We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2004

Three women. Four men. Evelyn had waited to unfold the sheet Dr. Knowles handed her until she was out of his office. She sat in the hot midmorning sun and struggled for a full breath, the sheen of pollution already darkening the horizon. People would die today. Asthmatics in high-rise apartment buildings with no AC who had to open their windows, let all that poison in. Likely some homeless people, too. A number of elderly. There wouldn’t be justice for their deaths, no specific people or entity their loved ones could blame.

With Antony, it was different. With Antony, individuals were involved. The ones who’d specifically done it, and the ones who’d led them to believe they could, to believe they’d get away with it.

Paper clenched in her palm, Evelyn stood. The back of her dress stuck to her thighs. She tugged and the fabric peeled free.

It would be easier to go home, to call from the comfort of her living room. But in case any of these people were on campus now, could meet her now, she didn’t want to miss the opportunity. She returned to the Faculty of Social Work, remembering a rare pay phone she’d seen in the lobby.

Antony would grin if he saw her. Told ya. Laugh. Wouldn’t a mobile phone be handy right about now?

Pain hit like a tidal wave—to never see that grin, hear that laugh, again.

Evelyn rifled through her purse, searching for the baggie of coins she kept for this reason, then pushed one in.

“All??”

“Hi. Hello.” Evelyn’s voice jumped. “Is this Sylvie?”

“It is.” The girl had an accent. Québécois, by the sounds of it. “How may I help you?”

“It’s…well…” Evelyn should have planned her words, determining how best to avoid the reaction she got from Dr. Knowles. “I’m Evelyn Jackson. Antony’s—”

“Antony’s mère . Oh, mon dieu . Why…? I mean…hello?”

Evelyn took a moment to breathe. To think. She shouldn’t blurt it out, her request. If the girl was scared, that would—

“Madame. Are you there?”

“Yes, I am. Yes.” Evelyn clutched the phone to her ear. She evened out her voice, trying to even out the beat of her heart as well. “I was hoping we could talk.” Silence. “About Antony.”

“Oh…” Sylvie muttered something unintelligible. “Oh. I am sorry.” Her voice quavered. “I did not know Antony very well.”

“I see, but…” Evelyn closed her eyes, fighting disappointment. It wasn’t the reason for the call. But she had hoped this woman had known her son. Could share snippets of his life Evelyn hadn’t been privy to. “You were there, though, weren’t you? When he died.”

“I was, oui . I mean, yes. Yes, I was.”

“So maybe—”

“No, I…”

“Please, Sylvie, it would mean—”

“ Non. I am sorry, Madame Jackson.” A low quick sound—like a sob but strangled. “I am sorry about your son. But non .”

“I—” Evelyn held the phone away from her ear at the sound of the click. She slammed the receiver into its holder, then breathed, picked it up again. She dialed the next woman’s number. No answer. And the next, voicemail. She straightened, recognizing the soft cadence. It was the woman who’d told her the police officers’ stories were false. Deja. Evelyn left a message, telling her the number she could call to get in touch. And if that didn’t work, to try Antony’s mobile. She didn’t have it on her now, but she’d turn it back on when she got home, have it with her going forward.

She tried the next numbers. Two answered. Two didn’t. Both men were as short as Sylvie, as shifty and frightened as Dr. Knowles. One talking about his family, how the police threatened him, them. The other saying he was here on a student visa. He didn’t want any trouble. Then what were you doing there? Evelyn yelled internally. Why were you protesting, fighting the system, in the first place? “I’m sorry,” he said, sounding it. “But if I say what happened, rather than what I was told happened, they promised me there’d be trouble. There’s already been trouble enough.”

Evelyn slammed the phone into its holder when the man hung up. She slammed again, then slumped against the wall. Were none of these people the ones who’d shaken her hand, who said they’d continue the fight, do it for Antony?

Why was it her son, and not these men, these women, who was six feet underground? But she knew the answer, if what Deja said was true. He was the only one who’d stood when the wise choice would have been to drop to the ground, who spoke, when all the others stayed silent.

Evelyn pushed herself from the wall, her fist aching and red. Had she punched the brick? It didn’t matter. She needed to get home, get near the phone, get Antony’s mobile charging. One of the witnesses she’d left a message for may still be willing to talk, to fight, for Antony.

Evelyn walked into a quiet house, her stomach cramping. She’d forced herself to eat a banana this morning, the only item since yesterday’s lunch. Her eyes closed. Her jaw, her shoulders, and her hands trembled as moisture sprung behind her lids. She walked to the kitchen—she didn’t want to eat—and braced herself on the back of a chair. She didn’t want to live. Not in a world without Antony.

But the world still held Kareela. She blew out a stream of cold air, gave herself a little shake, and crossed to the fridge. While she waited for the leftover rice and peas to warm, she remembered the phone. Moments later, she stood at the door of Antony’s room. She’d only entered once since the night they’d heard the news, the bag the police had returned to them in her hand. She’d felt as if she were desecrating something and sat gingerly on the bed. The bag was light; his clothes hadn’t been returned. Too damaged, the officer said. Too bloody, Evelyn heard. She’d taken out his wallet, then his watch, which she and Kingsley had given him for finally getting his degree. She closed her eyes, saw his smile as he crossed that stage, Kingsley’s as he sat, his back ramrod straight, chest puffed.

And then she reached for his phone.

Today, Evelyn flipped open the phone, which sat on his dresser beside the wallet and watch, and pressed the power button. Nothing. She surveyed the room, then remembered having seen the phone resting on the bedside table the many times she’d peeked in to call Antony for dinner or ask how his day had gone. She stepped over, bent down to look for a charger behind the table, and caught the scent of her son. Evelyn shook from her core. She eased to the bed, her head on the pillow, her arms around it, breathing in the smell of Antony. His cologne—spicy, with a hint of musk. The oil he applied to his dreads—sweet, a bit fruity. The distinctive scent he’d had since the day he was born. She breathed, inhaling as deeply as she could, wanting to take this smell into her. Knowing it wouldn’t last long.

The microwave beeped, and then another sound. The phone. Not Antony’s. She pushed herself to standing and raced to the kitchen.

“Hello.”

“Hi, uh…I’m…uh…is Mrs. Jackson there?”

Deja.

“Hello, yes. This is she.” Evelyn sank to a chair, gripping the phone like a lifeline. “Deja, right? Thank you for returning my call.”

“Yes. Uh…yep. It’s me. What…uh…what can I do for you?”

“I’d love to meet. Anytime that’s most convenient for you. I’d love to talk about Antony.”

Silence.

“You knew him, didn’t you? My son.”

“I did, yeah. We…uh, we were pretty close. Not…I mean, well…I cared about him. You know?”

“Yes. Yes, I do.” A pause. “So can we talk? Maybe a coffee shop or somewhere on campus. Anywhere you want, really. Anywhere that’s convenient for you.”

“I’m just on my break at work. I finish in about three hours. It’s not too far from you, actually. You’re at home, yeah?”

“I am. Yes.”

“How about the Tims on Danforth and Birchmount? You know it? I could meet you there at three thirty.”

Evelyn gripped the phone tighter, hope welling in her. “Yes. Tim Hortons at three thirty. I’ll be there.”

The microwave sounded again as Evelyn said goodbye. She crossed over to it and, stomach clenching in pain, hands shaking with anticipation, dumped the food in the trash.