We shuffled like penguins to the side, past winter coats, past children who did not yet observe communion, to join the line of people ready to break bread with Christ.
While I was in line, a small blonde girl rushed past me and brushed against the sleeve of my dress shirt. She was so forceful, for a second I thought the button on my cuff was pulled off. She giggled.
“Laura?” I called out softly. What was she doing here?
Ma quickly adjusted my shoulders forward and said, “Shh.” I looked up at her and saw that she was looking at the altar and not at the girl who had whizzed past. Had she not seen?
I tried to see where Laura had gone. I was concerned that she was in only a summer dress and not proper church clothes, especially because of the cold. But she was nowhere to be seen. There were so many people shuffling about, lining up for communion. They all towered over me while I peered between them trying to figure out where Laura went.
“Sssssst. Look forward.” Ma gently adjusted me again in the line, as the priest approached.
We left the church close to one o’clock in the morning. We stood at the door taking turns changing our shiny shoes for our salt-stained winter boots. Carefully, in slow motion, and with a lot of giggles, Ma and I made our way back to our apartment building on Lawrence Avenue. Sheets of ice lay before us, each one a challenge. Ma held my hand as I skittered across an icy puddle, the threat of bubbles and water underneath its semi-frozen surface. I made it to the other side, leaving only a crack, like on the windshield of a car after an accident.
We heard a fire truck in the distance. My mother made the sign of the cross, as she usually does whenever an ambulance or a fire truck passes. El nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo, Amen. The sound of the truck came closer.
When it passed us and beat us to our own apartment building, my mother fell on a patch of ice. I helped her up. We rushed as fast as we could, suddenly impervious to the slip and fall, toward our home.
VICTOR
If you were to ask me for the exact details of the first time I was told cops are not to be trusted, to be truthful, I wouldn’t even remember. It’s like having a memory of when you first tie a shoe by yourself. The event was so long ago. And I was told by so many, and trained by so many to protect myself, that the act of stiffening in the presence of hatred toward Black men became, and still is, as routine as putting on a shoe. Rabbit ears through the loop. Pull the laces.
So when the cops began searching my red wagon full of paint for the bridge mural project, those boys barely had to tell me what to do. I could have done it myself.
I listen in on white people talking in office spaces or in food courts over lunch, about being pulled over for speeding or for other minor offences. They can laugh about it as something brief and bothersome. Sometimes shocking. They brag about the words or expressions that helped them weasel their way out. Perhaps they cried in front of them. Perhaps they pointed to their sleeping child in the backseat. Brief and bothersome.
That night with the paint, I saw the cops drive into the townhouse complex, and the hairs on my neck stood on end. I could see an ambulance, so I knew the cops weren’t there for me. But I knew things could change. If you were to ask me exactly where I feel things when a cop is around, I would tell you I feel it between my ears, on the flat of my chest, the centre of my palms, and on the back of my tongue. Between my ears because I am thinking, stay calm. On the flat of my chest because I’m reminding myself to breathe. The centre of my palms because, in truth, I really wish I could slap somebody each time I’m stopped by a cop. And on the back of my tongue because I’m trying to strategize what to say when they ask me what I am doing.
“What are you up to?” one cop looked right at me and nodded toward the wagon. Another cop approached. He began poking around the bottles of paint. There were about eight bottles of acrylics, which were paid for by my grant.
“Where did you get this paint? They look pretty new.”
“They are new, sir.”
“You didn’t answer my question. Where did you get them?”
“From Home Depot, sir.”
“You bought paint from Home Depot.”
“Yes, sir. I took the bus to the Morningside location. I purchased the paint myself.”
“You did.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You bought this yourself? This new paint?”
“Yes, sir.”
The centre of my palms were buzzing. Right below my eyes, heat was gathering, and my face was sweating.
“And why do you have this paint? You’re painting some graffiti or something?”
“No, sir. I am an artist.” Before I could even show them my sketchbook, one cop was prying open the bottles and leaving the caps off.
“It’s green.” To this day, I replay that cop saying that exact thing over and over in my head. “It’s green.” He said it officially, like it confirmed in his mind that I was up to no good. He even nodded at the other one who was standing close to my chest and breathing on my face.
“Please, don’t open my paint. Please.”
“Why can’t we open them? If they’re just paint, then there’s nothing to hide.”
“I’m asking you not to open them because they are paint, sir. I don’t want them to dry out.”
“I’m going to ask you step back.”
“I haven’t moved, sir.”
“Step back.”
“But I haven’t moved, sir.”
“Don’t raise your voice at me.”
The next thing I knew, I was taken to the station. I wasn’t cuffed. But I was brought in. I sat in an office chair for five hours. No one would speak to me. And when I was let go, I realized I had just been given a police-sized version of time-out in the corner. It was so humiliating being driven in a cop car. Everyone in the housing complex looked at me like I was yet another Black boy doing no good. All of these people, people who had sat for portraits in my sketch book, most of them smiling faces, were looking at me, bragging to their neighbours about having their suspicions a long time ago. Like they knew all along.
