Kicking the Sky

by Anthony De Sa

  I looked into her face. It was round, like my father’s, and you could barely make out her light eyebrows and eyelashes, and no matter what she did to her hair—home perms, washing it with eggs, molasses, or beer—it always looked limp and fine.

  “Ricky won’t be there,” she said, reading my mind. “They don’t put kids in the slammer with adults.”

  “I need to know if he’s okay.”

  “It’s called patricide, you know. When a kid kills his father. I’m studying for my English exam. It’s what Zeus did to his father, Cronus.”

  “I don’t care what it’s called. It’s not his fault.”

  “It’s what lots of kids think of doing but you never tell anyone or they’ll lock you up in the mental hospital.”

  “Enough! I gotta go.”

  Every time she leaned in for another pass at my eyelashes, the pressure on my chest increased.

  “Zeus wanted power and control so he killed his father. It’s what men do when they have no power. I know, I know, Ricky didn’t want power. He’s not like you and your pal Manny.”

  “You’re nuts!”

  “If I tell you something, you promise not to tell?” She didn’t wait for a yes. “I’m going to get away from here. Soon. I wasn’t meant to live in a box. Edite says so. I’m going to New York. I’m going to be a dancer.” She had a fire in her eyes that made me believe her.

  “Dad’ll kill you.” I squirmed into a better position to throw her off me.

  “You ask me, I think Ricky’s dad had it coming to him. I saw her, you know,” she added. My sister smiled as if the information was delicious.

  “Who?”

  “Agnes. Late one night, crossing the street from her house and going into the lane.”

  “So?”

  “Where’s the baby?”

  I tried to look relaxed. I knew the question would come up sooner or later, and I had practised what I would say when it did. But I stammered and then thought it was best just to shut up.

  “She had the baby, didn’t she?”

  I had been holding on to the secret for so long I thought I was going to burst. I puffed out my cheeks to pop my ears.

  “Did she give it away for adoption?” I could tell the tears were building.

  “Ask Agnes,” I blurted.

  “I wouldn’t blame her if she did.”

  “Or why don’t you ask Edite. She tells you everything.”

  “Edite’s been a bit weird lately.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For starters she looks like crap,” Terri said.

  “Once she finds Johnny—”

  “There is no Johnny, stupid. Now hold still.” Terri gripped my jaw while taking another swipe at my eyelashes. “Long and thick.”

  “What do you mean about Johnny?” I said.

  “You don’t know?”

  “Get off me!”

  “I thought you knew. He’s dead. He was killed in Vietnam. I heard Mãe and Edite talking about him ages ago. Around the time Emanuel was murdered.”

  “That’s bullshit.” My heart pounded and the blood swooshed between my ears. Another lie. I was so stupid.

  “I got to tell you, brother, you may have gotten the eyelashes but thank God I got the brains.”

  “Are we done?”

  “Maycomb had nothing to fear but fear itself.”

  “What the hell—”

  “To Kill a Mockingbird.”

  Terri took three or four pumps of the tube before she dropped the gooey brush on my eyelashes. They were so heavy with goop, they almost stuck together.

  “Edite snooped around, called some of her contacts at 52 Division, and word is they’re not going to charge Ricky. It’s a sin to kill a mockingbird, you know.”

  “Where is he, then?” I stopped moving. Why didn’t Edite tell me where they were holding him? He was my friend.

  “They found his mom back in São Miguel. He’s going to live with her.”

  “When?”

  Terri sat back, admiring her work.

  I scrambled to stand up, knocking Terri onto the carpet. She twisted to a sitting position, placed the wand back into the tube, and screwed it tight. “I’ll call the school,” she said. “You’d better go.”

  Manny wasn’t in James’s garage. I saw a hash pipe on the kitchen table, next to an ashtray. The sweet odour of tar was in the air. I waved my hand over the stubbed cigarette butts. They were still warm. I knew Manny was doing deliveries for James near Vanauley Walk and the Project area. Diversification, James called it, ever since bike season ended. I didn’t know what the hell he meant. All I knew was that Manny didn’t deal with any money, only with a list of addresses he would visit and drop little brown bags into mailboxes. James did the collecting.

