We Rip the World Apart

Evelyn Toronto

Evelyn

Toronto

2004

Over the following weeks, Evelyn kept up the pursuit of justice. She’d had to go back to work, her boss threatening to let her go if she didn’t, but in the evenings, she sat at Antony’s computer, searching cases of police brutality throughout the Western world. It might not make sense—it was possible only the cases here, in her own city, would matter—but it also couldn’t hurt. And there were so many. Someone should be compiling them.

She’d been back to the library a few times—quick stops after work, taking advantage of the extra hour Kareela’s daycare allowed, which Evelyn had rarely used before now. When she got home, she sat Kareela in front of the TV, so she could continue her research. Several times, she’d come out of Antony’s room, for a drink or to use the washroom, and found the girl eating—cinnamon toast, cereal, whole carrots, once an egg in a basket, the way Antony used to love.

“Who made that for you?” Evelyn asked, looking to the kitchen, wondering if Kingsley had arrived home without her noticing.

“I did, Mama.”

“You—?”

“I took the stool to the stove.”

Evelyn’s insides clenched, a chill trailing over her. “You used the stove?”

“It’s okay, Mama.” Kareela looked up with a smile, that dreaded doll perched on the couch beside her. “I’m a big girl now. I can do it.”

Evelyn sat beside her daughter. She looked at her, her puffs of hair two matted balls at the sides of her face. “You ask me next time.” She put a hand to one of Kareela’s neglected pigtails. “How would you like braids this weekend? We can take you to that place An—” She couldn’t say his name. “Your brother went to tidy his dreads.”

Kareela nodded, her face aglow. “Just me and you?”

“Just me and you.”

Evelyn walked to the kitchen. The stove was off. The frying pan sat in the sink. She returned to Antony’s room, her hand rubbing against her aching neck, and dialed again, the one witness she still couldn’t get ahold of. Hoping he, unlike all the others, would be willing to speak the true story. It rang and rang, then went to voicemail, as it always did.

The sound of the front door opening traveled down the hall, the shuffle and bumps of Kingsley setting down his briefcase, kicking off his shoes, the groan as he settled onto the couch, his arm probably around their girl, where it would stay for five minutes, maybe ten. Next he’d stand, scrounge for something in the fridge, retreat to his office until one or the other of them put Kareela to bed. They traded nights—a one-day-on, one-day-off schedule—as they had done for years. They didn’t talk, passing each other in the hall, the kitchen, like ghosts of their past selves—inhabiting the same space, but hardly aware of the other’s existence.

And yet Kingsley had talked to Charles. Expressed concerns to Charles. But not to her. Not then. Not now, weeks later. Evelyn watched his thinning frame pass by the door, mourning him—them—almost as much as she mourned Antony.

He needed to do this with her. He needed a cause, a reason to keep on. Keep them keeping on, together.

She would talk to him tonight. See if she could get him on board. See if, maybe, he knew someone braver than Charles, someone to help her make sense of all this research, establish a clear and focused plan of attack. What to do, how to go about doing it.

She’d visited five law offices. Each one reacted similarly to Charles, looking at her like her pain, her tragedy, may be catching, a look she was getting used to—at the grocery store, the daycare, anywhere she was recognized.

Evelyn waited while Kingsley put Kareela to bed. Not that it took long anymore. She’d started getting her pajamas on herself, without prompting, then brushing her teeth, knocking on one of their doors and telling whoever’s night it was that it was time to tuck her in.

Evelyn used to read a chapter or two of whatever story Kareela had on the go—the girl had abandoned simple picture books months before—but a few weeks ago, Evelyn had drifted off mentally, lost in considering all the lives she was learning about, people killed or harmed at the hands of officers.

Mama.

Not just Black people. But Indigenous, Latin, white, too.

Mama.

So many people. So little justice.

Ma —

Evelyn had jerked back to the present when Kareela tugged on her wrist, not knowing how many times the girl had called or where she was on the page.

Never mind. Kareela grabbed the book from Evelyn’s hand and threw it to the floor, a burst of anger flaring across her features.

The next time Kareela came knocking on Antony’s door announcing it was bedtime, she said she’d already read. All she wanted was a good-night kiss and for Evelyn to turn out the light…and Evelyn didn’t have the energy to argue.

Tonight, Evelyn stepped into the hall when she heard her husband passing. “Kingsley?”

“Hmm?”

“Can we talk?” How long had he had those bags under his eyes, those deep grooves on his forehead, such slumped shoulders? “In the living room would be fine.”

They sat on opposite ends of the couch. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve been researching.”

“I asked you not to.”

“I know.”

They stared.

“Antony was right, you know. The injustice out there. The power the police wield, how they’re backed by the judicial system. It’s mind-blowing. It’s horrible.” Evelyn shifted. “We need to do something about it.”

Kingsley’s expression was so similar to the one he’d shown to Antony. We need to show them , their son had said. Show them every day that we’re not who they think we are. That we’re people. Just like them. Just as worthy to live, to have rights, to be safe.

Not by yelling in the streets. Kingsley had said. Show them with your position. By being worthy. Being someone to respect.

