Kicking the Sky

by Anthony De Sa

  I warmed up a can of Campbell’s chicken noodle soup over the hot plate, but Ricky continued to sleep. “Ricky,” I whispered. It felt weird to speak to him when I knew he couldn’t hear me. “You’re going to feel better soon and no one’s ever gonna hurt you again.” I leaned in closer. His breathing still sounded as though he was sucking through a straw. The baseboard heaters were humming full blast. I pulled back the blanket from Ricky’s chin. “Ricky. Remember the time we fell into the dumpster at the toy factory? The toys were up to our waist. We could hardly move. It was like being stuck in quicksand. They were all defects but we didn’t care. You found that doll with the squashed head, remember? And I found that Smash-Up Derby set? Oh, and the Evel Knievel figure with the missing leg? Then the security guard yelled at us to get out and chased us off the property. I still remember looking back and saw you running with that Evel Knievel doll stuffed down the front of your pants and I couldn’t stop laughing.” I caught the faintest curl of a smile turning up his lips. I realized I was crying.

  James’s canvas was a wash of Spackle and paint that had been flung across it or splattered and dripped with turpentine to wash areas out. It was his bad mood on that canvas. The garage door whipped up with a clang. James walked in and slammed the door down behind him. Ricky had not moved; he slept and breathed small puffs between his cracked lips. James carried a large silver box under his arm. It was an eight-track tape recorder trailed by a frayed electrical cord and wires. He slammed the thing on the kitchen table and tossed a whole bunch of bills into the air.

  “What happened this afternoon wasn’t part of the deal I had with Red.” Now sober, he ripped off his jacket and threw it across the room. “Two hundred bucks was all I could pound outta him.” He took the backyard hose he had fed through a hole in the window and ran his bloodied knuckles under the stream of water. “You can go now. I’ll take care of Ricky.”

  “Fuck you!” I said. I tried to suck in my lower lip, stop the trembling. James hung his head, and then slowly turned the tap to shut the water. “Fuck you,” I said again.

  He walked over and reached into the cardboard box where the puppy lay sleeping among some rags. He scooped up the dog in his massive hand. The puppy licked the traces of blood from his knuckles. He sat on the cot and placed the puppy on Ricky’s chest. The puppy licked Ricky’s face. “Merry Christmas, Hoot,” James said.

  — 13 —

  MY MOTHER HAD BEEN cooking petiscos all day long, and only stopped just before we got dressed for Midnight Mass. Street salt crunched under our feet as we walked down Palmerston Avenue toward St. Mary’s. My father walked ahead of us. I was behind him with my mother, and Edite—who I still wasn’t speaking to—followed behind with Terri, their arms locked as they stepped carefully in their high heels. My father went to church only twice a year—Easter and Christmas—a gift to my mother, instead of the chocolate or flowers the commercials told him to buy. He stopped, turning in frustration at the pace the women had set for themselves. I caught up to him. He placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “We’re going to be late and I not going to stand up for the whole thing.” I didn’t care about a seat; I was in a hurry to light a candle for Ricky and Agnes and Baby Mary. I wasn’t sure the message would get to God because so many sins had been committed. I let the idea creep into my mind that what happened to Ricky was punishment for what we had done with Agnes’s baby. God could be mean. I knew I still needed to be punished for my part in everything. I just wanted it to happen soon so I could get it over with. We crossed Queen Street and my father continued to talk about stuff he had read in the newspaper. I was beginning to think he had touched the música again. It was an expression my family had about slipping brandy or cognac into one’s coffee, um café com música. Whatever had loosened his tongue, I didn’t care—the sound of his voice made me feel safe.

  “This boy, Gretzky, is very good. He’s Polish. Those Polish work hard.” My father and uncles loved to watch hockey. “Is like football,” they said, “ice instead of grass, puck and sticks instead of a ball and footwork.” My father was tipsy. I looked up and saw he was also nervous. It had thought about it—we probably all had. He was going to walk into the church and confront Padre Costa for the first time since he had come to visit at our garage.

