Some Great Thing

  “We told him to leave her alone but he wouldn’t go,” one boy said.

  “You’d better leave,” the woman told Slade.

  When Slade reached the door, the students broke out in a chorus of jeers and laughter.

  It took Chuck an hour to get twenty people to stop and talk on Portage Avenue. It was cold outside. His pencil had broken and his pen kept freezing. Of the twenty, four had never heard of the book, six had no opinion, and ten said it was nonsense to ban the book. The twenty-first was a good-looking black woman in her late thirties. When he asked his question, she laughed nervously “Do you know who I am?”

  “No.”

  “You really don’t know who I am? Is this some joke?”

  “Lady, I don’t have a whole lot of initials after my name. And I don’t own a fancy house. But I’m an honest person and I do an honest job.”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you. But I have no comment.” The woman looked him up and down. “I do, though, have time for a coffee.”

  They found a table in the Eaton’s cafeteria.

  An hour later, Chuck charged into the newsroom.

  “I found her,” he shouted to the people clustered around the city desk. “I got hold of the girl’s mom. The girl in the Huck Finn story.”

  “Well, don’t talk about it,” Don Betts said. “Write it.”

  Chuck hadn’t had a scoop like this in months. He thought again of Elizabeth Manning: her strong, soft tones; her beauty, which he had found intoxicating. Chin raised, unflinching hazel eyes, slender brown cheeks raised in dimension by high bones. She had two children, Susan and a younger boy. She was a physiotherapist. She hadn’t mentioned a husband. Chuck hadn’t asked. They had had coffee, then refills; she had even let him buy her a croissant. He had felt a pang, with his notepad full, seeing her walk away. Maybe he should have found a woman and settled down and raised a family. He was thirty-seven and had been working twenty years and what did he have to show for it? Nothing. She was thirty-eight and, by all accounts, she had two kids who loved her. What more could one want? She had written down her address and phone number. She had reminded him that she didn’t want to be named, or to have her daughter named. Elizabeth didn’t want to have to make explanations at work, and she didn’t want “half the world” singling out her daughter. Chuck had said he understood. Then she asked him a few questions. She wanted to know where he lived, if he had a family, how he liked his job, what other interests he had. Answering made him sad. “I don’t have other interests, Madam, newspaper work is all I know. But I like people. I like people a lot. I consider myself a person.” She laughed. He blushed. “What I mean is, I’m a person first, and a reporter after.” She had to go. “I’ll call sometime,” he said. She smiled and offered her hand. He would call her. For sure. As soon as this article was out of the way. He’d just like to be her friend. Meet her kids. Chuck liked kids a lot.

  A Jamaican-Canadian teen-aged girl likes Huckleberry Finn but resents having been picked from a Franklin High School class of 30 students to read aloud parts containing stereotyped references to blacks.

  So says the girl’s mother, who sparked a controversy over the teaching of the classic American novel after learning that her daughter had cried in class while reading the dialogue of “Nigger Jim.”

  In an exclusive interview with The Herald, the mother—who asked to remain anonymous—said it had been emotionally harmful for a grade nine teacher to assign the reading part based on the girl’s skin colour.

  “My daughter was singled out unfairly. It was implied that she could naturally read the part of “Nigger Jim.” And that is wrong. She resembles a Missouri slave no more than anybody else in her school.”

  Chuck Maxwell knew his work wasn’t great literature, or even great reporting. But the main thing was to get the facts right, make it interesting for people, and to remain fair. Okay, he could admit it: he wasn’t a great reporter, never would be. Mahatma had potential, Chuck didn’t. That was life. He could live with that. The thing to do was to change his priorities. Broaden them. He needed more in his life. He needed a woman.

  “Chuck!” Don Betts was calling to him.

  It was five o’clock. Chuck donned his coat first, to signal to Betts that he was finished for the day. He put his notepad in his open coat pocket. Then he approached the city desk. His Huck Finn story was on Betts’ computer screen.

  “What’s the lady’s name?” Betts asked.

  Chuck swallowed. “That’s private.”

  “The names, Chuck. Don’t give me a hard time.”

