by Stephen Law
“Hoodies. Black and white.”
Shaz struggled with the connection.
Frank stared at her now with the same intensity he had used to shut her out. “Desmond was there.”
“What?” A churning in the pit of her stomach. It came at her like a wave. “No way.” She shook her head. She made to swallow, but gagged and clamped her mouth shut, pushing down the bile despite the roiling in her gut. “No.” She had no other way to respond. Nothing else to say. Desmond had known Frank for years. It made no sense.
Frank averted his gaze and turned toward the creamy grey skies.
Shaz stared at him, shook her head, and ran from the room.
***
FLAMES SOARED. BLACK SMOKE curled upwards into the sky as the clothes burned. Sparks jumped out of the garbage can, little firelights escaping the blaze. With a little bit of fuel from the barbecue and a light, the pile of clothes had gone up. The heat touched Shaz’s face, making her shiver.
She let the smoke wash over her as the fire burned to a smolder, then to just a small curl in the sky. She dragged the charred garbage can to the curb, and went inside to her room. Everything she didn’t burn she put back into place, but the room wasn’t the same. It would never be the same. Shaz couldn’t remember when she’d slept last. It was hard to think, to keep everything straight.
She wandered into the hallway and opened the basement door.
“Hello!” she called into the dark.
Flipping the light switch, she tiptoed down the wooden steps. Bins and boxes, seasonal items — leftovers mostly from old housemates — collected dust beside the hot water tank and furnace.
She thought maybe she could sleep here, on the old futon they brought upstairs for guests. Fold it out and hide in the cellar. She cleared a path to the futon, moving aside a crate of chemistry textbooks and a pile of winter jackets, almost tripping over her unicycle.
She grabbed the light frame and set the bike upright.
Her mom had given it to her when she was thirteen, just before Desmond arrived.
Shaz wiped dust and cobwebs from the spokes. The tire was flat, but the pedals still turned. With a little air, it might still work. She wondered if she could still ride.
After unwrapping the gift from her mom, she’d dumped it in the hall closet and forgot about it until one day when she was bumping around the house looking for something to do. Something illicit. Home from the maternity ward, her colicky brother and tired mother lay in bed together, sleeping.
She pilfered one of her nan’s smokes from the jewellery box, inhaling the musk of the tobacco as she wandered the house, cigarette dangling unlit from her lips. She spotted the unicycle and pulled it out.
It wasn’t easy. Dipping and dodging, she fell forwards, a few times almost right onto her head. She used the hallway walls for support as she learned to balance. Slowly she managed a little more, a revolution backwards, a little way forwards, a turn.
Shaz rummaged in the basement and found the tire pump. Watching the tire inflate, she listened for leaks. She pumped till it was hard enough to hold her weight.
The frame for the unicycle was the colour of the summer sky, so she had named it Clotho. Her nana told her stories of these great rulers when she tucked her into bed at night. Clotho, one of the Fates, had been born from a marriage between the earth and the sky. She had tried to imagine what that looked like. Who wore the dress?
Nan also told her about Queen Nzinga of the Ndongo and Matamba lands. Queen Hatshepsut, who lay buried in the Valley of the Kings, Akhenaten and Nefertiti, the greatest love story of their time. African queens and Greek goddesses.
She remembered crouching outside her brother’s door, eavesdropping as Nan told him tales of King Musa, who created the first university in Timbuktu, and Hannibal, who ruled Northern Tunisia. Nana loved Imhotep, the Prince of Peace, chancellor to the pharaoh and high priest of the sun god Ra at Heliopolis.
Shaz dragged the unicycle up the basement stairs and out onto the street. The first few tries with it, she stumbled, unable to get or stay upright. Balanced against a car, she found her centre and managed a short bobble. Thighs burning, stomach muscles strained, she zigged and zagged down the street, arcing around cars, wondering why the fates were playing with her, and what she was going to do about it
***
SHAZ MADE HER WAY from the Halifax side across the bridge.
