by Stephen Law
She peered around the corner, prepared to bolt at the slightest provocation. They hadn’t seen her. A couple of guys leapt over rails, landing lightly, congregating at the Forum entrance. What would happen when the parkour group arrived? Some “gangs of New York” style rumble?
She was about to slink away, when Rashid hobbled into view, on crutches.
And he was alone. He wouldn’t be able to escape.
She waved at him, trying to warn him off without drawing attention. Not here, not now, not like this.
He did see her — broke out in a smile and gave her a head wiggle by way of greeting.
Rashid was limping towards them, she on one side of the wall, Desmond on the other. He was bearing down on them, between them, like an oncoming train. She couldn’t slip away, not without him.
“Hey there, nice to see you made it.”
She tried to grab his arm, but he shrugged her off.
“I’m good,” he laughed and moved past her.
Run away, she told herself. Just go. Leave him, the lamb to the slaughter. Her nan would be ashamed. She found her voice at least. “Don’t …”
If they’d beaten able-bodied Frank to a pulp, what were they going to do to a guy on a crutch?
Rashid turned the corner and she saw him raise his hand, as though to block a blow. Peeking around the edge of the building, she spotted Desmond take a swing. He really was going to mow down a cripple.
Crutch squeezed to his side, Rashid caught the hand in his own. He held Desmond’s fist, drawing him forward while he balanced on one foot. They were hugging. Her brother was smiling. Rashid turned in her direction, and he was smiling too.
Drawing Shaz out from the safety of the corner, Rashid made a move to introduce them.
“We’ve met,” Shaz said, her voice shaky with fading adrenalin. She offered her brother a kind of grimace that she couched as a smile. “He’s my brother.”
“Really?” Rashid took a closer look. When your skin colour is different, people assume you can’t be related.
Desmond grabbed her around the waist. “Can’t you see the family resemblance?” He pushed their cheeks together so Rashid could compare the shape of their faces, the setting of their eyes, their noses.
He held her tight. With no relatives to place between them, she was powerless to get away.
She’d worn loose cotton sweats, running shoes and a cotton track jacket. She hadn’t wanted to carry anything extra in case she was going to get the opportunity to practise some spidey moves of her own.
Twisting in Rashid’s direction, she recognized an opening.
“Can I get a hug from you too?”
A two-finger push released her into Rashid’s arms. He held her awkwardly, then shuffled backward and let her go.
“Desmond joined about the same time as me,” he said, pointing to the group. “These ones are the experts I told you about.”
With one eye still on her brother, Shaz took them in. What had first looked like a gang of hoodlums now seemed like an obvious motley. A tall, skinny one, an older woman who looked like she could be someone’s grandma, some short agile looking guys and what she could see now were girls in hoodie camouflage. Not as intimidating as they’d first appeared. Some were stretching and others had begun jumping and running along the metal rails that led down the steps from the Forum building. Her brother had slunk away. She watched him, but the others, too. She was not about to let her guard down.
One petite woman in skater clothes looked like a streetwise Tinkerbell navigating a tightrope. Shaz recognized her from the studio — someone she’d worked on. Tinkerbell was a member of a group of young skaters and punkers who came in for piercings. Twenty holes Shaz had punched along the ear of one of their members. With Tinkerbell, if she recalled correctly, it was her left nipple. They were her pp’s: punctured punks.
Taking a closer look, Shaz could see many of them had tattoos, ones she’d done herself, others the work of artists in the city. Slowly it dawned on Shaz that either she’d provided services to the people who swarmed Frank, or this wasn’t the group Desmond had been with when Frank had been jumped.
***
SHE COULDN’T LEAVE. BUT it wasn’t her brother who stopped her.
“This is Desmond’s sister. The one who rescued me after I was attacked by the wall.”
Rashid went through the crew, making introductions. Tinkerbell’s name was Laura and there was a skinny twelve-year-old kid they called “Uncle Ben.”
“Older or younger?” the kid shouted up at them.
