Scarborough

by Catherine Hernandez

  Mrs Fitz was buffed and painted, fast and furious. This did not stop her from going on about her mother-in-law during March break. She gesticulated here and there with her newly painted hands. Finally, she ended her lengthy story with a downward inflection and placed a cold toonie in my hands. She held them for a moment. Privileged, upper-class pampered paws enveloped my raw-skinned hands. This is for you, and for your poor little family, said the gesture. A longing look into my eyes, waiting for a thank you.

  “Thank you, miss.”

  I hung up my apron, still littered with foot leather. From the corner near the sanitizer, I grabbed my newly purchased karaoke machine and tipped it on its side to allow the wheels to carry its weight. I tucked the mic with its extra-long cord wrapped in a haphazard bunch under my arm.

  Mae and the other estheticians hadn’t even turned on the “closed” sign at the nail salon, and I was speed walking south down Poplar Road as fast as my flip-flops would allow, face hot, the skin between my big and second toe tender from my sandals.

  “Wait! Wait!” Mae called out. The estheticians marched down the street in a caravan of clip-clopping soles and giggles. Tonight was the night.

  Ms Hina met me and the girls at the doors of the school. She directed Mae and the girls to the ticket desk before shuffling me and my karaoke machine with its cassette tape deck to the back of the school gym. Past blue eye shadow and tulle skirts. Past polyester suits and frilly cummerbunds. Past matching jumpsuits and high top sneakers. Past crying kids suffering from stage fright. Past parents double-fisted with ice cream cones, hoping their kids would perform “Pearly Shells” on demand. Past the faded mustard yellow heavy velvet curtain. To my handsome Bing, dressed in a black and white tuxedo, his hair expertly combed to the side.

  Ms Hina gave us both a hug before she rushed off to attend to a vomiting child.

  “Ready ka na, anak?” I bent over slightly to meet the eyes of my son. I realized I didn’t need to bend over much. He was getting taller. Bing nodded silently.

  I took both his earlobes between my thumbs and forefingers. Like I’ve always done when he gets nervous. Bing noticed my ivory bracelets were missing. He circled my wrists with his fingers, like placeholders. He looked at the new karaoke machine and realized the truth.

  I changed the subject quickly. “Listen, ha? You need to relax. Tita Mae is out there. The whole gang is out there. Just have fun. We will be cheering for you.”

  I held my son and kissed his gel-stiff hair. Then I turned to the karaoke machine and put the volume up to maximum. I turned the vocal track dial down all the way to one, then plugged the machine into a dusty outlet behind the curtain.

  The gym doors were open to cool the humid room. The multi-coloured sports pennants on the wall drooped like felt pizzas in the heat. Parents were fanning themselves to no avail. They moving squeakily from one bum cheek to another, partly to keep themselves awake, partly to drown out the sound of the tone-deaf band. Nothing could help these kids: not the flailing arms of their teacher, not the encouraging smiles of parents behind cameras. When the screeching was over, there was uproarious applause, for the mediocrity was finally done. The curtain closed just shy of a music stand that a disembodied arm retrieved. Shuffles. Whispers. Stampede of adolescent feet to the wings.

  The curtain opened with heavy increments of swish and slide, thanks to the scrawny arms of a small boy in Coke-bottle glasses. He gestured for Bing to go to centre stage. Bing obliged with karaoke machine in tow. Once he hit his mark, the squeaking of the machine’s wheels was replaced by the familiar hiss of a tape deck and the click of a microphone switch. Bing turned his tuxedo tails to the audience. I held my breath. For once the gym was silent.

  The music began. Whitney Houston. Eighties synth. Drum kit. From the echo-filled mic, Bing began to sing. He whipped his body around to the audience, and I was stunned to realize the falsetto voice was coming from my boy. I looked around the gym. Faces were curious, putting two and two together.

  Like a war cry, Bing sang a high lick while simultaneously ripping off his tuxedo jacket.

  “Naaaks namaaan!” I screamed from the audience. Mae and all the gals from the nail salon stood up and cheered.

  “Go, Bing!”

