It was the white lady in the muumuu. She pushed some man wearing a UFC bandana and a leather jacket into the shelf again. Boxes with images of smiling Black women in shower caps came tumbling down.
The lady managed to throw him down and began pushing into his face with every word. “I ... told ... you! She’s ... gone! She ... left! Can’t do nothing ... about it, asshole!”
“Get off me, you fat pig!” She held him down between her legs. He was clumsy. Maybe drunk. His punches were weak.
“That’s a nice massage you’re giving me, fuckface.”
Mr George, knowing a good Scarborough fight when he sees one (and knowing the possibility of either party carrying guns), casually turned on his heels and led me to the back of the store while the fight continued. He held my wrist and crouched down. He waved his hand in his old man way for me to do the same, so I did. We were like those soldiers you see in war movies, hiding in the jungle, only we were hiding in the kids’ toy section. Dart boards. Rattles. Pretend guitars. Light up yo-yos.
Over the PA system, we heard “Can the manager come to the front, please?” The cashier was in hysterics. The police sirens were already blaring. The customers still lined up, waiting to make their purchases.
“What? You can’t ring me through?” said a man with a basket of party favours and balloons.
“Not now, sir.” The cashier seemed torn between the growing lineup and the police officers who were entering the premises.
“But it’s my niece’s birthday party. We gotta get going. I don’t give a rat shit about this fist fight. This is the most pitiful fight I’ve ever seen.” The rest of the lineup began to chime in.
“Come on!”
“If we have cash, can we just leave it on the counter?”
“The police are here now. Just ring us through!”
From the back of the store, the manager emerged in a cloud of marijuana smoke from his hot-boxed office, his eyes half closed.
“Okay, everyone. Let’s stay calm. Nobody panic,” he said, trying desperately to look sober. Everyone stopped to look at the manager, baked as hell, his man bun high atop his head.
By the time the muumuu lady and bandana man were handcuffed and escorted out, I had decided on a light-up yo-yo for my purchase. Mr George and I calmly waited in line like everyone else, as if nothing happened. Just another day in Scarborough. As the lady in front of us said, with one hand pushing her cart full of crayons and Do-It-Yourself birdhouses while the other patted her hair weave, “Drama!”
CORY
A Black woman stood outside Everyting Taste Good Caribbean restaurant as Cory and Laura were walking past on their way to the No Frills grocery store. A hair net enveloped what seemed to be a perfect coif, and her stained apron covered her wide hips. She looked directly at Cory and he stiffened, wondering what she was going to ask for.
“You want free chicken?” she asked, to his surprise. She held out a vacuum-packed bag of eight perfectly good chicken legs. “It’s curry.” A bucket of similar bags labelled “Cow Heel,” “Chicken Pelau,” and “Curry Goat” sat at her feet. Diminishing ice cubes swam about in the bucket.
“Excuse me?”
She looked him up and down. “They’re spicy.”
Just as Cory was about to grab the bag from her, her cellphone rang. She reached into her apron to retrieve it.
“Yes? Uh-uh ... Yes … Well, I’m out here right now giving it all away before the expiration date.”
Cory stared longingly at the bag of chicken in her hands, now cocked on her hip like a baby. His stomach grumbled. The chicken would shave a big chunk off his grocery bill this week. More money for other things, like ciggies and beer.
She continued her phone conversation as if Cory and Laura weren’t even there. “Yeah, the freezer system is still warm as an armpit ... Must’ve been out all night. All the meat was soft and wet ... No ... My dimwitted cousin can’t repair the thing until next week.”
Cory shifted his weight from foot to foot, wondering if the woman would give up the chicken or not. He flashed a look at Laura who was listening carefully to the woman on the phone. The woman reached into the pocket of her apron for a plastic bag just as a young Black boy opened the door to the restaurant.
“Speaking of dimwitted, here’s my nephew ...”
“Auntie Winsum? I don’t know how to change the paper roll for the receipts.”
