We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

1997

After dinner at Dulcie’s, her belly full of too many festivals and more meat than any person should eat in one sitting, Evelyn lay in bed, thinking of the boys she’d taught in Jamaica: politically minded, like Antony. Loose-limbed and cocky. Marching to Vale Royal, protesting a government that cared only for itself. Boys who came home beaten, bruised, or not at all.

She and Kingsley had left for a reason. A good reason.

Yet there were those other boys and young men—here in Canada, and the U.S. Ones she’d never met, their faces—on TV screens, in the paper—like the face of her own child.

Evelyn rolled toward Kingsley and wrapped her arm around him, her the big spoon, him the small, which he loved, and she loved, too, though it didn’t work quite so well as the opposite arrangement. He shifted into her, pulling her arm tighter around his torso.

“Do you think it’s a good idea?” Evelyn whispered, that familiar fear bubbling up again. “Antony on the road, with the way things have been?”

Kingsley sighed, turned so their faces were inches apart, so they breathed each other’s breath. “He’s got to learn sometime. I’ll hammer in how important it is to be cautious, obey the rules of the road to the letter, that when he gets stopped, he needs to be mannerly, calm, and it’ll be a hassle, but beyond that, he’ll be fine.”

Obsequious. That’s what Kingsley would tell Antony to be, what he always was himself. Evelyn was thankful for it, but she feared her son would see it differently. Balk at the injustice. Try to teach the officer about the error of his ways, the inherent racism in pulling him over because he was Black—which Antony had taken to calling himself more and more. They hardly used the words in their home: Black, white. She and Kingsley had never had a distinct conversation about it. They simply focused on people’s humanity, taught their son to do the same…though Evelyn often wondered, silently, if they were doing him a disservice.

Antony seemed to think so. Her son, so bold, so smart, refusing to accept—or care—about the way things worked, that many would hate him for his boldness, want him to know his place.

Kingsley cupped her cheek, kissed her softly. “If he doesn’t learn from me, he’ll learn from one of his friends who might be cocky, a show-off, teach Antony to be the same way.”

“You’re right.” Evelyn continued to breathe her man’s breath as their eyes locked. A familiar yearning stirred in her. “You know”—a smile spread across her features—“we’ve yet to christen this room, this bed.”

Kingsley grinned. “Woman, you don’t have to ask me twice!”

Several weeks later, Evelyn took her X-Acto knife and slid open one of the few boxes she hadn’t gotten to over a month ago. You’d think she would have been upset by it—having to pick up every few years, leave her community, her friends. Except there were no friends to leave. Acquaintances here and there. But not friends.

Black women seemed resentful of her taking one of their successful Black men. White women seemed suspect, looking at her like she was an outcast. As if Evelyn had betrayed something…her race? A sense of propriety? The way things should be? Or as if she’d sullied herself—and them—bringing the entire white race down. Asian women simply seemed confused—and tended to stick to their own anyway, Koreans with Koreans, Japanese with Japanese. A lot of Black women were like that, too. Caribbeans mixed, but not with Africans or those from the U.S. Everyone had someone. Except her.

The looks and sly comments had faded in recent years, but she couldn’t be certain: Was it because they’d stopped, or because she’d stopped looking so intently? Stopped trying to find a place to belong?

Evelyn pulled out one of the few pieces of art they’d brought from their home in Kingston. A wave of nausea stilled her hand. As the wave crashed upon her, she stared at the tile, wondering if this feeling was from something she’d eaten at last night’s school fundraiser, wondering, too, what had happened to their other art, abandoned on the walls of their Kingston home.

Evelyn held up the framed tiles: two faceless men, hands beating djembes, hair flying with the intensity of their playing, in between faceless women dancing, their skirts high and full, their head wraps contrasting with the rich color that danced through the background of the scene.

A wedding gift from Violet. Tears had sprung to Evelyn’s eyes upon opening the gift, which she knew must have cost too much, which seemed to say, You’re my daughter now, my kin .

Evelyn had mounted the artwork proudly in their Kingston home, wrapped it carefully for the flight, then mounted it again in their first Toronto apartment—a salve against the loneliness that had enveloped her when they’d first stepped off the plane in Canada and a reminder of where they’d come from, where they’d return as soon as Kingsley had his doctorate. Back when she still hoped they’d return, when she held hope about her prospects here, too, thinking the women on buses, in grocery stores and parks, couldn’t represent the women everywhere. That, with time, the isolation surrounding her would be replaced with friendship.

Hope had blossomed when the ladies at her new secretarial job invited her to their book club. On her night to host, she’d baked and dusted and polished. She’d instructed Kingsley to keep Antony, then three years old, in the bedroom, to not disturb their lively discussion.

The women oohed and aahed at the tile image. The vibrancy of it! How ethnic! Asking where she’d gotten it. You lived there! they exclaimed. You taught! How adventurous. How brave. How exciting!

And then, halfway through their discussion on Morrie’s wisdom, Antony’s feet had pounded up the hall, curls bouncing, eyes bright. As the women’s smiles tightened and faded, Evelyn realized she’d spoken of Kingsley, studying to get his doctorate. Of Antony, whip-smart. Yet her desk was small, always full of papers her boss wanted her to sort and file, so she’d never put up a photo.

The meeting continued, less animated than before. The following meetings were scheduled for the one night of the week Evelyn said she couldn’t do.

Borders meant so little. In the moment Antony had run into the room and the women’s faces changed, she’d thought of a trip she and Kingsley had taken to Florida, where they’d walked hand in hand, her little baby bump on display, in a state where over a decade earlier, their love would have been illegal, where the looks of hate made it clear people weren’t ready for this change, for the offspring of their love.

Today, Evelyn smoothed away a piece of fluff caught in a groove of the wood on the top of the frame, the hurt still fresh after all these years. A mosaic, the city boasted, but not within an individual family. That was where acceptance stopped.

Evelyn reached for the hammer and a nail, turned as she surveyed the living room, then tossed both hammer and nail on the couch, another wave of nausea cresting, and ran to the toilet, flipping the lid just in time. Her insides emptied as she knelt, grabbed a tissue, then wiped the spittle from her lips. She sat back, and rather than feeling worse, as would have been likely with some sort of food poisoning, she felt better. Too much better.

Evelyn leaned against the tub, remembering the two days of pills she’d missed in the harried, frantic disorder of the move. Apparently, two days, after over a decade of never forgetting, was all it took.