Part 16 (1/2)

”What you do is one thing but-”

”And what is it I do, boy, that's got you all in a knot, huh? I took care of that little s.h.i.+t Amilcar for you-called him off. And I closed down that circus your father had going.”

”I never asked you to do any of it.”

”I did it for you.”

”Where's Agnes?” I said, noticing she wasn't in her rocking chair.

”She slept at her parents' last night. She wanted to sleep in her old bed.”

Strings of coloured lights throbbed in the garage. They hung from nails and hooks, were tucked between joists. There wasn't much thought to where they were placed. It was clear James had tried to cram in as many as he could.

”Agnes'll be back soon. Just needs to rest. It's not safe for her to climb the ladder anymore. I tried bringing her things down, set her up nice and cozy down here but-”

”What if she doesn't come back? What if she's gone?” I said, looking at a section in the strand of lights that hadn't come on. It only took one blown bulb and the whole string wouldn't light. You'd have to go through the whole thing, jiggling the bulbs one by one until you found the bad one.

”What did she tell you?” He came toward me. ”Agnes is coming back.”

”How do you know?” Gooseb.u.mps crawled up my arms at the sound of my tough voice.

James caught me by the arm and yanked me into the garage. He was strong and it happened quickly. I wondered if those men had done the same thing to Emanuel. I tried to stop shaking. I focused on the feeling of the electric heater searing my ankle. James let go to lower the garage door.

”Sorry. I'm sorry, Antonio. I shouldn't have-”

I still had the knife tucked into my sock. I could stand up to James. We could take care of Agnes ourselves, I thought, without all the c.r.a.p he dished out.

”We're all we've got,” James said, his voice softening. ”Each other. Agnes and I are family.”

I nudged the garage door open a couple of inches to allow the cold air to gush in or the hot air to escape.

”We're a family,” James said as he removed his T-s.h.i.+rt. He was doing it on purpose, I thought. ”We stick together.”

”I've got a family.”

His face and neck turned red. He came closer. The scar on his cheek looked like the silvery trail of a snail. ”My mother left. She never came back. Ricky's mother left him too. Took off one day in a cab because she couldn't take the beatings any longer.”

”How do you know that?” Ricky had never talked about his mother with me.

”He told me. He remembers the way she looked from the back of the cab as it sped off. He tried to chase it but his dad held on tight,” he said. ”It's just some work, you know. It doesn't mean anything. It's just about the money. And believe me, he's safer not working in the streets.” James went to the bucket of water on top of the hot plate. He reached in with a face cloth, wrung it out, and dragged it slowly over his shoulders. ”Ricky knows that.”

”Doesn't make it right.”

”It's not like that out there. There's no right or wrong. Ricky knows that too. Believe me.”

- 10*

IWOKE UP MONDAY to find my mother had rifled through drawers again. I had nothing to hide but I figured it had something to do with smoking. She must have smelled it on my clothes and thought I was stas.h.i.+ng smokes in my room. I had b.o.o.by-trapped my stuff with some thread, crisscrossed it in front of my drawers. I had also put a postcard I had received from some distant relative in Portugal-a close-up of the statue of Senhor Santo Cristo dos Milagres, blood streaming down the statue's face, the crown of thorns digging in-wedged between a pair of socks and a belt. I thought she'd feel guilty for snooping and it would stop her in her tracks. It hadn't.

I left my room and went downstairs to the kitchen to confront her, but she was nowhere to be found. I grabbed my school bag. I was just about to thunder down the bas.e.m.e.nt stairs when I heard the water running from the bas.e.m.e.nt tap. From the top of the stairs I could see my mother bent over the laundry tub. She had dropped her bra in the sink and dipped her head under the tap. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were large and they swayed with her every movement. I had grown up getting washed in the bas.e.m.e.nt before going to bed. Soaking my feet in a square shallow pail of warm water, I often looked up to see my mother bathing herself over the laundry tubs, her robe flipped over and dropping down from her waist. My mother had called it a sponge bath, even though she used a face cloth. I watched her now, as her drenched hair flowed with the water. She blindly felt for the shampoo bottle on the ledge, her fingers squirming like worms. I was ready to run down and hand her the bottle of shampoo. If she let me, I could run my fingers through her thick hair until it was poufy with suds, the way I used to when I was smaller. I'd swirl my fingers through her hair and dig into her scalp. I would make horns with her hair and she'd purr or groan.

