies.

“Have you seen the new Clint Eastwood movie, The Good, the Bad and the Ugly?” Gerald asked.

“Not yet, but any of his movies are great,” I responded. “I like how he goes in and gets it done when everyone else is afraid to do anything.”

“I know, and he doesn’t waste time just talking,” Gerald said. “Listen, I was thinking of going on Saturday. Do you want to go? Dad could drive us and pick us up after.”

I played it cool until I got my breath back. My friends and I went places together, but this was different. This guy I met asked if I wanted to go to a movie with him. Was this a date?

“Yeah, sure, that sounds great,” I responded casually.

We agreed they would pick me up at my house.

Walking the short distance back home, I felt deliriously happy. All problems evaporated, and the sky was never more beautiful. My sister and mother looked at me curiously as I came in the door smiling.

Later, I went down to meet Dad as he left work for the day. I did that occasionally. It was my time, alone with him, to talk. As we walked, he commented that he had not seen me so upbeat in a long time. I wanted to tell him everything that happened in the last few hours. A wave of sadness washed over me as I realized I could not share my joy. 

While my parents generally accepted new trends that came and went in our home. This was something very different. They were strong Catholics, or at least Mom was, and Dad followed suit. To be gay and Catholic in New Brunswick during the sixties and for decades afterward was to be in the pipeline to hell. 

I was not a firm believer in the faith. From the perspective of an observant young gay male, I had read and seen too much hypocrisy and prejudice in the Church, not to mention a “handsy” priest.

 I felt my brothers and sisters wouldn’t care much about the church curse. Their concern would be how far the shadow would spread, causing them to be isolated. The potential family response, combined with the gay jokes and slurs from others, was enough to keep my ray of sunshine hidden.

After supper, I replayed the afternoon events in my mind. At that early age, I was already a master at second-guessing and analysis, all to maintain my perceived armour of masculinity. Was I reading too much into Gerald’s invitation? He came “from away.” That could be how things were done in other places.

I didn’t sleep well that night, alternating between intimate dreams with my potential boyfriend and a nightmare of an emotional crash when he said I got it all wrong with him. I was up early and went for a soul-searching walk in the quiet village, which helped me settle. Afterward, I enjoyed a long bath with none of the other nine in my family banging on the one-bathroom door. I dressed later, putting on my favourite burgundy sweater and black pants.

I brushed my hair, looking for a new style, but settled for “tidy,” my old standby. I put a bit of Dad’s Old Spice on to seal the deal.

“You look very nice, Douglas,” Mom commented as she came from the basement with a basket of clothes to hang on the line.

“Yeah, I’m going to a movie with a friend from school,” I responded almost too casually.

“That sounds like fun. Do you need some money?” she asked.

“No, I have lots from the pulp I sold last week.”

I had done so well that I could buy the coat she had admired from Eaton’s catalogue. The price of salvaged pulp was high, so I had plenty of money left over.

On Saturday, I would usually help Mom hang out the clothes. Still, she said nothing as she opened the small doors on the porch wall leading to the outside and the clothesline. I sat next to her on the old mirrored bench.

“Sorry, I can’t help you today,” I said nervously, tapping my foot.

“Don’t worry. I’m glad to see you happy. Sometimes I wonder if you spend too much time alone, Douglas. I mean, you never give your father and me cause to worry. Your grades are good, and you help me around the house. But you need to enjoy yourself too.

 Are you happy, Douglas?” she asked, looking at me softly.

At that moment, I wanted to pour out my soul to her with the daily weight I carried. But I knew it would just move the load from me to her, and she had more than enough worry about raising her family.

“I’m okay.” I stood up, took a sheet from the tattered plastic laundry basket and passed it to her. “I met this guy at school, and it turns out we like a lot of the same stuff. His dad is driving us to the theatre and picking us up. I will be back for supper.”

“Sounds like a plan,” Mom responded, closing the clothesline doors. “You know you and I are a lot alike, Douglas. We are quiet deep pools. You can trust me to talk about anything,” she said as she tussled my hair gently.

“Yes, I know, thanks,” I responded quietly as I pulled on my Sunday jacket and headed outside to wait for Gerald and his father.