  I found myself at Senhora Gloria’s house, crouching outside Agnes’s basement window. Before I went to the courthouse, I wanted to be the one to tell Agnes about Ricky. Through the lace curtains I could see her, limp and rubbery in James’s arms. He wore an ESSO suit with a sweater that was too small. His roughed-up construction boots poked out from the hem of his pants. He was dancing with her. But he was the only one dancing. They were moving slowly in circles as Agnes’s toes dragged across the floor. He kissed her forehead. The strip of fluorescent light bulbs caught the scar that lined his jawbone. He was crying.

  I slapped the window, the pain shooting up the heel of my hand. Agnes did not flinch. James turned and looked straight at me.

  I took off through the lanes. I thought of going to see Edite first, but she had lied to me about Johnny. I knew I couldn’t count on her anymore. No one paid attention to me as I ran. I ran hard and the snot began to freeze on my upper lip. I hopped onto the road because it was salted. Most of the cars swung wide around me but a few came close to sideswiping me, forcing me back onto the sidewalk.

  I pushed through the large doors of Old City Hall and ran up the marble steps. I rubbed heat into my thighs.

  I wasn’t sure where to begin. Who could tell me where Ricky was being held? I needed Manny. I could have used his no-nonsense questions, as if he was owed answers and they better give them to him.

  “Could you help me, please?” I grabbed the sleeve of the first cop I saw coming down the stairs.

  “You lost, son?” he said.

  “I want to see my friend, Ricky Mendonça. Can you bring me to him?” I sounded like a helpless six-year-old.

  “You a hustler, kid?” he said.

  “No, sir.”

  He squatted in front of me and raised his thumb to my cheek. I flinched back, wouldn’t let him touch me. “You usually wear mascara?” he said. A lump built up in my throat and it hurt when I swallowed. I didn’t know what to say or do.

  He stood up. “Follow me.”

  We walked down the wide corridors. There were people everywhere, walking or sitting on benches or being dragged through the hall; a girl being tugged by her mother whose arms were covered in cigarette burns like polka dots; tall men grew taller dressed as women with glitter platform heels and big hair, their skin smooth and nails long and painted; drunks flopped their heads down between their knees; small clubs of what looked like Chinese store owners yelled at men in suits who were trying to explain things to them, their lawyers, I thought. People wearing thick boots slapped down the slush they had trailed in. The wet wasn’t allowed to stay on the floor for long—men were at work with their mops, swirling piney disinfectant. The janitors were all Portuguese, I could tell. It was more than their complexion or the way their jaws jutted out slightly. Their hands bore the five-dot tattoo. Those who served in the army in Africa, in Angola or Mozambique—the blood bath, my uncle Clemente called it—all sported the five blue dots tattooed on their hands, near the webbing between their thumbs and pointer fingers. Five dots for the five wounds inflicted upon Jesus during the crucifixion.

  The cop led me up to a door with a window of frosted glass. It was like in the movies, the door that reads Private Investigator. I
expected to see the silhouette of a man in a fedora on the other side, smoking. But the room was simply a lounge painted minty green.

  “Sit down, son. I’ll get you some water.”

  I heard the gurgle from the big water jug, and I allowed myself to fall back into the couch and close my eyes.

  “Is Ricky Mendonça here? You brought him in yesterday.”

  “You’re burning up, kid.” I was too weak to swipe his hand away from my forehead.

  “He lives on Markham Street, his father fell down—”

  “The Portuguese boy? He’s gone, son. They’re flying him home.”

  I got up and reached the door. My chest felt like it was going to collapse. I could feel the tears pinching at my cheeks.

  “Hold up there, buddy. I’m giving you a ride home.”

  I opened the door.

  “What school do you go to? Where do you live?”

