Kicking the Sky (32 page)

O
N
S
ATURDAY
, March 4, 1978, the newspaper reported how Saul Betesh had dismissed the twelve-year-old boy he raped, strangled, and drowned with a shrug and a rhetorical question: “What was Emanuel Jaques? I wasn’t thinking of Emanuel Jaques, except possibly before and possibly after. I suppose he was part of my fantasies.” He had smiled.

I sat atop Senhor Coelho’s rooftop. My chin nestled in the valley between my knees. I focused on the spot where Manny had landed. He had fallen far, and it was no wonder he had been hurt so badly. Spring was coming. I could smell it. For what must have been the millionth time, I scanned the horizon, skimmed across the surface of worn shingles and the madness of poles and lines and antennas like steeples reaching up to nothing.

“Antonio! Get down from there!” my mother yelled. My head snapped. I saw her coming through the laneway. I scrambled down from the roof, hand-dropped from the edge. I was dusting myself off when she got to me.

“I told you I don’t want you on top of those roofs anymore.”

“But—”

“But nothing. You’re not a kid anymore.”

She reached for me and tried to draw me to her. I took a step back. My mother turned to look at James’s garage with disgust.

“You stay away from that man, you hear me? I just came from Edite’s.” She let her words float a bit, and something in me knew that Edite had told her everything about James and Agnes and Ricky and how it was that James had wiggled his way into our world. I had been avoiding James. There had been no sign of him for five days. I assumed he had packed up his things and had taken off with Agnes. “Edite wants to say goodbye to you,” my mother said. “She’s leaving, today.”

Edite’s convertible turned into the laneway from the top, near Adam’s burned garage. The white ragtop moved down the laneway and turned into her parking space, where she kept it covered all winter. My first thought was that James might be driving it; maybe he hadn’t left yet and he got it tuned up for her before she left on her long drive back to the States. I walked sheepishly along the car’s side. The driver’s window was half-opened and smoke was coming out.

A large black man sat in the driver’s seat, the white of his eyes like bone against his chocolate skin. He sat all bundled up in his coat and scarf, smoking a cigarette, one of those stinky American ones Edite smoked when she first got here. I managed to catch a whiff of his aftershave. The back seat was stuffed right up to the roof with garbage bags.

“You must be Antonio,” he said, his voice deep and strong like wood. He reached out his hand to take mine. I took it and shook. His huge hand engulfed mine and made me feel safe.

“Mr. William?” I felt stupid the moment it came out of my mouth.

“That’s right,” he said, nodding. “Edite told me you were a bright boy.”

“Is everything okay?” I asked, nervously.

“Fine, fine,” he assured me. “Edite’s just collecting a few things before we head off home.” I nodded at him, then drew my hand back. I had to say goodbye to Edite.

She sat at the kitchen table, side-saddling a chair. A single plume of smoke curled up toward the ceiling. It hit me that it would be the image of her I’d always remember. Her hair was tucked inside a knit hat with a pompom on top. There was swelling under her eyes, which were fixed on one of the kitchen cabinets.

“It’s time to go,” she said, and took a long drag on her cigarette.

“I’m not mad.” It was only when I said it again in my head that I noticed how selfish that sounded, as if everything that had happened was all about me. “I mean—”

“There were so many things I should have been more honest about,” she said, turning to look straight at me.

“Where are you going?”

“Home,” she said.

I wanted to go up to her and hug her. Instead, I backed up to the door and the landing. “Why didn’t you tell me about Johnny?”

“Sometimes, the things we want most in this world we guard preciously. Saying the words may make it disappear.”

“I don’t have anyone to talk to.”

She exhaled her smoke. “Antonio, before I go I want you to understand something. Your father is a good man. He lost his bearings at one point in his life, that’s all. It can happen to any of us. I think we’re a lot alike that way.”

“My mother told you to say that.”

“No, I mean it. I did this to myself, Antonio.” Edite smiled a bit and it calmed me. “It was easy to do. The other day you stood here and called me a liar.”

