Part 9 (1/2)
”It's me,” I said, not even bothering to sit at my desk as we all shuffled in. ”I picked something from yesterday's paper.” Mr. Sowerby sank into his chair. ”The Toronto Star. Wednesday, September fourteenth.” Mr. Sowerby looked pleased with my presentation voice. ”Fifteen charges face operator of s.e.x shops.” I scanned the room. It was clear they'd all be listening carefully.
”WHO?” Mr. Sowerby yelled.
”Joseph Martin, forty-three. He managed Yonge Street s.e.x shops. He controlled Charlie's Angels body-rub shop.”
”Ma.s.sage parlour,” Mr. Sowerby said, even though the article clearly said body-rub shop. ”WHAT?”
My paper rustled in my hands. ”He was arrested.”
”WHERE?”
”Toronto.”
”WHEN?”
”Yesterday.”
”The date, Mr. Rebelo.”
”Tuesday, September thirteenth.”
”Thank you. WHY?”
”Keeping a bawdy shop was one reason. It says he was-” I looked down at the newspaper clipping, knew I had to get it right, ” 'living off the avails of prost.i.tution.' ”
”What does that mean?” Mr. Sowerby raised his voice. ”Tell the cla.s.s.”
”It means he was like a pimp.”
Some of the kids snickered.
”Antonio, we don't use words like that. Agent. Procurer. Even panderer can be used. We're still on the WHY? I'm waiting for a clearer reason.”
”They want to clean up Yonge Street.” I knew Mr. Sowerby wouldn't like the vagueness in the way I answered his question. ”It's about getting perverts off the streets and out of business so that what happened to Emanuel doesn't happen to another kid.”
The cla.s.s went quiet for the longest time. Then Mr. Sowerby invited comments.
Pedro's hand shot up. ”My mom said that when those guys killed Emanuel they killed something inside of us.”
”Is that true?” Mr. Sowerby asked the cla.s.s.
”Nah. It's just made things a bit harder.” Pedro laughed. ”We gotta lie more.”
”Antonio?”
”Yes?”
”Would you like to add something?”
”My dad put a bolt on our front door” was the first thing that popped into my head.
”Because your parents want you to be safe.” Mr. Sowerby sounded so sure of himself.
”Something like that. I mean, at school we're never alone. Like when we have to go in pairs to the bathroom. But at home our parents still go to work every day and night because they say they have no choice,” I said, ”even though there are crazies out there like that Saul Betesh guy.”
”We don't know anything about this man, Antonio,” Mr. Sowerby said.
”I know he was adopted by a Jewish family and grew up with lots of money. And that when he was five he saw a psychiatrist.”
Edite had managed to get her hands on some kind of psychological a.s.sessment from some cops she knew who were a.s.signed to the case. I found the report on her kitchen table. Saul Betesh had been kicked out of every school he ever went to. He was aggressive and vicious.
”Is that in your article?” Mr. Sowerby said. ”I don't want neighbourhood gossip. You need to stick to the article you selected.”
The cla.s.s got fidgety. I heard someone say f.a.ggot. Mr. Sowerby heard it too, I was sure, but he did that thing teachers do when they pretend not to hear something so they don't have to deal with the kid or the office.
”Calm down, cla.s.s!”
”He was a h.o.m.o.” I made the word sound hateful, just the way I wanted the cla.s.s to hear it. Still, I couldn't block the image of James coming out of the bas.e.m.e.nt shower, steam swirling around his naked body. ”That's why he decided to sell himself. He figured it was a good way to survive the streets.”
”That's quite enough, Antonio.” Mr. Sowerby stood beside me, nudging me to return to my seat, but I didn't move.
”He liked that feeling of power,” I said.
I had half an hour before my disciples-the name my father jokingly gave them-were allowed in. The laneway had become off limits during certain times of the day. My father said there were people lurking out there, trying to catch me alone. I made my way over two fences and into Uncle David's backyard. The light sifted down through the leaves, their tiny shadows trembling in the breeze. We had waited so long for a breeze and it felt good. I sat under Uncle David's fig tree, where scarred earth hadn't quite healed. I imagined the worms and bugs eating away at the pig's guts, breaking them down until they became nothing more than the soil again. The branches of the fig tree had grown heavy with fruit since then. My uncle had smuggled the seedling into the country from his yard back home on the island. It had been carefully packed in his luggage with a wheel of Portuguese cheese, chourico, and some live crabs. That was fifteen years ago. Every October a large hole the size of a crater was dug and the fig tree gently rocked, careful not to damage the roots, until it tipped slowly into the hole. The crown was bound with twine before it was laid on its side below. It was then covered with plywood and tarp before soil was tossed back over it to keep the tree protected from another harsh winter. In the spring, the men would meet-only the men-and the tree would be dug up, the bare branches reaching up to kiss the sun, as my mother would say.
My mother appeared, climbing up the bas.e.m.e.nt-stairs walkout into my uncle's backyard. She was dressed in a zippered housedress, her hair in large curlers smothered under her sheer headscarf. She ducked under branches and sat beside me.
I s.h.i.+fted my back away from her a bit and turned the page of my book. I caught a whiff of her Skin So Soft smell.
”You okay?” she asked, only after an awkward silence and the flicking of pages had worn her down.
”I just wanted to read a bit.”
She looked over my shoulder to take a peek at my copy of Lord of the Flies. My mother motioned to my book with her chin. ”What's it about?”
”A group of kids who find themselves all alone on an island.”
”You'll never be alone.”
I didn't respond.
”It's not easy for me, you know, leaving you and your sister at home by yourselves.”
”I thought he'd show me off in the garage maybe once a week. Not every day!”
My mother took in a deep breath and switched to Portuguese. ”Sometimes when I'm hanging up the clothes or working in the garden, just when it looks dark and it will never brighten up, the sky clears and the rays from the sun come shooting down to warm my shoulders.”