We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2004

As the door closed behind Antony, Evelyn slipped Kareela off her lap, then crossed to Kingsley, who stood frozen. He tensed at her touch but didn’t shrug her off, and, after a moment, leaned into her. “Hodge-Podge is on the stove,” she whispered, wanting to say so much more. “Just another few minutes and we can eat.”

Kingsley nodded, raised his hand to hers, and squeezed before walking down the hall to vanish behind his study door. Evelyn’s heart seemed to pulse in her throat. She looked to the front door, fighting the desire to pass through it, run after Antony, and throw her arms around her aching boy. She smiled at Kareela. “You have just enough time to finish that puzzle before dinner. What do you think?”

Kareela stared at her, eyes wide. Evelyn kept her smile firm, wishing she knew how much her daughter had understood. She crouched down. “Honey, your brother…”

Kareela crossed the room and sat before her puzzle. She picked up a piece of a fin. Evelyn looked to the door again, seeing Antony’s anger, his hurt. What must it have been like, at fifteen, to be harassed by the police? Beaten and bruised. And then too afraid—or ashamed? defeated?—to tell his parents. Regret passed through her, for not being a mother he could come to, a mother he could trust with his pain.

Evelyn turned to the counter and braced her hands against the laminate. She turned down the bubbling brew, picked up her knife, and was taken in time to another kitchen, where she stood, prepping the same meal. Ella stood near her, looking so much like Kingsley, leaning in, laughing, saying she wasn’t sure about this Maritime dish. It looked weak.

Later that night, Evelyn, Ella, and Violet sat on the back porch in the low evening sun, laughing at the chickens chasing each other through the yard. In the distance, the neighbor’s children chased each other in much the same way, their voices carrying on the breeze. Antony, who should have been sleeping, was enjoying the show, and getting passed back and forth between the laps of his aunt and grandmother, the two of them not able to get enough of him.

The peaceful moment went out with a sizzle when Ella told Violet she wasn’t returning to the mountains, but staying in Kingston—to find a job, to help the struggling people. That she’d stay in Kingsley and Evelyn’s house. Prevent squatters from claiming it.

“Girl, yuh not.” Violet tsked. “Here where grown men fightin in de street like boys in de schoolyard!”

“Ma.”

“Yuh brain a sieve? Yuh not hear what me just say? ’Bout dis warrin, fightin, killin?” Violet stood. “Yuh brother’s got sense enough to leave, and yet yuh tellin me he settin it up for yuh to stay? No!”

But Ella had made her decision, despite what Violet thought, what Kingsley and Evelyn thought, too.

Three days later, after Violet returned to her village alone, Ella had held them tight, her teeth gleaming within the breadth of her smile. “Yuh have a wonderful adventure,” she told them. “And come back soon. But not too soon, nuh?”

All these years later, as the Hodge-Podge on the stove sizzled and popped, Evelyn could still hear the sweet timbre of Ella’s voice. That was the last time they’d seen her alive, and Evelyn always wondered if the threat of getting an apartment in the city center had been a bluff. If, without a ready, free place to live, she would have returned to the mountains with Violet. Been there still.

Evelyn turned off the burner and slid the pot to the back of the stove. “Dinner!” she called, wishing she hadn’t made Hodge-Podge, which might remind Kingsley of that night, of the guilt they both held over not urging Ella to return to her village. Evelyn could still see the two of them in her mind, brother and sister, heads angled toward each other as they sat on the porch laughing, while Evelyn watched their outlines growing fainter with the setting sun.

That night in bed, Evelyn waited for the click of the door, the thump thump of her son kicking off his shoes, the shuffling down the hall as he tried to be quiet. The next morning, never having heard it, she peeked into Antony’s room. The sheets were tousled, as always, no way to tell whether he’d come late, left early, or not been there at all. The next night, she waited again. The next morning, she checked, with still no obvious answer but a suspicion that the sheets remained unmoved.

A flare of frustration rose in her: That he wouldn’t at least check in. That he was fine with leaving things so sour. Still, there was no real reason to worry. He was a grown man. And he was angry, too. So, though tempted to call his mobile and plead for him to get in touch, she prepared Kareela for daycare, herself for work. It was better, maybe, to give him his space.

After the third night of not seeing him, Evelyn called Dani, suggesting they meet at a playground after work.

“You’re not worried, are you? That something happened?”

Evelyn shook her head. “He was home today. He took some clean laundry I left in his room.”

“Tracking his movements, are you?”

Evelyn shrugged, reliving the frustration that flared when she realized she’d missed him. That he must have intentionally come at a time none of them would be home.

Dani laughed. “He’s twenty-three.” She waved her hand. “He’s revved up. About the protest, the fight with his father. Give him time.”

Evelyn stared at the children on the swings, each pumping their legs as hard and fast as they could. Last year, this was a challenge, yet now they soared. She looked back to Dani. “He won’t answer his phone. Hasn’t returned my messages.”

Dani raised her eyebrows and narrowed her gaze. “How many have you left?”

“Two.”

“Restraint. That’s good.” She patted Evelyn’s leg.

“I’ve wondered about texting.” Evelyn looked to her hands. “I’d have to buy a mobile phone first.”

“Evelyn!” Dani laughed. “If you’re going to join the rest of the world, join us, but not so you can send your son one text message.”

Evelyn swallowed, wishing she could explain her fears. The things they’d seen in Kingston. The people they’d lost, and how, to not go against Kingsley, she’d never explained it to Antony—why they were so resistant to his politics.

Dani reached for Evelyn’s hand and squeezed it. “The protest was on the news. It’s going to be big. Why don’t you go? See if you can get Kingsley there, too.”

“To a protest?” Evelyn looked again to the children, tried to imagine it: Her, in an angry throng. Her, going against her husband, against her own fears. But this wasn’t Kingston. And Kingsley had gone against her in arguing with Antony the other night.

“Yes,” said Dani. “Like Antony said. See what it’s all about. See his role in it. And then, at least, you’ll be able to tell him you did.”

“Me at a protest.” With Antony. Standing up for Antony. Being that mother he could trust, who he knew would be there for him, no matter what. A smile spread across her lips. “Maybe.”

“Asher!” Dani stood and rushed to her gap-toothed son. “You jump from that swing again and I swear, you’ll wish you hadn’t!”

Evelyn watched as Dani lectured, as Asher crossed his arms and stamped his foot. At some point, she had to let Antony go, let him make his own mistakes, learn his own lessons, didn’t she? And if she were going to, at least she could be close by, in case he fell.