From Call It in the Air

Chapter 13

By: Gregory Light - Sep 09, 2026

University bookstore.

 

 

 

(Toronto 1972)

‘Joanna.’

      Joey Couldn't believe it. 'My God! I'm right. It is her.' He ducked behind the Political Science shelf in the University Textbook store, snatching up the first book that came to hand: Federalism and the French Canadians by Pierre Elliot Trudeau. 'Joanna,' he said to himself, again, his mind racing, 'She's standing right over there. What'll I say?' He looked at his watch. Six days, three hours. Roughly. Too many days had passed for him to just say hello as if nothing had happened.

      'Coward,' said Gary. At least it sounded like Gary. It was the sort of thing he'd say.

      'Okay, give me a second.'

      'Stop stalling. Say hello.'

      'I will.' He raised his head so that he could see over the top of the shelf. She was gone. He scanned a larger area near the window, but she wasn't there either. The suspicious stare of a store assistant was there. Joey instinctively ducked behind the shelf again.

      'Stop acting foolish. Stand up.' Gary again. Joey paused a moment, sliding Trudeau back on the shelf, then straightened up. He looked around. Still no sign of Joanna. His heart was thumping crazily.

      'May I help you, sir?' the store assistant swung out from behind the Physics section and stood in front of him.

      'No thank you,' Joey replied, looking over the man's left shoulder, still searching for Joanna.

      There was a long line at the cash register. Joey sifted through it, looking for a maroon blouse. That's what Joanna had been wearing when he first spotted her, half an hour earlier, cutting across Queen's Park. In a clutch of people rushing between classes. The colour of her blouse had been the easiest thing to follow. He hadn't been totally sure it was Joanna, but the likeness was worth following. Especially when set beside the other choice he had: a beery "get together" McDougal had insisted would be great.

      "A few brews, man"’ he had organized because Bradley, who had transferred to Waterloo after his second year, was back in town for a day. That Joey was even invited, he assumed was one of McDougal's practical jokes.

      Joey and Bradley detested one another, ever since they had shared a room during their first year in residence. The result of a new ‘computer’ selection method. Comparing notes on their first day together, they decided there must have been some mistake. Zero in common was the only thing they agreed on. Bradley was a chemistry major with an unnerving "chemical" attitude to everything. He spoke in terms of molecular structures, valences, and ionizations.

      ‘Maybe, Bradley had quipped, ‘they put us together on the theory that opposites attract. Like magnets or electrical charges.'

      Joey had groaned. He imagined the entire hall of residence laid out like a magnetic field, negatives and positives end to end, hundreds of students loathing one another. It evoked an ominous image of his penny; opposites glued together for an eternity.

      The pinnacle of their mutual aversion, however, came hard on the heels of an argument Joey was having with Gary about his search for Joanna. Gary had simply said, ‘I think you can do better’. But then quietly added the word ‘insane’ under his breath.

      Joey had leapt on it. ‘Me? Or the search?’

      Gary didn’t respond. But Joey knew his answer. After Gary left, Joey spent two hours tossing his penny. To think the dispute away. He was still at it when Bradley returned to the room after his first class.

      'Come on, Edwards, this is insane.' Joey didn't reply. 'For goodness’ sake,' Bradley exploded, 'You're driving me crazy with that penny!'

      Joey looked up. Slowly. Vacantly.

      'Listen!' Bradley suddenly sounded sympathetic. 'Why don't you come out with Valerie and me this afternoon? Her cousin's visiting from Sudbury and we're kind of stuck with her. You'd like her. She's cute – well, sort of. And she’s interested in stamps. You never know, maybe coins as well.'

      'No way, Bradley!' Joey snapped. ‘Not interested.’ It sounded worse than he intended. But he was dammed if he was going to help Bradley out of a jam by sweeping his girlfriend’s cousin off to an afternoon picnic on Centre Island.

