Kicking The Sky Part 10

Agnes ladled a bit of the stew into my bowl. "I don't think it's important. I just figure he sees us like a family. He's never had a real family."

The garage door lifted. Agnes flinched. Manny and Ricky ducked underneath the door. They were both soaked. With his foot, Ricky lowered the garage door behind them.

"What's for dinner?" Manny asked.

Agnes went to the shelf above the hot plate and brought down two more bowls. "Dry yourselves off." Manny grabbed a chunk of bread. I caught his wrist, squeezed hard. He dropped the bread onto the table.

"It's okay, Antonio," Agnes said. "There's enough for all of us."

"Is she kicking yet?" Ricky asked.

Agnes put her hand on her belly and blew a long bang off her face.

"You know the baby's a girl?" I asked.

"For sure," Ricky whispered.

Manny had sat in the rocking chair, adjusted the handle, kicked up his heels to the wall before gently rocking. "When is it coming?" Manny asked.

"February, late Feb-"

"You think it'll be normal?" Manny interrupted.

The way Agnes looked at him made it clear that she didn't need James to protect her.

I'd be lying if I hadn't wondered the same thing. Manny said the best we could hope for was a baby born cross-eyed or r.e.t.a.r.ded or a hemophiliac, which was really bad because if it got cut or bruised it would bleed to death. I knew Senhor Batista was her stepfather, so there was no chance they were mixing blood. But when I thought of him mounting her-the hole in his throat wheezing as his breath misted over her face-I couldn't help but think of the crazy stories my grandmother told me about back home: Senhora Xica, who had been warned not to kill a chicken while pregnant, she gave birth to a baby that was half-human, half-chicken. It fluttered and banged its head under the kitchen table for an hour after it was born, until it died from exhaustion, my grandmother had told me with tears in her eyes. Or the story of another pregnant lady, who picked up a cat, then her baby was born completely covered in fur. Or another, who refused to listen to all the women in the village about wearing necklaces while pregnant, only to give birth to a stillborn, its umbilical cord tied neatly around its neck.

I marched over toward Manny, thought if I was close enough and needed to I could kick him in the teeth.

Just then James lifted the garage door. Manny stopped rocking. The hollows around James's eyes were grey and soft. He placed a jug of milk on the table and lightly ran his hand across Agnes's belly. She let her shoulders roll back.

"Manny, do something useful-fix that rocking chair for Agnes."

Agnes climbed up the ladder to the loft, her slippers slapping against her heels.

Manny hesitated for only a second before going to the workbench and pulling the toolbox from underneath. He lit a cigarette and put it in his mouth, then got right down to work, s.c.r.e.w.i.n.g in loose spindles.

James yanked the lit cigarette from Manny's mouth and crumpled it in his bare hand. The smoke escaped between his clenched fingers. The cigarette fell to the floor. He sat down at the table. Manny refused to look at him. James grabbed a hunk of bread and tore at it with his teeth.

"I've got a job for you, Ricky," he whispered.

"Is there anything I can do?" I offered. "My parents won't be home for a bit."

"This job's for Ricky." He grabbed my thigh under the table. I couldn't stop the b.o.n.e.r that was beginning to press against my pants.

James let go of my leg and motioned for Ricky, who got up from his chair and came over to him. It was as if Ricky was waiting for a sign as James dunked some bread in the stew's sauce. Some gravy dribbled down his chin. "I like the food your mom makes. It makes this place feel like home," he said to me.

"I can get other things, you know. Wine, liquor, beer. People who can't pay money bring stuff like that when they come to the garage." I crossed my legs under the table.

James turned to Ricky, who had been waiting expectantly, and cupped his hand to Ricky's ear. He whispered something that made Ricky's face light up.

"I know where my dad stashes his booze, so if-"

"I don't want you to steal from your family, Antonio," James said. He squeezed my shoulder. "I got Ricky a little job on the side, something that'll bring in a bit of cash. You need to be patient. I have another plan for you," he said. I held my breath, tried hard not to let on he was hurting me.

- 4*

"IS YOUR FATHER HOME?" James said, standing at my front door.

At first I thought he was some kind of mirage. I hadn't slept well-the thought of what James had in store for me had kept me awake.

"What are you doing here?" I said. "You can't be here."

James stubbed his boot against the swinging door. "Your father wanted to see me."

"James! Come inside." It was Friday morning, too early for my father to be in a happy mood, but he reached out his hand and James shook it. James wore a clean s.h.i.+rt and his jeans had a crease. He had shaved and had his hair parted down the side. "You know James, Antonio."

