Scarborough

by Catherine Hernandez

  There was a heaviness in my heart. I reached into my pocket but only found a toonie.

  “Here. I’m sorry, that’s all I have.”

  “What the hell can I buy with that?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe some bread? I don’t know.”

  “I just need you to go in there and ask for the fucking free chicken. I don’t want bread, man.”

  I put the toonie back into my pocket. He was getting much too confusing. “Please, go home. The restaurant is closed. I’m sorry.” I reached out again and gently tried to steer him away from the door. He whipped my hand off his bomber jacket.

  “Get your hands off me.” I raised my hands up. I didn’t want a fight. “You think I want your fucking chicken? It’s probably rotten. That’s why it’s closed. Nobody wants your fucking chicken.” He tried to compose himself but slipped on the ice. I reached out to steady him.

  “Don’t touch me, you fucking faggot.” I froze. My jaw tightened. “I can see it all over your face. Get off me. Don’t touch me.” He slipped again. I wanted so badly to kick his teeth in, he was so close to my shoe.

  Instead, I said, “You’re a disgrace.” A fog lingered around my mouth after I said the words. “Your daughter deserves better. You are a disgrace as a father. Go home and change things. Or let her be fathered by someone else.”

  I left him lying on the ice, dumbfounded. I opened my car door, got in, and slammed it shut. I waited until he got up. He looked at me in way I wasn’t sure if he was rolling his eyes or trying to steady his drunken gaze, then stumbled across the street, a clumsy silhouette passing between street lamps. When he was out of my vision, my throat let out one sharp sob. I stifled it. I knew I wasn’t speaking just to him but to the ghosts of my past.

  I started the car and headed to Manse Road. Over train tracks and black ice, over snow mounds and ditches, to my special place. There was no time to peruse Craigslist casual encounters. I drove, despite having no snow tires, just for the slight chance that maybe East Point Bird Sanctuary would be happening.

  The gates to the sanctuary were rusted brown, framing an expanse of dark forest. The sky that hung over this clandestine meeting place glowed pink, like a beacon to all who gathered. I parked the Corolla haphazardly near a snowbank, half burying my weathered all-season tires. If I had to dig them out with my bare hands, I didn’t mind. I just had to go into the deep and dark.

  Realizing I was dressed for a holiday dinner and not for a romp in the snow, I opened the trunk to find my rubber shoe covers. Standing on one leg at a time, I managed to slip them over my leather loafers. I thumbed the bulge of condoms in the pocket of my trousers and adjusted my erection with the other hand. I marched through the snow, the crunch-crunch-crunch of the snow, to my truth.

  Like magic, through the thick bush a landscape of bodies emerged before my eyes. The last of this year’s leaves applauded the debauchery below as the wind ripped through the branches. What first looked like a few turned into many as they writhed, keeping rhythm with each other, making music of their sinfulness.

  I was surprised. I had been worried it would be slim pickings tonight, considering it was Christmas Eve. I was wrong.

  “Excuse me,” a young blond man who appeared from the bushes said. The bottom of his T-shirt was lifted up and tucked behind his head, revealing a six-pack and newly pink skin. He was putting himself together as he rushed past me. Steam rose from his body. Soon that would be me, I thought.

  I walked farther toward the dramatic waves of Lake Ontario and found a clearing. Here, there was more pink sky than forest. A couple of silhouettes stood in the clearing, kissing deeply. I was frozen in my wanting. My cheeks grew warm in the cold night air, watching the couple swallow each other up. They caught their breaths for a moment, their foreheads touching. They seemed to have just come up to the water’s surface, they were breathing so hard. Then they realized I, too, was breathing hard with them.

  I approached with trepidation. They stood looking at me, undecided, then offered a gesture of welcome.

  When kisses keep lips warm, when bodies merge to keep frostbite at bay, it’s exhilarating. This was our game. This romp under the pink sky of winter was survival. Skin bitten by chattering teeth. Cold dicks sucked inside the oven of mouths. Pants lowered and held tightly between calf muscles to keep them dry so that we could return to our wives with the guise of having gotten some fresh air. When, in truth, we were on a cliff overlooking the lake, bent in half over a rock, feeling the power of a complete stranger.

