Crosshairs Read online

  Charles pivoted around and stood with his hands clasped behind his back, as if in a choreographed arrival, like the beginning of a dance.

  Liv was confused. She looked around. “What? Why did you bring me here?” She twisted her arms tighter to stave off the cold wind. From the adjacent trees, four white men emerged, also with their hands clasped behind their backs. They looked rough in comparison to Charles’s upscale demeanour. In the dim light of distant streetlamps, Liv could barely see their faces but could make out fragments of their persons. One had a studded earlobe. Another had a blond ponytail pulled into a neat braid. A tattooed scalp. A wrist with a leather cuff. Liv smiled calmly, taking slow, deep breaths, the way she was trained to do. “Hello.” The men offered a silent nod.

  “Look up.” Charles pointed towards the tree canopy. She saw a foot dangling above her. Her eyes followed the foot up, barely registering what she was seeing. Spit began to gather in her mouth. A human being was hanging in the tree. A human being was hanged. A human being was lynched. Her knees felt weak. Her hands were in fists. With all of her power she upturned her lips into a smile and laughed like it was a pleasant surprise.

  “Wow!” she said, laughing like a jackal. Laughing like her life depended on it. “When did that happen?”

  “I got the call about it just before I saw you tonight.”

  “You’ve all been busy today,” Liv said to the men.

  “They’ve been busy for a while, Liv.”

  “How did this happen?” She smiled in simulated wonder at this amazing feat.

  Charles looked at the man with the blond ponytail. “Care to tell Liv how this happened?”

  The man stepped forward, voice raspy and dutiful. “The boys and I saw this one walking down the alley. He had propped up a bunch of skids so he could reach into a garbage bin. Probably looking for some free food like a rat. We tried to get him to safety, bring him to the workhouse for a meal, but he wouldn’t have it. He ran and we had to catch him. Teach him a lesson.” The man nonchalantly tapped the bare skin of the person’s heel. The tap made the body swing from side to side slightly.

  Charles’s eyes caught the light of the streetlamp and Liv could see him assessing her. She laughed. She laughed. She laughed. She wiped snot off her nose. She laughed. She kept the tears in the corners of her eyes. She did not let them fall. She laughed. The men collectively took a step closer to her, watching her.

  Scattered on the grass she saw two navy-blue leather flats that once belonged to this human being. This human who once had a name. Liv’s belly button felt like it was on fire. But she smiled.

  The man continued, “I could tell from a mile away it wasn’t a girl. I could tell he was pretending. Like he was trying to fool us. You see them all over Church Street. They’re still around, even after the Renovation. We’re gonna leave this one out for a while. Make sure anyone who sees it knows whose neighbourhood this is.”

  Liv breathed shallowly enough to stop the bile from rising in her throat. Charles took her by the waist, and suddenly they were slow dancing under this hanging person, this person who once had dreams. They were dancing to what song? She hadn’t a clue. She could hear only her heart beating frantically.

  She looked up at this human being, this human being who once had a favourite movie, a favourite food. This person’s hair had been cut. Their* brown hands were once graceful. On their wrist was a thin gold bangle.

  Charles whispered something into Liv’s ear, and she couldn’t understand what he was saying. She couldn’t understand this moment. She wanted to scream. Instead she whispered back. “I can’t . . . What did you say? I can’t hear you.”

  “Tonight is a celebration, Liv.”

  She smiled back as if her life depended on the quality of her smile. “What for?”

  “The Boots’ budget has been quadrupled.”

  “But you’ve already done the Renovation. What else is there to do?” Charles grabbed her by the arm and she started. The men around her stepped forward.

  “That was just a pilot project. Our investors wanted to test things out in Toronto first, see how the general public would respond to the changes. Now that we’ve proven the success of the workhouses and the benefits to all of us, it’s officially going to become a national initiative. I’m leading the deployment. The Boots are going to clean house across the country. Thousands of jobs for the Others. Millions of dollars back in the nation’s purse. It’s exactly what this country needs, Liv.” Charles looked around at the other men, knowingly. A pause. “But first, we need to clean house here.”