Her flight or fight response had been replaced by something else.
“Younger and better.” Desmond strutted up and messed the kid’s hair. It was hard to tell whether the action was intimidation or jocularity. Uncle Ben gave nothing away.
“Welcome.” People came up and shook her hand or nodded in greeting. Then they fanned out around the building to limber up or climb things that didn’t normally get climbed. She feigned interest in Uncle Ben, but kept her sights on Desmond as he moved away.
The group moved into ever more complicated manoeuvres. Marvelling, Shaz acknowledged they appeared more flash mob than swarming delinquents.
Rashid had been keeping his distance but finally he approached her with an encouraging, “Give it a go.” She paused, wondering what urban gymnastic trick she could muster.
Given the chance, she should have taken off. But Rashid was a magnet. And as she watched her brother flip, soar, and leap she was motivated by an urge to demonstrate what she was capable of, too. She drew near to the fence. She had been envisioning a cop show crime chase, but up close the fence was higher than she thought.
“Grab, pull yourself up, lift and swing.”
She gave him a look, noting he was the one standing around with crutches. Her brother stood to the side, smirk on his face, staring.
“Shit. Here goes nothing,” she said. Launching herself at the fence, she leapt, grabbing hold with her fingers and swung in the air. Like a pommel horse gymnast she sliced her legs up and over the divide, landing with a crunch on the top. Pulling her body upright she sat atop the fence trying not to feel like she had just impaled her lady parts.
“Nice job, Nightingale,” Uncle Ben shouted to her from the other side.
Rashid gave a cheer while she struggled to stay upright. Grimacing, she felt exhilarated. His smile was a thrill. Then she remembered Desmond. She scanned the area, back to where she had last seen him. No longer watching, he had somersaulted away.
Grabbing hold of the fence, Rashid called up, “Now, that you are up there, it might be a good time to learn how to fall.”
“I don’t want to fall.” Her thighs gripped more tightly to the metal.
“We all fall.”
Uncle Ben stole up and gave Rashid a shove. “Yeah, but we all don’t get hurt.”
Unclenching her legs, she jumped down, collapsing onto her hands and knees, exhibiting a touch more grace than a stumbling drunk. Rashid helped her up and Uncle Ben sidled up to her.
“Let me show her some moves.” Shaz thought it was amusing he was asking Rashid’s permission.
Uncle Ben showed her how to fall and roll. He was a munchkin, but he had a good nature and a quirky laugh that burst out when Shaz made some spectacular spill. A jump over a few banisters earned her a high five from Tinkerbell.
Shaz caught herself as she was about to tightrope across a guard rail. Searching for Rashid, she saw he was still watching. It made her want to perform, his eyes on her. She’d taken ballet as a little kid, gymnastics till she was thirteen, and she was still adept at her unicycle when she put in the effort. Everything they were doing and teaching her recalled skills that lived in some recess in her mind. And showing Rashid what she was capable of, that gave her a little thrill too.
A flash of her brother’s shape in her peri
pheral vision caused her to stumble and throw her arms out to regain balance. She concentrated on crossing the bar. In the leaping, rolling, balancing, and climbing, something came back to her. Was it that sense you have when you are a child that anything is possible, that flying is simply a matter of practice? The lightness and buoyancy she once had was something she’d forgotten.
Sweat rolled down the side of her face.
Rashid came over, “You’re good.”
“I’m not sure how to take that given your condition.”
He laughed. “Want to grab a coffee?”
“Why don’t you come to my place instead?”
He hesitated.
Shaz re-tacked. “So I can change. I didn’t bring any other clothes than what I’m wearing.”
“Why don’t you go change and then meet up with us at Trinity Café?”
Oh. Us. “Great, yeah. I’ll meet you there.”
Before he had a chance to say anything more, she jumped down from the rail, shouted, “See you later, thanks, and nice meeting everyone,” and sprinted towards Young Street. At the sidewalk she glanced back and saw the group standing around in the distance. Uncle Ben, small and forlorn. Rashid, watching. Her brother, oblivious.