      A pillow came hurtling out of nowhere, bounced off the side of Joey's head and landed on his desk. Bradley's patience had collapsed.

      'You're a class A asshole, Edwards!'

      Joey looked up to catch a glimpse of Bradley storming out. He didn't enjoy fighting with Bradley, but the guy rubbed him the wrong way.

      The residence authorities finally agreed to Bradley's request for a transfer the day after his second doctor’s note for nervous exhaustion. Besides the constant stream of petty squabbles, Bradley had complained for months that Joey's talked in his sleep: 'It's bad enough’, he pleaded, ‘but he does it in two different voices!’ He didn’t say it, but Bradley was also convinced the voices were talking about him. To be fair, sometimes they were.

      And sometimes events just conspired against Bradley. The day he hurled the pillow at Joey, for example, Bradley returned to their room late, having spent a dreadful day on the island, ending with he and Valerie breaking up.

      'You look like shit, man,' Joey said as Bradley entered.

      'Don't start on me, Edwards.'

      Joey took the warning and went back to flipping his penny. He had only tossed it a dozen times when Bradley finally broke.

      'You're weird, man' he said, aggressively. 'You and that asinine penny. Why do you do it? Explain that to me?' Joey didn't answer. Bradley was pushing for a confrontation. 'You know you talk in your sleep, eh?'

      'So, you've told me.'

      'Who are you talking to? That's what I'd like to know.'

      'Who are you, Bradley, the R.C.M.P.?'

      'They wouldn't bother with you, Edwards.'

      'You think so?' Joey said, bluffing. 'Just keep on thinking that way.'

      'What are you talking about?'

      'You don't think they know what's going on here? It's only a matter of time before something happens here, like the Kent State shootings. They killed four students, man. Killed four fucking students!'

      Bradley was amazed. He couldn't believe Joey was this paranoid. 'Come off it, Edwards. That was the American National Guard for fuck's sake. It would never happen in Canada.'

      Which was Bradley's undoing.

Unfortunately for Bradley, Prime Minister Trudeau's government chose the very next day to blink. Facing the FLQ kidnapping of Richard Cross, they invoked the War Measures Act, a repressive slate of legislation giving the government virtually unlimited powers to suspend human rights in a time of insurrection, "real or apprehended". It allowed them to carry out a program of extensive police searches and massive arrests which otherwise would have been illegal. Then, the next day, the Quebec minister, Pierre LaPorte, was found murdered, his corpse dumped into the trunk of a car and left on a street in Montreal. To top it off, two days later, Joey was arrested under this new Act as he emerged from an afternoon English lecture.

      'Joseph Edwards?' A burly six-footer in his late thirties suddenly slipped up beside Joey as he stepped off the sidewalk onto the grass, taking a shortcut to the library.

      'Yes?' Joey answered, continuing his stride.

      The man stayed with him, his raincoat flapping at the back of his knees. 'Do you mind if we ask you some questions?' he asked.

      'Depends on what they are?' Joey replied cautiously.

      'I'm a police officer,' he said, flashing identification. 'We'd like you to come down to the station.'

      'Now?' Joey stopped in the centre of the quadrangle.

      'Yes.'

      'Can't it wait? I have a class. I could make it tomorrow. No, that's not good either. How about Wednesday?'

      'I'm afraid it has to be now.'

      'What if I refuse?' Joey asked, a lump suddenly catching his voice as it passed through his throat.

      'We arrest you,' said the officer smiling. At the same time, the second part of the "we", who had been trailing a short distance behind, gripped Joey’s arm tightly.

      It might have been easier for Joey if he hadn't chosen that moment to pick up the political emotions he had left in the registrar’s office only weeks earlier. Without warning, he suddenly discharged a barrage of quasi-political non-sequiturs, shouting them into the cold air of the quadrangle. He began with "Down with the Chateau Clique!" and "Kent State!"; progressed through "Police brutality!", a passing reference to Louis Riel, and ended, curiously, with "Remember the Alamo!", at which point the second officer struck him in the side with a sharp rabbit punch and Joey's voice evaporated. It happened so fast and appeared so ludicrous that the few students in earshot thought he was either joking or acting. No one showed the slightest interest and Joey's doubled-up figure was quickly hustled into a waiting car.