  We got to church a few minutes early. The smell of wax, spiced with incense and mothballs, wafted up past the traces of lemon oil from the pews. Tiers of candles stood in iron holders. The men wore suits, shiny on the knees. The women were shrouded in black lace veils. And for the first time I could remember, I wasn’t angry with my mother for dragging me to Midnight Mass. I wanted to be there, wrapped in the warmth of the place. I wanted to be with my family. So many people don’t know what that feels like. It was the something my father couldn’t fully re-create in our garage.

  I wanted to pray. For Ricky, Manny, Agnes, and Baby Mary for sure, and for Adam, that he was warm and had a roof over his head. And even for James, because we were supposed to pray for sinners. Jesus loved them like all the rest, maybe even more. My father huffed and a few people turned. Once recognized, our family was allowed to shuffle onto a bench at the back, everyone sidestepping to make room. They didn’t blame us. They were upset to hear the holy limpet had been stolen. We were all victims.

  My father pressed his fingers together, forming a steeple. I stared at his strong hands, his white starched shirt cuffs held together by silver cufflinks. Edite nudged her way past my mother and sister to sit beside me, reached for my hand, and snuck it in her coat pocket. The pocket’s lining had a gaping hole.

  “You always have warm hands, Antonio.” She was shivering. “I know you’re angry.” My father looked at Edite, then looked away, up toward the altar. “Agnes is doing okay. You boys were very brave.” I tried to wriggle my hand out of her pocket but she held on. From the corner of my eye I could tell she was forcing a smile. Gazing at the front of the church, she leaned down to my ear. “And your friend Ricky is going to be just fine,” she whispered.

  James probably went to her again to ask for help with Ricky because he couldn’t think for himself. He pulled everyone in to fix the things he screwed up. Even she couldn’t forgive James for that. But I doubt she knew James had been pimping Ricky out to Red.

  My mother looked tired. She still had to knead the dough one more time before covering it with tea towels and letting it rise a couple more hours. But she would never complain about the length of the service. She’d be up by five o’clock in the morning to bake. There was nothing like the sweet smell of massa on Christmas morning, she would say. My mother placed a lace veil over her head and passed an extra one to Edite, who refused it at first, but then took it and buried it in her coat pocket.

  Missa cantada meant that high-pitched singing stretched the Mass until almost two in the morning. I had already been pinched by my mother for snapping the bronze purse clips on the backs of the pews. At one point I looked over to see Terri brushing her fingertips on the same clip in front of her. It was something we had done as kids. Her nails had been painted pink, a shade so pale my father wouldn’t notice.

  “From Mary’s womb, He was born to die for our salvation.” Padre Costa held the golden chalice. He belted the words out over the heads of the parishioners in the crammed church. The light fell over his head and face, and I had a sudden vision of Baby Mary floating in the lake. “Bread of life, with new life feed us breads from heaven and to heaven lead us.” Padre Costa’s mouth continued to move, but I could no longer hear. I could only see Ricky, the blood blooming in the snow where he sat; James kneeling at my feet and begging for forgiveness. It was then that I decided I would take Communion and I would follow it up by kissing the statue of Jesus. My father told me I didn’t have to—he never did—claiming the thing was a disease sponge with all those people breathing and coughing over it. I noticed the statue was only a little bigger than Baby Mary.

  We were all packed into the pews, thousands of candles flickering. The air hu
ng over our heads like in a smoky kitchen. I undid my scarf and loosened my tie, and that’s when I saw Manny’s head, his hair controlled with globs of Brylcreem. He stood between his mom and dad. Eugene wasn’t with them. I used my powers of thought to get him to look at me, to notice that I was standing there, only a few pews behind him. I even stood on the kneeler to look taller. It didn’t work.