She fled into the Atlantic Superstore, as if that’s where she had been headed all along. She wandered around the fruit section, half expecting either Rashid or Desmond to show up. Loitering until it became suspicious, she left, heading home, wishing she had bought tomatoes she could splatter against walls.
***
BY THE TIME SHE got home, she was shivering.
In the shower, she lathered soap along the ink tracks on her arms and shivered some more. She hadn’t said anything to Desmond. What was he doing there? And what was Rashid doing hanging out with her brother? She pulled at her braids, pulling off the elastics and untwining the strands one by one as steam filled the bathroom.
Imagine if Frank had seen them. And why did she run? Soaping her hair, she pulled the tangles out. Was it her imagination or was Rashid keeping her at a distance? And what the fuck was she going to do about her dad? Thoughts were spinning like wheels of chance.
She started to feel dizzy. With water pouring down she sat in the shower and put her head between her knees until she felt steady.
Dressed in pajamas overlain with a sweater, she crawled under the duvet in her bedroom, where she had only recently started sleeping again. Still dizzy and out of balance, she felt very cold. Even under all the layers, she couldn’t get warm.
Rashid had pretty much turned her down. Frank hated her. Desmond was a question mark. Her dad needed her but only because he was sick. Her house probably wasn’t safe. She probably wasn’t safe in it. No wonder her faculties were scrambled. She pulled the duvet up to her chin and stayed in bed until morning.
The next day she didn’t feel like getting up either, so she stayed where she was. It had gotten warm, finally, and was blissfully uncomplicated. She went to the bathroom and then the kitchen to scavenge for food — these were the only reasons to move. She did it stealthily, then scrambled right back under the covers.
Her cellphone vibrated on the desk. She turned it to silence and let the battery drain. With her laptop placed atop her covers, she immersed herself in sitcoms and drama.
A date with Aleysha was forgotten. When she remembered, she put it aside.
On her third day in bed, Aleysha came by. “Hey there my lovely.” She brought cream soda and Doritos.
Flipping closed her laptop, Shaz turned her head to greet her friend. “Hi.” She hadn’t brushed her teeth in three days.
“You weren’t at the studio, so here I am.” Her eyes scanned he room. “You’re not in some artistic retreat are you?” Dirty cereal bowls and empty food wrappers littered the floor.
Shaz looked around, but didn’t say a word.
Aleysha left the room and Shaz wondered for a moment whether she’d lost her, too. But back she came, with a glass filled with three chunks of ice. She poured the soda and handed it over. Slicing the Doritos bag with the knife from the desk, Aleysha placed it alongside her on the bed. Then she sat in the swivel chair and waited.
Bubbles surfaced in the glass and condensation formed on the sides.
Shaz didn’t know what to say. She didn’t know why she was still in bed.
Catching a drip of soda on her finger, she dropped it onto the centre of a chip. The pop mingled with the chip seasonings, turning it from orange to yellow. She popped the chip in her mouth. One, and then another and another. Then she licked her fingers clean and dropped the empty bag to the floor.
“Wanna watch The Walking Dead?” Shaz moved aside so Aleysha could join her on the bed.
The next day after work, Aleysha returned with Chinese food in a box. It was from a new restaurant in the south end, off Kent Street.
“You need to go see Frank.” Aleysha chomped down on a bite of ginger beef and grabbed hold of some Singapore noodles. “You can’t stay here in your room till the world ends. I won’t let you.”
“Tomorrow.” Shaz stabbed at a piece of meat.
“Today.”
“Can I at least finish my noodles?” She glanced at the laptop and mumbled, “and all the episodes of Modern Family and maybe the first five seasons of Survivor?”
“You get dressed, and we’ll see what you can do next.”
“You sound like my mom.”
Wiping her face with a napkin, Aleysha jumped up and flung open her closet. “Mmm. Try these on.” She pulled out clothes in various shades of black.