I am! Antony yelled. Why can’t you see? I don’t need to become someone worthy, someone who deserves respect. I am. Everyone is. We’re born that way.

“I would like you to help me.” Evelyn took a deep breath, resolving to stay firm, despite the frustration in his eyes. “For us to do this together.”

“Anything I could have done, I should have done before, with him.”

“It’s not too late.”

“Evelyn.”

“It’s too late to save Antony.” Evelyn could hear the desperation in her voice, but the situation was desperate. “It’s not too late for change. Someone has to fight. Someone has to try.”

Kingsley’s expression shifted to one of outrage. “You’ve seen what trying gets.”

“We won’t do it in the streets. We’ll fight in the courts. By the book, like you said. Show them we have a case.”

“That’s not what I said.”

That’s what gets you down! Antony shaking his head, disappointment shrouding him like a cloak. You think you have to prove to them you’re worthy. That you deserve respect. That’s why your colleagues zoom past you. If you fought the board’s decisions, if you called out their racism, they couldn’t just ignore you. You ache for their approval. The white man’s approval. You’ll never get it. Not unless you take it.

Kingsley had stepped back as if struck. Antony stepped forward. You’re amazing, Pa. I’ve heard the students talk. You’re one of the best professors your department has, and you do more for the department than half of those lazy tenured schlumps. But why would they raise you up, increase your pay, your status, give you a permanent position when they know if they don’t, you’ll just sit there and smile? Sit there and let them treat you like a second-class nobody. Like less than that.

Come with me, Antony had continued, saying what he’d said so many times before. Come and see.

Kingsley turned his head to the TV. “I had my chance.” The reporter’s face was grave, but not too grave. Bad news was good news, after all, was ratings. “If I was going to help him, stand by him, I should have done it then.”

“Do it now.”

“No!” Kingsley yelled, and Evelyn pulled back. “There’s nothing I can do. Nothing you can do. He’s gone!”

A tremor made its way through Evelyn. A chill settled over her arms.

“He’s gone, Evelyn. Accept it.”

“But Kareela’s not. Do it for her, so she—”

“No.” Kingsley slumped against the couch, sobs racking his body, shaking him as Evelyn sat frozen. “They shot him up.” A primitive wail. “Like he was danger. Some threat.” The sound, the words, pulled at something in her—pulled her to let go, too, to crumble. But instead, she eased herself over, settled one arm around him. He lunged forward, pulling her body against his own, sobbing into her shoulder as she hugged him close, her back rigid, her throat tight.

Eventually he stopped, sitting still as the minutes passed. When at last he pulled away, he grabbed a tissue from the table next to the couch, wiped under his eyes, his nose, then clenched the Kleenex in his hand, staring, again, at the TV. “This is the world we live in, Evelyn. And it’s not going to change. We keep our heads down. Be silent. That’s what we have to do to survive.” He turned to her, the pain in his eyes unbearable. “Antony was wrong. Has it gotten better? Did people like King, X, make it better? Sure. A bit. But ultimately, it’s not going to change.”

“Kingsley—”

He gripped her shoulders. “Please, Evelyn. Stop. For me. I can’t take it. I can’t see you doing this, poring over papers, dredging it up, day after day. I can’t cope.” His hands dropped. “I’ve tried to do my best for this family. I’ve worked hard. I haven’t made waves, because I’ve seen what making waves does to men like me. How budgets suddenly get cut, and they’re so sorry, but they just can’t keep us on anymore. And suddenly a man’s career is gone. He’s working at a gas station or driving a taxi.”

Kingsley’s head drooped. He shook it. “Dr. Knowles called me to apologize. He said you’d been by. He tried to defend himself about why he wasn’t standing up for Antony the way he stood up for strangers. But I knew. I knew what he was facing.” Kingsley stopped, gaze to the floor. “I’ve tried so hard. I’ve done what I was supposed to do, what I was expected to do. I tried to teach my son the same thing. But still—” His voice caught. “He was gunned down. For trying to make the world better. For doing something, when his father refused to. Refused to stand beside him.”

“So stand for Kareela. So the world she—”

Kingsley kept talking, as if he hadn’t even heard Evelyn. “I should have never let him storm out of this house. I should have held him in my arms, and if I couldn’t have stopped him, I should have been there beside him, thrown myself in front of those bullets.”

“Kingsley.”

“It’s too late, Evelyn. It’s over. This is our life now. Don’t make it worse.”

Evelyn’s chest swelled. Her throat burned for all she wanted to say—that maybe he was right. Maybe he should have been there. But also, maybe she shouldn’t have, shouldn’t have made that call.

They couldn’t change the past. Only the future.

Or, at least, they could try, because there was still Kareela. Still the hope of changing things for her. For Antony, too, so he didn’t die for nothing.

Yet Kingsley would never listen. She saw that now. He turned off the TV and walked toward the hall. After enough time had passed that whatever door he’d entered would be closed, Evelyn stood and went back to Antony’s room. Rather than returning to the glowing screen, she climbed into his bed, clothes still on, as she’d done more times than she knew. For days, now. Maybe weeks. Caressing the sheets the way she’d caressed his head, his back, so many times before. His smell wasn’t gone, but it almost was. It would be soon.