Chapter Ten Sassy
ten SASSY
Sassy was riding a huge high. She never wanted to come down. One song at Chez Monique had turned into an encore of two more, and when she finally lay down to sleep hours later, she could still hear the applause. She bounced out of bed the next morning then sang the whole time she was making coffee and burning toast.
She’d been a hit. Ed had come to the greenroom after and asked her to play again the following week, which had given her great satisfaction. Davey, who had begun to think of himself as her agent, said he was going to visit other coffeehouses and see if he could stir up more interest.
Right now, he paced in the living room, impatient.
“Let’s go!” he hollered.
From her bedroom, Sassy made a noncommittal response, spinning with happiness and checking her reflection in the mirror. She’d taken out the braids from the night before, and now the kinky waves fell like an accordion. She wrapped a bright red kerchief over the top to keep it out of her eyes, then she decided to match that with some lipstick. She felt like a completely different girl from the one who had been so worried the day before. She was a different girl. She was—almost—a star.
“Sassy!”
She threw back the last of her coffee then poked her head out of the bedroom. “What?”
“Come on!”
“What’s the rush? The protest doesn’t start for another hour.”
Davey sighed. “The party’s already started, and I’m on the committee. I don’t want to be late. Come on. Let’s go.”
She blinked into the hallway mirror one last time, adjusted her kerchief, then headed out with him. Like always, the neighbour’s door clicked shut as they passed, but she hardly noticed. Last night had been wonderful, and today was going to be extra groovy. Davey had convinced her of that, though it hadn’t taken much. Her first real war protest.
Davey’d become part of an organization called TADP, or Toronto Anti-Draft Programme, providing aid and support to war resisters arriving in Canada with little more than the clothes on their backs. TADP was the largest group of its kind in Canada, he told her, and it was a full-time volunteer job for dozens of people, since the demand increased daily. Seven days a week, trained counsellors were on hand to advise Americans who wanted to immigrate to Canada. They also gave guidance once they arrived, including helping them find employment, and even temporary places to live. For that, the TADP relied on two hostels, as well as a network of almost two hundred people around Toronto who offered rooms in their homes. When it came to deserters—as opposed to resisters—it became more of a sticky political situation, but the TADP had lawyers to help them as well.
Tens of thousands of resisters had crossed the border into Canada since the war had begun, seeking refuge. What Sassy hadn’t known, until Davey told her, was that almost half of those were women.
Today’s protest had been set up almost single-handedly by Davey, she knew, though he humbly insisted everyone had a hand in it. He was becoming an excellent coordinator, no matter how lazy he claimed to be.
“Are you what they call a conscientious objector?” she asked as they walked.
He shook his head. “No religious reasons, no political reasons. Just moral ones, and those don’t count. So I left. People in Canada are pretty accepting of resisters, for the most part. They prefer us to deserters, anyway.”
“What was your moral reason?”
“I don’t feel like there’s any justification for us to be down there, fighting in a faraway war that has nothing to do with our country. So I cut out.”
“My brother said it’s our duty to make sure communism never reaches our borders, so North Vietnam has to be stopped. What do you think of that?”
He shrugged. “That’s what a lot of people say, and, if they believe that, then power to them. Your brother went because he is an idealist. He thinks he can make a difference. He figures the chance of his being killed or having to kill others is worth it to stop a political system from possibly coming to our country. Good for him. I guess I’m doing the same thing, except opposite. Like him, I think I can make a difference. My belief is that if communism gets closer, we worry about it then. Right now, there’s no reason for us to be there. The war’s been going on for years already, and nothing has been accomplished. More people dying on both sides, that’s all.”
“I bet that was a hard choice to make, standing up to the entire military machine,” she noted.
His expression fell. “Not all that bad for me, but you know what they did to Muhammad Ali this spring? The heavyweight champion of the world? He’s Muslim, and he refused to fight or go to jail because of his beliefs, so the World Boxing Association took away his title and banned him from boxing for four years. Bravest man in the world, to stand up to all that pressure. He’s an inspiration.”