You can imagine that since then, I’ve steered clear of a lot of white people. Rich or poor, it doesn’t matter. Call me a racist, I don’t care. I am too scared. I am too Black to be having that conversation around the water cooler about weaseling my way out of a speeding ticket by giving puppy eyes to a traffic officer. It doesn’t work that way for me.
So that night, on Christmas Eve several months later when I saw the greasy-haired white guy at Mr Park’s corner store near my townhouse, I had that same feeling of dread. Palms. Ears. Chest. Back of my tongue. I kept my head down while I searched the shelves for popcorn. Mom wanted to watch some movies on TV for Christmas Eve.
Between two cylinders of Pringles potato chips on the shelf, I watched him stumble. He was wearing one of those black silk bomber jackets. You know, the ones from the nineties. Maybe he was a skinhead or something, back in the day.
He held hard onto the handles of the refrigerator section. He looked intensely at the contents. Gatorade. Cola. Butter. Then he slowly made his way to the cookie aisle. I could tell from the way he was looking at Mr Park behind the counter and at the packages of cookies, he was trying to assess which package he could stuff into his sleeve. I’m sure the guy would have been an expert at it had he been sober. But he wasn’t. He looked at the package of Oreos. He looked at his sleeve. Then he saw a small bag of Hershey’s Kisses and tried to slip it into his sleeve.
“Excuse me, sir?” Mr Park rolled his eyes. It was the worst shop-lifting ever.
“What?”
“I can see you from here. Put that down and please leave.”
“What? I can’t look at things?”
“You weren’t looking. You were stealing. Put it down. Get out.”
“What?” The guy made this spitting noise, as if Mr Park was out of his mind imagining things. Dribble spurted from the side of his mouth. “I was looking for beer. I wasn�
�t even looking for this. What are you talking about?”
I found Mom’s popcorn but made sure not to make any noise with the box in my hand. I looked up at the round security mirror located above the refrigeration aisle to get a better view. Mr Park was shaking his head no, then his eyes met mine for a brief moment.
“The beer store is next door.”
“Don’t you speak English?”
“Beer store is next door.”
“It’s closed. You fucking chink.” His voice broke. Like he was about to cry. “I was fucking there just yesterday … I bought beer, but I didn’t buy groceries … Thought everything would’ve been open tonight. I don’t even have the money to buy it all. That was my plan … So stupid.” He looked down at the bag of Hershey’s Kisses in his hand and put it messily on the shelf beside loaves of bread. One loaf fell to the floor.
“Get out.” Mr Park was trying to be both calm and firm.
The white guy swiped his arm across the shelf, making all the bread land on the floor.
“Leave now!”
He swiped his arm again, this time the chocolate bars in their boxes. He caught me looking at him.
“What are you looking at?”
I didn’t answer. I quickly made my way to Mr Park. I placed four dollars on the counter, even though I knew the popcorn cost just over three dollars. I didn’t want any trouble. I just wanted out of there. I headed to the door. The door’s bell echoed behind me.
“Hey, buddy! You with the baggy jeans.”
I wasn’t wearing baggy jeans.
“What are you looking at?”
The white dude tapped me on the shoulder. I could smell the beer on his breath even though I was facing away from him.
“Hey! I’m talking to you!”
I pretended not to hear him. I began making my way home to the complex off Kingston Road.
“Hey, nigger! I’m talking to you!” he called out. As I crunched my way through snow and ice, out of the side of my eye I could see him lighting his cigarette clumsily, like an old lady trying to light birthday candles without her reading glasses on.
“Yeeow!” He’d singed the tips of his fingers and dropped his Bic lighter. He fumbled for it on the ground while still addressing me. “Wait!” He crouched down on his haunches. I don’t know how he was able to do that with as much drink as he had in him.
I kept walking, looking back every now and then to be sure he wasn’t following me.
LADY
Being a parent when your children are sleeping is both a blessing and a curse. A blessing because kissing your kids while they be dreaming is like ... I don’t even know how to explain it. It’s like your child is an old painting. One beautiful enough to hang on the wall. You just stare at it for as long as the clock will allow, watching their tummy rise and fall, rise and fall. My baby, I can see her pulling in her bottom lip, dreaming of suckling a mom who isn’t even there.
A curse because ... well ... I receive texts from my mom to tell me Evan did this today, Yanna did that today. Maybe a picture if she figures out how to operate her phone camera in time. And here I am, stuck doing the Christmas Eve shift as a new nurse at Scarborough General’s ER.
That night, I kissed my kids goodbye in time to leave for work. Yanna sleeps with her bum up to the ceiling. I gave it a pat and stroked her curly hair. I turned to Evan. He sleeps like a dead person. How he can share a room with a crying baby, I can never understand. I found him half off the bed. His pyjamas were twisted on his waist. I rolled him back into place and tucked his blanket into the side of the bed farthest from the wall in the hope that he wouldn’t fall again. Tasha, my baby girl, lay perfectly still with her soother in her mouth. I carefully pried the soother out with my index finger and silently placed it beside the picture of their father. I pretend he is a good man, just not here. They believe me, just because of this picture.