Heaving herself from bed, Shaz caught the shirt. She pulled it on and then tore it off again. It didn’t feel right against her skin. Her cotton undershirt still held the heat of the four days in bed, everything else felt cold. Aleysha threw her another one. Shaz tried that and didn’t like that one either. A pair of pants held the same result. All the clothes that still remained in her closet, every combination, she tried on then discarded, forming a mound on the floor.
She was still standing in a black sports bra and a pair of boxers when she heard Frank’s voice at the front door.
Aleysha shrugged. “I sent him a text.”
Shaz grabbed a pair of sweats and a red Mao t-shirt, one of the few brightly coloured pieces of clothing she owned just as Frank knocked on the bedroom door.
Aleysha sneaked by and disappeared down the hall. “I’ll go get us some coffee …”
The bruising was gone from Frank’s face, though he still had the cast and a noticeable limp. He winced slightly when she offered him a seat on her bed.
Shaz shrank back towards the closet. “I’m so sorry Frank. I don’t understand it. It’s because of me, it has nothing to do with you.”
Frank’s gaze settled on his sling.
Gulping, she took a step towards him. “I really am sorry.” She held herself back. “I’ve missed you.”
Clothes on the floor, rumpled sheets, discarded food boxes, laptop on the covers — she could see Frank take in her room, her appearance, her hair.
“What have you been watching?” He eased himself down and squirmed as best as he was able up against her headboard.
By the time Aleysha had returned with lattes and chocolate croissants from the “hipster north end” they had eased into their old ways. Checking out vintage Carol Burnett Show episodes was a balm they applied to the wound.
Aleysha got a hug when they left, but Frank had just stood apart at the door. It still wasn’t right. It was better, but not the same. A Dorito chip closer to happiness. And she was going to have to be okay with that, for now.
That night, Shaz put on a hoodie and went out. She took in a big breath of the clean crisp air, and realized how stuffy her room had become. She walked downtown.
Passing a woman on the street, Shaz kept her eyes downcast, tight. She didn’t want to be
afraid anymore. Removing her hood, she let her hair fall to her shoulders, now more dreadlock than straight — something she’d have to deal with later.
Lights and activity dominated Spring Garden Road: a security guard in the credit union was talking to a young cleaner, a girl was carrying drinks through a Thai restaurant, and cyclists sped by on bikes, folks waited for buses that went to Spryfield, Clayton Park, or the Halifax Shopping Centre.
Crossing paths with a guy smoking a cigar, she had to dodge a grocery cart full of empties. Someone said something about a motherlode behind the cathedral. A gang of kids hung out in front of the McDonalds, and Shaz held her breath when she walked by. Groups of kids had never scared her before. Watching a guy lip-synching to Soft Cell’s “Tainted Love” while idling in his mini outside Park Lane brought a smile to her lips.
She tipped the guy on the corner of Queen Street playing the accordion and walked home by the way of the Citadel, passing along the Commons, head up, eyes forward, feeling human again for the first time in days.
***
THE SHOP WAS QUIET. No appointments, no walk-ins. It gave Shaz a chance to tidy things up, go over inventory. But she languished with the sketchpad on her lap, feet propped against the desk. Looking out on the street, she doodled, her hand its own automaton, tracing, circling, gliding around the page.
Free association, stream of consciousness. She hadn’t realized what it was at first, in school. Reviewing for a test, on the margins, on entire pages, front and back of the red Hilroy notebooks, scratched in ink or pencil were doodles of links, loops, bracelets, leashes, fences, ropes, lifelines.
It became her first series. She imagined it had profound meaning, because at fifteen, everything did. So she marked it onto anybody who came to see her. There was a whole generation of tattoo victims who were unknowingly chained together in her designs.
“It’s like a blood bond thing, but with a tattoo. We could get linked together, like sisters.”
An early lesson in failing to identify the connection between context, image and meaning: count on Aleysha to make it clear. “You’re not putting that on me. I’m not getting shackled to anybody or anything.”