Kicking The Sky Part 13

"I want to forget him. Start fresh."

"Can you?" Edite asked as she lifted the gla.s.s of wine to her lips.

"Nothing happened."

"Nothing?" Edite giggled.

"I love my family. I'm not going to throw that away."

"When are you going to be honest with yourself, Georgina? You deserve more."

"I have my children to think about. It's not that easy."

"There's a way you can have it all, you know."

The floor creaked as I shifted my weight. Their voices grew softer.

"I'm going," I said, loud enough so they wouldn't think I'd been spying.

"Okay, filho," my mother said. I wanted her to stop me.

As I walked down the narrow path to the garage door, my thoughts bounced around. It's the right thing to do. Another step. Soon, Pai will be happier. Me will love him again. I moved closer, almost there. He's giving it to the church. Adam said I didn't have to be afraid-they just needed to believe in something. Just don't close your eyes.

When I stepped inside the garage, I was met with a flurry of hands signing the cross. Some people genuflected. Then they tried to touch me, my hair, my cape, anything. After the needle incident my father had pushed the ropes farther from the door. He stood in his pressed suit at the front of the line, holding the rope in his hand, traces of worry across his face. Things had become bigger than he'd expected.

I stepped over the frozen limpet and sat on the chair. I looked at the crowd in the garage. There were more people outside, mumbling the novenas of the rosary. Everyone's thumbs keeping count to the rhythm set by Roy Orbison, who sang of candy-coloured clowns and sprinkles of stardust.

My father nodded, then unhooked the rope.

The first person in line, an older man with few teeth, shuffled along the floor with his cane. I guessed that the two women at his side were his daughters. They held his elbows and lowered him onto his knees. He whacked their shins with his cane to shoo them away. "She needs to leave me," he said in Portuguese. "My wife haunts me," he whispered, as if she might be listening. "My wife's been dead for fifteen years. I was always afraid she'd go to another man's bed in the middle of the night. That's why I beat her. Now it's my turn not to sleep."

My father had suggested ways for me to speed things up. At the thirty-second point, I could press my thumb to their foreheads and whisper a prayer, "even if they're still talking," he said. Or I could wave the sign of the cross in the air to get the crowd going and encourage lingerers off their knees. "Whatever works," he said, and I knew he didn't care. My father raised the handle again, before setting it down on the record with a pop and scratch. The baseboard heaters had been turned on; ribbons of orange glowed at the foot of the walls. I was getting drowsy in the heat.

The man sobbed. One of his daughters tried to get him up, and he swung his cane and hit her thigh. She stepped back. He wasn't going anywhere. I felt the crowd getting restless. I saw my father urging me to do something. I slowly reached out my hand. I wanted to close my eyes, but I fought the urge. My thumb pressed to his forehead and I made a tiny sign of the cross. The man grabbed me by the wrist and kissed it, wet kisses, his stubble p.r.i.c.kling my skin.

Minutes dragged on for hours. People kept falling at my feet, but the line never seemed to get any shorter.

I stood up, struggled to untie the cape at my neck. The sounds drowned out. I swallowed my spit to see if my ears would pop, but the stale air in the room was making me sick. I only saw sombre faces, the crowd swaying in unison. I wanted to close my eyes, but Adam had said when you close your eyes you get swallowed up. It was only when I lowered my face that I realized it was James. He had made his way through the crowd and was kneeling in front of me, a fisherman's cap on his head, his blond ringlets poking out from under the rim, his blue eyes looking up at me.

My eyelids flickered and then the light went out.

I wasn't sure how long I was pa.s.sed out. Someone was fanning my face, the circulation of air giving me the breath and the strength to open my eyes once again. "James?" I whispered. The faces in the crowd were blurry. "Where's James?" My father stood up and looked over the crowd. I could have said something then. I said nothing. I scanned the room of faces for James. The visitors had parted, stepping aside for someone to enter.

"Padre Costa," my father said, ears red as the priest came into focus and stood in front of the limpet and me.

"Manuel, it's been a while," Padre Costa said. He lifted his heels for a second, then stood again, smiling like the Cheshire Cat. "Antonio." He nodded. I wanted to throw up, but I managed to sit back in my chair.

We all knew how conceited he was. He must have been at least sixty but he still used Grecian Formula and had his teeth capped. According to Manny, he tanned in the rectory's backyard in a Speedo. He prided himself on knowing scripture but he would often get names wrong or mixed up. No one dared correct him. It wouldn't have made a difference.

"I was wondering when you'd drop by." I was thankful my father had found his voice.

