My mother’s body softened. “Antonio, I don’t want you to be afraid of life.” Her lips trembled, even after she said the words.
I sauntered to my window and looked down onto Palmerston Avenue. Some of the neighbours were outside scrubbing down their front walkways and sidewalks. A few people had begun to chase the suds and chemicals with a hose, washing the dirt onto the road where it all would collect and then pour down the sewer.
— 7 —
RAYS OF SUNSHINE streamed in through the kitchen window. A small patch appeared on the floor. I walked into it, closed my eyes, and let my body melt into the warmness. I figured nothing and no one would be able to hurt me in the force field I had stepped into. The Little Prince was tucked in my back pocket. I had been reading a section from it every day. I thought of Adam and his gift. I liked the words and the way the Little Prince just dropped out of nowhere; how he lived on a planet hardly any bigger than he was and how his only real pleasure was to sit and watch the sun set. My body tingled the way I thought it would if I was getting beamed up, like on Star Trek, my entire being dissolving into confetti.
I climbed up onto the roof of my garage to look out over the backyards and laneway, all the rooftops. I stood tall, letting the spring sun warm my face. My father had knotted the hose through the chain-link fence that separated our yard from the neighbours’. The hose had been turned on to a fine mist that dusted the vegetable garden, away from where the fat robins dipped their heads into our lawn, throwing wriggling worms down their gullets. Not even a year since I had last pressed my head into the bulge in the screen-window mesh to see my mother climb onto the worm-picker. My mother saw me up on the roof and forced a smile. “Get down from there, Antonio,” she said, gathering sheets from the clotheslines like she was squishing clouds. I could trace the worry in her face. Her whole body gave off a low-level hum of danger and only I could hear it. I heard the harmony of Abba’s “Dancing Queen” coming from an upstairs room. Through her open window I could see my sister twirling in her tube top, a towel draped over the windowsill. She practised every day. When she saw me on the rooftop she leaned out her window and yelled “Mãe, he’s going to break his neck.” She smiled as she said it. Through everything, especially when Edite returned home, Terri continued to be tough and strong and I knew she’d always be there for me. We never talked about all the people we had lost; that’s just not the way my family was.
“Antonio!” my father yelled from two backyards over. He stood beside my uncles, who were in the middle of lifting the fig tree from out of its sleeping hole. “Ajuda! We need one more man.”
The sun was strong, made me feel like God was everywhere, watching everything. I skipped over the rooftops, my feet feeling confident and assured.
I returned to the ground and stood next to my father. I was almost as tall as he was. The hair on his arms were speckled with dirt. My father placed his hand on the nape of my neck, guided me into position. My uncles—Clemente, David, and Luis—coiled rope around their wrists and handed me my own rope. With a collective tug—um, dois, três—the fig tree, its branches stuffed with pink insulation and newspaper, rose from its sleep. The root ball descended deeper into the soil and the crown rose, floating like cotton candy amidst a cloud of dust and dirt. Their dirty hands pounded my back and the small tumblers of wine passed among us to be shared. I looked at my father, his face thin and tired but his eyes beaming.
The air was warm. I dusted off the handlebars and wiped the seat of my Chopper with my palm. I thought of Ricky’s letter tucked in my tube sock—I had read it over a hundred times. When I wake up in the morning my mother makes my bed, and the best part is she makes breakfast. For me. I mounted my bike and rode out into the laneway. My kneecaps hit the handlebars. I got off. I stood next to my bike and stared up to the top of the lane. I noticed some old men sitting in their lawn chairs in the laneway—smoking, spitting, and talking. It was when I saw James’s garage door wide open and a man stirring inside that the wind was kicked out of me. I waited for my breathing to return before walking my bike up the laneway.
“A bloody mess, this is.”
“Mr. Serjeant. You’re back,” I said.
“Call me Paul,” he said. “Came back early, seems running a pub on a beach isn’t as easy as it looks.”
The walls of the once whitewashed garage were spattered with paint—blue, green, yellow, the kinds of colours people in my neighbourhood painted their houses. James had thrown cans of it against the walls; in some spots it had run down to pool and dry on the floor. He’d smeared the paint with his hands and fingers. In places I could see his handprints. Daubs and splashes of pure colour made the room feel alive. I couldn’t help but smile.
“Why would anyone do this? I’m going to have to clean up this bloody mess. Paint over it.” He took off his cap and scratched the red band on his forehead. “You didn’t know the bloke who rented my garage, did you?”
“Not really,” I said. I hopped on my bike and pedalled up the laneway.
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
I would like to thank the Canada Council, the Ontario Arts Council, and Diaspora Dialogues for their support with my research and with this manuscript. To the Toronto Public Library and all the librarians who supported my research, particularly, the Toronto Star’s database, Pages from the Past, which allowed me to travel back in time—thank you. I am deeply grateful to everyone I interviewed—too many to be named here—who lent their insights into their respective communities during that fateful summer in 1977.
This book is a work of fiction, inspired by the real-life event surrounding the 1977 murder of Emanuel Jaques. Research, relationships, and family histories have collectively inspired this story. I have taken liberties with places and people depicted in this book to frame a narrative. Also, I have simplified the reproduction of Azorean dialect that was part of my childhood—of my world. My gratitude to José Abreu Ferreira and Onésimo T. Almeida for helping me re-create the orality of speech. If there are any inaccuracies, they are my own. Thanks to Jane Rosenman, who had faith in me. Thank you to Andra Miller at Algonquin, for taking ownership of this book and for her precise editing.
I also would like to thank my trusted early readers for their presence, friendship, and support during the writing of this book: Susan Mockler, Bernie Grzyb, James Papoutsis, Rekha Lakra, Susan Shuter, Sheila Murray, and Jann Stefoff. I’m grateful to my friends and colleagues for feedback and advice as this story evolved. I owe special thanks to my agent, Denise Bukowski, who read the manuscript through its various stages and who never wavered in offering valuable criticism.
A thank you to my publishing family—Doubleday Canada—for being there during the most difficult times in writing this book. Thanks to Maya Mavjee, for giving this book a home early on, and to Kristin Cochrane, who championed it to the end. To Scott Richardson, thank you for turning my words into beautiful images. To Scott Sellers, who believed in and understood this story from the very beginning, thank you. To the rest of the Doubleday team—Lynn Henry, Susan Burns, Martha Leonard, Zoë Maslow, Nicola Makoway, Shaun Oakey, I appreciate all that you’ve done through the journey. I’d like to offer a special thanks to Martha Kanya-Forstner—for her tender insights, fine editing, and unfailing calm amidst the storm. This novel is the product of our work.
As always, I thank my wife, Stephanie, for her patience, encouragement, and wonderful understanding of my story. To my sons, Julian, Oliver, Simon, you will one day understand how much you inspire me.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Anthony De Sa grew up in Toronto’s Portuguese community. His short fiction has been published in several North American literary magazines. Barnacle Love, Anthony’s first book, was critically acclaimed and became a finalist for the 2008 Scotiabank Giller Prize and the 2009 Toronto Book Award. Anthony graduated from University of Toronto and did his post-graduate work at Queen’s University. He attended the Humber School for Writers and Ryerson University. He teaches creative writing and is currently a teacher-li
brarian at Michael Power/St. Joseph High School. He lives in Toronto with his wife and three sons.
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