      About an hour later, two more officers knocked on Joey's door in the residence. Bradley had settled into a chapter on molecular bonding. Hearing the handle first, he assumed Joey had locked himself out. He stayed silent hoping his nemesis would go away, but on the third set of knocks, he couldn't contain himself. 'Fuck off, Edwards!' he shouted. There was a short silence, then the door suddenly caved in under the combined weight of the two policemen. Bradley bolted up in a panic but just as quickly a thick hand in the chest forced him back into his chair. With little fuss, the two men identified themselves, rifled through the room and left, taking Bradley and several documents with them.

      During the entire ordeal, Bradley failed to utter a meaningful sentence. At the police station, he was only fractionally more coherent; continually flashing a letter from his doctor to anyone who would look at it. Finally, he was released. He had been held for three and a half hours, but the rapid succession of events was too much. The incident undermined many of his firm beliefs, both rational and national. This time he was admitted to hospital.

      Joey, on the other hand, was held and interrogated overnight. His letter and telephone call to the registrar suggesting connections to the FLQ were carefully scrutinized. For most of the first day, he was also grilled on the existence of fifteen notebooks brimming with suspicious marks listed under titles such as "infra-red" and "ultra-violet", the latter of which, had twice been misspelled "ultra-violent". The police said it was a list of code names for FLQ operatives working in Ontario.

      'There are over three hundred thousand marks in these notebooks,' the interrogating officer said to Joey, leaning forward on his forearms, a half-grin on his face. 'Are they supposed to represent your support or something?'

      'I already told you what they mean.'

      'Yeah, flips of a coin. Hundreds of thousands of coin tosses? Surely you can think of something better than that?' He stood up and stepped around behind Joey. 'Why don't you tell us? 'It's your support, right?'

      'If you say so?'

      'I say so. Three hundred thousand. Not bad in a country of over twenty-two million.'

      'That's just in Mississauga.'

      'Don't smart ass me kid. There ain't three hundred thousand people in Mississauga.'

      'Yeah, well justice has no bounds.'

      On the second day, Joey saw the lanky figure of Professor Higgins who, along with five students whose names had appeared on his petition, was asked to come in for questioning. The students were released after a few questions on the content of the course, but Higgins was held a further four hours because his name had appeared on several other petitions: Vietnam, intellectual freedom and the like. When he saw Joey, he was furious.

      'You! I should have known. I expect you're working for these bastards, eh?' Later, however, when he'd been put into the picture, he was more congenial. They had been left alone for a few minutes at dinner. 'So, the FLQ,' he said, giving Joey a chunky smile of admiration.

      'No.'

      'Why didn't you tell me? I don't agree with your methods, but I have considerable sympathy for your political goals.' Joey suspected he was now fashionable to Higgins. 'Is your mother French Canadian then?' Joey didn't reply. 'Don't worry about this,' Higgins gestured to the room, 'I'll get you out of here.'

      Joey was freed the next day without Higgins' aid. The police said he was politically over-excited but no connection to a Separatist group in Quebec could be established. When he returned to his room, Bradley was in the hospital, the door was being mended and a long fawning letter from Higgins, telling him he could join his class. Your commitment and grass-root experience will enhance it. The letter went on to thank Joey for the social vigilance you maintain on our behalf. It worried Joey that he could be so mistakenly perceived. In the end, he declined Higgins' offer by simply ignoring the letter.