  “I have an agreement…”

  Betts jumped out of his seat. “You’re an inch away from another suspension,” Betts hissed. “This is a daily newspaper, not a cover-up society.” Grabbing Chuck’s lapel, Betts shot his free hand into Chuck’s coat pocket and snatched out his notepad. He released Chuck and stepped back.

  “Give me that back!” Chuck shouted.

  Betts slipped behind a big desk. Chuck stepped after him. Betts danced around to the other side.

  “Don!” Chuck warned.

  “Ho ho,” Betts said. He flipped open the notebook, dashed around the desk again to stay clear of Chuck, consulted it, ran again, turned two more pages, and found what he needed. “Elizabeth Manning, 245 Silverstone Avenue. Daughter: Susan Manning. Here you go, Chuck. Jolly good. You can go home now.” Don Betts tossed him the notepad.

  “You can’t use that, Don.”

  “Oh?” Betts, smiling, typed something into Chuck’s story.

  “We had an agreement.”

  “What? Was this off the record?”

  “No, she…”

  “Did she speak to you on condition that you not use her name?”

  “She asked me not to identify the family.”

  “Tell her your editor refused the request.”

  “But she made it clear she didn’t want to be named.”

  “Chuck,” Betts said, sighing, “you’ve been around a long time. You know the rules. If she didn’t explicitly say she wouldn’t talk unless you promised not to name her, we’re clear. You can go home with a good conscience. If she gets angry, tell her it’s my fault. Tell her to call me.”

  “But she understood that I wouldn’t be using her name. She didn’t have to put it in such words.”

  “That’s her problem, isn’t it? What are you so worried about?”

  “It could hurt her,” Chuck said.

  “How?”

  “At her work. She doesn’t want people to know. It would embarrass her. And she’s worried about her daughter. It’s embarrassing for a teenager, having a newspaper say that you cried in school.”

  “She’ll survive. It won’t hurt her a bit. People like publicity. Makes ’em feel important. Don’t worry about it, old buddy. It’s in my hands now.”

  Chuck Maxwell’s face contorted. He felt sick to his stomach. He had betrayed Elizabeth Manning.

  “This is hardball, Chuck.” Betts spoke softly. He stood up and patted the taller man’s shoulder. “You make news, you ride the waves. Don’t worry about the girl. She’ll be fine. Now go home and celebrate! You’re gonna be on page one.”

  Susan Manning answered the door. It was eight o’clock on a pitch black January night. Outside, it was -4. The streetlights were out. Chuck noticed that all the porch and apartment lights on the street were out too. Power shortage. The girl at the door held a burning candle. Cute kid. Strangely, the braces made her cuter.

  “Chuck!” Elizabeth welcomed him, but her eyes showed wariness.

  Chuck told her what had happened. He apologized. He told her he was tempted to resign.

  “You gave him your notebook?” Elizabeth said.

  “He grabbed it. The man’s crazy. He grabbed it from me.”

  He told her he would try to strike their names from the story before the paper went to press.

  She showed him out. “I never want to see you again.”

  Mahatma Grafton opened the door. A long t
ime had passed since he had seen a man cry. “Chuck? What’s the matter?”

  Chuck blew his nose. “Do you have five minutes?” He told Ben and Mahatma every detail.

  “I’ll talk to Betts,” Mahatma offered. “But don’t hold your breath.”

  Mahatma found Don Betts in the Winnipeg Press Club. Betts clapped him on the shoulder and ordered two whiskies.

  “I’ll stick to beer,” Mahatma said.

  “You do that. I’ll take the whiskies.” Betts signalled again to the bartender. Then he looked back at Mahatma. “Put that money away! I’m paying!”

  The drinks came. They sat for a moment, sizing each other up.

  “How’s your beer?” Betts asked. Pool balls kissed. A love song wailed from the jukebox. Mahatma sipped from his glass. “I know you can’t stand my guts,” Betts said, “and think I’m a heartless asshole. But you want something from me. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here.”

  “It’s about Chuck’s follow-up on the Huck Finn story.”