“Yeah, but you’re brave, too. It must have been hard to leave your family and come up here on your own.”
“I’m not sure my dad will ever get over it. He was in the army in his time. He still has a buzz cut, and he has his medals framed on the wall. He thinks fighting is our patriotic duty. I could never look at a war that way. Sure, a man can do brave things and be a hero or whatever, but in every war, innocents are slaughtered. Nobody should win a medal for doing that.”
She couldn’t argue. Her dad had a medal, too, she recalled. She pictured it hanging on his office wall and wondered what he’d done to earn it.
“What would have happened to you if you’d stayed home?” she asked.
“I’d have to hide, but the FBI goes after anyone who goes underground. I had a friend who refused to serve in the military even though it would mean he’d end up with a five-year prison sentence. I guess he thought he was making a statement. Jail’s not for me, man. There’s no shame in moving here. Canada’s beautiful, and I got my whole life ahead of me.”
She liked thinking of her country that way, as safe and welcoming and offering a future, but she’d never forget what her father had said about Canada making and selling weapons for war. It was difficult to reconcile both sides.
They heard eager, raised voices when they were about a block away from the TADP office, and Davey picked up his pace.
“What’s the office like?” she asked, keeping up.
Davey was practically glowing with excitement. His olive-coloured shirt was unbuttoned halfway down his chest, a headband wrapped around his head to keep his long brown hair out of his golden eyes, which shone with anticipation.
“It’s swinging, man. Not too big, but it has a groovy vibe.” He grinned. “We got a map of the United States on the wall, and we stick a pin in every spot where an American is coming from. On another wall we have a big peace sign made of old draft cards. Some are charred on the edges, like they tried to burn them. So cool.”
When they arrived, she realized that he’d held back in his description of the place’s decor. The first thing she saw was a plastic chicken hanging from the ceiling with the phrase “Chicken Little was right!” written on it. One wall held a huge poster of Bob Dylan, surrounded by posters, cartoons, sketches, poetry, and more. Brochures lay stacked on the windowsills. On top of an old bookshelf, she spotted a photograph of a soldier in uniform. The poor man looked exhausted. She couldn’t help thinking of Joey and the horrific scene he had drawn for her in his latest letter, and a knot tightened in her throat. Joey had done more than his time down there. Extending the original six months to thirteen had been insanity. He should come back now, before it was too late, if it wasn’t already.
“Here. Take this outside. I’ll be right there,” Davey said, handing her a placard. MAKE LOVE NOT WAR , the flowery sign suggested. The o in love was drawn like a heart, with a downward fork cut straight down through it, forming a peace symbol.
“Did you choose this sign specifically for me?” she teased. “Because I’m happy with another theme, you know.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it suits you. Can I bum a smoke?”
She reached into her bag for her cigarettes, and he stuck one in his mouth as he grabbed another placard.
“Davey?”
Sassy stepped out of the way as a small blond girl with a severe look about her mouth entered the office then walked directly to Davey. He lit up at the sight of her. Just as quickly, that happiness melted into an expression of guilt.
“Hey, Christine.” He bent down to give her a kiss on the cheek. “So cool that you came. Thanks.” He glanced at Sassy, and it dawned on her where the guilt was coming from. “Christine, this is my, uh, very good friend, Sassy. Sass, this is Christine. I’ve told you about her, right…?”
He hadn’t, but she let him off easy. She’d had a hunch. She had smelled cheap perfume on him before, and it was the same as the scent wafting off Christine right now.
“Of course. Far out.”
Davey might once have been laid-back about things, but these days he seemed more like the Tasmanian Devil in the Looney Tunes cartoons, and not just because he was always hungry. Outside of being with Sassy, he was working evenings in the Chez Monique kitchen, organizing protests and functions at the TADP, and now she knew about Christine.
With her hunch confirmed, she reluctantly accepted that she and Davey were better as friends and said nothing more about it.
