In fear for the children’s safety, I attempted to keep my eyes open, lying to myself that I could ever protect them, but the delicious warmth of the soft mulch lulled me into slumber. I slept until I could hear rain tapping on the surface of the tarp. I emerged into the cool of the darkness, passed the A-frame of the futon with a wordless prayer, and then continued my nighttime journey west along Dundas.
At first I was confused by this address—32 Alma Lane. I wasn’t sure what day it was, but I was concerned that if it was the weekend, I would be found by those frequenting the Gladstone Hotel, which was nearby. I knew that since the Renovation the hotel had become a popular hangout for the Boots, a place to have a beer after the hard work of relocating the Others. The white hipsters who had once made the hotel their headquarters, for anything from poetry readings to dance parties, ended up fading into the background, despite years of cultivating a reputation for “progressive thinking.” Some joined the Boots. Some calmly witnessed what the Boots were doing and did nothing. But when the side window of the corner townhome unit slid open and a sandwich was placed on the ledge, I understood why I was told to come here.
My dirty hand reached out for the food with caution, and I caught the eye of a white woman pretending to do her dishes. This red-headed woman with baby bangs and black horn-rimmed glasses flashed me the fastest of smiles. Barely a smile. Her lips turned up for a fraction of a second. Then she was back to doing her pretend task, banging about cutlery in the sink, splashing water, when in fact she was feeding me. She filled a small watering can and placed it on the sill after I had taken the sandwich. When I reached out for the watering can, her hand briefly touched mine. It was purposeful, intentional. A moment of kindness. She never made eye contact again.
I hid behind this home’s recycling bin and devoured my gifted sandwich. I downed the water from the watering can in one long stream into my mouth. Then I peed, dark yellow and hot, behind the lilac bushes.
That was yesterday, and the thought of that sandwich has my stomach aching for another meal. The kitchen window of this white woman’s house has since gone dim and the curtains are shut tight. This makes me wonder if the woman’s absence and caution are connected to why the van has not shown up. Around the perimeter of 32 Alma Lane is an uneven fence, protecting a small corner garden of tomatoes and zucchini. I press my face against the worn planks of wood to see a factory across Dufferin Street. Three cars are parked: a red Kia Rondo, a white Toyota Corolla, a blue Volkswagen Golf. No black Grand Caravan. I move my nose to another break in the fence planks. At the stop sign by 32 Alma Lane, a young white man in a suit clips on his helmet, unlocks his bicycle and rides away.
“Hello!” A ball rolls towards the fence, and as the child comes to collect it, she peeks into the space between the wood. “I see you!” The little girl has just grown out of toddlerhood, with baby fat still present in her ankles and wrists.
“Molly. No, thank you. I saw you, young lady. Crossing the road without Mama is not nice.” Molly giggles. “That’s not funny, Molly. I’m serious. Please hold my hand.” Molly looks at me again through the fence. I shift just enough that she can’t see me.
“Mama, look!”
“What is it?” Her mama reluctantly looks through the slit in the fence and sees nothing, since I hide from her glance, but I can tell by her silence that she senses me there. We are both quiet on either side of the fence. Me not breathing, the woman listening for my breath.
“Okay. We’re going to go now,” the mother says, like an announcement, like she knows I am there. “Molly, take my hand please.” They leave. I exhale. I peer through the slit again and see child and mother crossing the street, Molly with ball in hand.
I lean my head on the fence, looking through the opening, praying and praying for the van to come. My exhaustion and hunger make my eyes heavy, and I nod off. I turn my left cheek onto the warm wooden surface of the fence post, and I can easily imagine it as a soft pillow. I shake my head, forcing myself to pay attention. I cannot miss the van. Don’t miss the van, I tell myself. But my eyes are so heavy, and the sound of my grumbling tummy is muted in my slumber.
In my dreams, I am six years old again. Ma comes home with a new Sony stereo system. The Wright family has upgraded their sound system and donated the old one to her. I watch as she places an album—also a donation from the Wright family—on the platter of the turntable.
“You watch, ha? See this?” Ma points to the fine hair at the end of the tone arm. “This is the needle.” When she lifts the tone arm, the platter automatically begins to turn. She carefully and ceremoniously places the stylus onto the record’s first track. “Clair de Lune” fills the speakers. Fills our apartment. Fills my heart.
“Don’t touch this, ha?” Ma says before heading to the kitchen to begin prepping dinner. I hold the album cover in my hands. Liberace Piano Gems it reads on the cardboard sleeve. On it is a picture of a man beaming from ear to ear and wearing a silver cape. On the side is a superimposed image of his graceful hands, covered in jewels and rings, on the piano keys. I have never seen a man look like that before: smiling so genuinely and wearing such lavish clothes. Still holding the album cover, I begin dancing around the room. I can feel the swoosh of air past my ears with every flourish of my hands, every waltz step through the house. The music sounds like birds just about to take flight. It sounds like eyes slowly opening in the morning. It sounds like fog dissipating in the warmth of the sun. I dance and dance through the house, bracing myself on chairs to lift my legs up, rolling along the floor on my knees, reaching up to the sky at these sensations in my body.
“What is this?” My mother stands there, a plate of rice and beefsteak in each hand, staring at her child.
I awake to the sound of a black Grand Caravan rolling up to the stop sign at the corner of Dufferin and Alma. At first I am unsure. Is this the one? I see a white man inside unfold a map over the steering wheel. Maybe not. But when I see him briefly, ever so briefly, let his eyes stray from the map to look around, I know this is it.
I bolt from the fence to the van. The van’s automatic door slowly slides open, and once I am inside it slowly slides shut.
“Get down,” the white man says as he begins driving. He drives over a couple of potholes and I bump my head on the ceiling of the van. “Head to the back. Get under a blanket. We should be there in five hours.”
“Did anyone follow you?”
“I didn’t see anyone.”
“Good. Watch your head.”
I crawl past two bucket seats laden with boxes to the back of the van, where the seats have been stowed down and there are several heavy grey blankets. I grab a blanket, and when I lift it up I see someone else lying there. They* look Queer too but younger. Head unevenly shaven. I can see from the barrel shape of their sweatshirt that their hefty chest is bound.
“The other one. Not this one,” they say. I grab another blanket and cover myself. I feel the van move through stop-and-go traffic until I am asleep again, my face moist from my own breath.
When I wake, the road sounds smooth like one continuous hum. I lift up my blanket. From my position down below I can see blue skies from each of the van’s windows. I catch the eyes of the white man in the rear-view mirror.