Henry swallows his bite and takes a loud sip of his drink. He looks at each guy at the table and their faces get serious, ready to hear what he has to say. “You guys are my brothers. You’re loyal. You could have ditched out, found another crew to run with when I went inside, but you didn’t. You stuck it out, waiting for me. I’m back now. It’s time for the Red Bloodz to make our mark. I got plans.” My brother pauses.
We all lean toward him, listening hard. “We gotta get the chop shop running again.” All three of them nod, so I do, too.
“And for that, we need cars.”
Rat gives me an oily grin.
“And new recruits.” Henry looks at me, his eyes steely. I start blinking and can’t stop.
“Who are you hanging with?” he asks. “Besides the Polish kid?”
No one, I think. It’s always been just us since the first day of kindergarten. He’s not the friend people expect me to have, but that’s their problem, not mine. “What’s wrong with Jakub?”
“He’s Polish,” Henry says and wipes the inside of the ketchup container with his french fry. “You know, I never met a single Polish guy in jail. Not one. You know why?”
I shrug.
“Too busy working.”
I keep quiet. I’ll tell him another time about Koob’s dad. How he looks out for me. How he let me stay with them when the pipes froze last winter. No water and four of us in the house. It stunk so bad my eyes still water when I think about it.
“We need guys like us. Wagon burners!” He says it loud to piss off the people around us. They look, like he wants them too. Henry raises his eyebrows at me and grins.
“I’ll put the word out,” I say, but it’s a lie. I don’t have other friends.
“Told you,” he says to the other guys. “He’s gonna work out.”
My stomach is heavy with fast food. I’m squished in the middle again, now in the back seat of Wheels’s car, breathing in Jonny’s and Rat’s fat, salty burps. Wheels drives down a street that looks like any other in the West End. Houses all built close together, their stucco cracking and roofs sagging. Lots of “Beware of Dog” signs and a few boarded-up windows. There’s lawn chairs on front porches, maybe a case of empties. Barefoot kids with sticky faces run up and down the sidewalk.
The house we go to has people hanging out on the front porch. When the car stops and we get out, a whoop goes up. Henry gets hugs and back slaps from the guys. A few girls are hanging out in skimpy tank tops. One girl comes up and gives Henry a kiss. “Missed you, baby,” she says.
“Welcome home,” a guy says to Henry.
“Butch!” Henry yells. He’s almost as big as my brother, with a long ponytail and the same Red Bloodz dagger tattoo on his neck. He holds his arms out. Everyone goes quiet when the two of them hug.
The guy gives me a chin nod. “Who’s that?” Most of his teeth are missing. He runs his tongue over the ones he has, like he’s counting what’s left.
“Lincoln. My brother,” Henry tells him. The way he says it stops any more questions.
“Come on. We can talk inside.” Rat, Wheels, and Jonny go with them, on some silent signal.
I’m left on the porch. I don’t even have pockets to stash my hands, so I stand there, cracking my knuckles because I don’t know what else to do.
“It’ll give you arthritis,” some girl says. I didn’t notice her before. She’s rocking in a chair with ripped-up red material. The arms are shredded and the foam inside is popping out.
I know it’s not true, but I stop anyway. No one else is paying me any attention.
She slouches in the chair. Her shirt’s rolled up, or maybe it’s just short. Her middle shows, a diamond piercing twinkling in her belly button. Her skin is the colour of coffee with lots of cream in it, but still darker than mine.
“I’m Roxy,” she says. One side of her hair is cut real short, and the other side is long and dyed purple. When she rocks, it falls over her face, hiding her eye.
“Link,” I say.
“What happened to your face?”
I lean against a post holding up the porch roof. “Got burned when I was a kid,” I tell her, my voice low and quiet.
She shows me her arm. A long stretch of twisting, raised skin stretches from her wrist to her elbow. “Tripped into a firepit when I was eight.”
“Shit,” I whisper. She holds up her arm like it’s something to be proud of. At least you can cover it up, I think. But I also think maybe she’s the kind of person who doesn’t want to cover it up.
