Kicking the Sky (12 page)

James cocked his elbow and was about to backhand Manny, but Ricky sprang from the grass and ran into the crowds.

“Ricky!” I shouted. “Wait!”

He was too small to see and all I could do was follow in his direction. I was happy to hear James panting alongside me, and Manny bounding up behind. In the dizzying heat, I broke through near the Grandstand, its aluminum bleachers packed with people, their heads to the sky watching the air show. I heard the slam of jet noise and I covered my ears. A spooked police horse was calmed by the officer riding him. “I know where Ricky is!” I ran ahead. I could hear the thud of feet behind me.

In the dark, cool space, the smell of horse shit mixed with that of straw. Flies buzzed. Horseshoes clopped on concrete. The metal stall gates clanged.

At the end of one of the rows, I saw Ricky stroking the massive animal. I moved closer—the blue ribbons nailed to the stall door—and saw the horse’s cock almost reaching the ground. “Ricky,” I whispered. James and Manny were suddenly beside me. I took a step toward Ricky, but James’s arm shot out, his hand spread out against my chest to stop me.

The horse looked to the side, its head down.

James drew in his breath. Ricky nuzzled the horse’s chin and leaned his shoulder under its massive barrel chest. “It’ll be okay,” Ricky whispered. He stood on his toes, reached way up and patted little clouds of dust from the horse’s neck. “Everything will be okay.”

M
Y FATHER HAD BEEN
out all day excavating Senhor Melo’s basement. My mother and Aunt Edite sat on the crushed-velvet sectional as my sister painted their toes. Edite had ordered a whole kit from Avon and signed my mother up to help her make some extra cash. Worm-picking season would be over soon. School was a few days away, and after my shitty time at the Ex, that first day couldn’t come any faster. Manny and Ricky and me would get back into our routine, we would forget about James and leave Emanuel’s murder behind us. It had been five weeks since his body had been found, but people still kept their windows shut and their doors locked. Our neighbours, who once lugged their lawn chairs up onto our porch to chat and share stories, remained behind their closed doors. Fights were breaking out all around our neighbourhood—broken fences, property line disputes, mean gossip—old hurts freshly opened. And there were arguments about whose kids were being raised properly and whose were doomed.

On my lap I cradled a bowl full of limpets in their flattened, cone-shaped shells, a delicacy fresh from the Azores. They had only recently come into season, sticking to the rocks along São Miguel’s shore. The ones that were covered in hairy algae creeped me out so I tossed those to the side, but I cut the rest. Their pale yellow flesh squirmed, their
edges ruffled as I slashed the muscle that attached them to their shell.

“Slow down, filho. You know how much those things cost? Your father would kill me if he knew.”

I had to eat them with buttered cornbread to stretch them out. Senhor João, the fishmonger, charged a hefty price for Azoreans to smell and taste the ocean. Home, my father always said.

“Eat up, Antonio. It’s your birthday,” Edite said.

“I bought a cake for you,” my mother said. “I know it’s late, but with work and everything … anyways, Senhora Estrela made sure the ladies at the bakery made it with extra icing.” The mention of cake and I couldn’t help but notice my mother’s breasts coned like party hats.

“Twelve. I remember when my Johnny turned twelve.”

“Ouch! Filha, you’re tearing my skin with those things.”

“Mãe,” Terri whined, “I need to push back the cuticle so the polish goes on evenly.”

“No colour. Just a clear coat or a very pale pink. You know how your father gets.”

“Where is he?” I asked, my mouth full of limpet and bread.

“He said he was running late. He should make it home for some cake. We have to finish soon. I don’t want him to walk in on us like this.”

“Relax, Georgina,” Edite said. “It’s okay to be pampered every once in a while. You need to take care of yourself.”

My mother said, “The city hired a man to close down the sex shops. It’s all we talked about at work today. They’re going to clean it all up.”

“Craziness,” Edite said.

“I read the politicians are scared they won’t get re-elected,” Terri said, crouched at my mother’s feet. “They’re freakin’ out.” She had been wearing the same Bay City Rollers jeans with their red tartan cuffs for the whole week, ever since she scored tickets to the concert. Suck up, I thought. Anything to impress Edite.