  “He’s pissed off that I’m naming the kid and her mother.”

  “You made him betray a confidence. Chuck wants you to protect the woman’s anonymity. That’s what he had promised to do.”

  “This is a newspaper! Every day we name people against their wishes.”

  “Nothing would be served by publishing the kid’s name.”

  “How about the public’s right to know? How about the competitive advantage of The Winnipeg Herald?”

  “What ‘competitive advantage’?”

  “You know and I know that Edward Slade is onto this story. And even if we hold the names, he won’t. It’ll be right there, out in the public, printed by The Winnipeg Star. Why let them scoop us? Tell Chuck to forget it. We’re naming the Huck Finn lady and her kid, and that’s it.”

  Yoyo was researching one of his last major articles on Canada. Since education was of utmost importance to his countrymen in Cameroon, he focused on that subject. And since prominent newspaper articles for two consecutive days had referred to a school crisis involving the study of an American classic, Yoyo tackled that issue. He had heard of Mark Twain, but had never read his works. He borrowed Huckleberry Finn from the library, but found it hard going. Yoyo read newspapers and magazines without difficulty; he had read books on botany in Canada, he had read about politics, and he had even tried stories by Ernest Hemingway and Alice Munro: all this he had understood. But Huckleberry Finn baffled him. The author struck him as close to illiterate, using colloquialisms such as “ain’t.” It eventually became evident to Yoyo that the author was speaking through the voice of a boy. This struck Yoyo as unreasonable. Why use a boy who can’t speak properly? And if he can’t even speak properly, how could he write a 220-page book? Worse still, large chunks of dialogue muddled Yoyo beyond measure. “Dog my cats ef I didn’ hear sumf’n.” What could that mean? Yoyo consulted a dictionary frequently. But neither Webster’s nor the reputable Oxford defined “sumf’n.” And “dog” as a verb?

  Mahatma Grafton was working at a furious pace. So far that day, he had placed ten phone calls and filled a notepad with scribbling. He had talked to two lawyers, three leaders of the Franco-Manitoban community, four politicians and a mandarin in Ottawa. He had managed not only to confirm Goyette’s scoop about constitutional negotiations between Franco-Manitoban leaders and government officials, but to push the story further! He would have it sewn up within two days. He dialled another number. Busy. He massaged his right hand. It was stiff from writing. He had a sore spot on the inside first joint of his middle finger.

  A hand landed on his shoulder. Mahatma bolted up in his seat.

  “Hey, Hat,” boomed Chuck Maxwell’s friendly voice, “I’ve seen you dial the same number four times in two minutes. The guy’s on the phone, man, give him a second. Relax. You’ll get an ulcer working like that. You should consider that, you know. Does The Herald pay your life insurance? Are they gonna support you if you burn out and stop producing?”

  Mahatma sat back and exhaled.

  “That’s better,” Chuck said. “Why kill yourself for a newspaper that couldn’t give a shit about you? Sometimes you gotta get existential about these things. You know, like, ‘What am I doing this for?’”

  Mahatma dialled the number again. Chuck opened a Playboy magazine. He tried to direct Mahatma’s eyes toward a pair of breasts. Mahatma ignored him, got someone on the phone and bent his neck to scribble.

  Don Betts signalled to Chuck, who walked up to the city editor’s desk and was handed a letter to the editor. “This guy calls himself the president of the League Against the French Takeover of Manitoba. Find out what he has to say. Here’s his address. Don’t phone him. Drive out to his place. Better go right now.” Betts walked him to the coat rack and watched him leave the newsroom. Mahatma hung up the phone and began dialling again. Betts interrupted him. “Hat! There’s a health convention at the Holiday Inn. Cover what’s left of it, would you? Hurry up—the federal health minister is to give a major speech there in a few minutes.” It was four o’clock. “Cover the whole conference. File two stories if you can. We’ll pay the overtime.”

  The president of the League Against the French Takeover of Manitoba wasn’t home. His wife directed Chuck to the school where he worked. Chuck got stuck in traffic and didn’t make it there until four-thirty. The man was out and didn’t return until five. They spoke for ten minutes. Chuck didn’t understand a word of what the man said. He took notes as best he could, raced back to the office, got there at five-thirty and filed his story just before six, which was when his shift ended. His short, confusing article was woefully inadequate.