  Parents found themselves applauding. Bing motioned for the audience to clap along. His shoulders pumped up and down to the downbeat. His hips swayed expertly from side to side. His beautiful voice echoed off the walls. Bounced off washroom stalls. Off glass cases and the trophies inside.

  Just like we rehearsed, Bing began to undo his bowtie while gyrating his hips.

  “Is this too much, Ma?” he asked me when we rehearsed. “I think people will make fun of me.”

  “You will never be too much. You will never be too little, Bernard. You be you.”

  The crowd was in hysterics. They sang along, a song they knew so well sung by a boy they had not understood. He tore off his button-up shirt and threw it to the floor. I caught myself doing the gestures I had helped choreograph. Just at the climax, he revealed his bedazzled pink halter top. Triumph.

  I could not swallow my tears any longer. The warm salty water streamed down my face into the folds of my neck. It felt so good to see him display for all to see the magic I saw every day. This was my son. Beyond sainthood. Beyond Jesus. Beyond survival. Beyond lipstick. Beyond singing in the mirror. This was my son. My beautiful child.

  The crowd rose to their feet, clapping and screaming.

  Bing’s face was covered with sweat as he raised his arm in the air, striking his final pose. Standing ovation, prolonged applause.

  I could see everyone clapping but could not hear it past my sobs. This is joy. All those hours working. Pulling hair. Shirking sexual advances. Feigning gratitude for one-dollar tips. How lucky am I to do so, to ensure the security of this child? How lucky am I to do this, in the name of mothering this magical person? How lucky am I to have been chosen by God to be this boy’s mother?

  BING

  “Is this too much, Ma?” I asked, holding up the Whitney Houston cassette tape. “I think people will make fun of me.”

  “You will never be too much. You will never be too little, Bernard. You be you.” My heart fluttered hearing her say that.

  “Really?” I sat cross-legged amongst the other cassette tapes, all possible song choices for the school talent show. None of the songs were newer than 1995. They were all Mom’s tapes, from her days growing up in Cavite, back in the Philippines. “What about Michael Jackson?”

  “Everyone does Michael Jackson.” Ma continued sewing pink sequins on my halter top. She repositioned her ivory bracelets higher on her forearm so they wouldn’t clink.

  “Frank Sinatra?”

  “You are performing for children. Not the old folks’ home.” We giggled. “Anak, why not Whitney Houston? Why are you doubting yourself?”

  “Because Whitney is a girl.”

  “So?”

  “People will say I shouldn’t sing it because I’m a boy.”

  Ma held my face. “You’re so much more than a boy, Bing.” My eyes welled up. I thought for a second I would tell her about the kiss Hakim and I shared, but I didn’t want to ruin the moment. “Tell me. What, in your own words, is this song about?”

  “She really wants to dance. And she hopes the person she likes will dance with her.”

  “Have you ever wanted to dance with somebody?” My face grew hot. She poked my soft tummy. “Ha? Have you?” I smiled shyly and folded my hand over her fingers. It tickled.

  “Yes, Ma.”

  “Okay. See? Then does it matter if you’re a boy or girl?”

  “No, Ma.” I held up the cassette tape. “But how will we play this? Our tape deck isn’t loud enough.” I pointed to our outdated boom box with intermittently dysfunctional speakers.

  “Just relax, ha? I will figure things out.”

  She used her teeth to cut the fuchsia thread and held the halter top against my torso. “Looking good. Okay, try it on, a
nd we can test the tuxedo.”

  I did as I was told. First, the halter top. She helped me slip the sleeves of my white shirt on from behind, then the tuxedo jacket. I felt like one of those bullfighters in Spain that I saw in a documentary once. It was like a ritual, putting on all the special gear while the family looks on, watching and crying. That was my mom, getting all teary eyed dressing me up. Her little fighter.

  “You know, you remind me of your Tito Ferdie. He was brave, like you. I knew he was different when we played together.” I thought about Tito Ferdie lying in his casket while we prayed his soul away. “He even had a boyfriend, you know? Or girlfriend. I don’t know what you would call him. At the funeral, he stood to the side and cried. He cried and cried and cried. We all pretended he wasn’t there.” She looped the bowtie around my neck and began tying it into a perfect bow. “I wish I was brave like you and had said hello to him. To show him I could see him. To show him I cared.”

