We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2004

The front door looked the same as it always had, but Evelyn’s body stiffened at the sight of it. Although on the outside, nothing had changed, on the inside, her home was transformed. Foreign, without Antony.

Inside, Kingsley sat in front of the TV, a plate in front of him. Violet had left two days earlier, leaving the fridge as full as it could be, and the scent of food Evelyn and Kingsley hardly took the time to make anymore still filled the house, making every blanket and throw potent with the smell of home. Evelyn put a bowl of rice and peas and stewed beef in the microwave for Kareela and debated putting a bowl in for herself. She should. She’d had to pull the belt buckle of her skirt an extra notch this morning.

She waited for the ding—staring at her daughter. The first time Violet had cooked, Kareela scrunched her nose. “What’s that?” Today, she was two-stepping in front of the microwave and accepted the bowl with eager hands. “Take that to your room,” said Evelyn, the mask of a smile firmly in place.

“My room?” Kareela’s eyes widened. “Am I in trouble?”

“No, sweetheart. I just need to talk to Daddy.”

“I want to talk to Daddy.”

“Go to your room, Kareela, please.”

Kareela’s expression fell, displeasure coating her features, but she went, always the dutiful child.

Evelyn closed her eyes—failure tugging at her, but also yearning. Antony wouldn’t have gone. Antony would have protested, said he would not eat alone and there wasn’t a single thing they could do about it. Antony never gave up.

She went to the living room and sat across from Kingsley. “I want to fight this.”

He turned to her. “Fight what?”

“The police. Getting away with it.”

Kingsley looked at her like she was crazy. “What?”

“It shouldn’t have happened. And now they should pay.”

Kingsley set his plate on the coffee table. “You want money? For our son?”

“No. I want justice. I want them to lose their licenses. I want to see them on trial. I want them in prison.”

“That’s not how it works.”

“It could be.”

“No.”

“Antony would have—”

“Antony’s gone.” He gestured to her, her blond hair, her blue eyes, without saying what he was saying. “You think you won’t be next, but you could be. Or, more likely, me.”

Evelyn’s chest hitched. “I—”

“Drop it, Evelyn. It’s over. He’s gone.”

Kingsley turned his face to the screen. Evelyn turned hers, too, but not her thoughts.

She entered the kitchen, hands on her hips. She spun, looking for a task. But the kitchen was clean. Her stomach growled, though the thought of food made her sick—eating, when her son never would again. She slammed the side of her hand against a cupboard, then froze with shock, waiting for Kingsley or Kareela to call out, ask what happened. After one breath, two, she held her throbbing hand to her chest, so she wouldn’t do it again, or pick up the dishes from the counter and hurl them, throw the chairs across the room, the table to the floor.

She stood, imagining the chaos, the relief there would be in falling apart. But she didn’t have the luxury. She called to Kareela, her smile firm, and asked her what she wanted for dinner.

“I just ate.” Kareela tilted her head, that little nose scrunched again.

“Right. Of course.” Evelyn forced a laugh. She turned to the sink and braced her shaking arms upon the counter. Justice. It didn’t matter what Charles said, or Kingsley. Justice was what she’d focus on, the one thing in this nightmare she’d make sure she’d get.

The next morning, Evelyn called in to work. Said she needed extended leave. Her boss sighed. He was a good man. He didn’t like it, she could tell, but he said, “Two more weeks.”

Evelyn thanked him, said she hoped she wouldn’t need more, but she might.

“I can’t give you pay for this extra time,” he said. “And if it goes longer than that—”

“Thank you,” said Evelyn, not waiting to hear what would come after.

Notebook at the ready, with a list of all she set out to do, Evelyn finished getting Kareela ready for daycare. She dropped her off, the directions to police headquarters in hand.

The sounds of the city beat against Evelyn’s thoughts, the cacophony amplifying the hot tension that thrummed in her chest. The man at reception was pleasant. Not much older than Antony. He nodded while Evelyn spoke, his eyes sympathetic. “A terrible thing,” he said.

Evelyn’s throat caught, surprise and thankfulness flooding her at the admission. “Yes.” She straightened. “Yes. It is terrible.”

He nodded again. “We’ll get you all we can.”

“Thank…” Evelyn almost smiled. “Thank you. I appreciate it.”

She stepped out of the building, a burst of accomplishment adding purpose to her steps. It was something. A yes instead of a no. A confirmation that the truth was coming. She walked the short distance to City University, deciding visiting Dr. Knowles in person was the way to go.

Usually within moments of stepping onto campus, a peace overtook Evelyn—she loved these old buildings: the cornices, the vines, the stones that had stood long before her and would stand long after. But today, the history offered no comfort.

She navigated the tree-lined pathways, thankful as she traveled farther and farther away from Kingsley’s building.

The door to Dr. Knowles’s office was half-open. The man behind the paper-strewn desk rested his head on his hand, a pencil between his teeth, the lines on his forehead meeting in deep grooves.