  “Perfect,” Don Betts mumbled after bidding Chuck good night. Just as he expected. Chuck had fucked up, again.

  Mahatma returned to the office at six-thirty and filed two stories. Betts asked, “Can you do some more overtime?”

  “I’ve already done an hour and a half,” Mahatma said.

  “We need this for tomorrow. And it’s up your alley. This guy says he’s president of the League Against the French Takeover of Manitoba.”

  Mahatma identified himself to the woman who answered the door.

  “Media?” she said. “Someone was here earlier looking for Wilbur. And you’re from The Herald? I thought he was too. But I guess not. He must have been from The Star.”

  A tall, gentle-looking man appeared. He had a dark beard. “Good evening! I’m Wilbur Lawson.” He spoke with a resonant confidence; his little eyes shone. He extended a fleshy palm. Mahatma introduced himself. “Will you join us for coffee and dessert?” Lawson asked. “My wife just baked a pie.”

  “If you don’t mind,” Mahatma said, “I’ll pass on the offer. I’m facing a deadline and would like to start right in with a few questions.”

  Lawson said that would be fine. Mahatma began with the basics: Wilbur Lawson was forty-six, taught at John Bell Elementary School, formed the league two months ago and had no official members yet. He planned to hold an introductory meeting in two weeks to explain his beliefs and take memberships. Dozens of people had responded to his ads in community newspapers. Lawson showed him one such ad: “Do YOU want YOUR CHILDREN to HAVE to speak French? To face UNEMPLOYMENT and DISCRIMINATION if they don’t?”

  “Do you honestly believe that?” Mahatma asked.

  “I wouldn’t write it if I didn’t believe it,” Lawson said. “I don’t expect you media folks to agree with me, but you owe it to the public to take dissenters seriously.” Lawson went on for a few minutes about the Franco-Manitoban issue. Suddenly, three phrases jarred Mahatma: “I don’t say ban the language. That would be premature. I won’t complain if they speak it in the privacy of their homes.”

  Mahatma scribbled the sentences in his notepad. Then he asked, “Why do you refer to a takeover of Manitoba? What takeover?”

  “Throughout this century, English has been the increasingly dominant language of Manitoba. Ukrainians, Poles, Germans, Icelanders and others have accepted English as
the language of our legislature, our courts, our government, our businesses. Speaking it didn’t diminish your ethnic roots; it just meant you were Manitoban. Canadian. But all of a sudden, the French want to jump the queue. They want the same status as the English. But what about the rest of us? Why recognize only the French? What makes them so special? Population-wise, they are smaller than the British, the Germans and the Ukrainians in Manitoba. Why should they impose their language on us?”

  “You believe you won’t be able to function in Manitoba without speaking French?”

  “My children won’t. If they want a good job but they can’t speak French, forget it.” Mahatma took a few more notes. The inaugural meeting in two weeks would be followed by a protest rally. “When the government comes clean and announces its French plans, Manitobans are going to kick up a fuss the likes of which people haven’t seen in decades.”

  Mahatma hurried back to the newsroom. After calling the Francophone Association of Manitoba and the premier’s office for reaction, he wrote the story.

  A Winnipeg school teacher has founded a league to battle what he claims is the pending “takeover” of the province by Franco-Manitobans.

  “I have nothing against French,” said Wilbur Lawson, 46, “as long as it is spoken in the privacy of one’s home…”

  As he passed the Manitoba Legislature on his walk home, something struck Mahatma as bizarre. Why was Don Betts so good-humoured that night? Why did he happily authorize Mahatma’s overtime pay sheet?

  Don Betts got precisely what he expected. Grafton’s story was well written. It included comments from critics of the league. It was good reporting. Which made it one hundred times better than the story filed on the same subject by Chuck Maxwell. Which set Chuck up for a suspension due to incompetence. Betts dropped the note on Chuck’s lap at work the next morning.