  We were the men who knew the power of blending in at cocktail parties, who kept our opinions neutral around the water cooler, who knew to nod in recognition at our wives’ stories.

  “Wasn’t Hilda’s garden an eyesore?” they might ask.

  “Yes, dear,” we would answer absentmindedly while checking Craigslist postings on our phones.

  We perfected the art of shuddering in disgust when told the new neighbour down the street was a proud homosexual, and we perfected the art of cumming in that proud homosexual’s mouth that evening in a park at a circle jerk coordinated amongst us. We held our newspapers up high, and we kept our activities on the down-low.

  But here. Here, we were naked from the calves up, thrusting our truths into the assholes of strangers. Here, I was thrusting my sorrow into the blackness of night, a memory of a disgraceful father.

  When we were done, we zipped our trousers back into place and headed back to our cars. I felt like howling at the moon. I always do.

  I returned to Everyting Taste Good, to my family silently eating Black Cake. I helped myself to a slice, without pomp and circumstance. From where I sat, I could see the handprint of that filthy man on the restaurant’s window.

  CLARA

  “Clara, stop staring out the window,” Daddy said.

  “Then why leave the curtains open all the time?” I asked before taking a step back.

  “Well, that’s so that everyone else can look in,” he said. “It’s good for the neighbourhood to see what a proper house looks like.”

  Even from this far away, I could continue spying on that island restaurant. Through the alleyway, between two sets of townhomes across the street from us, I could see a family sitting there eating. It was Christmas Eve.

  “Clara Jane Donohue ...” The way Daddy said it, I knew he meant business. I turned on the heels of my patent leather Christmas shoes toward my father, who sat at the head of our long wooden table, his middle finger swiping pages across his tablet. He didn’t even need to look at me. “Get away from the window or I will tell Santa to skip our house.”

  I played along. He didn’t know that my classmate Hakim had already told me Santa wasn’t real. At first, I thought he was just saying that because he is Muslim. But then Sylvie and Bing told me Santa was a lie too.

  Sylvie had told me one day after we played tag, “My mama said she couldn’t afford two gifts for Christmas, so she had to spill the beans. Plus, Mama says she’s tired of old white men taking the credit for things.” My eyes started getting all watery. I didn’t want to say goodbye to all those presents.

  I remember coming home that day and thinking about this for a long while. I sat at the top of the stairs watching my parents argue about how to put our holiday stockings on top of the gas fireplace without drilling holes into the rock surface.

  “Who the hell designs a fireplace with no mantel, Edward? Who?! What is a fireplace good for, if you can’t put stockings or family photos on it?”

  “Someone who would rather watch this high-definition television!”

  “You’re full of shit!”

  “You’re full of doughnuts!”

  My mom covered her lower belly with her sweater, embarrassed.

  I didn’t want to cause any more trouble by bringing up the Santa lie. If I kept pretending I didn’t know, I could continue getting extra gifts. And, really, Santa was just some old white man. My dad was close enough. Why make them even more upset?

  So, on C
hristmas Eve I played along and asked Daddy if I could see the app on his phone again. He sighed and pulled it out. It was a graphic of radar straddling a map of the world. On this map, a blinking light with a ping sound was supposed to be radar picking up the signal of Santa and his sleigh travelling the world, giving gifts.

  “There’s Santa!” I pointed eagerly on the screen. Daddy brushed my oily finger away, then wiped the surface of his beloved phone on his reindeer sweater.

  “That’s right, Princess.”

  I noticed the blinking light on the screen took its time over Europe, but when it moved over the continent of Africa, it zipped through.

  “Why did it just rush through Africa?” I asked.

  “That’s because little children in Africa are perfectly fine with sticks.”

  That explained it.

  Dinner was served, and my job was to wake Uncle Olly, who fell asleep looking for something to watch on Netflix. His legs were sprawled, and his mouth was wide open. I tried to close his mouth, and it shocked him into sitting up. As he rocked his body to a standing position, he asked me, “So, Clara, did you make cookies for Santa to eat?”