Gerald’s dad’s new candy apple red Ford Mustang pulled into our driveway. The car purred powerfully as I got in the back seat while Gerald sat with his dad. He introduced us. His father insisted I call him Reg. We never had a car, but that didn’t stop me from reading about the new models for 1968, and this Mustang was near the top. Reg was also a car hound, so we talked about the new design, especially the mighty 390 cu in engine. He let us out in front of the Uptown theatre. Gerald said we would probably get a burger at Zellers down the street, so Reg could pick us up here at five pm.

In the theatre, as we got our popcorn and drinks, Gerald whispered, “Dad likes you. He says most of my friends only talk in grunts.”

I replied casually, secretly pleased, “My dad says the same thing about young lads today. I like talking with most people.”

We sat near the back where the best view and least talking happened. I didn’t go to many movies, but I loved the atmosphere, the subtle lighting, the hushed tones as people found their seats, and the enormous red velvet curtains when it opened, whisper quiet, and the theatre lights dimmed. We munched our popcorn and didn’t talk much except when our hero, Clint, squinted and proclaimed, “Just watch me.”

Partway through the movie, my wallet fell from my pocket, landing between our seats. I was trying to watch the action scene and fish it out at the same time. I felt Gerald’s hand brush mine. I pulled back, shocked. Did he do that to help find the wallet or for another reason? My mind was racing. My heart threatened to jump from my chest. There was an awkward silence.

Now I might find out if we could be more than friends. This was my Rubicon, where fear was to meet possibility. I lowered my hand and felt my wallet while his hand slid beside mine again. I left it there briefly to show I was okay with his touch. Slowly, I lifted the wallet out, placing it securely in my pocket.

I followed this by doing something I had not allowed myself to imagine. I wrapped my little finger around his. He gently squeezed it. There we sat, two thrilled fifteen-year-old boys on the cusp of their first love.

Neither of us noticed the traditional grisly ending to Clint’s movie. We left the theatre awash in new emotions. I could have floated down the snow-covered street to the restaurant. Our conversation was awkwardly focused on the action in the movie. We found a quiet booth in the back. We ordered burgers and cokes. 

For a few moments, a tentative silence followed. Gerald was the first to break it. “We moved here in June from Alberta.”

He spoke deliberately as he described growing up. He had a younger brother and sister.

“We move every five years or so. I’ve lived on two continents and in three countries since birth.”

He learned three languages during that time. He was fascinated with different cultures. His beautiful blue eyes were alive as he shared his experiences. I listened, hanging on his every word and wanting more.

Abruptly, Gerald stopped talking and gazed at the light snow falling on the street. I didn’t feel a need to fill the silence. I was content to be with him. He continued, mindful of other persons around, and his voice fell to a whisper. However, the area was now largely empty.

“Some parts of my life I like. I have learned so much from living with different people. But I never get to make real friends. Weirdly, I know more about you than most others I have lived around for years. You are different, you listen, and I feel comfortable around you.

“The other thing is that I can’t share something about myself, making settling into a new place challenging.

“Doug, I am gay. I like guys, and I really like you,” he said, looking directly at me. His sparkling blue eyes had clouded over as a tear slid down his face. “I guess you already knew that.”

He looked down shyly. I reached across the table, holding his hand, not caring who saw it.

“I feel the same about you, Gerald. I didn’t think I could get to say this out loud. I am gay, too.” I could feel myself blushing, and my heart was racing once again. “It makes me so happy you are the first to hear it,” I said, gazing at him. “I haven’t had the life you have or travelled anywhere and know I am poorer for it. 

The people in Miramichi are good, decent folks. But they don’t do ‘different’ very well.

“I will leave after High School and get to where I am accepted for who I am. Who knows, maybe we will make that trip together,” I said, wiping away his tears. We sat in comfortable silence.

A car horn and the realization that it was dark outside brought us out of our reverie. We quickly paid our bill and went out to his father’s car. This time, Gerald sat close to me in the back seat. If his dad noticed, he said nothing. Instead, we picked up our comfortable chatter about cars. All the time, Gerald and I quietly held hands, exchanging occasional affectionate looks.

After that afternoon, we were inseparable, spending most days at his place but occasionally at my raucous home. On one of those days, Gerald called me early.

“Doug, let’s go skating.” I froze at the word and the memory of my friends laughing at me. Gerald continued before I could manufacture an excuse.

“I saw you with your friends, and I don’t think it’s fair for you to keep making excuses. Mom taught me to figure skate when I was three, and I played hockey when we were in Germany. I want to share the skill with you. I promise we will take it slow and no fancy stuff. You can trust me.”