“Hello.”

Dr. Knowles looked up. The pencil fell from his lips. As he stood, the lines stretched out and raised to meet what should have been his hairline. “Hello!” He swallowed, clasped his hands in front of him, and came around the desk, shortening the space between them. “Hi.”

Even in those few words, Evelyn could hear the gentle lilt. “I’m Ev—”

“Yes. I know.” Dr. Knowles extended his hand, then released hers so quickly it was as if her touch had burned him. He rubbed a hand over hair that was no longer there. “I’m sorry I…uh…for your loss, Mrs. Jackson. I’m sorry.”

Evelyn gave a slight nod as he gestured to the chair in front of his desk.

“Please. Sit.”

She did, thinking how in another life she could have been here for office hours, pursuing a dream, instead of meeting this man because of a nightmare. He shuffled back around to his own seat, not looking at all like the strong, powerful, confident man she’d seen speaking in front of hundreds. His lips trembled and his eyes moistened. “I…” He put his head down, made a deep, almost coughing sound in his throat, then raised his head again. “I’m sorry, too, that I didn’t say it…at the funeral. I wanted to. I tried to. I couldn’t.”

He lifted his gaze to the ceiling. “I keep thinking…maybe if I’d been there. I sent the kids. And maybe if I hadn’t. Maybe if I’d gone myself.”

Evelyn reached her hand out, then let it fall. “I don’t blame you.” Though maybe she should. Maybe she did. They were kids. And he was a grown man. An educated man. Someone who should have known better.

“I came here today”—Evelyn straightened, and pulled her hand back—“to see what you know about what happened. What the next steps should be. And to get the names and contact information for the people who were there.”

“Oh.” He looked down again, piled several stacks of papers to the side, placed his hands in the cleared space. “Oh. Well.”

Evelyn waited. “Have you talked to the people who were there? Do you know who they are?”

He nodded, his gaze narrowing. “Mrs. Jackson, we’re all incredibly sorry for your loss. All of us. And we all wish things had turned out differently. We loved Antony. He was a wonderful young man. Bright. Kind. Passionate. It is a great loss.”

“It is a crime.”

“Yes.”

Evelyn licked her lips. She bit the bottom one as she shoved down the anger that built at his words. “And you fight these kinds of crimes. This kind of injustice. That’s why my son is dead. Because he was fighting. With you.”

“I know, Mrs. Jackson. I know.” Dr. Knowles gulped air, his smile quivery.

“So…” She kept her gaze level. “What are we going to do about it?”

“Uh…” He rubbed a hand along the back of his neck, looking sheepish. “We’re having a memorial to remember him, honor him, but I’m stepping away from the protests, for a time at least. This has been hard on all of us: the students, me. I think it’s best if you step away from this, too. It won’t bring Antony—”

Evelyn stood. “Stepping away? What do you mean?”

“Please, Mrs. Jackson.” He half stood, leaning toward her over the desk, a hand out, palm down. “Please. Sit. People will hear you.”

“What people?” Evelyn stayed standing.

“Look.” He kept his voice low. “I’m on probation. With the university. Because of what happened. I have three kids at home, a wife who needs the health insurance this job provides.” His voice lowered another notch. “And they, well, I guess there’s no other way to say it. They threatened me.”

“The university?”

“No. Well, yes, in a way, with the probation. But I meant the police, they…they said they could make things bad for me. For my family. I have a brother who…” He pressed his lips tight, let a stream of air blow from his nostrils. “I’m not giving up the fight. I’m just shifting the way I fight. Restrategizing. Biding my time. And you…you should do the same.”

“I’m not fighting the system,” said Evelyn. “I’m fighting for my son. Justice for my son.”

“And to get that,” said the professor, “you’d have to fight the system.”

“Isn’t that my choice?”

“It is.” He placed his hands back on the desk, fear behind his entreating eyes. “But I wish you wouldn’t.” His voice shook. “They… Mrs. Jackson, you have a young daughter at home. So the best thing to do, for all of you, is to move on as best you can, to remember Antony and—”

Evelyn stepped back, her body tense. “You have a rally, a protest, for those boys, those strangers. But for my son, who was one of you, nothing. You decide not to fight. To stay silent.”

“We’re having a memorial.”

“Which will accomplish nothing. Change nothing.”

“It will help people remember. It will inspire—”

Evelyn hefted her purse to her shoulder. “Do you have the names and contacts for the people who were there?”

Dr. Knowles leaned away from her. “I do.”

“Will you give them to me?”

He sighed. “I will. But my guess is not many, if any, of them will talk to you. Not once they realize what you’re after.”

A roiling heat swirled in Evelyn’s belly. These people had stood and fought—with their words and their presence. Had spouted beliefs. Yet now that it mattered, according to this man, they wouldn’t stand.

“Give them to me, please.” Evelyn crossed her arms, waiting.

Dr. Knowles nodded. He tore a piece of lined paper from a notebook and started writing.