“Nothing good will come of it,” Edite said. “Now the owners are forcing the girls who work for them to sign an affidavit naming politicians they’ve serviced.”

“Edite!” my mother said, shaking her head as if to shush her.

“What? They’re old enough.”

After the Ex, I had gone to Edite to ask her about Agnes and Senhor Batista. I thought she might know the whole story. She always did. She tried to explain it to me, how it was that a father, even a stepfather, could have done that to his kid. But she couldn’t explain it to me in a way that made sense. She was so angry that the right words just weren’t there, she said. She did manage to say that she wished she could cut off Senhor Batista’s dick. I asked Edite why Agnes couldn’t live with her. Edite said she had offered but James got protective; he said he’d be the one to take care of Agnes and the baby.

I wanted to shock my mother with what I actually knew. About James. About Ricky. About Dr. Patterson. About Agnes. But then I figured my mother already knew who fathered Agnes’s baby. She said nothing because they had their lives and we had ours.

“It’s going to be a war zone,” Edite said.

“Even the inmates at a prison gathered over three hundred dollars for the I Give a Damn Fund,” I said. “It’s thirteen thousand dollars now.”

Both my mother and sister turned to me. Terri smiled; she knew Edite was feeding my curiosity about the murder case. Limpet juice ran down my chin. I dabbed my mouth and chin with my bread.

“Money isn’t the answer. It doesn’t change anything,” Edite said quickly, before my mother’s concern about where I had learned such a thing could form into questions. “We should all try to think happier thoughts,” she said.

My mother looked from me to the picture of Jesus that hung over the TV. The image would blink at you depending on where you were standing. His chest would close, the skin sealed over his heart, then open as he blinked. I would shake my head back and forth just to see him blinking, the scar healing, over and over.

“I heard Senhora Gloria and Senhor Batista are going back home,” my mother said. “They’re not feeling very safe here. The city’s changed. They’ve decided to go.”

“I guess that’s a happy thought,” Edite said.

The limpet I was chewing got stuck in my throat. I gagged and coughed.

“Yes, it is,” my sister said. “Senhor Batista is a pervert.”

“What about Agnes?” I said.

“Senhora Rosa says she has gone to live with her father.” Agnes’s father had beat Senhora Gloria so bad that she slept with a knife under her pillow. That wasn’t a reason for divorce in our community, and according to my father, Senhora Gloria got her marriage annulled—which meant they were never really married—only after signing a hefty cheque to the archdiocese. So Senhora Gloria had left her husband because he was abusive, and yet she would leave her daughter with him? That’s
how concerned the neighbourhood was about their children’s safety? Hypocrites, I thought, knowing it was the correct use of one of the words I had studied in the dictionary.

“Mr. Wilenski’s house is still up for sale,” my mother said.

“Poor man. They’re both so spooked they won’t tell anyone where they’re moving to. Everyone’s afraid—”

“Fear is a terrible thing,” my mother said quickly.

Edite lit a cigarette. My mother fanned the air. “At least there’ll be a wedding soon,” Edite said.

“Who?” my mother asked.

No way James would marry Agnes without telling us. He didn’t have to marry Agnes; it wasn’t his baby.

“Eugene Daniel is going to marry that girl from the Continent,” Edite said. “She came up to me flashing her diamond ring. He bought it at Peoples Jewellers, the one at the Dufferin Mall, was all she said, twisting her hand in the sun to get the little twinkle.”

Terri laughed. “What an idiot.”

“They’re young and they’ll survive,” my mother said. “What’s love if it doesn’t jump over a few hurdles?”

A large, meaty limpet bounced in my mouth.

“Mãe, you need to get rid of the hair on your legs,” Terri said, her face contorted in disgust. “It looks horrible when you wear panty hose. This isn’t from Avon. It’s Nair with baby oil.”

“No! Once you do it you have to keep doing it. And the hair comes back thicker. I don’t have time for that,” my mother insisted. “I
work
.”

“But they look like angora leg warmers.”

Edite nodded to my sister, who opened the bottle of Nair and began to rub the sickening smell onto my mother’s legs.
“If you’re going to sell Avon to all those women you work with, you need to look the part.” Edite gently punched my mother on the arm. “Besides, you never know when you’ll meet a handsome man. A girl needs to be prepared.”