I wasn’t used to hearing those words, but I did trust him. “Okay,” I said. “And no fancy spins or trying to throw me in the air.”

“I will throw you in the snow bank if you get too lippy,” Gerald said, laughing.

There had been a few days without snow, and the ice was bare near Beaubear’s Island.

An hour later, we were lacing our skates up. Gerald stood up and held his hand out to help me up. I exhaled deeply, not sure if this would work. In two hours, I went from being rigid as a statue holding on to him to starting, skating and stopping quickly by myself.

The sharp, sizzling sound of my skates on the ice boosted my confidence. As I raced with Gerald, the cold wind on my face was exhilarating. In another hour, he showed me some slick moves he learned in hockey. Walking back from the island, I wanted to shout out to anybody: I could skate! I could hardly wait for the next free skate day at the rink.

On some days, we returned to the island across the frozen windswept river. It was my refuge, and now I gladly shared it with him. We spent hours walking the trails and often just sat and experienced the solitude it offered. On one of those days, we were sitting on a large piece of driftwood looking across the river to my Nelson.

“This, the island, your village. It’s so beautiful. It hasn’t been destroyed by industry like so many of the places I have lived.” He turned to look at me now with a sense of earnestness. “Doug, why can’t we live here? We could go to university, get jobs and settle here.”

Now, it was me who became quiet. 

“Gerald, you see the beauty, and there is. But to live here, we could not be who we are. I couldn’t kiss you like I want to so much, so often.

 We couldn’t hold hands, and when people found out we were gay, some would make our lives miserable. I’ve seen this happen. No, this can’t be our home.” His eyes grew moist as the realization sank in. We fell silent. 

On other days, we would snowshoe in the acres of woodland behind his home for hours. We would meet some people setting rabbit traps, but neither of us could imagine hurting another creature. After our woods walk, we would go back to Gerald’s home.

His mother welcomed me warmly when we first met. While my mom was quiet and cautious, Barbara was lively and open. She never assumed to judge Gerald or me and delighted in listening as we recounted our daily experiences. Other times, we would have lively discussions over political happenings. She heard and respected our opinions; however naïve they may have sounded. She insisted I use her first name when we talked. It made me feel special.

On the occasional days she was not home, Gerald and I listened to music in his large bright bedroom. I contrasted it with the humble quarters I shared with my brother Bill. 

Gerald had a big record collection and a great stereo system. We had the same interest in music, preferring artists with a message rather than the latest bang, crash, boom band sweeping the nation.

While chilling one afternoon, listening to a James Taylor album, Gerald leaned across the bed and kissed me. Like at the theatre, I pulled back but quickly recovered and returned his gentle kiss. It was beautiful, and I wanted more. He felt the same.

We spent the next half hour curiously discovering each other. Afterward, we just lay on his bed with me cradled in his arms, in no hurry to move. I felt safe.

As we left his bedroom, I heard his mother downstairs in the kitchen. Gerald told me he was out to his parents, who had talked openly about having safe sex. I must have looked stunned because he hugged me and said we were okay. I agreed.

Later, on my walk back home, I tried to sort through the events of the past few hours. I had experienced my first kiss from a boy. After our sexual experience, we had laid comfortably together with no urgency or desire to leave. 

My boyfriend told me he was out to his parents, who wanted him to be safe and enjoy sex. The remorse and guilt that had been ground into my Catholic conscience were being replaced by a feeling of freedom and joy I could never have imagined.

The next day was Christmas Eve. Gerald’s mom had invited me for supper. I was uncertain whether Barbara wanted me to come or was just being polite. When I hesitated, she insisted that she and Reg wanted me to be there. I readily said yes. I checked with Mom, and she said it was okay, and I would need to be back by the eight o’clock Christmas Eve Mass. I was scheduled to be an altar server.

At five o’clock, I knocked on their door. Gerald answered. He wore a dark blue cashmere sweater highlighting his eyes and a killer pair of slim black jeans. I wanted to kiss him badly, but his folks and the younger kids stood behind him. 

The ranch-style house was wonderfully decorated everywhere I looked. It must have taken them hours. Gerald laughingly said they worked as a team under Barbara’s direction. Their Christmas tree was to the right of the stone fireplace. I was amazed, looking at the beautiful decorations and the subtle lights that covered what appeared to be every square inch of space.