Henry pokes his head outside. A cigarette is dangling from his mouth. “You good?” he asks. His eyes move between me and Roxy. One corner of his mouth lifts in a smirk.
I nod.
“You want a beer?”
Beer sounds good. Everyone else has one in their hands. “You want one?” I ask Roxy. She doesn’t say anything, but gets up and follows me inside.
The screen door slams behind us. Henry and the guy with the ponytail sit at the kitchen table. Wheels, Rat, and Jonny stand around them. They all look at me when we walk in.
I slouch against the counter, trying to disappear. Roxy pulls two beers out of a cooler and passes one to me. The can is cold. My fingers leave prints on the frosty metal.
She nods with her head for me to follow her. Henry grabs my arm and pulls me down so my ear is next to his lips. “You gonna tap that?” he asks. The other guys hear and laugh, and I know Roxy heard, too. My cheeks burn, even the already burnt one, and I shake my arm out of his grip.
“Screw off, ” I grunt, but that makes them laugh louder.
I have to follow Roxy, even with all of them watching us. We go down a hallway and into the living room. Red Bloodz tags cover the walls.
It hits me that I’m at the Red Bloodz clubhouse. I get jittery thinking about how I’m drinking their beer, how I’m kind of one of them right now. How Koob would lose it if he knew what I was doing. Roxy pats the spot beside her on the couch.
It’s dark green leather, the couch. It makes a sound, like letting out a puff of breath, when I sit on it. Across the room, three small holes in the wall stare back at me. Roxy moves close so our thighs touch. She’s got a fairy tattoo on her foot. It starts by her toes and goes up to her ankle, like the fairy is flying away.
She leans her head back and sighs. Her beer is between her knees and it makes goose bumps all over her skin. I stare at them, thinking it’s kind of ugly how smooth skin can hide all those little pimples.
Her bangs fall away from her face. I can see close up, she isn’t much older than me. Piercings run up her ear and one is in her nose and eyebrow.
“You from the city?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Reserve at God’s Narrows.”
“How long you been here?”
“A few weeks.”
The beer is starting to loosen me up. I sink further into the couch and stop thinking about her ugly goose flesh, or how much of our bodies are touching each other. I dent the can with my fingers, listening to the metal pop in and out. More people spill into the house from outside.
“There’s a room upstairs, you wanna see it?”
I look at her, like why? but she gives me a look. Like I should know why. My gut starts to churn and I wonder if she’s shitting me. But she’s already standing up. The dip in the leather where her body was disappears in seconds, like she was never there. I take another swig of my beer, draining it.
She crooks her finger around mine and leads me up the stairs.
Jakub
Lincoln gives a low whistle. “You did that last night?” He tilts his head, pushing up the flat brim of his baseball hat. His narrow slits of eyes with their heavy line of lashes scan the piece, drinking it in. The piece looks even better in the daylight.
“Yeah. Where the hell were you? I went by your place at midnight and the lig
hts were out.”
Lincoln pulls the brim of his hat back over his eyes. “Henry’s back.”
I give a noncommittal grunt. “Is he gonna hang around for a while?” I pull my hood up. It’s the last few weeks of summer, still hot out, too hot for a hoodie, but I like being able to disappear under it.
All I can see is Link’s mouth. “Got a new tattoo. It says ‘Brothers to the End.’ Right across his chest,” Link brags.
What lies did Henry spin to make Lincoln think the tattoo was for him? Biting down hard, I want to tell Lincoln that after a year and a half in jail, Henry has a whole gang of brothers. But criticizing Henry never gets me far. Some weird hero-worship thing keeps Lincoln from admitting who his brother really is: a criminal.
We walk toward the park, kicking a can back and forth. A few kids on BMX bikes are doing tricks around the fountain.
I pull my black book out of my backpack. A gift from Father Dom last Christmas, the book’s textured paper holds the lead of my pencil and makes my drawings come alive. Not an inch of space is squandered. “What do you think about this?” I show him designs for a big piece, something that will take up a whole wall.