“Don’t talk foolishness, Edite.”

“You never know when a nice man, oh I don’t know, maybe a
doctor
, will take a fancy to you.” Edite giggled, nudging my mother’s elbow. My mother couldn’t look at me; I knew it was shame that flushed her face red.

The tension broke as my father entered the room. Edite threw a blanket over my mother’s legs while my mother scrubbed at her cheeks and lips with a tissue. Without a word my father slumped into his chair. He removed his hat. A thick red band encircled his head. He had little pills of spit in the corners of his lips, one on each side.

“What’s wrong, Manuel?”

“They took everything,” he said in Portuguese, softly, “everything.”

“Manuel?”

“Robbed me. All my tools—at least a thousand dollars’ worth of tools from my truck.” His eyes were bloodshot. When my father got drunk he fell into a mood deeper than the one that got him drinking in the first place.

“But you’re okay, right?” my mother asked.

“Nothing good ever happens,” he said, shaking his head before drawing in a breath and blubbering into his hands.

I looked down into my palm. I cradled a limpet shell, ashamed of my family, in that room, at that moment. My father crying. My mother, her legs burning with hair-removal cream, unable to go to him to comfort him and tell him it was
all going to be okay. Edite, who knew everything, but couldn’t seem to stop any of it from happening. I stabbed my knife into the limpet’s flesh. It was a big one and the muscle tightened hard, then relaxed. I slurped up the meat, sucked the juice, and rolled it all with my tongue before swallowing.

The blues and purples swirled in the empty shell. The glare from the TV bounced into the shell and something took shape—slowly, at first—the image of a man with sad, droopy eyes and a crown of thorns digging into his head. I looked up to the blinking picture—a carbon copy. It had to be a reflection, a trick of the eye. I tilted the shell away from the TV’s glare. I shifted again, all the while holding my breath. Jesus’s face remained.

I dragged myself along the carpet. I placed the limpet in my mother’s hand. She looked a bit confused by my offering in the middle of my father’s crisis. “Mãe, look!” I said.

“Not now, filho!”

I reached up and cupped her cheek in my hand, directed her face down to look at what lay in her palm.

She dropped to her knees. The blanket slipped from her legs, patches of hair coming off with it. She raised the shell to her lips and kissed it. I scanned the spinning room, saw everyone looking at her as she swayed. Her lower lip trembled as she made the sign of the cross, whispering her prayers up to the light fixture.

“A miracle!” my mother wailed, her entire body trembling. “Pai Nosso, que estais nos céus, santificado seja o Vosso nome …”

My father shakily got up and picked up the shell from her outstretched hands. He looked at it, then at me. “It’s a sign,” he said. “A sign!”

“What are you talking about?” I heard Edite say.

“It’s what everyone’s been waiting for,” my mother whispered.

“The record!” my father shouted. The album’s sleeve was already in my hands. I bent over the stereo and lowered the album onto the turntable. I cranked the volume to high. I opened the drop-leaf panel, the light in the mini bar lit, and I poured my father a shot of
aguardente
. “Make mine a double, Antonio,” I heard Edite say. I could not look back. The handle, with its taped penny for added weight, swung over the record and into the fine grooves.

My sister grabbed the bottle from my hand as she brushed past me. She filled each shot glass to the rim. “Look what you’ve done now,” she whispered. She bundled the shot glasses in her hands and turned to offer them to everyone.

I walked over to the window. I drew the sheer curtains aside, looked out onto our empty street. JFK’s inaugural speech began to thunderous applause.
We observe today not a victory of party but a celebration of freedom …
The record was scratchy. The hairs on my neck rose, standing at attention as my mother’s prayers and my father’s tears crowded the room. The window was sweating. I made ticks on the glass with my finger—twelve candles with flickering flames atop each. I sang “Happy Birthday” in my head and pretended to blow them out.

Trapped Star
^s

“
He tells himself, ‘My flower’s up there somewhere …’ but if the sheep eats the flower, then for him it’s as if, suddenly, all the stars went out. And that’s not important?
”

ANTOINE DE SAINT-EXUPÉRY