I smiled and thought of our family’s tree. As usual, Dad had drilled holes and stuck in branches to cover the bare spots. After that, he tied it in the corner to keep it from falling. It developed a chronic droop to the left. Our generation’s old decorations and bulbs were placed haphazardly on the sad facsimile of a tree. I pushed that image away. I was where I wanted to be, with the guy I loved.

The family and I sat in the living room. Gerald was beside me. The scent of his cologne was seductive. Fortunately, I was distracted by his dad, who had recently been at a company meeting in Texas. He had been on a tour of the Ford Motor plant in Houston, where they produced the 1969 version of the Mustang Fastback convertible. He showed me the catalogue with pictures and detailed specifications. We enthusiastically talked about the new design and powerplant. Gerald was content to look on and occasionally touched my back, sending currents of pleasure through me.

We were called to the supper table, where an elaborate meal had been prepared. After a short prayer of thanks, Barbara said to dive in. I followed Gerald’s lead on what silverware to use. I was hungry after the mile walk to his home. At the end of the meal, I emerged unscathed, not having spilled anything on my Church sweater. I offered to help with the dishes, but Barbara said she and Reg had it covered.

Gerald’s younger brother and sister went to watch their favourite Christmas movie, leaving us alone beside the tree. I excused myself to go to the closet where I got my gift for him, Simon and Garfunkel’s greatest hits.

“Wow, this album is what I have been looking for. Where did you find it?”

“I was hoping you would like it,” I replied. “I ordered it from the record catalogue my older brothers have.”

“Thanks a lot, Doug.” He kissed me gently. “I got you something.”

He reached into his pocket and passed me a small, carefully wrapped gift with a gold bow. I unwrapped the colourful paper. It was a small red velvet-covered box. It held a silver ring. I had no idea how he knew, but it fit my baby finger beautifully. He engraved it: “Doug & Gerald. Dec 24, 1968”.

I was overwhelmed and teared up a bit. Gerald took me in his arms, and we lay there till his father called out for anybody to play a game of Monopoly.

Later, Gerald came with me to the evening mass, joining my parents and some siblings in the congregation. As a regular altar server, I knew my job well. In idle moments, I stole glances at Gerald. Each time he smiled in return. I struggled to maintain my usual stolid composure.

My life had changed so much in the three weeks since I met Gerald. To this point in my young life, I had walked on eggshells, not allowing myself to express who I was. Now, I was walking on a bank of big fluffy clouds without fear of my future.

A week after that Christmas Eve experience, Gerald called me. It was almost 10 p.m. I was in bed when my brother shouted downstairs to say Gerald was on the phone. His voice was breaking as he began.

“Doug, we are leaving; Dad’s been assigned to some fucking place in Australia. I don’t want to go. I want to stay here with you!”

He sobbed uncontrollably. I got him to calm down and talk slowly.

The news was worse than I could imagine. Gerald’s dad had just told the family he was being transferred to a plant in Perth, Australia. He was to be there the following week because of a site accident that caused massive damage. Arrangements would be made for his family to be moved the second week of January. I slumped against the kitchen wall, almost dropping the receiver. After I recovered from the shock, we talked a bit more, agreeing we would meet the next day.

Mom and Dad in the adjoining room heard enough to know something terrible was occurring in my life. When I hung up, it was Mom who spoke first.

“Douglas, has something happened with Gerald?”

I broke down crying as I told them. To this point, my parents did not understand the intensity of my relationship with Gerald. How could they? I had deliberately shut them out, fearing they would not understand and try to separate us. Mom tried to console me. Dad put down his paper and reached awkwardly for words of support to help his son.

“I’m sorry to hear your friend is going.”

I went upstairs to my bedroom. Fortunately, my brother Bill was sleeping over at a friend’s house. I threw myself onto my bed and sobbed into my pillow.

I spent the rest of the night like that, finally drifting into a fitful sleep. 

Gerald and I had agreed to meet at his place around nine the following day. When I got there, I looked like I felt exhausted. He appeared at the door looking the same. Instead of going to his room, we walked outside. I saw his mom looking anxiously out the living room window. I managed a wave. I put my arm around him. We walked a while, saying nothing. He was the first to speak.

“I am so sorry, Doug. I hate this life where I get a hint of happiness, and then it gets blown away because of his stupid work.” His voice was hoarse from crying.