James held out his hand. I froze. I wasn't sure what was happening. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be.

"Antonio! Shake the man's hand. James is going to be the new driver for Rebelo and Son Ltd."

James grinned. "That's right, sir." James looked straight at me. "I can drive the heck out of anything, and I've been around trucks all my life. If you need the help, well."

"That's good." My father locked the door with the deadbolt. My father was much shorter than James but it didn't stop him from patting James on the back and guiding him toward the kitchen. "My wife she working. I make the coffee. Antonio, go get ready for school."

The morning sun warmed my back but my feet were cold on the ceramic tile. Had I missed something? I had overheard my father fighting with my mother in their bedroom a couple of nights back. My father had replaced all his stolen tools and my mother yelled that the dump truck still wasn't paid off, and my father wasn't helping matters by spending so much of his time in the garage. My father insisted he had a plan. At the kitchen door, James turned to me and winked. James had a plan too.

I ran up the stairs as fast as I could. I had felt this way once before. Last winter my bike hit a patch of black ice on a busy street and slipped sideways. I hurt my wrist trying to break my fall, but all I kept thinking about were the cars and trucks that were behind me that could hit the same patch but they wouldn't be able to stop. I remember closing my eyes so tight my body shook. I think I prayed harder than I've ever prayed and was answered with a loud honk. It was all I needed to give me the time to drag my bike to the sidewalk.

I got dressed, slung my Adidas school bag over my shoulder, and headed out the door. I made it to Edite's in record time. I found her spare key where she told me it would be hidden. I needed a place to feel safe, which is what she said her apartment could be. Just as I was closing the door, I saw her stumbling into the kitchen.

"My dad hired him. James. He just came to our house and my dad gave him a job."

"Take a breath, Antonio. It's okay." Edite's hair was matted like a bird's nest. She hadn't washed her face. In the morning light the lines she had drawn around her lips and eyebrows were uneven. She touched the edge of her mouth where the lipstick smeared. She raised her hand to my forehead and I ducked.

"But what does he want?"

She stood at the kitchen counter. "It won't be so bad, will it? You have nothing to hide?" Edite said. Again, the image of James appearing from a cloud of steam flashed in my head: bare-chested, drying his hair in a towel, his jeans unb.u.t.toned. "You kids meet up and take care of each other. You're safe. I think that's all your mom and dad care about."

"They don't know I go there, do they?"

"Relax." She pulled out a cigarette. "Antonio, look at me." Edite grabbed my wrists and whipped them like reins. Her voice became calm and soft. "I saw James yesterday at the bar and he told me your dad had asked him if he was interested in some work. Your dad says he can't keep up with all the calls. Ever since word's gotten around that you're a healer, he's been getting more business. Now he thinks he can run his little dog-and-pony show and have someone else take care of the real work for him."

I wrenched my hands away. "I gotta go to school."

"Ah, look, Antonio. I didn't mean anything by it."

I stood at the door, my hand resting on the doork.n.o.b.

"It was a rough night, that's all," she added, laying her hands on my shoulders and turning me around. "My words aren't coming out right. Sit down. I'll make us some coffee."

"I'll have tea."

Her eyes were dark, mascara smudged into the hollows.

"You don't look so good," I said.

"Tell me about it." She gave me a hug and lowered me into a chair.

Edite smelled of unwashed clothes and tobacco. "When do you need to be at school?" She plugged in the percolator, then loosened the belt of her robe and tied it again, cinching it at her waist. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s jiggled under her robe. I could trace the outline of her nipples. The word high beams came to mind-that's what Manny would have called them. I looked away.

"A boy needs a healthy breakfast. Just give me a minute," and she shuffled into her bedroom. I scanned all the magazines and newspapers, the books she had piled on one of the chairs and along the kitchen wall on the floor. I took deep breaths, tried to match my breathing to the percolator, which had begun to pop and wheeze. Every so often she would yell or curse, like she was tripping over things. It'll all be okay. James working for my father doesn't have to change things. Edite hopped into the kitchen on one leg, holding her toe with her hand. Her hair was pulled back by one of those Alice in Wonderland headbands, her face all red as if it had been scoured with hot water. She poured coffee into two mugs, the grounds swirling on the surface. "s.h.i.+t," she mumbled.

"It's okay, coffee is good."

"Isn't that what you asked for?" She stabbed at the sugar bowl, managed to chisel off a couple of chunks, which she plopped into the mugs.

"You should put some grains of rice in the bowl. Rice-A-Roni even." She looked over at me. "The sugar bowl. My mom says it sucks up the humidity." The lines on Edite's forehead vanished with her first sip of coffee. "The humidity gets sucked up and the sugar stays loose."