  “You already did that.”

  “No, Liv. A Summit of Nations is scheduled in Toronto. The entire world—dozens of delegates and international media—will be watching to see the glory of the Renovation’s national expansion. We need to lock it down. And if we’re to do that, we need to know everyone we’re associated with is ready and willing. Do you understand?”

  “Are they ready and willing?” Liv pointed at the other men. They did not react.

  “We’ve done our homework on each member of our team. And when things don’t add up, there are ways we can correct things. A process of elimination.” Charles looked at her expectantly.

  Swallowing the bile at the back of her throat, Liv approached the person hanging. She took off her own sandals, slipped on the blue leather flats that once belonged to this person and twirled in the circle of men to show off her acquisition. “My size. How lucky.” She smiled at Charles. He approached and gave her a soft, gentle kiss. A confirmation.

  After receiving a nod from Charles, the men silently retreated into the darkness.

  With her nose still touching Charles’s cheek, being careful not to seem too inquisitive, Liv asked, “When’s this gonna happen?”

  “The summit is happening July 1. Canada Day.”

  “That’s quick.”

  “We have to be quick before the rest of them go into hiding.”

  “I guess you just have to round them up again?”

  “One by one.”

  “I’d like to see one of these workhouses.”

  Charles laughed. “The Renovation needs you, Liv. You can be such an inspiration to the many women who want to join the Boots because of what we stand for.”

  Liv smiled. She grabbed the lapels of his jacket and kissed him. In her mind, she imagined tightening her grip until she strangled him with his own jacket. But she knew she had to spread the word and tell the Others. She kissed him instead.

  Liv pauses and awaits my reaction.

  I rub my chin and feel the stubble already emerging from my pores. “When do I have to leave?” I ask her.

  “Tonight.” Liv has her cheek sitting on her knee, now wet with tears.

  I don’t understand. I feel like screaming.

  Liv takes a breath before explaining. “After hearing the plans for the Renovation, our first plan of action was to get everyone we could into hiding. That’s what got you here. That’s why you’re safe.”

  “And now?” I ask, my jaw tight.

  “Now . . . we can’t waste any time. We have to do more than keep you safe. Over the last few weeks we’ve arranged to get as many people as possible relocated to somewhere else.”

  “But why? How will Evan find me?!”

  “If Evan is alive and in hiding, he will most likely be relocated as well. And if everything goes as planned, neither of you will have to hide at all.” I hold my breath at the thought of this, the possibility of trading in memories of you for your touch.

  “Kay. I’m going to miss you. I’m going to worry about you every day until I see you again.”

  “You think you’ll see me again?”

  “If everything goes as planned.” She closes her eyes saying this phrase again, like a mantra. “I will see you again.”

  She takes the acetone from her nightstand and moistens a cotton ball with it. The cotton ball erases my femininity, cleaning the edges of red from the cuticles of my toenails. I remove th
e kimono as if in a ceremony, like a shell, like a shadow and place it in her arms. I stand there, naked, unsure of myself in my in-between place.

  “You will need to leave once your clothes have been cleaned.” She goes to her night table and retrieves an indelible marker. She begins writing on my forearm. “This is an address.”

  I swallow hard. “Okay.” She is looking at me, speaking like every word has to land, like every word is a newborn deer that has to learn to walk.

  “I need you to get there before dawn breaks three days from now. A black Grand Caravan will park just north of the stop sign. When the door slides open I need you to get into that van.” She sees in my face my attempt at committing it all to memory.

  “Do you understand? I need you to get into that van.”

  “Yes.”

  “You get in that van and someone will bring you somewhere safe. Please, promise me you will do that.”

  “What’s going to happen?”

  “If you choose to, you’re going to learn to fight. You’re going to fight back.”

  Before I beg for more details, we hear the buzz from Liv’s clothes dryer go off, and then silence. She leaves the bedroom and returns with a pile of my clothes, clean and warm. I get dressed back into this shadow of a person. I dress myself into the corners. I dress myself into the darkness.