  I don’t know how I made my way out of Old City Hall, how I fought past all the people in the hallways, the shouting, large light fixtures that guided me out through the marble halls and past the fancy iron railing onto the front steps, out into the cold. I didn’t care about being seen crying; no one knew me. I crossed Bay Street and went over to the subway grates in front of Nathan Phillips Square. The last time I’d stood on the same spot was the afternoon of the rally in August. A blast of warm air filled my jacket, puffed me up like a balloon. If only I could lift off with a gust of wind from the subway vents, strong enough that I could latch on to a plane’s belly and fly all the way to the Azores where my mother said it was always warm and green and where I could be with Ricky.

  I faced the new City Hall. On the other side of the skating rink, I caught the flash of a red scarf. I used my sleeve to swipe my tears and snot.

  “Adam?” I cupped my hands to my mouth. “Adam!” He did not turn. I ran, pushed through all the people putting on skates or lining up for hot chocolate. This is where he once worked, City Hall library. It had to be Adam and he was alive. The speck of red reappeared every so often. It was like the movie they showed us at school, The Red Balloon, where the boy makes friends with a red balloon and then follows it on its journey. Adam let me call him by his first name. He’d help me make sense of everything.

  I came into a clearing, around the entrance of the new courthouse. Police stood guard as reporters and camera crews wrangled thick cables and wires, setting up cameras on tripods. There were trucks parked outside, their antennas twirling in the cold air. They each had chosen a spot somewhere in the square, set themselves up to bring live news into everyone’s home. I had almost forgotten this was the first day of the Emanuel Jaques trial. A woman passing by drew her kids close to her legs.

  I picked up the trail of Adam’s red scarf before it disappeared down a side ramp, around the corner of the building. I stumbled once but dusted myself off quickly, just inside the underground garage. “Adam?” I called out. But there was no Adam. Suddenly, a caravan of police cube vans whizzed by me, then braked. There were four of them, all lined up. A chain rattled as the parking garage door closed slowly. Fluorescent lights flickered as the cops got out. They moved casually to the back of their vans, undid the latches, and then flung open the doors.

  Out hopped the prisoners, each from a separate wagon. They barely looked at each other. The police officers handled them roughly, twisted them around by their arms and directed them to a large elevator door. There were two cops for each handcuffed man, one on each side. There were no prison-issue jumpsuits, no paper slippers. These criminals were dressed in suits and thick-knotted ties. Their hair was long.

  I stepped forward, right underneath a flickering fluorescent light.

  “Hey! How did you get in here?” An officer laid his hand on his holster.

  I took another step forward. Everyone stopped.

  “Stay back, raccoon boy!” a cop hollered. The other cops laughed, deep man laughs.

  “Leave now!” a cop demanded, taking a couple of steps in my direction.

  The killers were pushed toward the elevator. One looked back. Saul Betesh’s eyes burned into me. His lips cracked open just a bit, enough to see the flash of some teeth. He winked. Little boy with the pretty hair, would you like to play? I peed, the warmth spreading down my inner thigh. I caught an image of myself in the window of a parked car. Black mascara lines crawled down my cheeks.

  — 2 —

  IREMEMBER MY MOTHER wiping something cool and soft across my forehead and temples. I wasn’t sure how long I had been out, but now she was gone.

  “How are you feeling?” Edite whispered as she leaned over to fluff my pillow.

  “I saw them,” I mumbled, razor blades slashing my throat when I swallowed.

  “Shh, it’s going to be okay. Nightmares can’t hurt you.”

  “Where’s Mãe?”

  “She had to go back to work. It’s been four days, Antonio.” She wrung a cloth over a bowl, draped it on my forehead. “The fever’s breaking. You’ll be fine in no time. Here, she left you some octopus stew.” Edite crinkled her nose as she lifted a spoonful of stew. “She said it was your favourite.” I pressed my ear to the pillow and tried to hold back the tears until the lump in my throat hurt. I couldn’t hold on. I turned to my side, buried my nose in the pillow in the hope I’d find a trace of her smell. My mother had spent four whole days with me but I couldn’t remember any of it. I wanted my mother, her hand on my forehead. I needed to feel her touch.

  “I’m not hungry,” I said into the pillow. I heard the scratch of Edite’s lighter, the faint burning sound of tobacco being lit, and I took in the whiff of her cigarette.

  My head felt heavy. I closed my eyes for a little bit, let go just enough so that I slipped away into a dark quiet.