"I received a visit from one of our parishioners the other day, one who understands the sacrifices made and the hard work that goes into heading such a faithful congregation." He swept his hands back to indicate the people behind him. " 'Have you heard?' this trusted friend asked."

"Heard what?" my father pushed harder.

"Of the gift. The miracles Antonio Rebelo performs. The effigy of Jesus in a lapa."

He was so close I could smell his strong cologne as he whispered in my father's ear. "There is nothing here, Manuel. I won't let you profit in the name of Jesus."

My father looked him square in the face, then whispered back so that no one but Padre Costa and me could hear. "How much do you want?"

"For my blessing?" Padre Costa answered. "Half."

My father grasped Padre Costa by the shoulder and squeezed hard. "Never."

The sound of a guitar strummed and Roy Orbison's voice grew louder. Padre Costa spun around, shook my father's hand from his shoulder. The music blared from the speakers. Someone must have, intentionally or otherwise, cranked up the volume, a repet.i.tion of It's over ... It's over ... It's over ...

"Shut it off!" Padre Costa yelled, holding up in his clenched hand a wooden cross the length of a pencil. He raised it above his jet-black hair, high up in the dusty air. "Heavenly Father, they gather here in your name but they are misguided. Let us pray. Heavenly Father, your forgiveness will lead your flock."

My father manoeuvred around the crowd and reached under the chair for the limpet. He scrambled to his feet, wrapped the block of ice in my cape, and tucked it safely under his arm. He opened the door that led to our house.

"Antonio!" I got up from the chair and brushed past Padre Costa. "Take this and go inside!" My father pa.s.sed me the block of ice. "You'll be safe inside."

The people who remained in the garage looked hungry, as if they wanted to lunge for the lapa. Touch it; kiss it. They could have all rushed at me and torn me apart like savages. But Padre Costa had challenged them to choose and they were undecided.

"Now, Antonio!" my father barked. I stood there, stunned, until he pushed me out the door and closed it behind me.

- 7*

DOWN IN THE BAs.e.m.e.nT, I lifted the lid of the box freezer. Light filtered out and lit up my hockey pyjamas. My father had told me that the light shut off when the lid was lowered, but I didn't believe him. Since I could remember I had toyed with the idea of climbing in and lowering the lid, just to see. But what if I couldn't open it again? I'd freeze between the rump roasts and the pork ribs.

My arms dove into the freezer and turned some frozen quail over. The birds clicked together like rocks. I saw the butcher paper marked Rosbife. I lifted the package out and unwrapped the paper, but then I heard a sound, someone walking to the bathroom. My father's clammy feet smacked on the ceramic tiles in the upstairs hallway. I waited for a flush, the sound of water gushing down the pipes buried behind the wall. My father returned to his bed.

I held the block of ice and spat on it. I rubbed the frostiness off the surface. The limpet sh.e.l.l floated in the middle of the block. It had lost some of its colour, so brilliant when it was fresh, like gasoline in a puddle of water, it was now grey and murky, the actual outline of Jesus and the shaded features had faded. People see only what they want to see. My mind filled in the blanks, traced the figure of Jesus wearing his crown of thorns.

I heard my father in the hallway again. He stopped at the top of the stairs. I carefully tucked the block of ice under my arm like a football and straddled the lip of the box freezer. It was going to be tight. The bas.e.m.e.nt light flickered on. I looked around the room one last time, saw my father's white feet appear on the top step. I took a deep breath, slinked into the freezer, a piece of meat jabbing at my a.s.s. I lowered the lid until I heard the sucking sound of the seal. It was pitch-black.

I panicked. What if my father looked in the freezer? How would I explain it? What if he didn't leave? I'd have to come out or else I'd freeze. What if I couldn't lift the lid from inside? I couldn't hear if my father had left but I knew I couldn't stay in there longer than a minute or so. I decided to count from one hundred backwards. As I counted down I thought of hot things, the beach and the sun. I was so scared I wanted to pee. I thought that might warm me up only for a little bit until it froze against my skin. I was almost at one. I took in a deep breath and pushed up on the freezer's lid. He had gone. And then it hit me: I had to get rid of the sh.e.l.l. I wasn't quite sure how to do it. I couldn't flush it. I couldn't hide it. Shivering, I tucked my tongue between my clicking teeth. I placed the sh.e.l.l back in the open freezer. For now. The glow from the freezer spread across our table. I saw a purple ring soaked into the tablecloth. I shivered as I traced the ring with my finger and tasted the wine on my tongue.