  I showed him a plate of chocolate chip cookies I made with Mom earlier that afternoon.

  Uncle Olly looked around, confused. “Where is Jason? Isn’t he coming down for dinner too?”

  My mom, whose back was to us while she carved the turkey, suddenly went still. She took a breath and kept carving. Jason was away, at least for now. He would be back. Not sure when, but some time, some day.

  Daddy opened the liquor cabinet looking for the bottles Mom and he had saved for the holidays. Some red wine they picked up on their last trip to Niagara. It reminded him of good times. He proceeded to pour into everyone’s glass except mine, with a little extra for himself. He thought I didn’t see him place the remains of the bottle at the foot of his chair, but I did.

  Mom kept going back and forth from the kitchen. She wasn’t as smooth as she usually was for family dinners. Back and forth she went, to bring something she had forgotten. Napkins. The gravy boat. The gravy boat with gravy in it. Her juice concoction, since she was off alcohol for her cleanse.

  I was already busy using my own fork to scoop pieces of turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, and all the other fixings onto my plate. My daddy slapped my wrist.

  “For heaven’s sakes, Clara. Show some decorum. Get serving spoons from the kitchen. Ask your mother where they are.”

  By the time we all sat down, my mom was handing out Christmas crackers of all different colours. Holding them between each other’s hands, we looked like paper dolls.

  My mom got serious. “Now that we are all holding hands—”

  “We’re not holding hands, Wendy. We’re holding Christmas crackers. What is it now?”

  “Edward. Will you please just let me finish?!” Mom took a breath. “I just thought that instead of doing grace before meals—”

  “We’re not religious, Wendy.”

  “I know that, Edward. There’s a difference between being spiritual and being religious, all right? I just thought it would be nice to each take a turn saying what we are thankful for and what we wish for in the future.”

  Everyone struggled to keep our crackers up with our arms.

  “Well, okay, I am thankful for this amazing food, and I wish we could eat it. Now, how is that?”

  “Thank you, Edward, for your brief and succinct participation. Okay, my turn. I am so very thankful that Uncle Olly has driven all the way from Bancroft to be here.”

  Uncle Olly turned to me and whispered in my ear, “So, Clara, did you make cookies for Santa to eat?”

  My mom continued, “I am thankful for having shelter in our lives, safety, my beautiful daughter, and—”

  “And Jason!” Uncle Olly added with a giggle, looking to his left and realizing there was an empty spot beside him. That very empty seat still had that worn armrest; the armrest Jason picked at waiting for dinner to be over so he could go out, to where only he knew.

  “And Jason.”

  My dad shifted in his seat. He took a sip from his wine glass. He looked down at his ankle where he had placed the remaining wine.

  “And I wish for world peace, for the environment to be healed, for a mild winter. Yes, that’s it.”

  I knew that wasn’t it. She wished Jason would come home.

  We finally pulled hard on the crackers. Loud snaps were heard, and we all let out a weak “yaaaaaay.” Inside my cracker was a paper crown, which I placed on my head. The string on the little plastic yoyo inside was too tangled to actually play with.

  Both my parents and I ate quietly while Uncle Olly started with his long stories.

  “Back when I was a child, we were never allowed to open our presents until we all heard the Queen’s speech on the CBC Radio.”

  Uncle Olly continued, surprised no one was interrupting him.

  “We would just sit there in our pyjamas, looking at our gifts and listening to her talk all proper on the radio. I don’t understand sometimes why we do the things we do. The Queen never knew us. She said things that didn’t make sense. I never understood a word she said. I just wanted my presents. If Santa was on the radio, I would listen all day. But the Queen is just some old lady in England with fancy clothes and a fancy house, you know?”

  That night, after everyone was supposed to be asleep, I sat at the top of the stairs and watched my parents listen to a voicemail message that Jason left for them that evening. The one time my dad left his phone somewhere else instead of in his pants pocket, and Jason called. They played it again and again. My mother fell into Daddy’s arms, crying. They agreed to save the message.

  “Sounds like he’s homesick.”

