Finding edward, p.29
Finding Edward, page 29
“Let them ask what’s on the iPods,” said Evan. “Get the passersby involved. Hand out some literature.”
“We are all Canadian,” said one of the girls. “That’s what it should say. That’s what we should call the demonstration.”
“That is so weak,” said Randall. “Sounds like a beer commercial.”
“But it’s about belonging. We want consensus, not confrontation,” said Penelope. “I like it.”
“Gotta agree,” said Evan. “It’s gentle enough that people might actually be able to hear it. Too confrontational and they dismiss you.”
“You let them off way too easy,” said Randall. “Nothing changes without confrontation. Racism kills. Don’t forget that.”
They agreed to meet again to talk about the name, the slogans, and the music choices. The song titles should have real significance. There was a lot of research to do. But lots of time. Cyril sensed that all of the men very definitely looked forward to the winter meetings. This dance wouldn’t launch until the first bright days of spring.
The girls were going to window-shop the fashion stores and walked off arm in arm, Evan alongside them. A few feet on they stopped and, in unison, Evan included, bent forward and wriggled their bums to a soaring accompaniment of giggles, certain that they were being watched. They were.
Cyril said goodbye to the guys, who were headed to a rehearsal, and crossed the road that would become the stage for next spring’s demonstration. He was immediately transported by an image of Penelope dancing, her legs, her arms, her wild dark hair. He skipped onto the grass, which was dry, free of snow and ice, then started to run, a sprint that would take him all the way to Christie subway station. It was a long time since he’d run in his street clothes. He only ran in running gear so as not to draw attention, cause alarm, attract the cops, frighten little old ladies — or anyone else.
He turned off the path and ran across the playing field at full tilt and into light that was suddenly brighter, spun through a gauzy mist that made him fully alert. Suddenly, beside him, running in tandem, was a thin white man with a red face, mouth puffing furiously at the air, legs a twinkle of madly pumping pink knobbly knees, fully kitted out in football shoes and knee socks, red shorts and a number seven shirt. They were so close that if one of them tripped they’d both have tumbled. Cyril could hear his grunting breaths. They raced all the way to the end of the park, where they slowed and grinned at each other in recognition — pure appreciation of the shared joy of running. Cyril didn’t look back to see if his father followed. He knew he’d be gone.
Cyril ran so fast that his feet must have seemed a blur across the winter-browned grass. Cyril ran because this was his city too, ran until he felt foolish and the air was sucked from him. He slowed to a stop and ducked his head, hands on his thighs, chest heaving ragged breaths. He grinned, then laughed out loud, not caring who might be watching.
TWENTY-NINE
Edward was expecting another visitor. One more in the stream of people since he’d got home, so that the days began with the Business As Usual social worker at 9:00 a.m. and stayed busy all day long. Security Sam was in and out, often with another hockey funny: “Hey, Eddie, what do the Toronto Maple Leafs and the Titanic have in common?”
He’d roll his eyes and say, “I know you’re going to tell me.”
“They both look good till they hit the ice …”
An old Chinese guy came every day with Meals on Wheels. He didn’t say much, just, “How ya doin’? I’m doin’ great.”
The new visitor was a mystery, though. Sam thought it was pretty entertaining. He kept saying it was family, which was a really big joke because for sure Edward didn’t have any of that. He was coming at 2:00 p.m. After lunch. Edward had dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a white T-shirt. His room was clean because they had a lady come in and give it the once-over every week. She was another subsidy from the disability. He sat down to wait in his armchair across from the bed. The visitor would have to sit on the stool.
He could hear him out in the hallway. The uncertain scuffle of a stranger. The boy looked uncomfortable, hung back a bit. A skinny kid. Dark. Maybe an inch or two taller than Edward. Who looked at him like he was a ghost he’d been afraid to see.
“Hello. Good afternoon, Mr. Davina,” he said from the doorway. “I’m Cyril Rowntree. I’m a university student, and I’ve been working on some history research that has a great deal to do with you, sir.” Then he seemed to run out of things to say. He was dressed in a black parka that was a little too big for him. A good one though, thought Edward.
“I’ve been looking for you for a long time,” said Cyril.
“Why?” Edward could smell the kid’s soap and shampoo — couldn’t see so good anymore, or walk very far, or dress himself without a lot of effort, but his sniffer worked well enough to impress the doctors. “Better come in,” said Edward. “Now that you’re here.” Cyril was hesitant, stayed where he was. Edward motioned to the stool. “You’ve found me,” he said, “job done,” to help the boy feel at ease.
“I’ve got some things that belong to you, things I think you’ll want to see.” Cyril rushed the words, then remembered to deliver a smile and held out his hand along with it. Edward gave it his best squeeze, to show he had the strength.
“You’re cold,” said Edward. “I haven’t been outside in a while. I guess it’s still winter? Hot as Hades in here, though, eh?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You haven’t told me why you’re here,” said Edward. “Maybe now’s as good a time as any?”
The boy lowered his bag to the floor, crouched over it, and pulled out a couple of kid’s things. Handled them like they were treasures. “I think these are yours,” he said.