Haligonians called it “Darkness,” but to Shaz, Dartmouth had once been home. Her nana’s place was on Fenwick Street, a detached house in one of those post-war neighbourhoods where the yards weren’t separated by fences, where soccer games could stretch out through the corridor.
At ten, Aleysha had dared them to ride across the bridge on their bikes. They had been riding since they were six. Aleysha got her two-wheeler first, but one broken promise by Shaz’s father and her mom didn’t wait for another birthday to come around: she bought Shaz a bike and the two girls learned to ride together.
“You go first,” Aleysha urged as they passed the Holiday Inn, just before the bridge tolls.
Family, church, playgrounds, woodlands, the corner store where they could get McIntosh toffee or candied chicken bones. They’d never crossed the bridge and gone to Halifax before — not on their own. No need when everything was right there.
Passing the cars waiting to pay the toll, Shaz pushed the thick pedals of her coaster and joined up with the pedestrian path that ran alongside the bridge road. She glanced back to make sure she hadn’t gotten too far ahead. Aleysha was nowhere. She’d left Shaz to cross the bridge alone. A couple of cyclists flew by, and Shaz moved to the side while she decided what to do.
The bridge bent up toward the sky. Shaz took a breath and looked around. Her bike had allowed her to travel past the neighbourhoods she was familiar with, into new territory. Through the rail she could see the shore below, where she and Aleysha would sometimes search for snail shells and starfish while they watched the big ships come into the harbour and dock on the opposite pier. Shaz looked back again, in case Aleysha had only been diverted and was catching up. But she wasn’t there. One last look, then, plopping down on the seat, she resumed pedalling, pushing hard against the bridge’s incline.
Below, the water churned and crashed. Not wanting to think about suddenly spinning upwards, vaulting over the curved guardrail and plummeting into the ocean, Shaz kept her head down. Of course she stopped at the apex and admired the view and the path — downhill either way.
Later, when Shaz biked up the street toward home, her muscles sore and aching, Aleysha was there waiting.
“Did you do it?”
Shaz never answered. Fair’s fair and it seemed only fair to keep her guessing.
It was in the heart of Darkness where as teenagers they found gems like the Ochterlony dockyard, with its myriad treasures: old train spikes, pop bottles, discarded and broken pulleys and equipment. Frank took them to Lake Banook, the national rowing site, where they gawked at the buff rowers on the water. The Owl Drug Store at King and Portland Street was their source for junk food and condoms, and Victoria Park, sandwiched between industrial bunkers and the seedy downtown core, was their playground.
Desmond still lived here. What had been her neighbourhood was now his. Frank was wrong about Desmond. He had to be.
She needed to talk to her brother, but didn’t want to confront him in front of her mother or nana. She didn’t want even the suggestion of his involvement to reach him if it weren’t true. That wouldn’t be fair. Too many people already made too many assumptions about the people in her community, because of where they lived and how they looked.
Where Desmond went when he wasn’t at home, and who he was with — that was good information. It would tell her a lot, maybe even if he was responsible for what happened to Frank. But where to look?
The mall, McDonalds, Gus’s Pizza shop, Alderney
Landing, the ferry terminal — these places looked tired through her adult eyes. Gangs of kid congregated and she watched them for a while, not spotting Desmond among them.
She ended up at the park, the Commons of Dartmouth, where she and Aleysha had practised giving each other hickies on their arms and played midnight tag. Walking around in dark clothing, holding herself small, she moved along the trail. She almost never came back here.
A cob oven for making pizzas for family gatherings and birthday parties — that was new. She took the steep trail to the height of the park, where, amidst the cultivated flower beds, she could look down on the harbourfront and over the water to Halifax.
Taking in the wide expanse of the two cities, she couldn’t think where else to look for her brother. Maybe he hung around Forest Hill, Auburn or communities farther inland, like the Prestons? He wasn’t anywhere she’d been. Or maybe he was just back at her nan’s. And she wasn’t going to check there. Not yet.