  Their hot breath nipped at my neck. They clipped at my heels. I couldn’t look back, I was too afraid. They laughed a deep gut laugh, the kind men share around suspended pigs as they hack them to pieces. I breathed in some spit and choked. My heart raced as I ran, arms pumping pistons. I hoped something would come down and pluck me from the concrete, lift me up, away from the men with no faces. A kite—the one I had almost given Ricky for Christmas—whipped into view. It shot across the blue sky, and then dipped from side to side over rooftops. I traced the string down until it met with a tiny fist. Ricky’s skin was dark like it got during summer, hair shiny like wet tar. I ran toward him. The men kept chasing me, their fingertips pinched at my shirt, callused hands brushed my neck, my arms. Tiny bolts of electricity ran through me and I wanted to close my eyes. Blood gushed across my temples. “Hey pretty boy with the golden hair,” they chanted. But before I could surrender to their rough hands, I glanced at Ricky, who smiled and held his finger to the sky. I stopped, looked up, and found a baby, a tiny grey baby—Mary—flying at the end of the string. The baby danced in the wind, swooped above our heads, her thin arms outstretched. The men could not touch me; a force field held them back. Ricky tugged on the string and the baby seesawed down like a leaf, drifted into Ricky’s arms.

  I found a newspaper at the foot of my bed. It was Thursday, February 9, 1978. I didn’t know time could move like mud. I located a story about Luciano Jaques, Emanuel’s older brother, who was fourteen and had testified that his brother was lured from their shoeshine spot by the promise of making thirty-five dollars an hour to help move movie equipment. The hope was that in two days they’d be able to make a total of four hundred dollars. But it didn’t make sense, I thought. No one pays that kind of money. He should have known. That’s when it hit me. Maybe Emanuel did know; maybe he understood that the man wanted something more.

  Emanuel’s brother went on to describe what Saul Betesh wore that afternoon: long denim overalls, no shirt, just bare skin and light brown boots. James was wearing almost the exact same thing the day I found him whitewashing the inside of his garage. The fine hair on the back of my neck tingled.

  From the get-go, one of the accused, Robert Kribs, pleaded guilty. The Crown attorney told
jurors, “The treatment received by Emanuel Jaques at the hands of his murderers is nothing short of a horror story.”

  The phone rang. It rang at least ten times before I figured I had been left home alone. I swung my Jell-O legs out of bed and held on to the banister all the way down the stairs to get to the hallway phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Meet me at James’s,” Manny said.

  “What for? Manny, I don’t—” I was speaking to the dead tone of the phone pulsing back.

  I was feeling slightly dizzy but the sensation was slowly coming back to my legs and feet. It didn’t matter how I felt, because it wasn’t like Manny to hang up the phone. I knew I’d have to hook up with him, figure out what was so urgent.

  I pulled a pair of jeans over my flannel pyjamas, stuffing the pants down. I stepped out into the laneway through our garage. There was a shine in the alley that looked like wet stones. The quiet of winter would last until the Festa do Senhor Santo Cristo, five weeks after Easter. Then our garages would be cleaned, scoured, and washed with water and bleach, ready for tables to be set up for the feast, and all the neighbourhood would gather to talk about back home. I wondered if Ricky felt like Portugal was his home now, if he ran into his mother’s outstretched arms, like it was the place he should have been all along.

  My head was still groggy when I arrived, and I could barely lift James’s garage door over my head. The electric heaters were on full blast, hot orange glowing off curly coils. It must have been a hundred degrees in there. “Manny?” I wasn’t very loud. I waited for a sound. Cups and beer bottles and plates were piled up in a bucket on the floor. When I kicked the bucket, a veil of black lifted; flies were all over the place. “Manny?” I hoisted myself up the ladder to the loft. I stood up in the tallest part of the loft space, where the peaked roof joined. It looked smaller to me, more crammed than I remembered. The sheets on James’s mattress were all rumpled and smelled of jeans that had been worn too long. When was the last time Manny had washed them? I had stopped bringing James food weeks ago. Instead, I delivered what I could to Agnes in her basement.