Edward felt like his head must still be drug-fuzzy because this didn’t make sense. But the kid was so sure of himself.
Cyril put them in Edward’s lap. A suitcase made of blue cardboard — an old thing with scuffed corners and a tear down its side. A doll with a sailor’s hat that fell from its head when Edward touched it.
“What are these?”
“I think they were yours. When you were a child.” The boy was nervous.
“Why?”
“I found them in a church. A display case. The gentleman, the one who looks after the place, he’s an amateur historian. He’d been given them by one of the church people.”
“I’m not much for religion,” said Edward. “Are you a proselytizer?”
“No, I’m not,” said Cyril. “My mother was a church lady, but I never could believe in it.” Cyril flushed red in the heat and removed his coat. He could be a Church of God the way he was dressed. All tidied up in a yellow cardigan and crisp, creased trousers.
“We’re agreed on that then,” said Edward.
“It’s just a storefront church,” said Cyril. “They’re nice people. The man’s name is Mr. Addo, that’s an African name. But it was the historical context of your things that interested him. Nothing to do with religion.”
Edward looked at the suitcase in his lap.
“There are some letters inside it,” said Cyril. “I think they were written by your mother.” He couldn’t think of an easier way to say it.
Edward’s mouth was open, but he didn’t speak. He looked steadily at Cyril, whose face seemed honest, eyes begging for trust. Edward nodded finally, then turned his attention to the blue case on his lap. He pulled gingerly at the leather straps and opened it. Picked up the photograph album first, turned the empty pages till he found the small snapshot of the child. Then the pretty fair-haired woman.
Cyril sat down hard on the stool, fingers fisted into his palms, thumbs scrubbing hard over his knuckles. His face was damp from the heat in the room, but, unsure of his welcome, he kept his cardigan on. Edward adjusted his glasses over his nose and looked again at the pictures. The larger photograph of Vincent Watson was tucked inside the back cover of the book. “Who are these people?”
“I think that the child is you. I mean, I’m sure it is you.” Cyril stood, took the book gently from Edward’s hands, and turned the pages back to the photograph of the small boy seated on a chair. “This one.” He turned more pages and pointed to the two pictures with the woman. “And this is your mother. I think, though I can’t be sure. But it must be.”
He was earnest as all get-out, thought Edward; he watched Cyril’s face as he talked. Selling it hard.
“And this big one, here at the back, that’s your father. I am absolutely certain of that.” He put the book back in Edward’s lap.
Edward studied his old man’s hands as they held the book. Flexed his fingers. Gave himself time. Think it through, he counselled himself. He was an old man. He could be confused, the same way he had been in the hospital. Be wary of scams, he told himself.
“I don’t know why you think so?”
“I’m sorry. This is a lot to take in all at once,” said Cyril. “But it’s the letters. You should read them.”
Edward fumbled at an envelope. “These are old ones,” he said, touching the stamp with his forefinger. He pulled out the letter. “Nineteen-twenty-three,” he read. He pushed at his glasses. “I have to take my time. It’s a bit of work for me, reading.”
* * *
January 1923
Maggie,
I’ve done what I had to do. He’s gone to someone who will look after him. He’ll have to work hard as he grows, but he’ll be safe. I’ve cried for six straight days. My milk stopped coming over a week ago, so I couldn’t even feed him anymore. I don’t know if it was the right thing. But it was all I could do. I can’t protect him with his dark skin, and he would ruin me.
Please forgive me, Maggie. God forgive me.
Davina
* * *
“You think this was my mother?”
Cyril thought he might be angry. Edward’s hands were trembling, and they hadn’t been when they’d first sat down.
Edward read slowly through each of the letters without further comment. The room was very quiet, just the bang and hiss of hot water running through old pipes, cycling through the radiator, and the occasional raised voice from someone passing by in the hall. Cyril took stock of the patch of counter space that served as a kitchen. Of the microwave and array of pill bottles alongside a box of tea bags, a jar of instant coffee. The simple treats he’d brought as gifts, chocolate-covered cookies and mixed nuts, seemed luxurious.
After a long while, Edward put the last letter back into its envelope and dropped it into the suitcase. “They say I’m buried in a pauper’s grave!”
He opened the photo album again and looked, long, at each of the photographs. The kid was telling the truth, he told himself. Images raced through his mind and collected there like piled pebbles. The Black lady and her husband in that boarding house so long ago, when he was still a kid. The tiny picture of a mother and a father inside Harry’s locket, the only jewellery Edward had ever owned, now hidden at the back of a drawer. Then Mrs. Marvel, with the children about her on a Sunday afternoon when they’d all laughed for more than an hour as her granddaughter, dressed in a tissue tutu, had danced her very best for them. They’d shared her joy. How often had that come? There was no joy in the photographs or in the letters the boy had brought him. But this was who he was. He had a mother and a father. He’d never belonged to them, but they are who he is. How he was made. And they’d given him up.