      A year later, in the summer of 1972, Joey arranged to take Higgins' course; mostly because, he told a sceptical Gary, an essay on anything was a sure "A". Although academic fashion had switched the course theme from Quebec to Canada's native peoples. And Higgins' view of Joey appeared to follow the trend. His asides during and after the first three lectures had Joey seriously unnerved. (‘He thinks you’re Indian,’ Gary told him.) Whatever, he was grateful for any excuse to skip the subsequent lectures. And following a dash of maroon to the bookstore was as good a reason as any.

'There,' he mouthed to himself, certain he had seen a maroon- elbow behind the best-seller stand, near the cash register.

      'Is there something you are looking for?' asked the man at Joey's shoulder, a white plastic "John: Assistant Manager" tag pinned neatly to his shirt. 'A particular title perhaps?'

      'Pardon?' Joey said to him vacantly. He looked back to where he'd spotted Joanna. Gone. His eyes skipped towards the door. No sign of her.

      'Have you a particular title in mind?' the assistant manager asked again, rapidly judging Joey to be a shoplifter. Then Joey saw a burst of maroon pass between the biology and mathematics sections. He instinctively moved towards it, Gary gently cautioning him, ‘Be sensible when you speak to her.’ Immediately, he felt a hand wrap tightly around his upper arm.

      'Hey!' Joey said, surprised.

      'If you will come this way, sir, we would like to ask you a few questions.' John pulled him gently towards a door marked, "Private".

      'You're kidding,' Joey said, astonished. "I have to have a particular title in mind?'

      'Please, don't make the situation any more difficult than it is. A few questions. That’s all.' Joey felt the force countering his inclination not to move increase.

      'But this is ridiculous,' he insisted, trying to twist out of the manager's grip.

      'Don't argue.' Joey's resistance was abruptly overwhelmed. A second man, considerably larger and more powerful than the first, lifted him off the floor and was thrusting him towards the door.

      'Okay, okay! If it means that much to you, I'm looking for a book. A particular title. The Pathological Effect of Cubist Art on Twentieth-Century Furniture.'

      'Move!' commanded the second man, assuming responsibility for Joey's movement. Joey stumbled forward. He had an uneasy feeling that his motivation was a former linebacker for the Tiger-Cats.

      'I don't remember the author but?'

      'We'll talk about it in the office.'

      'Listen,' Joey said, trying the cooperative approach. 'That's only one of the books I'm looking for. Don't worry if you don't have it. Maybe you've got Federalism and the French Canadians by Trudeau?' The trio had reached the office. John unlocked the door while the linebacker blocked Joey's escape. "Don't go in there!" buzzed inside Joey's head, Gary's name attached to it. 'Maybe, another time,' Joey tried with an awkward smile.

      'Inside!' A large hand pushed at Joey's back.

      'I can't believe this,' Joey said, panicking. 'Just because I wasn't looking for a title. That's ludicrous.' He had taken hold of the door frame for protection. 'What is this, a new promotional scheme? Because I can give you titles. I'll even buy one. I promise.'

      'A few questions,' John insisted.

      'I'll answer them here.'

      'Please, sir, no trouble.' John passed through the door coolly while a mammoth pair of hands peeled Joey's fingers from the door frame.

      'No trouble?' Joey's voice lurched into a trill. 'Upper Canada: The Formative Years. I'm looking for that. and he began to list off several titles on his Canadian History reading list. As he proceeded, replacing as many fingers on the door frame as he could, his voice, saturated with fear, steadily shot up in volume. Or 'The Union of the Canadas?'

      'Please, sir?'

      'Arduous Destiny; The Social Passion; The Sense of ...'

      'Damn his fingers! Let go!'

      '... Power; The Vertical Mosaic; Arms; The Politics of Survival?’

      Joey’s voice reached its highest pitch just as the last of his fingers sprang loose. His point of attachment was gone; his body quickly spun around. In this momentary pan of the store, he caught a sudden view of Joanna, alone, maroon blouse, at the cash register. In his panic, and not wanting to lose her, afraid he might not get another chance to see her for weeks, he let out a loud shriek as he fell backwards through the door.

      'JOANNNNAAA!!!'