  When Liv opens the back door of her home, the wind is loud and I can see the sun drawing a crimson line along the horizon of Toronto. She hands me a sealed manila envelope and instructs me to tuck it into the back of my pants.

  “I need you to give this to the person driving the van.”

  She does not hug me goodbye.

  I regret looking back. I see Liv, opening the curtains of her house, preparing breakfast in her kitchen as if nothing has happened. I know this is an act. I know this is to protect me. But my heart hurts with her pretending.

  2

  My mother was not like your mother, Evan. My ma never greeted me hello. Ma would breeze into our apartment in St. James Town, arms full of groceries, mouth full of complaints after a full day caring for the Wright-family children in the Forest Hill area. She would kick her mule sandals off her chapped feet and begin her rant about the horrible state of transit between the wealthy northwest of Toronto and the poverty-stricken southeast high-rise we lived in. Being a Filipina working for the wealthy was not a walk in the park. In fact, working for the Wright family was more like strolling barefoot over hot coals, with their three entitled children wearing their private school uniforms and spitting their peach pits into Ma’s face after snack time.

  The plastic grocery bags’ handles were stretched and worn over Ma’s fists, and she placed them by the front door with a thud. A six-pack of rough, thin toilet paper. A sticky bottle of mushroom soy sauce. Cans of Spam with keys missing. A tin of potted liver pâté wheeled down the parquet, and I caught it with the edge of my sandal.

  “Not with your feet, anak!” she said. “Keith. Wash that please. I don’t want your feet on our food.” I hated the sound of my name.

  While Ma began sautéing the onions and garlic for corned beef, I continued working on my Lord of the Flies book report. Or rather, I continued to pretend that I was working on my Lord of the Flies book report. I opened up the pages of the paperback to where my bookmark—a wallet-sized print of Randell Sampson’s school picture—was placed. I’m embarrassed to tell you, my first love had a face that was both goofy and astute thanks to his prominent jaw and wide smile. One could tell by his large hands and his slender wrists that he still had some growing to do. Soon he would be even broader across the shoulders, with more girth in his thighs. I calmed my erection by biting my lip. For the millionth time, I turned the picture over to see his writing. Blocky, aggressive, staccato handwriting in the bluest of blue ink. “See you after school.” Nadine, his girlfriend and my classmate, had dropped it while clumsily trying to slip it into her Avery binder during chemistry class. I had managed to steal it off the floor tiles, pretending to tie my shoelaces.

  “What is this?” I shut the book quickly. My mother’s hands ran through my hair, the knotted twists, like it was a tangle she could never undo. A problem she could never solve. And I was a big problem. Compared to her five-foot, ninety-pound frame, I was practically a monster. Her wispy eyebrows furrowed in worry at the sight of me.

  “Nadine knotted my hair for me. It’s the style right now, Ma.”

  “Who’s Nadine?”

  “Remember? From school?”

  Hair knots were the closest I could get to looking like the guys from De La Soul. I told Nadine I didn’t want to look like this half-breed something or other. I detested the wideness of my nose as much as I detested the soft angle of my eyes. Between my dark skin and my plump lips, I looked like a mutt with a capital M. More than anything, I wanted my hair to decide which side it was on. I wanted to be Black. My mother, on the other hand, didn’t want me at all.

  “You look dirty.”

  “That’s my hair.”

  “Did you try the thing I got you?

  “What thing?”

  “The . . . ano . . . the thing. The hair thing.”

  “The conditioner you got from Mrs. Robles?” I laughed. Mrs. Robles had a granddaughter who, like me, was living evidence of her son’s bed-jumping.

  “What?”

  My voice cracked from puberty and indignation. “It’s conditioner. It’s not some magic potion that will change my hair straight like yours, Ma. This is just my hair.”