Her face contorted into a look of disgust. “I am on the phone, Melvin! Can’t you see these kind people waiting for chicken?” She gestured to Cory and Laura as if they were royalty. “Just go get the masking tape and put up the decorations. I will be there in a moment.”
Melvin grinned at Cory and Laura, then headed back into the restaurant.
With her phone still set between her shoulder and cheek, the woman spread an Oldham’s Wholesale plastic bag wide and placed the vacuum-packed chicken inside, then wiped her wet hands on her apron. Just as she was about to handle the chicken to Cory, she placed it back on her hip. “I’m telling you, this is the last time I hire family to work here. I don’t care if he is studying culinary arts at Centennial College. How about a diploma in common sense?” She laughed at her own joke and glanced sideways at Cory, who was glaring at her. Winsum kissed her teeth and finally handed him the bag.
As they walked away, Laura looked back at the skeleton and mock tombstone décor on the restaurant’s window.
“Daddy?” Laura asked quietly.
“Hurry up!”
“Daddy?”
“Come on. Pick up the pace. Once word spreads about their freezer, this entire place will be flooded with niggers.”
He turned to find his kiddo staring up at him, not knowing what to say.
“What is it, Laura Loo?”
“I need a Halloween costume.”
“Well, what do you need that for?” Cory asked, rain making crystals on his eyelashes.
“For Halloween.”
Cory sat by the supplies shelf in the literacy centre, his eyes wandering between Laura, eating Cheerios, and the bag of clothes labelled “free for the taking” in indelible marker. Surely there had to be something in there.
“Are you okay, Cory?”
Oh great. It’s her again. Cory turned his gaze from the plastic bag toward Ms Hina.
“I think ... I think Laura might need some spare pants. Just spare pants. I think she sat in some milk. I’ll clean them and bring them back tomorrow.”
“She seems to like the fairy costume. That green one over there with the wings.”
Ms Hina pointed to the wooden shelf standing at a tilt, its screws loose and two of its seven hooks pointed upside down. On it was the coveted fairy costume, wings and all, in a stiff tulle mess.
“I think the skirt would go down to her knees to cover the stain.”
She knows there’s no stain, but she’s playing along. They’re all so sneaky. She knows what I’m looking for, Cory thought to himself, knowing, had she not intervened, he’d be slipping a Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles T-shirt on his daughter and calling it a day.
Had it been the nineties all over again, Cory would have already taken a bat to the centre, like he took a bat to those tables at the Scarborough Town Centre food court. Those towelheads didn’t see it coming, it was so funny. Had it been the good ol’ days, Ms Hina would have known her place just by seeing his shaved head. Back then, Peter, who made all the decisions, decided the lot of them would go into the mall to scare a few folks and take their food. Kill two birds with one stone. They got to scare the shit out of a bunch of Pakis, and they got to be fed. Because God knows, they were hungry. By the end of the night, the gang of four gangly teens were clinking beer bottles to toast a job well done. One wallet with enough cash to buy booze and cigarettes. A half-eaten poutine. A bucket of KFC chicken.
Peter took a swig of beer, then rubbed Cory’s newly shaven head like a proud father—maybe like a father—Cory wouldn’t know. It just felt good. “Next time we raid, we’ll hav
e enough money to get you some ink. You want a tattoo like mine?” Peter rolled up his sleeve to reveal an Iron Cross on his forearm.
Cory rubbed his head, feeling his hair, now greasy and overgrown. Peter’s voice, a fleeting echo. Cory was an adult now, no longer a homeless teen, and Ms Hina was facing him with a kind smile on her face.
“You’re more than welcome to take the costume, Cory.”
He hated hearing his name. The same name as the dad he never knew. He snatched the costume off the rack feeling foolish and clumsy. Who did she think she was, telling him what to do?
Ms Hina started storytime with all the children sitting cross-legged.
“Brown Bear Brown Bear, what do you see?” Ms Hina and the other rug rats began reciting in their singsong way.
Cory nudged Laura, her nose and tongue wiping the bottom of the bowl for any remaining milk. She got up from the table and pulled up her pants. Cory took the empty bowl and tossed it into the sink.