A half dozen kids came into the little office then, squeezing her against the wall, and Davey nodded a welcome. “Pick a sign and wait in the back. There’s a crowd there already.”
They followed his orders without hesitation, and she felt a rush of pride for him.
Christine stood unmoving, watching the goings-on. “What should I do?”
“It’s almost time,” he told her, scanning the office with a frown. “I just need to…”
Sassy recognized his expression. It was kind of like when she was in a rush and had to go somewhere but couldn’t remember what she was forgetting.
“Your bullhorn,” she suggested.
“Far out, Sass. You’re the best.” He grabbed it off a shelf. “All right. Let’s go.”
Sassy didn’t miss the way he took Christine’s hand in his—or the victorious expression on her face when she glanced at Sassy. The two of them headed out, and Sassy followed, wondering how on earth Davey had connected with such an arrogant girl.
For a while, Davey walked between them, striding up Spadina Avenue with a bullhorn in one hand and Christine’s hand in the other. At the back of the group, some of the girls carried bundles of daisies, which they handed out to people they passed along the way. Eventually, Davey and Christine moved up to lead the two dozen or so protestors. Sassy lagged behind. Backing off was the right thing to do, but still, it was hard to see him so happy with someone else.
From the front, Davey started calling out slogans on his bullhorn, and the group eagerly parroted his words.
One, Two, Three, Four! Tell me what we’re fighting for! Sassy yelled over and over, more sure of herself with every step. She only stopped when her voice started to crack. She had to make sure she didn’t strain it, since she was singing again in a few nights. Someone lit up a joint and passed it to her, restoring her enthusiasm, and Davey switched to Make Love, Not War!, so she waved her sign and chanted along.
Like the love-in at Queen’s Park, their peaceful protest felt dreamlike, with all the colours and smiles and brotherly love that held the group together, all the singing and chanting and daisies, all the fingers held up in Vs. It was as if society’s rules didn’t matter for a day, and the protestors owned the city, preaching the message to everyone they met. Pedestrians paused midstep, taking in their procession, and when they turned east onto Bloor Street, Sassy saw photographers aiming at them. Still buzzing from the marijuana, she made sure to wave and smile.
Near St. George Street, a beautiful blond woman across the intersection caught Sassy’s eye. She was wearing a suit and walking the opposite way, though she’d stopped to observe the protest. Still following the group, Sassy admired the woman’s elegant, organized appearance. Something about her reminded Sassy of the yellowing photographs of her mother, once upon a time, framed liked museum pieces on her father’s mantel. She wondered where the woman was headed, with her shining hair drawn into a disciplined roll and her hand curled around the handle of a serious-looking black briefcase. She looked important. Sensible. Poised. Such a contrast to the messy joy that emanated from the protestors. For just a beat, Sassy wondered what it might be like to switch places.
The group stopped walking, and because she hadn’t been paying attention, Sassy bumped into the boy in front of her. From her tiptoes, she saw Davey in the lead, with Christine standing beside him, but he was blocked by a half dozen policemen. When one of them moved his hand to the baton at his belt, Sassy started shoving her way through the protestors to stand at Davey’s side.
“Don’t you dare hit him!” she shouted at the policeman.
The young officer blinked, looking confused. “I wasn’t gonna. Not unless he asks for it.”
“He’s not asking for it! Why is violence your first resort?” She felt empowered and righteous, standing up for Davey and representing them all. They had every right to be here.
“Sass,” Davey murmured. “Let it go. Nothing happened.”
The weed was taking over her thoughts, playing protest music in her brain and suggesting to her that Davey was only saying that to keep her quiet, so she refused to be silenced. Had he missed the importance of this showdown, preoccupied as he was by Christine? They were standing up against The Man! This was a big deal!
“Of course something happened!” She stood toe-to-toe with the bewildered policeman. “I saw you. You were going to hit him with that stick. If you think the fuzz can just beat up innocent citizens, you’re wrong!”
“Miss, please step back.”