  She wiped her tears away, then repositioned me in front of our hallway closet mirror. We both looked at my reflection, satisfied. Ma nodded her head, her bottom lip pursed and proud.

  “Wow, naman. Okay. Are you ready?” I nodded yes. I grabbed the lapels of my tuxedo jacket and pulled. The Velcro she sewed into the back seams busted loose perfectly. I tossed it to the side.

  “Now the shirt, Bing.” I tore open the Velcro releases along the button front with ease. We high-fived each other.

  I appreciated her embellishments to my costume. You always need a little help from Velcro. It’s not like in the movies, when people rip their clothes off easily. I knew this, because my daddy once ripped my shirt and he almost choked me, trying. It was around that time he started chipping away at our apartment wall. “There’s someone talking in there,” he told us, inspecting each piece of drywall for a clue.

  The day he ripped my shirt, he had asked me to remove a spike from the back of his neck. “It’s there. It’s there. Just look. Use your eyes, Bing.” I looked. I did as he asked me. I touched his bare neck. I saw nothing.

  “You have it, too! We all have it. Just take mine out, and I’ll take out yours.”

  I cried, quietly. He flipped me around violently to look at the back of my neck. He tried to rip the back of my T-shirt off, searching for a spike that wasn’t there. This tightened the collar around my neck, and I choked.

  “Daddy! Daddy! No!” I managed to cough out.

  He dropped me to the ground. Both of us were out of breath. His hand went to the back of his neck again, confused. He went into the washroom and did not leave until Ma came home hours later.

  “So, what do you think?” Ma looked at my reflection and shifted the halter top.

  “Thank you, Ma.” I gave her a kiss. She looked at me like she could see the memory in my eyes and embraced me hard, the cool of her ivory bracelets on my cheeks.

  The night of the performance, Ma massaged my earlobes like she always did when I was nervous. But something was different.

  “Where are your bracelets?”

  “What bracelets?”

  I looked at the new karaoke machine at her feet. I looked at her empty wrists.

  “Where did this come from?”

  “Listen, ha? You need to relax. Tita Mae is out there. The whole gang is out there. Just have fun. We will be cheering for you.”

  Between knowing my mother sold her bracelets for me and the possibility I’d be beaten up for being a girl, I worried I’d made a mistake. Maybe Ma could still trade out the Whitney Houston cassette for the Frank Sinatra one. Maybe I could improvise my choreography. Maybe the audience would sing along loudly enough they wouldn’t notice that I didn’t know the lyrics.

  But then the curtains slid open. I could feel the heat of the lights on my scalp. I switched the microphone on. Showtime. The music started. With my back still to the audience, I did chest isolations to the beat of the syncopated rhythm. It was like my ribs broke through something. Something like a wall. Something like the crash of waves. My right hip joined in the isolations, up and down with the sound of the synth. And just as I began singing into the microphone, I expanded my chest—flat enough that you could place a coffee cup on it, Ma instructed—and pivoted around to face the audience.

  There was no turning back now. Sweat dribbled down the end of my nose. I could hear from the speakers the sound of my feminine voice. My truth.

  I could see confusion. The audience was wondering if I was lip syncing or singing. But my fancy trills confirmed everything. This was all me.

  “Naaaks namaaan!” I heard Ma scream from the audience. I remembered the last time she screamed. “Liiiisssen, anak. We have to leave here. It’s no longer safe.”

  I pumped my shoulders left and right. I pointed at stunned audience members. Ma had instructed me to walk along the lip of the stage with my hand extended to give high-fives to my adoring fans. But there were none. Just bewildered school band members. My voice cracked slightly at the thought of possible failure.

  “Go to your room!” I remembered Daddy yelling at me after he had placed his hand in the hot frying pan on purpose. He held his blistering skin, screaming, “You ugly little boy. GO! Get out!”

  Then the familiar chorus started. I gestured for everyone to clap along. They did. In waves, the adults got up from their seats and clapped too.

  I grabbed the lapels on my tuxedo jacket, held my breath, and tugged hard. I threw it into the audience at Hakim who twirled it like a prize he’d just won. Everyone was standing and clapping to the beat.

