Evelyn Toronto
Evelyn
Toronto
2004
The next afternoon, Evelyn dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. She wore her hair in a high ponytail, something she hadn’t done in years, then threaded the ponytail through the opening in a cap, wanting to look youthful, to mix in with the crowd.
Not wanting Kingsley to know what she was up to, she walked Kareela to Dani’s. Just last night, he’d railed in frustration upon seeing the upcoming protest on the news, seeing Antony’s face on the screen in a crowd of half a dozen. Evelyn had hushed him, gestured toward Kareela, reading a book in the corner of the living room, where she had draped sheets over a table and chair.
Kingsley lowered his voice. “Evelyn, it’s dangerous.”
She nodded, shoulders tight, jaw clenched, and refrained from telling him, again, that this wasn’t Jamaica in the late seventies. Wasn’t Jamaica now. It was dangerous, yes, but not as dangerous as he thought. And if trouble did break out, Evelyn would be there to find Antony, get him away from it as fast as possible.
Now Evelyn’s steps quickened as she rose from the underground and made her way to Nathan Phillips Square. A sea of people stood in front of city hall. At least a thousand. Evelyn made her way through the mass, her chest tight, nervousness and the faintest hint of excitement pulsing through her as she scanned for Antony. She’d expected a cacophony of noise—shouts of anger, hate—but the crowd was oddly silent. A hush, rather than a roar, buzzed through the space as posters and placards waved in the air, calling for peace, equality. There were images, too, those three boys, mostly, but others as well. Faces she’d never seen but recognized for what they could have been, for what they weren’t now, either their lives or their innocence gone.
Though it became more difficult to press through the mass of bodies the closer she got to those two iconic curved towers, Evelyn kept on, desperate to see the face that she knew best. In front of the building, rows of officers stood with the protesters less than six feet from them, separated by makeshift barricades. Evelyn caught sight of a young woman who’d been to their house once or twice, with some of Antony’s other friends, piling in spaghetti like one of the boys. She racked her brain, tried to remember her name, but the crowd seemed to swell and shift, and the woman was lost. Evelyn turned with the shift, saw what she was looking for, and then heard. Her boy. His voice smooth and eloquent, speaking over the crowd.
Evelyn’s jaw quivered with pride at the sight of Antony before all these people—his posture, his presence, his words, which she’d been hearing for years, had heard less than a week ago. Here, in this place with so many listening, they didn’t sound like impossible dreams.
After he’d barely begun, Antony stepped down—not the main event, it seemed, but there to introduce the man who’d been speaking the other night on the news—a Bahamian professor. By the look of him, nearly as old as Kingsley. His voice rang with an island lilt.
Evelyn tore her eyes from the man, looking for Antony, now lost in the throng that had pressed in front of her. She continued to search as others rose to the makeshift podium—mothers and friends of the boys who’d been beaten. Of others who’d suffered attacks by the police. After one boy stepped up, face still swollen, arm in a sling, instructions were given for those who wanted to help keep the protest alive. They’d sleep in shifts, so that a presence would be there until the mayor and chief of police agreed to hear their demands, to acknowledge that change needed to come, that cops couldn’t beat people in the street, kill them with no repercussions. Until they agreed that the city needed not only investigations but public trials.
When the crowd thinned, Evelyn pressed forward, searching, then stopped.
It didn’t make sense to approach Antony here, where she wouldn’t know what to say, or even more important, whether he’d calmed down enough to listen. Besides, hours had passed since she’d dropped Kareela off and Dani would be expecting Evelyn back by now. Evelyn turned, following the flow of people to the subway, jostled in the crush that sank below ground.
Hours later, once Kareela was home and in bed and Kingsley was busy in his study, Evelyn picked up the phone. “I was there,” she spoke into the voicemail service. “I heard what you said, really heard it this time. And Antony, I’m so proud of you. Of your passion. Your commitment to stand for what you believe in. They’re good beliefs. A good cause. It scares me. I can’t deny that. But I won’t fight you on it anymore.”
She hesitated, thinking of Kingsley, how he’d view her words as a betrayal—and what that could do to their marriage. Thinking, too, of the inspiration her son had sent ricocheting through the crowd, how it lit a spark, making her think maybe now was the time to pursue a degree for herself, a life for herself. In the fall, Kareela would be in school full days, so Evelyn could work part-time or take night courses. Maybe one day she could work alongside her son. Work for change. “We can explain it to your father together.” She smiled. “We can help him see.” She stopped again, seeing her boy up there, so confident, so sure. “I’m proud of you, Antony. And I love you.” She hung up the phone, hoping she’d said the right thing, hoping Antony would call, or even better, come home.
Yet again, Evelyn lay in bed, the phone beside her, her ears tuned, knowing it wasn’t likely Antony would be home anytime soon. But she hoped for a call at least, acknowledgment that he’d heard her message, would come home when his shift at the sit-in was over. She looked to the clock: 11:43. He wouldn’t call this late. She should close her eyes, try to sleep. There was no reason to walk through tomorrow like a zombie.
As she drifted into sleep, Antony’s face loomed in her mind, the way he spoke with such authority and conviction in front of that crowd of people. A smile turned her tired lips. Then, at three loud bangs, she jolted awake.
“Evelyn?” Kingsley’s voice in the darkness, the sound of shuffles beside her, the bedside lamp flicking on.
Evelyn thrust off the sheets and stepped into her slippers. “It must be Antony.” She waved a hand for him to stay in bed. “I’ll get it.”
Kingsley stood, pulling his robe around him. “Antony has a key.”
Evelyn froze, the possibilities shooting through her with an icy blast. The two of them padded down the hall to the door, Evelyn telling herself it could be anything, anyone.
Three more wall-shaking knocks.
Kingsley peering through the small diamond-shaped glass, then stepping back. The door opening.
The words. Words. Words.
Sounds that seemed to come from a throat other than her own. Pain like she never imagined pulsing through every pore. Heavy hands on her shoulders. Then her own arms around Kareela, sinking to the floor with her child. Her one remaining child.