I think of the people who can be harmed. “What does that mean? ‘Strategically’?”
“It means the Others inside these workhouses, along with undercover Boots, are working strategically with the intention of escape and relocation to safety.”
I wonder at the idea of safety, too afraid to consider the possibility of you being among the freed. My ears ring. Was this what Liv meant? A chance to never hide again? A chance to be reunited with you?
Beck continues. “Yes, that means we have to use force. Yes, that means we will use weapons. But know that our aim is evacuation for the Others and pure offence on the part of the allies and undercover Boots.”
“You sound like you’re describing a football game,” Bahadur scoffed.
“It’s not a game to me, Bahadur. It was imperative to the leaders of the Resistance that any bloodshed will be at the hands of the allies against their own. The focus for the Others, everything I will teach you, is defence and escape.”
“No. No way. No fucking way!” Bahadur begins pacing the room. “I just left a war-torn country. You Canadians want to play war? You want to play cowboys and Indians? This isn’t a game. War means begging for men to get off your body while they rape you. It means looking into the eyes of someone while you cut their throat open. Is this what you want, Beck?”
“No, that’s not what I’m saying.”
“Then what is it? You want us to just bow down and listen to some white boy’s advice about how to keep ourselves safe when it’s people like you who have gotten us into this shithole in the first place?”
“Maybe we should—”
“No, Kay!” Bahadur stops their pacing long enough to practically spit in my face. My cheeks flush and I bow my head down. “Beck, what did Firuzeh arrange with you? Was the agreement for me to be part of this . . . this uprising?”
“Firuzeh arranged for you to be safe.”
“And you call this safe? Is enlisting in a makeshift army safe?”
“I—”
Bahadur holds their hand up to stop Beck from speaking. “No. No. I don’t want to hear your nonsense. I don’t want to be polite about this any longer. I want to be frank. Can I be frank?”
Beck’s face is red. He silently nods.
“Thank you.” Bahadur continues. “I don’t trust you. I don’t trust you or your racist parents. I don’t trust that the world will somehow see our faces at this uprising and suddenly act on our behalf. Look at the Rohingya. There was solid evidence that there were atrocities committed against them by the Myanmar military, and the international community did nothing. Why? Because what did the international community have to gain from their freedom? Nothing. Did they have oil? Did they have any resources at all? No. It’s the same with the Others, Beck. But instead, the international community gains so much from our incarceration. It gains free labour.”
My head is down. I sense Bahadur looking my way, wondering if I will say something. I cross my legs tighter. My palms are buzzing and numb. I will them to move. I say nothing. I do nothing.
“And I love when you say shit like ‘You have absolute agency to leave.’ Are you fucking kidding me? Are you serious? What agency are you talking about? Can you imagine me and Kay walking off this farm, taking with us this agency you think we have, looking the way we do? Yes! Of course! Agency! We are dripping with agency. We have so much choice! Use your head, Beck. We’re out here and we’re trapped. We go out there and one person sees us on the highway and we’re dead. Anyway . . . Most of all I don’t trust some ex–army soldier who was paid to basically shut out tribal members from a pipeline site.”
Beck nods. I look away. Bahadur sits on the bed with a loud creak of the mattress springs, then silence.
Finally, “Listen. I don’t know what has changed in you, all of a sudden you think you’re our saviour, but I can’t go through with this. I’m not here to help you feel better about yourself.”
“I understand.” Beck looks at me. “Kay?”
I can’t even look at anyone. I don’t know what to say. I just stare at my muddy sneakers, considering why one set of shoelaces is double-knotted and the other is not. When was the last time I tied my shoelaces? When was the last time I walked around barefoot on clean floors?
“I understand. I . . . I hear you. You’re welcome to stay here. But before the full moon, we have to evacuate.” Beck makes his way to the front door of the cabin leaving one kerosene lamp for us, the other in his hand. “Goodnight.”
5
Check, please.” Nadine gestured to our waiter. Even though the Bridge Restaurant was a victim of its own success, its dessert selection made it our favourite place to meet. Sharing a triple-decker cream-cheese French toast while catching up on each other’s news had brought us back again and again throughout the years. We had finished eating and had been staring at our dirty plate for at least twenty minutes. “Excuse me?” Nadine finally stood and raised her hand, hoping to get the waiter’s attention. The place was lousy with what seemed to be male models, all with expert fades and crisp black ties. Our waiter flashed his blue eyes in our direction and rushed to another table.
“This place is a joke. We’ll never get out of here.” Nadine leaned her elbows on the table and looked at me. “I guess this gives me more time to pry into your personal life.” I threw her a look of indignation. “What? I’m allowed to pry!” We shared a laugh. She piled the cutlery onto the plate so she could reach over and cradle my hands. “Are you doing okay? How are your roommates? Are they legit?”
I pressed my lips and looked down at the table. “They’re okay . . . I guess.”
“I knew it. Kay, you always have a place to stay with me.” I didn’t. Nadine’s father was very clear about my being a burden in their household, even though he was on business trips most of the year. But part of me could not endure the heartache of living with Nadine, watching her go to university each morning and learn to be an adult, while I was left to stare all of my barriers in the face. Thanks to her, I did not live my teenage years homeless, but I certainly had no roots under my feet, and I felt it, emotionally and financially.
“Is it at least safer than the last place?” The last place was on Jarvis, a single room among many, no windows, bedbugs.
“I’m fine. The place is fine.” My most recent place was a townhouse near Dufferin Mall, west of Toronto’s downtown core, where the rent was still manageable for poor homos like me. Seven Queer artists, dozens of windows, bedbugs. Two of my roommates were a couple who spent their time either screaming at or fucking each other. One of them stole money from my wallet. None of them washed dishes. None of them flushed the toilet. “If it’s yellow, let it mellow. If it’s brown, flush it down,” read a paper sign in swirly, hand-drawn letters by the toilet. But my roommates seemed to have conflicting views on the spectrum of shades between yellow and brown.
“You promise? No one touches my Queen Kay. No one.” I smiled. She held my hands tighter.
That same week, I got a job washing dishes at a gay bar called Epic. Everything about Epic was small. It was in an alleyway that had been converted to an indoor space, like a thin slice of gayness on Church Street. Six small tables, one small stage lit up by one sad LED. And me, skinny and eager, washing dishes in the back kitchen over a tiny sink, not large enough to fit five glasses in it at a time.