“Let’s go,” he said, putting on Laura’s My Little Pony backpack. “I fucking hate this book.”
LAURA
It was lunch time, and Laura held the magic letter h in her hand. Every letter makes a sound. Letters together make a word. Words together make a story. While she waited for the school’s side doors to open so she could sneak in, she reviewed in her head all the words she would tell Ms Hina.
“Happy.” As in “Happy Birthday,” which Mrs Landau and all her classmates sang to her on October 2. Everyone looked at her, clapping and singing. She did not know it was her birthday. She got to wear a birthday crown and got a Happy Birthday pencil from Principal Sankiewicz.
“Halloween.” As in Halloween costume, which Ms Hina let Laura borrow. It was a bit tight around the crotch, but if Laura spun around fast enough, the skirt lifted up and made a spaceship circle around her waist.
“Have.” As in have and have-not. Clara, the snobby girl, told Laura that Rouge Hill Public School is a have-not school.
“Health.” As in health card, which Daddy stood in a long lineup to get for Laura. It finally came in the mail. On it, her birthday was clearly printed “October 2, 2005.”
A teacher exited the premises through the side door, struggling with the zipper on their fall coat. Laura snuck in. She made her way to Ms Hina’s room, her tummy grumbling.
“Did you have lunch?” Ms Hina was sorting plastic pretend food into pretend grocery carts. Several toddlers took turns going through a tent tunnel, laughing. In a corner, a caregiver changed a baby’s diaper. Laura shook her head. Ms Hina went to the cupboard and grabbed a granola bar and a banana. She handed them to Laura with a smile. “Does this look like something you’d like?” Laura smiled back and exchanged the food with the foam letter in her hand.
“You remembered. Okay, let’s hear what words you came up with.”
Laura put her palm to her mouth, to feel the exhale of air with every word. “Huh–huh–happy. Huh–huh–have. Huh–huh–Halloween. Huh–huh–health.”
“Good job,” Ms Hina put up her hand. “High-five. See, that starts with h, too!” Laura high-fived her. Ms Hina went back to the cabinet and grabbed another foam letter. This time it was the letter u.
“This is the letter u, and it makes this sound: uh–uh–up.” She placed it in Laura’s hand. Magic. “Okay, off you go.”
Laura ran down the hallway, giggling.
“Hey, slow down, miss.”
BING
In the Philippines, it is customary to trace someone’s foot onto a piece of paper, cut it out, then go shoe shopping without the shoeless person needing to come. I always found this practice bewildering. Why not bring the person along? How accurate can a paper cut-out be for finding footwear? But by and by, Ma did this for the family, and the shoes always fit perfectly.
The same goes for Filipinos and shopping for pants. Why try them on when you can simply wrap the waist of the desired slacks around your neck? Why bother reading the sizing label on a stack of socks when you can wrap the socks around your fist?
It was only when I found the Ziploc bag containing the tracings of my father’s feet that I felt his absence. The same indelible ink used to label the bag “Pa’s shoes, Florsheim, size 10” was used to make the palimpsest that was no longer Daddy. A shadow of a shadow of a shadow of a whisper.
My tears were finally unleashed in the dramatic fashion of Filipino mourning, like lacerating a boil so the infection could heal.
I remember as a young child watching, for the first time, the novena being recited in honour of my uncle’s death. The repetition, the sorrow expressed in every rosary bead, the pouty-faced Mother Marys at every turn of the page in the novena prayer book were enough to make one wail. And that was the point. Just short of screaming at the deceased, we were, as a community, telling Tito Ferdie to leave us. Leave us behind, look forward into God’s embrace, and walk. Walk far away from us. Even though, in our hearts, we wanted the person to be alive, we knew that if we didn’t encourage the spirit to pass into the afterlife, it would linger, and it would worry about us.
So I cried. I cried until my cries turned to wails. The louder, the better. Go, Daddy. Go and walk. To the other side where you will feel better. It felt right to treat his parting like a death. It was the death of everything I knew.