  I was glad when people got up to inch down the aisle for Communion. I was hoping my line would shuffle forward until I could pair up with Manny, but that wasn’t going to happen. We would take the host first from some helper priests. Padre Costa stood behind them, about a hundred feet away from me, in front of the altar, holding the baby Jesus up in the air, an offering to the congregation. We got up from the pew when it was our turn. My father poked me in the back and winked, and for a moment I thought about how good it would feel to tell him everything.

  We shuffled down the aisle, behind old people with canes and tired mothers carrying miserable children awakened to kiss the baby Jesus. The closer I got, the clearer the statue of the naked Jesus became. It lay on a velvet pillow trimmed with gold cord that reminded me of my own cape. I wanted to believe the priest when he said the spirit’s breath would take the baby to a place where there was no weeping. A woman sang “Ave Maria.” Her voice warbled up to the vaulted ceiling. Ave Maria, gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena. Ave, ave Dominus, Dominus tecum. There were only about six people in front of me now.

  My mother was the first in our family to reach the statue. Not content to give the statue a kiss on one foot, she snapped quickly and kissed the other foot.

  “It’s not anatomically correct,” my sister whispered through the corner of her mouth. “He should have a helmet head for a penis. He was a Jew.” I knew she had been influenced by Edite, who had told me Jesus was Jewish and so couldn’t have a foreskin, though the statue of Jesus did. My heart pounded as Terri followed my mother and kissed the statue’s toes. Padre Costa was about to turn away when Edite faced him. She bent down to kiss the statue. I was standing beside her when I saw her eyes twitch. Padre Costa took in a huge gulp of air. I saw the lipstick stain left on the thigh, dangerously close to the statue’s dick. Edite’s lipstick was a bit crooked, some pink on her teeth. I looked away, felt like I had at my grandmother’s funeral when I found myself on the kneeler in front of her coffin, fighting my giggles. Just nerves, my mother had said. Padre Costa brought the statue of baby Jesus up to my lips. The people in line and in the front pews went silent. In the name of the Father, and of the Son … I placed my lips on the statue’s knee. It felt cold. And of the Holy Spirit. I hoped I’d feel something, a kind of tingle that warmed my insides, a sign that God had heard my silent prayers. But everything stayed the same. Padre Costa wiped the statue’s knee with a cloth just as my father approached. He glared into my father’s eyes, dared him.

  My father’s body coiled, as if ready to strike. He moved close to Padre Costa, who grinned and raised the statue of Jesus to meet with my father’s chin. My father’s hands were not pressed together in prayer. He held his fedora in front of him and rubbed its brim with his thumb. Instead of kissing the statue, he squinted at the priest before placing the hat on his head and flicking its brim.

  I stood at the second-floor back window that overlooked our garage and the laneway. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. I could see the flicker of blue light coming from the TV James now left on day and night.

  I heard the bustle of activity downstairs. It had always been our custom to have a shot of Port and open up one gift before going to bed. Our choice. But tonight I just wanted to be far away from them all. I wondered if James was spending Christmas with Agnes, if he was sitting by Ricky’s side, patting his forehead with a cool cloth. I assumed James wouldn’t be working the streets tonight. I couldn’t imagine there’d be anyone out looking.

  “Antonio!” Edite called.

  Edite leaned against the banister, biting her cuticles. “You can hate me later, but not on Christmas.” I decided I’d just have some Port, then go to bed. If I didn’t, they’d think something was wrong.

  When I went into the living room, my mother was staring at the Christmas tree. She was pale. Her lips trembled, and she seemed on the brink of something.

  “You sit there, Antonio, and we’ll begin.” Edite pointed to the end of the couch. The shot glasses filled with the golden liquid were clustered on a silver tray. My father sat in the armchair, his coat still on, but his boots were off and the toes of his socks were wet. He was drumming his fingers on the armrest. My mother looked at everything in the room except us. My father stared up at the wall, at the picture of his mother standing in a field somewhere in Lomba da Maia with the meanest frown on her whiskered face. Terri was under the tree, a kid again, trying to decide which gift to open.