Edite sat back in her chair and licked her spoon. "How about the rice?"

"What do you mean?" I said.

"The rice ... how do you make sure the grains of rice don't fall in your coffee?"

I had never thought about that. We'd always had rice in our sugar and I just thought everyone did the same thing. "I guess you have to be careful. Mom has a sugar dispenser she bought at Kresge's."

"Your mother thinks of everything." Edite brought the spoon down from her mouth and twirled it in each mug. I wasn't going to say anything about sharing spoons. We didn't do that either. She stared out the back window. Her collection of Red Rose animal miniatures had grown to twenty-three. Some were doubles my mother didn't want. Edite's were lined up on the windowsill, a way of keeping count of her time here, I figured. It was her favourite part of being in Canada, she had said, the tea that comes with figurines.

"What's all this?" I asked, pointing at the stack of papers on the table.

"I was up all night poring over doc.u.ments, psychological a.s.sessments, interviews with people who were friends or worked with some of the men accused of killing the Jaques boy. I'm helping out one of the reporters. I have a couple of police friends that are slipping me some juicy bits. It's hard to get this information. Everyone in our newsroom is just too polite so they asked me to use my American know-how to dazzle a few answers out of them."

"Who are the reports about this time?" She'd kill me if she knew I had shared that secret information about Saul Betesh with my cla.s.s. There was a pact between us-a pact I felt guilty for breaking-that allowed her to share information if I kept it to myself. I still needed to ask for it, though, like poking a bug to get it to move.

"One of the accused, this Werner Gruener, came to Canada from Germany when he was seven. He grew up in a small town." She whispered it like it was a bad thing.

I sipped the coffee. It was strong and bitter, despite the sugar, and I was tempted to ask for a smoke too. Manny had been smoking since he was ten, and I knew Ricky smoked in secret, though every time I asked him he denied it.

"His parents were very religious." Edite pointed at me. "Always a problem. Anyway, he grew up with a head filled with good and evil and thoughts of eternal d.a.m.nation." She laughed. "h.e.l.l, you know about that."

f.u.c.k off, I wanted to say, wanted to run out of her apartment, maybe kick over a chair on my way. But I nodded instead. Edite dug under some magazines and old newspaper. She pulled out a clipboard and flipped a couple of pages over.

"His father left them when Werner was eleven years old, took off somewhere, just disappeared. Shortly thereafter, his mother had a mental breakdown. He was thirteen. No, fourteen." Edite tapped the report before she laid the clipboard on the table. I reached over to see it for myself. Her hand swooped down and pinned the clipboard to the table. I tucked my hand under my a.s.s, as if she had slapped it.

Edite picked at a fleck of tobacco that clung to her lip.

"Did he help murder Emanuel?"

"Well, he opened the door. Ran down two flights of stairs when he heard the doorbell and opened the door for his friend Saul Betesh and the boy, Emanuel." She laughed again, a smoker's laugh.

"What's so funny?"

"This Gruener guy was p.i.s.sed because all the knocking interrupted his favourite show, Three's Company. He heard the knocking just when Jack was trying to juggle two women on the same date. According to the report, he kept repeating he missed the best part."

Edite reached back to the counter and brought the percolator to the table. I tried to read the report upside down. She poured herself some more coffee-tar black-and was about to do the same for me. I placed my hand over my cup.

Edite got up and leaned against the kitchen wall, her coffee and a cigarette in the same hand, and looked out the window.

"What do you and James talk about?" I said.

She brought her mug to her mouth. I could hear her gulp. She looked over her shoulder. "He's trying to make ends meet. He's determined to take care of Agnes."

"Why can't she come here?"

"I offered. She said she wanted to stay with James."

"Why?" I asked.

"Why does she choose to stay or why does he want to take care of her?"

"Both."

"She's had it rough and so has he. He says she's the closest thing he's got to a family." Her voice sounded like it was going to crack. "That's why the baby- My head's pounding," she said, before plopping herself back down on the chair.

"Can I get you something?"

"I want you to listen to me," she said. "James is a good guy. A bit rough but he means no harm. He won't hurt you," she whispered, before kissing her finger and plinking me on the nose with it. "Jesus, I'm tired. I didn't sleep very much. I was out all night looking for him."

"Who?" I asked.

"My Johnny," she said.

"I thought you said you spent last night-"

"What?"

"You told me you were looking over the reports."

She pressed her temples, made small circles with her white fingertips. "I'll go back to bed. I'll just have a refill and a smoke." But she never moved toward her bedroom.

"I better go," I said.