“I didn’t mean—”

“No, you were right. And deep down it feels good to tell the truth because that’s the only way you can move on. So let me tell you the truth, or at least let me tell you what I remember because things aren’t so crystal clear in my head anymore, they’ve changed around a lot over the last couple of years. I lied so often that I convinced myself the lies
were
the truth. It just made everything easier. Johnny is dead. I don’t know if he was killed by a bomb or a rifle or by an enemy soldier. He was found dead near his air force base in Da Nang. The government swept the details under the rug. That’s what they do.” She rubbed her eyes. “It’s what I did.”

I moved to the chair next to her and sat down. Her lit cigarette was in the ashtray. She lit another one.

“They came to the door, two of them, all dressed in the standard military uniforms. I had just washed my hair and had set it in curlers.” Edite said the words as if it was happening all over again a few feet away from her in her kitchen. “I didn’t want to open the door for anyone, but I did. I shouldn’t have. I sat in the living room in my robe and I heard their words and things that didn’t make sense, that didn’t seem possible. The war would be over soon; he only had a couple of weeks to go before troops were going to be pulled.” She allowed herself a chuckle. “And all I could look at was the American flag, all folded and tucked in a triangle, carried like a pillow by one of the men. I wouldn’t touch it. When it was offered, I didn’t reach for it. They left it on the coffee table. I remember hearing
‘We’re sorry, ma’am,’ and wondering why they would use the word ‘ma’am.’ I wasn’t from the South. How many more flags did they have in the back of that car they drove up in?” A tear rolled down her face. She wiped her nose with the side of her cigarette hand, her eyes squinting with the smoke. A honk came from out back.

“That same day, I knew I had to leave before the neighbours came in with their casseroles all covered in plastic wrap. I drove around all over and went to places I had never seen before. The farther away from home I got, the less real things seemed to be. And the news that my Johnny was dead became just another story—it didn’t hurt so much. Took me a long time until I finally made my way here. I’m not sure why, but I figured it was all so fresh in my mind that I could reverse it somehow, turn back the clock and pretend nothing ever happened. It was easier.” Edite stubbed her cigarette out in the hill of ash. “I don’t like casseroles.”

After a moment’s silence she reached for me and swiped the hair from my eyes. “ ‘Christ robs the nest—robin after robin. Smuggled to rest!’ ” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.” Edite cupped my ears and pushed my head back. “You’re a good boy, Antonio.” She got up and pulled her leather coat over her shoulders like a cape. “Actually, you’re not a boy any longer, are you?” she said, opening the kitchen door. I stepped out onto the landing with her, our breath making clouds in the chilly air. She locked the door and placed the keys under the mat.

The beginning of March break brought flurries, even though a few warm days had fooled us into thinking spring was around the corner. I walked through the laneway alone. I
stopped at James’s garage, where tarpaper was flapping. The winds had picked up, and the tarpaper curled itself like a finger asking me to come in. It was a sign, I thought.

I willed myself to be the Six Million Dollar Man, with his bionic eye. I wanted to see far and through things. Better, stronger, faster. I stood in front of James’s garage, fought hard to have my sight penetrate the aluminum door. Finally, I grabbed on to the chrome handle, hesitated for only a moment, then twisted it and lifted, the door rattling over my head. The strips of electric orange were the first things that seared my eyes. The baseboard heaters lit up the space. I unplugged the octopus. I stood there, waiting for something. I wasn’t quite sure what. Much of what was once there was gone. The rug had been rolled up and pushed to the side, its fringe dangerously close to the heaters. The disco ball hung still. The blue trunk remained, its brass hinges and locks catching the light. I was stunned when I saw a familiar tray on top of the trunk. On it was a chunk of cornbread and some cheese, a large bowl and spoon. Beside it was the old tin my father had kept in the garage, the one that people dropped money into when they left; the same tin my father would set on the kitchen table every night before counting the takings.

I climbed the ladder up to the loft. The mattress had taken on the form of James’s body, and I lay down on it. I stared up to the peak in the roof, swirling dust—garage glitter, Ricky had called it once. I wondered what it was James thought of when he lay down here. I thought I heard movement below. “Agnes? James?”

“I’m feeling well enough to get out.” James was talking fast. He was short of breath as he lifted the garage door.