On my way home from school, I saw Adam coming out of Future Bakery. "Hey!" I yelled. He didn't walk away like he used to. He reached into his bundle buggy and offered me a bun like a magician would pull a rabbit out of his hat. I smiled.

I shifted the weight of my backpack and waited for him to say something. When he didn't, I tore into the hot bun. His lump looked bigger, more purplish. And yet he remained so calm; the only still thing as the wind rattled everything around us. Adam grabbed the handle of his cart and turned away from me. He raised his steaming bun in the air without looking back. A goodbye, I thought.

I smiled all the way to James's place. I found him chomping on bacon, tearing at the chourico he had pitched on a fork. I hadn't brought the food over but I recognized it as our dinner the night before. Ricky sat cross-legged on the rug and folded the laundry.

"Why are you here? Aren't you sick?" James said, sopping up liver sauce with cornbread and stuffing it in his mouth, a little bit of gravy pooled at the corners.

"Who brought the food over?" I asked.

"Your sister," Agnes said. "I saw her leave it in the usual spot. I explained to James that maybe you weren't feeling well and you sent her over." Her eyes got big, urging me to play along. "You must have forgotten." She resumed humming in her rocking chair, which didn't rock; she had placed some stones under the runners, secured the chair so it stood reclined but firm. The housedresses she wore, all dark with tiny floral prints or polka dots, had been stolen from her mother's house and could barely zip up. She looked much older than fifteen. She watched James eat.

Strips of orange hissed along the garage floor. November meant the baseboard heaters would be on for most of the day. I sat on the trunk across from James. I could feel the lock pressed up against the back of my knee.

James side-saddled his chair, pointed his fork at me. "What did you tell your sister?"

"Nothing. She's not stupid you know."

"You don't have to bring food around anymore. Tell your sister that too," he said. "I can take care of things." He lowered his eyes, brought the meat on the fork to his mouth, and chewed it slowly.

"Just wanna help," I said.

"That's very nice of you, Antonio-" Agnes began before James raised his hand to shut her up. She pushed herself out of the chair and went to the ladder, but then changed her mind. Instead, she went to the counter, picked up a wooden spoon, and stirred red Kool-Aid in a plastic jug.

"You need to drink milk!" James said, slapping the table with his open hand. His voice softened. "For the baby."

Agnes stopped stirring. She placed the wooden spoon back on the counter. She returned to her rocking chair, lowered herself slowly into the seat, and pulled the blanket up to her chin. Her knuckles formed eight b.u.mps on the blanket as she held tight.

"Why's he in a bad mood?" I whispered in Ricky's ear. James was always with Agnes or Ricky or Manny, and I could never catch him alone to ask him why he'd come to my garage. I had a feeling his s.h.i.tty mood had something to do with that night.

"I'm not sure," Ricky whispered back. "Hey, you still mad at Manny?"

"What do you think?" I couldn't help the suckiness in my voice. "The s.h.i.t dresses up in a velvet cape and goes out for Halloween with a cross on his chest flashing a d.a.m.n lapa he's made out of cardboard. a.s.shole."

"He was only kidding."

"Have you seen your friend?" James said. "Adam, is it?"

"Who's Adam?" Ricky said.

"He'll be okay." James got up from his chair and stood in front of me.

"I'm sorry," I said. I knew I had to apologize for pa.s.sing out the night he came to the garage. He came to visit me to be absolved for what he had done to Adam, for letting the anger in him bubble up to the surface. It was embarra.s.sing for both of us.

James placed his hand on my shoulder. "Let's all go see a movie, huh? My treat."

James stepped over to Agnes and whipped the blanket from her. He looked like a whole bunch of electricity had just been shot into him. He teased Agnes, tried to help her up and dance a kind of jig with her.

"You go," she said.

He wouldn't take no for an answer, tried to twirl her. Ricky kicked the trunk with his heels, giggled like a little kid.

"I just want to take a hot bath at the house," Agnes said. "I'm always cold."

"Go," James said, spanking her b.u.m. "But wait until it's dark, okay?"

"I can't come," Ricky said. "My father hasn't been sleeping well." He started to fold the clothes again, carefully pressing the creases down with his hand. He had two piles going: one was James's and the other belonged to Agnes. I fought hard to not think of the way Ricky handled their clothing. These were the things that touched Agnes's skin and brushed against James's body. "He gets up a lot during the day and he likes me to be there, just in case he needs something."

Senhor Anselmo and his brother were painters at the College Park shopping centre and had both been told they weren't needed any longer. I had overheard my father telling my mother that Poom Pooms, Amilcar's father, had also lost his job. Things in the city were slowing down. My father blamed it all on Emanuel's murder-it had poisoned the city. My mother said it was a curse.