  It was time to take things down a notch with the bridge. I dropped to both knees, singing into the microphone as I wanted to sing into Hakim’s ear. I sang of searching for a dance partner. Somebody to hold me. Somebody who loves me. The audience leaned in, wondering what was to happen next.

  I remembered the trip to the zoo. “Open up your lunches. This beached whale needs to be fed.” Aiden taunting me, as I cowered on the floor of the bus, helpless and crying.

  Just as the chorus began again, I jumped to my feet, ripped off my button-up shirt and revealed my pink-sequined halter top. Everyone cheered. Under the auditorium lights, I felt the sweat on my bare arms both cooling and accumulating. Riding the wave of a sustained note, I felt my insides shine like a light beaming from my throat and through every finger. Truth. Truth. It felt like confetti. It felt like running. It felt like screaming. Me. Truth. Truth.

  I ended with my fist in the air, my eyes closed. I could hear everyone on their feet, cheering for me. I could also hear my own breathing. Deep, like I was touching something way up high. The lights shone on my face. It felt so good to be me.

  MARIE

  Let me tell you something: Changing the dirty diaper of a three-year-old is no picnic in the park. It’s more like a trip to Shitville, population: me. I remember those days when Johnny just lay there, when he was a newborn. I changed his tiny bum, with his tiny poop, and Sylvie helped her mama by handing me wipes. Johnny remained so perfectly helpless and still. He smelled so good in his onesie. Alls I had to do was dangle something over his head, and he would stare at it for hours. Like, really. For hours.

  I always say that once a kid learns to roll over, it’s like they take this Asshole Pill. Suddenly, they’re into everything. Fingers go in closing doors. Rubber bands go around cupboard knobs to keep those munchkins out of there. Johnny did that, but months ahead of other babies. You’d blink and find him crawling behind the toilet. His motor skills changed so fast and were so damned sharp, I thought I had a baby genius.

  I’m not sure when I figured out he’s different from all the others. I’m not sure if it was his humming while he climbs shelves and such, or the fact he never looks me in the eye. Most likely, it was the fact I have to catch him immediately after pooping and change him, otherwise he spreads it on the walls, laughing. It calms him down or something. No matter how many time-outs and talking-tos I give him, next poop there he is, streaking it along the hallway. I mean, do you understand how hard I have
to squeeze him between my legs to keep him still, while I chip away at shit under his fingernails? And do you understand the looks I get from the people at Food Basics, wondering why I am yet again buying bleach? It’s why I can’t leave him with Mr George. The old man can barely stand, so Sylvie is enough for him. And he is a hefty boy. The only person athletic enough to play with him was Victor, that Black boy who lived in our old complex. When he got arrested (for nothing at all, mind you), and after we were transferred to the Galloway Shelter, Johnny was so sad not to be climbing the length of Victor each morning.

  To be honest, Johnny’s ways give me knots in my stomach. Like, I am worried that if I tell somebody about it, somebody like a social worker or a teacher, someone will take my kids away. Or if I try to get help, I couldn’t afford it. And in between, I get these stares from people, like he’s a freak.

  “How old is he?” I hate this question. This was from a group of white ladies who bring their kids into the literacy centre.

  “He’s three.”

  “Wow, he is one big boy,” said Fern, who is a stay-at-home mom.

  Helen chimed in. She is an auntie taking care of her kin. “Yeah, I was going to say! He’s pretty big. He must be a handful!”

  I could tell they were fishing. Fern leaned in. “He seems, you know ... pretty big, but he’s ...” I kept silent.

  Helen nervously added, “Does he ... you know ... speak much?”

  They each took a slow and thoughtful swig of their Starbucks coffee and looked at me, feigning concern.

  “He’s more of a climber.”

  They both groaned in agreement and chuckled. “Well, we can see that!” Fern shot Helen a look.

  When I didn’t give them the information they wanted, they closed their circle. With their backs to me, they talked about random shit, like carpet restoration and catering companies. Every now and then one of them would turn to me with a half-hearted smile and try to involve me in their conversation.

  “Well, you know what it’s like, trying to do that long drive to cottage country on a Friday afternoon!”