“I no want you here!” my father’s voice boomed. “You still no understand. I want you out. You get away from my son, from my family.”

There was nowhere to hide. I rolled off the bed and lay on my belly.

“Calm down. I would never hurt Antonio.”

“You no tell me to calm down.”

“All I’m asking is for my job back. I know—”

“I no need you!”

I was afraid to move. Looking down through a knothole in the floorboard, I was uncomfortably close and could see everything clearly. James had one arm bent and tucked close to his side. My father wore his best suit, a scarlet tie below his starched collar. He wore his felt fedora with the special feather and satin ribbon.

I tried to breathe slow. I still had my winter coat on and the loft was hot and stuffy.

“You need to leave,” my father said, his voice shaky. My father looked over his shoulder and saw the tray and tin on top of the trunk. He went over and opened the tin.

“My wife come already,” he said.

“You can take it with you,” James said. “It’s dirty money, made off the back of your own son. You’re the one who hurt him.”

“I make mistake. But I tell you I get rid of the lapa when I see Antonio hurt. You know that. And I live with my mistake. That’s why I here. You no going to make a mistake with my son. Stay away from Antonio, you understand me?”

I’d given James credit for destroying the
lapa
, but it had been my father all along.

“Antonio is a good boy. I won’t hurt him.”

“My wife tell me everything. She tell me what you do for money. You take this money and you go far away.” My father turned around as if that would be it; he had spoken and James would now leave. He stood in front of James’s painting.

“Is that it? You got all dressed up for that?” James’s voice had turned, become stronger. He took a few steps toward my father. James took off his jacket, let it fall off his shoulders and drop to the floor. My father appeared taller, face to face with James. That was when James’s voice became a whisper. He leaned in to my father’s ear and said something. My father’s eyes twitched as James squatted down in front of him. James reached for my father’s belt buckle. I felt cold and dirty. My father tilted his head up to the rafters. A sick feeling crashed in my stomach. I shouldn’t have been there. I had no right to be in his garage. I started to heave. What was my father waiting for? I tucked my knees up to my chest, tried hard to hold in the stream of drool that tasted like acid.

“I kill you!” My father drew back his elbow. Surprised, James lost his balance and teetered back. My father’s shadow crept over James. He held his cocked arm in the air, ready to let it drop and jab James in the face. I wanted to close my eyes but couldn’t. James lifted his chin to my father, invited him to punch. For a few seconds my father held his stance, but then his arm relaxed. He unclenched his fist and shook out his arm. Stepping over James, my father spat on the floor before staggering to the garage door. “You are garbage!” my father said, almost out of breath. “Take the money and go away.” My father’s voice grew distant as he walked into the laneway. James struggled to get up, then stumbled out after him.
I could hear them but couldn’t see them. I crept over to the tiny window that looked out from the loft onto our laneway. It was dusk but it was still bright. A dusting of snow had fallen like icing sugar. I craned my neck and peeked out. My father had just opened our garage and stepped inside. James remained in the laneway, standing crumpled and alone, soaked in the yellow light fanning out from inside our garage.

I
RETURNED THREE DAYS LATER
. There was even less left in James’s garage: the hot plate, a couple of propane canisters underneath the counter, the old kitchen table, and the blue trunk.

“You came,” James said.

I jumped. He had entered through the door from the backyard. “I thought you had left.”

“Not yet, but when I do I don’t want you to see me go.” He ambled toward the shelf near the hot plate. The crock, once filled with colourful bills, was gone. In its place was the tin my mother had offered.

“My father would kill me if he knew I was here.”

“So why did you come?”

“To make sure you’d gone,” I said, wondering if Agnes still fit into his plans somehow. “You going alone?

“Agnes is tagging along. Sit down,” James said. I looked around for a chair. James patted the lid of the trunk. He went and leaned against the table. “I’ve done some bad things. I didn’t mean to—” He dropped his face into his hands and exhaled deeply. “You were here, weren’t you? When your father came to see me?” He wiped his eyes, swiped at the snot above his lip, and shook his head in disbelief. “You saw everything.”