“You can’t apologize for something neither of us caused or can control,” I said. “I want you to write me every week, and I will do the same if you can read my hen scratch.”

“Yeah, it does look like a hen or something walked across the page.”

He managed a weak laugh.

We spoke anxiously about our future and one of us visiting the other. It was obviously not going to be me. But even as we discussed a relationship, we both knew it would be impossible to sustain what we had. The cold reality we faced consumed us like a deep winter storm.

The day before the family moved, Barbara called my mother, asking if I could come to supper with them. 

Mom readily agreed, hoping it would bring me out of a deepening depression I had been in since hearing the news. My oldest brother drove me to their house. He felt terrible for me, but much like our dad, the right words were beyond his grasp. I promised to be ready by 8 p.m.

The near-empty house I entered bore little resemblance to the welcoming, cozy place of Christmas Eve. Our voices echoed as we tentatively greeted each other. Gerald’s brother hugged me and then ran away in tears. He and I had become good friends. 

The movers had emptied most of the house, with the rest ready to go the next day. Three large pizza boxes announced the menu for our final meal together. Barbara tried to lighten the mood by telling stories of previous wrong moves. We managed to eat only a portion of the meal.

Gerald and I retreated to his room, which now held only his bed. The closet was empty, and the walls were bare. We sat in near silence.

But the silence was not uncomfortable. 

We had met at precisely the time we needed each other the most. Emotionally, we matured by leaps and bounds like some secret force was driving us. I spoke, my voice breaking.

“I didn’t know I could dare to allow you into my life. I had built up some big walls. And suddenly, there you were, proudly beside me. I learned I could be happy with who I was and love you, and the sky wouldn’t fall.”

I looked over at the tears streaming freely down his handsome face. We stood beside the bed, knowing it would be our last private moment together. Our kiss was warm, and neither wanted to break it. We went downstairs at eight.

My brother drove into the driveway as I pulled on my winter jacket. Gerald’s mother gave me a big hug. She then surprised me by thanking me for the joy and love I had given to her son. 

Gerald stepped outside with me. He gathered me in his strong arms and kissed me gently in full view of my brother. I did not resist. We said goodbye, and as I got into the car, there were no tears, only a feeling of my good fortune.

As we drove out of the lane, my brother said quietly, “I think you are a lucky guy to have known Gerald.” I agreed.

The week after Gerald had left, I called Michael and asked if he wanted to go to the free skating party that afternoon. He seemed surprised I was calling and even more shocked that I wanted to repeat last month’s embarrassment. We agreed to meet at the rink. 

He arrived with other guys, expecting to watch the Cow on Ice show. I already had my skates on and was practicing some speed racing before the others came on. I impressed myself with how fast I could go as I skated up to the group, covering them with a liberal snow shower. 

I grinned, shot out to the center of the ice, and did a wicked twirl and jump. When I joined, the guys banged the boards and whooped with approval.

“Holy frig, Doug, that is some wicked skating. How did you learn that so fast?” Kevin asked.

“Oh, a friend of mine that I trusted showed me some stuff.”

“Well, you should try out for the school hockey team,” David said. “With that speed and size, you are a shoo-in.”

“We haven’t seen ya for a while,” Paddy said, slyly glancing at the others for support.

“Yeah, I met a new guy at school. We have been hanging out a lot. His name is Gerald, and he taught me to skate,” I replied.

“He not here now?” Paddy asked, looking for a new angle of attack.

“No, he moved to Australia with his folks.”

“So, your boyfriend is gone, eh!” Paddy fired the shot that would have hurt me deeply a short time ago.

“Yeah, he is, but hey, Paddy, if a good-looking guy fell for me, then there is still a possibility some dog could fall for you!”

There was a brief pause; then, the group exploded with laughter. I had come back with a burden lifted from my shoulders.

As a post-script to this story, I want to say I kept moving forward with my sexuality and newfound self-confidence or that Gerald and I reconnected and began our life together. Neither of those scenarios happened. I returned to my previous life for over two decades, even to the point of marriage to a woman. 

Eventually, I found the courage to tell her I was gay and ended the relationship. We remained good friends, agreeing that was all we should have been from the start. 

As for Gerald, we have lost contact. But I am blessed with the love of a man who is now my husband. I am experiencing a much deeper joy I could not know in my youth.