Free Kicking the Sky by Anthony de Sa Page A

the gurgle of sucking back snot. Some women had fainted in the heat and were carried out onto the sidewalk to be fanned. The smell of mothballs, cooking oils that had seeped into the fabric of their clothes, glycerine soap, and baby powder caked by sweat became dizzying.
    The coffin tilted up at an angle. The crowd’s arms carried the box across the blue sky and into the dark, incense-filled church.
    I saw my father standing at the top of the steps near the church’s entrance. He was dressed in a suit and held a felt hat to his chest. The sun bounced off his shiny head. I saw James there, taller than the rest and dressed in a tuxedo-printed T-shirt. He was about five feet away from where my father stood, his shoulders parting the crowd. I saw my father look back once, then again, and this time he nodded—a thank you, I thought, for James’s help on the day of the pig killing. I couldsee my father moving his lips, speaking to James. James said something back and smiled. My shirt collar was digging into my skin. I closed my eyes and lifted my face to the warmth of the sun. When I looked back I saw Manny and Ricky had climbed the half wall of the church. Manny looked cool and relaxed in his shorts and Chinese slippers. Ricky stared at the wristwatch James had given him. They sat on the handrail beside James and my father. I could taste copper pennies at the back of my throat. My mother had said that today was a day for families, not friends. I poked my finger into the collar of my shirt and tugged. My mother drew my hand down and held it at my side.

— 8 —
    “A NTONIO! Come here and help.” Edite didn’t have a laundry room in her apartment, so she would come over and wash clothes in our basement, when she was sure my father wasn’t around. “Damn sheets. Just hold on to the end until it comes through the other side,” she said. “Don’t pull, though. I don’t want to break the wringer and have your dad blame your mom.”
    A tip of white sheet peeked between the two rollers of the wringer washer. She dunked her hands into the machine, the water up to her elbows. She fed the wringer again, then patted her hands dry on my mother’s apron and pulled a cigarette from her pocket. She lit it, took a deep drag, and blew out the smoke like it was the thing she needed most in the world.
    A small radio sat on a shelf, in front of three framed pictures: Pierre Trudeau, the Pope, and JFK. The radio was set to the Portuguese station. They were broadcasting live from Toronto City Hall, with José Rafael’s voice battling static to deliver its message.
Nine days since little Emanuel was found dead and nothing so far. It’s time, I say. We can’t sit back any longer. That’s what we’ve done, and look what happened!
He made it sound like the community had given up.
    After the funeral, my mother had locked the front door in the middle of the day. She saw Billy, Senhor Matos’s son, punch his own father on the front lawn. Senhor Matos wasafraid Billy’d go to prison if he kept running downtown and beating up the
paneleiros
—Portuguese slang for homosexuals. Other people were drawn into it. I overheard my mother telling my father that it came to blows and nasty things were said between neighbours. If I hadn’t been a prisoner in my own home, I would have run to the front yard to catch a bit of the rumble with my own eyes.
    “My Johnny was able to wash his own clothes at your age. He’d just pop them into the machine.”
    I turned up the volume on the radio.
    “Then he’d press a button. Not like these washers you have up here.”
    “My dad says dryers are useless—they waste electricity. Clotheslines in the basement are good enough.”
    I could picture Rafael’s spit showering the microphone. We were proud and we worked hard. We did so quietly without bothering anyone. Rafael blamed the police and the politicians and the homosexuals for what had happened to Emanuel, one of our own.
Where is our voice?
he