  Daddy kissed my mom on her forehead, then patted her stiffly three times on the back. It was game time.

  My mom took the plate of chocolate chip cookies and ate half of one. Using her left hand, she messily wrote on a note, “Thanks for the cookies. Love Santa.”

  My daddy went outside. Before he left tracks in the snow with a baseball bat to look like reindeer hooves, he pulled a funny looking cigarette out of his pocket—the same funny cigarette he pulls out each time he and Mom have an argument—and smoked it on our porch. When he returned inside, he ate the rest of the cookies on my Santa plate and licked the crumbs clean.

  I went back to my bed sleepy and more excited than ever, believing that seeing Santa would not have been as miraculous as watching my parents work together to make me believe in him without arguing once.

  BING

  It was midnight mass at St. Malachy’s Catholic Church on Morningside Avenue. All the cool kids were asleep, waiting for Santa, while my mother and I, as well as what seemed to be the last of the devout Catholic Filipino population of Scarborough, were waiting for the return of Jesus.

  All of us, and I mean all of us, reeked of pork. Crispy pata. Giniling. Nilaga. Embutido. You could smell it on our coats, on our breath; it wafted into the air when we made the sign of the cross; it spread like wildfire as we shook each other’s hands. Like Jesus was not a sacrificial lamb, but rather, a sacrificial pig.

  The only ones who smelled like chicken were the three Menendez sisters who owned the Happy Chicken on Morningside Avenue. Legend has it that Ate Lin, the eldest of the sisters, volunteered for many years to give personal support to a fellow parishioner—some old man knocking on death’s door—including walking him to and from church. Just before the man kicked the bucket, he handed Ate Lin the keys to the Happy Chicken franchise, for free. This happened just weeks before the three sisters were finished their twenty-four months of service under the Live-In Caregiver Program, wiping baby bums and taking lip from abusive employers. What the legend does not account for is that Ate Lin’s unclocked hours helping the old man in and out of his wheelchair and cooking his favourite adobo would have earned her a sizable portion of such a franchise, had she been paid fairly. Ma always said that food tasted better when it was free. And
here, these ladies were making the sweetest-tasting fried chicken this side of Kingston Road.

  I shook their hands and wished them a Merry Christmas. They pinched my cheeks, smoothed my hair, and asked about my girlfriend as a joke.

  “Hoy. Bing. Look at how big you are now. Wow, naman. How is school?” they said with “Row Your Boat”-like phrasing. One of them, my Ate Lou, had braces, so she said the same thing but with a lateral lisp.

  “Okay, lang, Ate,” I said shyly while looking at my shiny black shoes. At the door of the church sat my winter boots, which I would change into once we were to head back outside.

  I wanted to tell my Ates so badly that I had been kissed by the handsomest boy in school and that I wasn’t sure where it was going to lead, but fingers crossed, we would venture to the nearest Dairy Queen together some time soon. But in real life, I knew it would halt their usual giggles and playing with my hair. Instead, I continued to look at the mirror of my shiny shoes.

  “How is your mom?” Ma asked Ate Lin in a whisper as we entered the church. She dipped her middle finger into the holy water and made the sign of the cross lightly on herself so as not to ruin her makeup. We made our way to our pews. El nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo, Amen.

  “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah,” proudly sang a little boy from the downstage corner of the choir. Small in stature at only three feet, the hem of his white gown grazed the floor, and his songbook needed two hands to support. This call and response always sounds best with the highest, sweetest, most angelic voice.

  A shuffling of bodies, the sound of creaking wood as the congregation stood and sang in response, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.” The organ blared everyone awake once again after a sequence of sitting on hard, unforgiving pews and kneeling on squishy, unforgiving kneelers, hoping to be forgiven.

  Father Joseph held the Eucharist high for everyone to see. I was looking forward to communion since I was so very hungry. I love the popcorn flavour in my mouth, as well as the chance to line up for it so I can show off my outfit. While the priest held the unleavened bread, I saw the flames of the lent candles—now all four of them lit—waver. The flames grew tall, then moved side to side so brilliantly, I thought for a second they would set the pinecone wreath surrounding them on fire.