  “Um calsinho?” Edite’s pronunciation was awful. She lifted the tray and offered us the tiny cups of booze. I threw the liquor back, smacked my lips, then winced at the burning that coated my throat and settled in my stomach.

  “Força!” my father said, half-heartedly. “Georgina, why don’t you open your letter from Dr. Patterson?” my father said, every word of Portuguese clear and deliberate.

  Terri made a big deal of opening her gift from Edite. I knew her well enough to know she was trying to create a diversion. She held up a silver lamé angel top and pressed it across her chest.

  My father got up from the couch, his beer in hand. His feet smelled from being trapped in his boots too long. When he reached the tree, he picked up the envelope that sat on top of the television, a large “G” written on the front.

  “This came for you today,” he said. “Your friend came right up to the door and dropped it in our mailbox.” My father flicked it on my mother’s lap. At first she didn’t touch it, but then her hand hovered over the envelope. Shadows of her fingers crossed the letter. She stared at my father. She took the envelope and, without looking, slipped one finger in, tearing it along the crease in a determined rip. She reached in, unfolded the letter. A crisp fifty-dollar bill flittered to the floor. My mother reached down and picked it up. She crumpled it up in her fist. “Is this what you wanted?” she said, her voice firm and in control, and she threw the bill at my father.

  My father looked embarrassed, but he held his stare. He took another swig of his beer.

  “Antonio, come on, it’s your turn,” Edite said, trying to tug me off the couch. “Which present do you want to open?”

  “What’s in the letter?” my father asked. He wasn’t going to let it go. “Antonio, read the letter out loud,” he demanded.

  “Leave it alone, Manuel,” Edite said.

  He shot up. “This is my house! Don’t tell me what to do!” He sprayed Edite with his spit. She wiped her face.

  My mother looked up from the letter. “Antonio,” she said calmly. “Do as your father says. He’s the captain.”

  I hated them all.

  “Read it!” my father yelled.

  I took the letter from my mother’s outstretched hand, unfolded it.

  “Read!”

  “ ‘Georgina, another year and another letter.’ ” The paper shook in my hands. “ ‘Thank you for working so closely with me again. I couldn’t have done it without you. As you know, it is always at this time of the year that I sit down and take stock of my life, where it is I want to be. I do not have a family of my own, something I have always regretted.’ ” I looked to my mother for a sign to continue. Her thumbnail was wedged between her two front teeth. Terri shuffled across the room on her knees to sit at my mother’s feet. “ ‘I feel a connection to my work in Tanzania and the sisters at St. Michael’s have always supported my leaves to work with those less fortunate. I will be returning to them, my family, alone. It is my promise to you that I take with me. You will always be in my thoughts. I wish you’ ”—I added “and your family”—“ ‘the very best, always.’ ” The letter ended “Love, Robert,” but the words turned
to cement in my throat.

  “In my thoughts. Promises?” my father mumbled.

  Love, I mouthed so quietly only I heard it as a whisper.

  My father wiped his mouth with his sleeve. I looked back down at the letter and made out the shape of a tiny swallow Dr. Patterson had drawn after his name. My mother’s fist clenched in front of her throat, the gold chain and the charm hidden in the warmth of her hand.

  “Pronto, cama,” my father said. “Is going to be a long day tomorrow.” My mother did not move. Her face had relaxed. There were no funny lines on her forehead. I had folded the letter, then rolled it like a cigarette. Terri had taken some strands of her hair and held them taut in her mouth. She stared my father down before wrapping her arms around my mother’s legs.

  The first move came from my father, who placed a cigarette between his lips. He reached for the crystal lighter on the coffee table and flicked. Nothing. The scratchy sound from the lighter repeated, but there was no flame. My mother didn’t look his way. It was one of her rules: no smoking in the living room. My father raised the lighter over his head. “Always empty.” He looked squirrelly, not certain of what he’d do next.