Lincoln pushes his hat back to see it better. He raises an eyebrow, but other than that, his expression doesn’t change. “Think you’re a king now?” There are only a couple of graff writers in the city who are kings. I’m not there yet, but maybe someday.
“Thought we could work it together.”
“Another neighbourhood beauti-fuck-ation project brought to you by Morf-Skar Productions!” He holds his knuckles up and I hit them with my own. “Bam!” we both whisper.
A crew of Red Bloodz rolls into the park with swagger and red bandanas, five of them fanning out. Henry’s in the middle, head shaved, his arms bare in a white tank top. Bigger than I remember. He doesn’t look like anyone I want to tangle with. I wince at the tattoo on his neck. That had to hurt. He catches Lincoln watching him and gives him a chin nod.
Henry’s muscles and blistering white undershirt make him look like a Roman god, perched on the fountain. “He wants me to join them,” Lincoln tells me, so quiet it’s like he doesn’t want me to hear.
I narrow my eyes. “Are you going to?” I ask.
Sticking his fingers through a rip in the bottom of his T-shirt, he doesn’t look at me. “I dunno. He’s my brother,” he says with a shrug.
“Who’s been gone for the last year and a half,” I mutter. I stuff my sketchbook into my backpack. A page tears. Valuable, thick paper. I zip up my bag, a couple cans bang together.
“Where are you going?” he asks.
“It’s Tuesday. I have to help at the church.” I sling my pack over my shoulder. “Wanna come?”
Henry’s eyes are on us. I can feel them. Link probably can, too.
He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll hang here.”
“He’s not here to stay, you know that, right?”
Lincoln looks at the ground and nods. “But he’s here now.”
I have to go. Father Dom will be waiting. I can’t force my friend to come with me, no matter how much I want to.
The best time of day to go to church is late afternoon on a summer day. Outside, the sun is at its hottest, the pavement baking. And in our sweltering apartment, with its one small electric fan whirring in futility, odours emerge, clinging to the heat seeping out of furniture and carpet. There’s nothing to do but sit and sweat in the stink.
But the church is always cool; none of the heat finds its way into the silent cocoon. Smelling like furniture polish and old wood, it’s the most familiar place I know. No matter how many times we’ve moved, there’s only been one church: St. Mary’s Parish. Invitingly cool, the heavy wooden doors slip shut behind me.
A side door opens and Father Dominic walks up the aisle. The white smock hides his ever-expanding waistline, compliments of the pierogi and braided sweetbread left on his doorstep by the women of the church.
As often as not, he shares his food with us. After all these years, he and Dad are like brothers, the only family either one has in Canada, besides me.
Father Dom walks with purpose, taking in the paintings, the stained glass, making sure all is in order. He pauses at the end of a pew, lays his hand on a woman’s shoulder, and bends down to whisper something in her ear. With a sympathetic look, he stands and surveys the few of us in his presence.
Straightening some choir books, he makes his way to me. “Jakub.” He says my name like Dad, the old way, making the J into a Y and accenting the oob on the end. Link says it that way, too, or just calls me Koob. Other people, like teachers, get tripped up on the letters and settle with Jay-cub. I don’t correct them anymore. It’s a losing battle.
“You’re late.”
I bow my head apologetically. Father Dom clucks at me. “You missed your father. He left a few minutes ago.”
“Was he serving?”
“Lunch today. Bean soup. That old woman with no teeth asked him to marry her again.”
I smile, feel my crooked teeth rub against my top lip. Dad could have been in the line for free lunch; instead, he volunteers to dish it out. “We help the less fortunate,” he always tells me. “Dad, we are the less fortunate,” I remind him. But he waves a hand at me like I’m talking crazy.
“You look like shit.” A typical comment from Father Dominic. Beloved by all, with a mouth like a sailor. Raised in Yonkers, New York, by Polish immigrants, he’s never lost his accent, or changed who he is.