Edward felt the familiar balled fist behind his ribs, below his diaphragm, the anger that made his breathing shallow. It was the same he’d had all his life, but now his life was almost lived through. And she, that woman with the fawn-coloured hair — and somehow he was sure of the colour and the smooth feel of it — she’d had pain, she’d felt it for him. For a short time. And he didn’t care what had happened to her after that. Or to him, the smirking man he held in his hand.
The heat in his chest swarmed to his face, sending a prickle of sweat across his forehead. He was dizzy in his chair, his heart racing. But he would not scare the boy who was so earnest and so clearly needed something from him. He must not die now. Edward did his deep breaths, the way he’d learned in the hospital. He looked at the damned white face of the fawn-haired woman whose whining words filled those awful letters and at the arrogant smirk of that damned black-faced man whose eyes shone with miserable pride that counted for nothing when you had left your baby with a stranger.
Cyril watched as Edward looked again at the photograph of the little boy. Himself. He closed the book and put it back in the case. He didn’t look at the doilies or the records book. His fingers fumbled with the small buckles of the suitcase as he put the leather straps back in place.
“Can I keep this?”
“It’s for you.”
Edward put the suitcase down on the floor beside his chair. He picked up the sailor doll and fitted its hat back to its head. Pressed it in place with his fingers. He studied its face. They sat quietly for another few minutes. Then Edward spoke into the silence. “I don’t need much. So long as the security looks in on me once in a while. Truth be told, with that Meals on Wheels, I’m better off than I was before.”
“Okay,” Cyril said.
“Why did you look for me?”
“I’ve been trying to think of an answer because I knew you’d ask.” Cyril looked down at his knees. “I think I have it now.”
“Well?”
“I came to Canada because everyone thought that was the best thing for me to do, after my mom died.” He rushed to add, “Back home in Jamaica.” He drew a deep breath. “There are crocheted doilies with your suitcase, they’re in there now, for you. They made me look, because my mother used to make them. And then when I saw the picture of your …” He stopped suddenly. “Sorry. I’m not telling it very well.”
“You’re doing okay,” said Edward. “What were you going to say? My what?”
“Your father,” Cyril said, almost apologetic.
“Yes?”
“My father is white. Yours was Black. I wondered where he’d come from and why he came here.”
“And did you. Find out?”
“To go to the University of Toronto. He was a law student.”
“You are sure of that?”
“Yes. That wasn’t in the display case, though. I have more things to show you if you want to see them.”
But Edward was clearly overwhelmed, and Cyril knew it was time to pull back. To give Edward space and time.
After a while, Edward said, “Why would this African man put these things on display?” He was thoroughly bewildered; the images of the two people the kid called his parents were swimming around in his head. He couldn’t piece it together, could not make sense of the story.
“He just likes to do that sort of thing,” said Cyril. “It’s to start conversations about compassion and justice, to get people thinking. But they don’t pay much attention. He gets really frustrated. When my friend Pat took me to see them — you would have liked her — and I said I was interested, he invited me to read the letters.”
Edward patted the sailor doll. “You’ve got a much longer story to tell than that,” Edward said. “I believe that the letters are about me. But the rest of it? The photographs and the children’s things. What makes you so sure of those? You’re a good kid, I can see that. But I’m not convinced.”
“I guess I thought that you were so interesting because you’d been through what I was going through.” Cyril stopped for a moment then plunged on, encouraged by Edward’s nod. “My father left me too. I loved my mother, she was always there, but then she died, and I was on my own. When I got here, to Canada, I had to make my own way. As a mixed-race man. Like you. And you’d already been through it.”
“They used to call us mulatto,” said Edward quietly.
“Because you were alone like me,” said Cyril. “Only it was so much harder for you.”
“Was it?”
“Yeah, for sure. I mean, I’ve got an okay place to live and two jobs. And when I finish school, I’ll have a chance at a real career. Oh, and the best thing is I’ve got a half-brother and sister at home in Jamaica.”
“That’s good, then.”
“But you had to fight for it all. And now I can see that I have to fight for it too.”
“I didn’t do any fighting,” said Edward. “Not that kind, anyway. Why do you think that?”
“Being sent out to work when you were just a little boy. The protests that you did. Like when you broke that window with those other guys. After that demonstration on Spadina Avenue?”
“What a thing … you know that too.”
“Going to Halifax. Fighting in the war, in the navy. Which amazed me because I didn’t think you’d know anything about ships.”
“Couldn’t swim,” said Edward and lifted his hand to stroke the top of his head. “Still can’t. But lots of the fellas were the same. It was the war. Your old life went on hold, you Back-Burnered it and did what they told you.”
“Like being a sleeping car porter, right? You did what you had to do?”
“I didn’t do my life that well,” Edward said. “I messed up a lot of it.” He put the sailor doll down on the bed beside him. “You know a lot. You’re right. I was in the navy. I was a porter. There’s a lot more though. What else do you know?”
“Not much,” said Cyril. “You were injured in the war.”
“That’s true. I lost my mind that time. For a while. Maybe it’s gone again now …”
“I really want to thank you for talking to me,” said Cyril. “Because I’ve been … I’ve been thinking about you for a long time. You didn’t know anything about me. You could have just told me to go away.”