I was twelve now; I wasn't a little kid who helped his mommy wash her hair anymore. I was turning to leave when my father approached her from behind. He must have been in the bathroom and I thought he was going to shave, like he sometimes did, over the laundry tubs. Instead, he began to rub my mother's shoulders and back. He mashed his groin against her b.u.m. He cupped her shoulder and then slid his hands down her arms and under her to grab hold of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

My mother didn't stop him. I wanted to get out of there. I slowed my breathing and tried to step away from the landing without making it creak. My mother raked her fingers through her hair while my father rubbed his hands farther down her back and around her b.u.m. She kept was.h.i.+ng her hair as if he wasn't there. His mouth and chin were pressed to her ear. My father's hand disappeared under my mother's skirt. She jolted a bit, as if she had been pinched, but kept was.h.i.+ng her hair.

”Manuel? No ...” but her voice drifted off.

He undid his belt. His pants and boxers fell to his ankles. He lifted up her skirt and pressed himself against my mother. She wiggled her b.u.m. I closed my eyes for what seemed forever, and when I opened them again I saw my father rocking on the b.a.l.l.s of his feet, b.u.mping up against my mother's behind, his mouth open. His hands travelled up her waist, to her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. He held on to her hanging b.r.e.a.s.t.s, adjusted his footing a bit before thrusting a little faster. I could feel a sourness travelling up my throat. She continued to work the shampoo into her hair, running it under the faucet. Then she grabbed on to the sides of the laundry tub. My father rocked faster. He made the same sound the men did on Baby Blue Movies on channel 79. She turned the taps so the water rushed out stronger, loud enough that I could step away without being heard. I threw on my coat and ran outside. The cold air cut into my lungs. It hurt and it felt good at the same time.

I ran up the stairs to Edite's apartment. ”Where were you?” I said.

Edite spun around to face me. Her hair looked matted. She had deep wrinkles around her eyes.

”Hey,” she said, in a long, drawn-out voice like she was calling to me from outer s.p.a.ce. Her spoon tinkled against the rim of her coffee mug.

”Did you find Johnny? Are you even looking?”

”What's bothering you?” she said. ”Did something happen? Sit down and catch your breath. Seems like every time you come over you're in some kind of huff.”

”I saw you. In your room.”

As she moved from the counter to the table I could hear her slippers sticking to the spot where yesterday I had dropped the can of soda. She sat down and crossed her legs, adjusting her satiny robe to cover her knees. Her foot began to tap against the table's leg.

”Please, Antonio, it hasn't been a good week.” Edite's fingers trembled as she tried to light her cigarette. ”No riddles today.” She went through three matches before she threw the matchbox against the wall, then stretched across the kitchen table to s.n.a.t.c.h her lighter. I noticed the black gunk under her fingernails.

”You told me my friends and I could count on James,” I said. ”But I don't think you even know him.”

”What do you want to know?” Edite looked pale and she hadn't washed her makeup off properly the night before: you could see it faintly on her face like a mistake that you erase but the smear is still there.

”Everything,” I said.

”James and I meet downtown for drinks. You know that? The St. Charles Tavern. It's a gay bar, but I like it there because it's dark and it's filled with a lot of lonely characters. Their stories are so fascinating.” She blew smoke through her nose.

”So he's helping you write about queers?”

”Antonio, don't get mean. It doesn't suit you.” Edite bit her thumbnail, tried to peel some of it off. ”You know, William wants me to leave. He wants me to come home with him.” Edite said the words so matter of fact, but her pink toe started twitching.

”Who's William?” I said.

”My husband.”

”He's dead.” I had overheard my father say that Edite was uma louca. Things were worse than I thought.

”That's what your father told you.” Her shoulders dropped. ”William divorced me. Before Johnny went to Vietnam. Said he needed-what we needed-was a change, that things weren't working out for him.” Edite mocked the words.