  Every night from then on, she tried. I sat on a stool in front of the bathroom mirror, a shivering sixteen-year-old skinny Black boy with my right hand holding a towel draped around my shoulders as she applied layer after layer of this supposed magical conditioner that was to transform me into the son she always wanted. Lock after lock, she slathered on the jaundice-yellow cream, then attempted to run her rat-tail comb through the tangles of curls. Thick curls forced to pass through such thin slots of unkind plastic. She would stop only after seeing blood on my scalp. The sound of her Christian radio channel, full of static and praise, would fill the void between us, this Brown woman at odds with her mistake of a child. This child at odds with his body. Shame kept my arms still. Duty to my mother kept my voice from screaming. I never fought back.

  After washing my hair of cream and blood, I cried myself to sleep, praying myself into another body, another life. Sure enough, I would wake up the next day, still as Black as I was the night before, my mother tsk-tsking at the sight of me. Perhaps she didn’t apply enough. Perhaps she didn’t wait long enough before rinsing. Perhaps she should have never.

  These ten fingers, these ten toes, this head of hair were the product of Ma’s one-night stand with a man she met at Aristocrats Bar and Lounge. Back then, Ma was working as a live-in caregiver for the Edelson family at Bathurst and Eglinton, another upscale enclave. Twin infant girls with red hair. Both were lactose intolerant and had explosive poops. “Live-in caregiver” was another name for night-and-day-whenever-I-need-her nanny. This meant being on call throughout the night to change, feed and soothe the twins into sleep and getting up at the crack of dawn to care for the twins at various playgroups. “Live-in caregiver” was another name for all-the-time mom to cover for the twins’ absent wealthy mom who loves her sleep.

  On her only day off, Ma wrestled her winter coat on in the Edelsons’ mud room while the twins, now toddlers, embraced her legs, begging her not to go. If she hadn’t been working towards her Canadian immigration papers, Ma would have kicked those two brats to the wall like misbehaving humping dogs. But alas, she had no choice but to gently remind them that the maid, a Guatemalteca woman by the name of Luz, would arrive just in time to cook them dinner.

  Ma headed out the door, not looking back at the twins, whose noses were pressed against the glass window, crying out Ma’s name.

  “Ah-tay Gabby! Ah-tay Gabby!” The twins butchered the Filipino term for “big sister.”

  Ma swore under her brea
th, looked behind her briefly to give a weak wave goodbye to those thankless kids, then trampled through the snow towards freedom. She loved how fast she could walk without those horrid girls wandering about, sucking on broken glass they found in the sand or crying over rocks in their shoes.

  At that time in the late seventies, a new phenomenon had broken out called karaoke. Straight from Japan, it was the biggest craze among the Filipino community that gathered every Friday night at Aristocrats Bar and Lounge. Ma wanted to have her song choices prepared before entering. She had managed to steal a couple of the request chits for future visits and filled them out with her favourite ditties. Before taking off her winter coat, she made a beeline for the karaoke host, Lex, and handed him her chits.

  “You got it, Gabby.” Lex wiped his bald white head with his sleeve and placed Ma’s requests at the top of the pile.

  “Put your hands together for Gabby, who is going to sing ‘Summertime.’” Everyone in the bar cheered. They knew Ma could sing, and for the next three minutes and forty seconds, at least, they could enjoy a nice voice instead of a drunken off-tune one. But to one person, my father, this was news. He had never been to this bar before and just happened to tag along with his Filipino friend, Benny, from the automobile demolition centre. My father watched as this diminutive Filipina removed her winter coat while the intro music began. She didn’t even need the screen; she knew the lyrics. She tried to suppress her accent, but the over-pronunciation of consonants and overuse of diphthongs revealed that she was new to Canada. And that was okay. So was my father. Keith Watson Smith, Jamaican born, had teeth so white that Ma remembered his smile widening in the dark of that bar many years ago.

  The song that Ma sang that night on the karaoke stage was the same song she sang into Keith’s ear after they both made me on his springy mattress. The length of his body tented over the smallness of Ma. She attempted to kiss him on the lips as he did his business, but he was so tall he could only manage to kiss her forehead. Ma remembers watching Keith, capped by the globe of his Afro, smoke a cigarette afterwards, staring down at the bleakness of Eglinton West on a winter morning. His second-storey apartment sat above an Orthodox Jewish wig boutique.