***
“LANELLE CARVER?” TWO POLICE officers entered the studio.
Shaz was busy with a portrait, a collage of three children on Mahbub’s arm. She was having trouble with the eyes. Getting the shape, the iris, and the glint were crucial when doing faces — one wrong dot of ink could throw it all off.
“Give me a sec.”
When she was composed and ready, she directed the officers to the couches.
“They call me Shaz.”
The woman sat down, while her partner remained standing. “We’re here about the break-in.”
Trying not to exhale loudly, Shaz kept her face neutral. She thought they had come about the swarming, looking for her brother, maybe.
“Your housemates found you scouring the kitchen and bathroom?”
The police had shown up the night it happened, to investigate and collect statements, but by then Frank had whisked her away. She hadn’t expected them to follow up.
She noticed Mahbub putting his shirt back on and gathering his things.
“I’ll come back later,” he said, making his way past the officers, eyes averted.
Shaz glared at the cops.
“Now that some time has passed, have you discovered anything missing?”
As far as she had been able to tell, nothing had been stolen. For her, it wasn’t so much what was missing as what was wrecked. And the loss of security. She knew that wasn’t what the cops were interested in.
“I was trying to cleanse the space. Disinfect it.”
The standing cop was looking over her things, like he was looking for evidence. She had nothing to hide, but the police weren’t always good to the people she knew. Off-duty, sometimes they were okay. Some of them were even her clients. But charged with the power of a uniform, they were people to be wary of. There was no accounting for what they might do and Shaz could feel herself being careful not to appear guilty.
“Any idea why they would target you or your dwelling?”
She shook her head. She had tried not to think about it. Tried not to make it personal. A lot of people had come and gone through the place over the years. Roommates, friends of friends, acquaintances who crashed on the floor after parties. It could have been anyone.
“The only bedroom they went into was yours. Why do you think that was?”
Shaz stood up. “I don’t have anything to tell you. I’m sorry. I have to get back to my work. I have clients coming to see me.”
The female officer stood and the other one came back from behind the counter. “Thank you for your time. If you have anything you want to share with us, please get in touch.” She passed her a card.
As they were leaving, the male officer directed his partner’s attention to the portraiture wall: drawings by Shaz of her mom, nan, and brother, as well as Aleysha and Frank.
Did they linger a little longer on the portrait of Desmond, or was she just imagining it?
The policewoman turned back to Shaz and said, “Take care.” They left the studio.
Retreating to the back, Shaz slumped into the styling chair.
The intruders had only gone into her bedroom. Was she the target?
Not wanting to think about it, she grabbed her phone and texted Mahbub to see if he could come back. She desperately needed something to do.
***
THERE WAS NO MISSING Nana’s birthday.
Shaz huddled against the shelter at the bus stop on Robie Street, staring at King’s Insurance and the I Stop Pain clinic across the street while she waited for the number sixteen. She fiddled with the strings on her hoodie — tugged at them to tighten the covering over her head, the folds narrowing and focusing her view.
Desmond would be home, Shaz was sure of it. Just like their nana had always been there for them. Steady and present. The woman had practically raised Shaz and Desmond, standing in as a surrogate parent and support when their mom needed it. Watching Nan change baby Desmond’s diapers, feed him, and cradle him was a mirror into her own childhood.
A teenage kid with a skateboard appeared at the stop, followed not long after by a woman with two bags of groceries.
Bus lights shone towards them. The woman stood in the shelter but maintained her distance, keeping Shaz in her crosshairs while they waited.
The bus splashed as it drove up to the stop. Finding a seat alone, Shaz scooted over and settled herself by the window — not that any of the other passengers were likely to sit with her. Hoodies, tattoos, how you looked, that had an effect on people.
The heat blasted, making the bus stuffy and overwarm. Damp wool, cotton, sweat, and rain produced a wet dog smell. Shaz pulled the strings tight to her nose and stared out as the droplets fell.