“Late night?”
I twist around in my seat, checking to see if we’re alone. “Did you see it? Up on the building between Strathcona and Mountain? You know, with the neon sign in the front window.”
“I’ll walk by tomorrow.”
I stopped confessing my graffiti to Father Dom. He knows I’m not sorry. I’m sorry for sneaking out on Dad and lying, and for stealing cans of spray paint, and for the stupid tags I used to leave on people’s garages.
The only time I’ve seen Father Dominic get mad, like spitting-when-he-talked angry, was the day I confessed that I’d tagged a garage the night before. Turned out, the garage belonged to one of the congregation. The old guy had come to Father Dom in tears about the vandalism on his freshly painted garage door. I promised him I was done tagging people’s property. And I meant it.
I don’t want to be just another tagger, laying scribbles down anywhere, like a dog pissing. I want to take what I do with cans of spray paint to a different level. But I don’t have anyone to guide me. I’m self-taught. Other than Lincoln, I don’t know any graff writers, at least not by face. I know the handles of the guys with serious talent, kings who are all-city and put up pieces that run for weeks, even months, in heaven spots; the best, most noticed spots that can’t be cleaned away. But graff writers move like shadows, disappearing when daylight hits.
We settle into silence until Father Dom clears his throat. “Big match tonight. Wisla Krakow is playing Cracovia.”
Father Dom has been trying to lure me into loving his soccer team, Wisla Krakow, since I was a little boy. He bribed me with their red soccer jersey for Christmas one year. I wore it non-stop for a few months. He thought he’d converted me, but I just liked the colour, and that it wasn’t second hand.
“Your dad might come over and watch. You could join us.”
I give a noncommittal shrug.
“Something bothering you?” A group of ladies shuffle past us, nodding at Father Dom, who puts his hands together and bows to them.
I finger the frayed cuff on my hoodie. “Kinda.” He waits for me to say more. I look around the church; everyone is lost in the solitude of their prayers. “Lincoln’s brother wants him to join the Red Bloodz.” Sunlight shines through the stained-glass window above the altar. Suddenly, the room glows with colour.
He lets out a long sigh and sits back, resting his hands
on his stomach. “I hope it’s an easy decision for him.”
I shrug, wishing the same.
“I’ve seen a lot of boys follow this path, Jakub.” He draws his bushy eyebrows together and frowns. “They end up in prison, or dead.”
He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know.
Lincoln
Henry sidles over to me when Koob leaves. “Where’d your friend go?” he asks.
I glance at him. The dagger tattoo stabs me in the face, it’s so close. “Church.”
Henry laughs. “You shitting me?”
I shake my head.
“Church,” he mumbles, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Why’re you friends with him, anyway?”
You’d know if you hadn’t been in jail for a year and a half, I think.
Henry doesn’t wait long to hear my answer. “You’re gonna have to pick sides, you know. At some point. Guys like him and you don’t stay tight.”
Henry doesn’t know shit. Me and Koob are like brothers, course we’re gonna stay tight. Henry points to his crew by the fountain. “You see them? They get it. They know what it’s like to grow up around here. To survive.”
“Koob grew up here,” I tell him.
Henry flicks the brim of my hat. “I know why you wear that hat. You’re hiding. That’s what it’s like to be us. You think your white friend has to hide? ” He gives a chin nod to the guys. “They get it, little brother. We get it. The Polish kid, he’ll never get it. The system was made for him.”
What system? I don’t get a chance to ask because a low-rider blasting rap music stops beside the park. It’s Rat. Hanging one elbow out the window, he lays on the horn. Henry laughs and gives him the finger. “C’mon, you can ride with me. Those guys are on their own.” He nods his head at the guys by the fountain. I catch Jonny staring at me. His boney face twists with jealousy.
So I walk out of the park with him, like he’s the king and I’m the prince. Rat raises an eyebrow when I get in the back seat, but doesn’t say anything.
Blood Brothers Page 2