I admit to having fleeting fantasies of becoming the first Filipino country music star. This is, of course, second to my fantasy of becoming a saint. But since Ma informed me one has to be dead to become a saint, a country music star seems to be the best bet.
In my kamiseta and underwear, in front of the washroom mirror, my dream comes true. Under the glow of the overhead lighting, I sing the lyrics to the song that my daddy would hear. His son. No longer chubby and ugly, but handsome and thin.
He is sitting in a bar, having recovered from being mentally ill, now earning an honest wage and looking with honest regret at his past and everything he had done to us. Then, on the bar’s television screen, I appear, his handsome and thin son Bing, now known by his stage name, Boy Delacruz, singing to his long-lost father.
The camera catches a glimpse, underneath my Stetson hat, of my misty eyes. The quivering lip behind my adult stubble. I speak, my voice low and sombre: “This one, this song is special. It goes out to my daddy. Wherever you are.”
My daddy almost loses his balance as he stands up from the bar stool.
“That’s my son! That’s my son! And he’s so handsome and thin!” And then I sing.
We’ll leave the light on outside our home
So in the darkest nights you’ll know you’re not alone
We’ll leave the light on outside our door
Daddy, that’s what family’s for.
The sighting, of course, leads to our reunion. The reunion leads to our doing the things we always did before: food court meals, ice cream trucks, see-saws.
It is a splendid fantasy, complete with American Idol judge remarks, love affairs, unwanted paparazzi, you name it.
But another fantasy is brewing. And it makes me think I am abandoning my daddy each time I imagine it.
It was Halloween, and Ma compromised on my costume.
“It’s too cold to be a saint.” She explained about Canadian cold, which was two-years new to me.
So she allowed me to be a priest. It was cheap: one piece of white masking tape on my black turtleneck. It was warm: black fleece pants and an oversized overcoat, making me look like a plush version of a missionary. She used Dippity-do to slick my hair to the side and drew a moustache and beard on my face with her eyeliner.
“Now your name is Father Bernard.” Ma smell-kissed my forehead and handed me my lunch.
I took the lunch bag full of stinky, half-warm chicken adobo and rice, both of us laughing in our apartment hallway. “Saint Bernard!”
Ma’s finishing touch for my costume were my props. A black paper-covered notebook to look like a bible. A sleeve of haw flakes, to play communion.
Before bell at the literac
y centre, I told Sylvie to line up. Ma helped me open the haw flakes, then ceremoniously gave them to me. “Sige na, go play,” she said with a smile and simultaneous roll of her eyes.
I got a good whiff of the Asian market’s fishy smell still on the paper sleeve; the flakes themselves were a hybrid scent of raisins and brown sugar.
I held one round flake in my hand between finger and thumb.
“Body of Christ.”
Sylvie stared at me, perplexed.
“That’s when you say ‘Amen.’”
“Ohhh ...” she said.
I instructed her to keep her arms folded in front of her and to stick her tongue out so I could place the “communion wafer” on it. She obliged in fits of giggles. Then she stepped aside and behind her was Laura, the girl from my building, dressed in a fairy costume.
“Can I have some?”
“Sure. Stick your tongue out.”
Round and round they walked in a rotating line, until almost all of my haw flakes were finished. I made sure I took a wafer after every repetition. I knew priests did not do this. They served communion after eating only one wafer themselves, but the haw flakes were so yummy, I couldn’t help it.
“Where did all the Jesus go?” Laura said.
“It’s finished,” I said, scrunching the sleeve before putting it into the garbage bin beside mountains of Halloween chocolate bar wrappers.
Just before the bell rang for us to head to class, Sylvie’s mom pulled out a red lipstick to make Sylvie look like a Raggedy Ann doll. Her mom had managed to find an apron and had tied Sylvie’s hair into two braids. The final touch was the makeup. Her mom sat down and pulled her in and wrapped her legs around Sylvie to keep her from moving while she drew circles on her cheeks, then smudged them into a garish blush.
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