My mom, who prefers the couch to my lumpy mattress, was still asleep. I could see the outline of her tired body, thanks to the glow of our mini-Christmas tree. I unplugged it just to be safe. My mother’s ashy-looking foot and gnarly toenails stuck out of the blue felt blanket. As was my ritual, I touched her feet. A thank you.
I was running late. No time to deal with my hair, so I wrapped it tightly in my favourite peacock blue scarf. Without making a sound, I grabbed my keys, turned the deadbolt, and headed out. I could barely see straight, I was so damn tired after the kids opened all their presents and such. In another world, I would have slept this afternoon. But no such luck for a single mama.
I pressed the sticky down button for the elevator. The light behind the button never works, but this night was different. The round plastic knob glowed orange, like a warning. Something in my stomach told me to go back. I felt like I’d forgotten something. My phone? My keys? My ID card? It made no sense. But I went back to our apartment.
It was dark and quiet. I looked around. My mom’s ashy foot. Kids sleeping quietly in the bedroom. Soother by the picture of my ex. What did I forget? I turned to the door and saw the wall.
The wall was glowing red. Like a burner on a stove. I smelled the smoke.
“Mom!”
“What is it, Lady?”
“Mom! Get the kids up. There’s a fire!”
I remember the frenzy of grabbing the kids. They were like dead weights, they were so deeply asleep. Their heads bobbed from side to side.
“Lord!” my mom said while scrambling for her glasses and winter boots.
“Wake up! Wake uuup! Evan! Yanna! Wake up!”
My mom and I had to carry them. Mom, who has arthritis, took baby Tasha in her arms, wrapped in a blanket. Me, I carried Yanna like a monkey—facing me, her legs sleepily wrapped around my waist. Evan, I almost dragged him by his arms. I just couldn’t carry both. Evan walked, one foot in front of the other, eyes half closed.
“Fire! FIRE! FIRE!” No one was listening. I could see smoke coming from next door, from underneath the space between carpet and doorframe. I could see it. I banged on the door. I tried the knob, and it burned my hand.
“OW!” I looked at the red welt on my hand. It smoked. No sound from inside the apartment.
“FIIIRE!” I banged on a couple of doors. When I think back, I wish I’d banged on a couple more. I think about that all the time. But what really got me was that there was no sound other than my voice. The cops tell me it’s my imagination, but I know. I know I didn’t hear anything. I know this. I’m not some fool who can hear my own voice but not the fire alarm. There was no fire alarm. It was just me, banging on doors.
“FIIIRE!”
Mom and I went to the nearest stairwell to head down to the ground floor. There were more and more tenants in their pyjamas. Joining us in the stairwell.
“FIIIRE!”
We began to bottleneck at the bottom.
“Everyone, just calm down!”
“Get out of our way!”
“Everyone out! Hurry!”
“Mommy, what’s happening?!”
Outside, Christmas lights blinked on and off on the balconies while water was hosed onto the building. We all stood outside, our jaws dropped, watching the firemen douse the flames, most tenants in pyjamas that were flapping in the freezing wind, waiting for news.
IVANA
Our apartment complex would never be on a tourist pamphlet, that’s for sure. Now, if you were to Google our address, you’d find us on the watch list for bed bugs in Toronto Community Housing. You’d also most likely find that famous photo of an old lady in curlers on her fifth floor balcony, dropping beer bottles on the heads of the cops for arresting her crack dealer. I never complain, though. It’s so close to work.
Between happy endings at Oasis Spa, I can go out for a smoke at the back of the building and look up at my own balcony. See what’s happening. If anyone is breaking in. It’s better than an alarm system, not that I have anything to steal. I have to do so on the down-low, though. Not make a big deal of my suspicions, or even be seen much. I
keep to myself, as a lot of my clients live in the same complex.
One snowy night, I noticed the girl. It was quiet. And there she was, looking out at the snow and at me. Reminded me of my days in Parkdale, near downtown. My mom and I lived in a huge house for little rent before the hipsters crowded everything out. There was even a fireplace and marble floors. It was big enough I could ride my tricycle in the foyer. Someone rich once lived there, for sure. I would ride my tricycle around on the marble floors of the kitchen and along the hardwood floors leading to my mom’s room, where she would lie in bed for hours and ask me not to bother her. All I could see was a hand hanging limply outside the covers. The room had a huge bay window facing King Street. On days when my mom’s depression hit, I would spend hours watching the streetcar go back and forth. Back and forth. Sometimes the streetcar driver would ring his bell as he passed. It made me so happy.
I waved to the girl that night. It became a regular thing. I would try to find her every night when I was working and wave to her. Just like that streetcar driver. Maybe I was also making her happy.
On Christmas Eve, I had the night off. I went out to get more cigarettes at Tarek’s convenience store. On my way back, I looked up the side of the building to see if the girl was there. Third floor. Window dark. No girl. I lit up to buy myself some time. I took a drag and let the smoke draw pictures around my face. No girl.
I finished my entire cigarette outside facing her balcony, in the freezing cold. I waited and waited. I’m not sure why I waited so long. I guess I knew she was in there. Just not at the window. I would have called her name if I knew it.
I only knew her name after she had died, and the news was all over the Scarborough Mirror. Laura Mitkowski.
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