Davey sighed behind her as Sassy moved even closer. “I’m allowed to be wherever I want to be. I live here. This is my city, and I—”
“Miss, if you don’t move back, I’ll have to take you in.”
“Sass. Come here,” Davey muttered, tugging on her sleeve.
She felt a twinge of concern, then she disregarded it… and did the wrong thing.
“Oh yeah?” She put both hands on the policeman’s chest and shoved. “Go ahead!”
The next thing she knew, her wrists were cuffed, and her elbow was gripped by a policeman. She looked to Davey for guidance, but he appeared completely lost. As did everyone around him.
She was led to a police car, and the officer opened the back door then waited for her to climb in and sit. The cuffs pinched and bruised. The moment the car door was closed, Sassy’s world became very quiet. Sick with shame, she watched out the window as Davey gestured toward her, negotiating with the police. He shot her apologetic glances while he did so, but she was painfully aware that none of this was his fault. She’d let herself get out of hand. She had to stop smoking pot. It always made her do stupid things. This time, she had really done it. She was petrified about going to jail. How was she supposed to tell her father about this? She was already keeping mum about the loss of her job.
Some of the others in the group were speaking with the police now, and her mortification grew.
Davey, it ended up, was powerless to save her. He pressed his face to the window and stared uselessly at her. The policeman returned to his car, and she burrowed into the back seat, wishing she could disappear from sight as he drove away from the crowd. He looked young, she thought. His straight black hair, neatly trimmed above his collar, carried no grey, and the eyes reflected in the mirror were not yet lined by age. Her father would have approved: a young man with a responsible job.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Susan.”
“That was a dumb move, Susan,” he said flatly. “We weren’t even going to stop the protest. Just letting the leader know the parameters.”
Her shackled wrists ached. “I’m sorry I pushed you. You’re right. I was dumb. What happens now? I’ve never been arrested before.”
“You get one phone call. Call your lawyer, and he’ll tell you what to do. Maybe next time, think first, okay? You could still be out there handing out flowers if you’d kept your mouth shut.”
Inside the station, she was led to a telephone at the back of the police station, and the officer gave her a dime to make her call. Feeling painfully small and slightly nauseous with nerves, Sassy clutched the phone to her ear and dialed her father’s number.
“Hello?”
“Hi, Dad,” she said, feeling her resolve give way. So much for being strong and independent. She gasped in a breath. “They told me I am entitled to one phone call.”
“Who told you…” There was a pause. “Where are you, Susan?”
“I’m, um—”
“Please don’t say you were arrested.”
“I’m sorry, Daddy,” she whispered.
“What happened?”
“There was, uh, we were… I was at a protest.”
A long, exasperated sigh travelled through the receiver.
“I never thought that—”
“I can’t believe this.”
“I’m sorry! Please, Dad. Don’t leave me in here. I messed up. Please give me another chance.”
“Susan, it’s Friday. It’s a workday. How are you at a midday protest on a weekday? What’s going on?”
“Oh, Dad. I…”
She could picture him at his desk, drumming his fingers on the wood surface, torn between his love for her and the sheer frustration he felt. The two of them had been so close when she was small. He’d had such big dreams for her, and he’d always been there when she needed him. But Sassy had let him down many times.
“I lost my job,” she said quietly. How could she ever tell him what had happened with Mr. Brown? It would break his heart.
“What?! When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Dad, please. Not now. I just want to get out of here. It’s awful here.”
“I want to know what happened with your job.”
“Later, Dad, okay? Please?” She caught her breath, tears burning. “I can’t talk about it here.”
“But why—” Her heart twisted, hearing his exasperation. “You will explain it to me later.”
She was full-out crying now. She faced the wall so no one in the police station could see.
“I’m sorry, Dad. I really am.”
He sighed. “Last chance, Susan. I will get you out of there, then you will live up to your end.”
She leaned her back against the wall, bracing herself. She felt sure her knees were about to give way. “I promise.”
He hung up, and she was led back to a cell. On that long walk down the cement hallway, she silently prayed. Please, please, life. Don’t make me break that promise.