James turned to me. "That makes it you and me, kid."

Edite was coming over tonight to look after us. My mother had taken another shift, and after my fainting spell my father suggested we shut the garage for a couple of days until I got my strength back. I knew Edite would cover for me.

"What about Manny?"

"He's out for the day. He's doing a little something for me." He wiped his hairy forearm along his chin and cheek and flung his parka over his shoulders. His eyes peeked out below the fur-trimmed hood and you couldn't rub out the smirk on his face. Ricky had gone with him to the army surplus store to buy the coat. Ricky said James had been impressed with all the zippers and hidden pockets. Sold.

"You're growing fast," James said, a bounce in his step as he looked down at my feet.

My cords were short, a good two inches above my ankles. I was taller and felt stronger. My throat had been sore, at times I squeaked, and I had noticed that hair was growing in places, fine golden hair. My big toes pushed at the suede of my Roots Earth shoes.

We got on the eastbound streetcar at the corner of Bathurst and Queen. James guided me to the back. He plopped himself on the long back seat, stretched out his legs as if the whole streetcar was his.

I looked out the window, up to the needle tip of the CN Tower. It was just over a year ago that a helicopter had hovered above the tower, dangling its final piece, and the city froze. Manny, Ricky, and I had stood in the middle of our street. People got out of their cars like zombies and gathered together to look up. The tallest free-standing structure in the world. We could do anything now.

The streetcar rattled along the tracks: Resendes Fish Market, Shoppers Drug Mart, Army Surplus, and Duke's. Woolworth's had signs announcing it was shutting down. In between we pa.s.sed rows of stores that had already closed. For Sale signs were plastered everywhere. We pa.s.sed Spadina Avenue and trundled toward University Avenue, past City Hall and Nathan Phillips Square, now empty, the rally long forgotten, nothing changed. The skating rink would open soon. A few kids were walking along the subway grates, their jackets puffed up with air as they threw their hats up into the sky. I counted how long the hats hovered in the air before veering off and crashing into the sidewalk. "I'm sorry I pa.s.sed out the other night," I said as we approached our stop. "I saw you and I don't know ... things kinda closed in on me."

"It's okay."

We got off at Yonge.

"I was surprised to see you there."

"Forget it," he said, flipping his hood over his head.

"Why'd you come?"

"Doesn't matter now," he said, walking away to the intersection. We walked up Yonge Street, across from the Eaton Centre and all its gla.s.s. "Imperial Six okay?" James said.

"What are we watching?"

He didn't answer.

As we crossed Shuter Street I looked over my shoulder to glance at Ma.s.sey Hall. The Good Brothers had played there last week. Terri only blared disco through the house, practising the latest steps printed on the inside cover of K-tel's Disco Dynamite alb.u.m. I liked Queen, whose concert at Maple Leaf Gardens the night before had sold out. James didn't know they were my favourite band. I didn't tell him because if he knew he'd find a way to get tickets, and then I'd feel like I owed him. Besides, I'd feel doubly bad when I turned him down. The concert was at night and my mom would never have let me go.

"The Terrace roller skating rink is down there." I pointed east. I could see the north wing of St. Michael's Hospital. It had been a long time since I had visited my parents at work, my father proudly ushering me past the huge statue of St. Michael before taking me to every department, parading me in front of all the nuns who ran the place. He had been the housekeeping supervisor. Things hadn't worked out. That was three years ago, before he bought the truck.

We finally arrived at the outdoor square, underneath the Imperial's marquee panels.

"There's Star Wars. It's still playing," I said. "Or what about Close Encounters of the Third Kind?" I stared at the poster of the big s.p.a.ceship with all its lights coming over the horizon.

Soon we were sitting in the theatre, a large bag of popcorn between us. When I reached for my drink under my seat, my cheek rubbed against James's arm. The hairs on my head tingled and I twitched, the static in my legs and down to my toes felt like swarming bees. The last time we were alone was in my bas.e.m.e.nt. I tried to watch the movie. Our hands touched as we dug for popcorn. I felt a pinch in my groin. The second time it happened the pinch turned into a knot. By the third and fourth time I found myself thinking about when to dig in so that our hands would touch. I tried hard to focus on the screen-on the actor in the movie looking out into the suburban neighbourhood he lived in, and everyone going on with their everyday lives, as they always had. Then James leaned in against me, his shoulder lowered to touch mine. I closed my eyes and then something exploded in my head, the image of blood being spilled a few buildings away. Emanuel's blood.