She longed for the feeling of steel rising above the land and stretching out across the water. Cabled sky. Walking the bridge was always preferable, but only vehicles were permitted on the McKay. The MacDonald allowed pedestrians and cyclists but that bridge was a long way around to Nan’s house.
The bus turned toward Dartmouth and began its ascent of the bridge. Shaz strained for a glimpse of the park down below. Using her sweater, she cleared a circle from the steamy window.
Seaview Park. That’s what they called it at first.
“Scrubbed it clean,” her nana said. “Or at least that’s what they thought. But you can’t hide from history.”
Cars rushed past on the bridge, oblivious to the park below. Shaz knew most people didn’t know about the park or what it meant. To them, it was just the green space under the ramp to the tolls.
Her nan used to take her as a child, on the bus, from Dartmouth. They’d get out at the bottom of the bridge and walk down, crossing the traffic and winding underneath the concrete and cables.
“This is Africville. Don’t let anyone tell you different.” Nana’s voice would turn solemn. “The boys tore around, getting in everyone’s business. Mrs. Dixon would always be so bothered by having them running around her feet.”
Nan guided them to a spot in the park unmarked by stones or bush. “Right here, this is where your Aunt Ida lived.” How could she know so precisely the spot? It seemed to Shaz that the knowledge must somehow be in her, be a part of her being. “That’s where you come from. It’s where we were all born.”
Kids booting a homemade soccer ball over the rough terrain. A clapboard house weathered by the rain. A place where every neighbour was called Uncle or Auntie, where you were surrounded by family.
Nan would chuckle as she remembered details. “We made our own way in those days. We took care of ourselves. The women did. Most of the family, except your Uncle Wayne, were born right here next to the kitchen. Oh, and her oatmeal cookies, they were some good …”
Nana talked and pointed and Shaz would try to picture simple wooden houses and horses carrying goods, aunts and mothers and neighbours talking on stoops against a backdrop of fresh laundry on a line.<
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But Shaz could never orient herself properly on the ground. Nan told her she used to be able to see Norris Point from the outhouse window. Or she could turn and gaze across to Turtle Grove, where the Mi’kmaq community once stood before the Halifax explosion wiped it out. Shaz would look across the harbour for the different sites, but never felt like her bearings were right, and never knew quite where she stood.
Clearing more of the condensation from the window with the sleeve of her hoodie, she caught sight of the new church, the only structure the city would allow to commemorate the community.
“They used garbage trucks,” Nan said, her body turned rigid. “That’s what they thought of us. Anyone who hadn’t left was forcibly removed and taken away in municipal garbage trucks.” Nan trembled, her features set between rage and sadness. She’d take a deep breath and stare up at the sky. “Aunt Ida, they drug her right off her bed and down the stairs.”
Afterwards, they’d hike up to Uniacke Square, the public housing project turned catacomb of duplexes and apartments for the people whose land had been stolen. “Twice stolen,” her Nan noted, “first from the Mi’kmaq, then from us.”
“This is where they put her.” The dull brown of the duplexes was no doubt a match for the bitterness and pain of the residents. Houses were set up as lines of bunkers, facing away from their true home, blocks from the harbour.
“Your Aunt Ida died here six months after they ripped her out.” New generations occupied the duplex, but Nan still saw it as the place Aunt Ida had been put to die. Nana never lived there. Like many others, she withdrew to Dartmouth.
The bus passed over the line where the ocean licked at the land, where rocks dotted the shore, torn asunder by the tides. Shaz looked down. The worst was over.
The bus turned onto Highfield Drive. It was a short walk from the terminal but it was still raining and she was going to be soaked by the time she arrived.
She stepped into the bus shelter and watched as the drops bounced off the sidewalk and dribbled along the curb, streaming down into the sewers. The water was all headed in the same direction. Gathering herself, she followed the passengers as they spread out into the neighbourhood. By the time she reached her nan’s, the rain had trickled to a mist.