Only A Boy

A few months back, when it was clear that the blood transfusions marked the beginning of the end, my mother sat my sister and me down on her bed. That same woman now stood in front of me: gaunt, pale and tired. But her eyes breathed life or wanted to. She moved slowly, turned her back to us, faced the mahogany veneered dresser and pulled open the middle drawer. On top, the photograph of my father that rested against a pewter crucifix rattled but didn't fall. He was gone now, died when I was eighteen. He couldn’t do anything now.  

“Theresa, everything in this drawer is for you. In here I have saved things that have mattered most to me. I want them to matter to you. I am proud of the woman you have become. I will always love you.”   

My sister’s muffled sobs did not stop my mother as she turned to me with a pained expression 

“This bottom drawer is for you. In it you will find things to remember and people to forgive. If I have not done enough…please forgive me.” 

With his lucky Canadian dollar in hand, a mint conditioned passport in his pocket and a gold crucifix clinging to his neck, Manuel Antonio Rebelo left. My father left the poverty and beauty of Sao Miguel, Azores behind to “fazer uma America” – make it in America. 

My father’s personal victory, his sense that he had arrived in this terra nova, was realized the first time he was able to buy our Christmas toys at Simpson’s. He saw it as an opportunity to bury our ethnicity, leave Kensington Market, Joe’s Fish and SASMART to shop where os ingleses shopped.    

I was six and my sister was ten on that cold winter day. As we got off the Queen Street streetcar in front of Simpson's, my mother dabbed her kerchief with spit and swiped our faces clean. “Stay close to me, hold my hands and don't touch anything.” Before we actually went into the department store we were allowed to marvel at the Simpson's window displays. There were elves that skated on mirrors made to look like frozen ponds. I remember the reindeer that were trying to fly, legs neatly tucked under their chests but going nowhere – blinking lights, bells chiming. As we turned the corner it was clear by the crowd that this was Santa's window where he sat pulling a stuffed teddy bear out of a sac. He repeated this motion over and over again – always the stuffed bear. In that same bag an ugly rag doll with a bewildered expression awaited her turn. It was never going to happen.    

“It's time to go inside.” My mother’s gloved hand plucked me from the crowd. 

As a family we entered Simpson's through the heavy revolving door into a blast of warm air. The yellow glow of the department stores main floor was unbelievable: glittering glass cases, pretty ladies, tall and thin with up- do's and generous smiles inviting us to approach their perfume counters. Their lips were so red - eyes well defined and cheeks rouged. According to my father only putas  painted themselves. But it didn't stop him from acknowledging their smiles with a proud nod, unwilling to reveal the stuttering that plagued him all his life. He blamed his handicap for holding him back from so much in this country.  

“Manuel, I don't like taking the elevators... I always feel so closed in. Can't we just go on the moving stairs?”  

“All the way to the sssssixth floor?” he replied.  

“Please, it’s just one of those things in this country I'll never get used to.”  

As a man he acquiesced, gave in to what he believed was the frivolities of the weaker sex. He redirected the whole family and now led us toward the first escalator. Trailing behind, my mother looked at me and smiled. She knew how much I loved riding the escalators. She knew it thrilled me to take in the expanse of each floor as the escalator ascended slowly - higher. My sister stuck her tongue out at me envious of the shared moment between a mother and her son.  

The toy department sparkled with thousands of lights. Huge paper castles and large toy soldiers stood on guard at the top of the escalator adorning the sixth floor - everything Christmas. “Where do I begin?” And as if in reply I heard my father's stuttered rebuke,   

“Mmmmmake sure you choose sssssomething good, ssssstrong. I don't want toys mmmmmade by chineses.” It was painful noticing that his eyelids fluttered shut to the rhythm of his stutter. I always felt like he needed my help to finish the sentence, but I never dared – none of us did.   

I had stared at my bedroom ceiling for hours every night practicing my hand puppetry knowing I needed something special - something my father would approve of. Nothing. I was certain it would come to me when I saw it. My mother took my hand and directed me to the noise of the fire engines and police cars. Relieved, I knew my mother would let me choose freely without my father’s constant dialogue with himself, “When I was a boy dings were mmmmmmade by hand. Back in mmmmmy time we would be happy wid a candy. You kids nnnnnow have.......” And the droning would never end until he got to the part where “at your age I carried cinco sacos de batates, sem  complaints.” Carrying five sacs of potatoes up a steep hill at such a tender age was always the clincher. He always won.  

 I nervously scanned through the incredible assortment of toys looking for something that exuded “boyishness”. I had seen my father’s reproachful glances when he saw me skipping rope with my sister in the front yard or when he noticed my baking prowess with my sister’s Easy-Bake Oven.    

“What kinds of dings are you teaching our sssssson?”  

“Manuel, what are you talking about?” But she knew exactly what he was talking about. She had noticed that I was a sensitive and gentle boy. It didn't seem to bother her. Truth be told she enjoyed a boy who didn't like all that boy stuff: less work and certainly more peace of mind.  

“It's your job to make sure he doesn't turn into a....”   

I quickly grabbed a toy plane that was nearby. 

             “Manuel! How can you…”

I ran through the kitchen making jet noises. “Prepare for landing!” I commanded as I circled the kitchen table. My father lit a cigarette and punched through the back door. He wasn't pleased and she was to blame.   

 The toy I chose had to be strong and tough. And then I saw it - him - an 8 inch high action figure standing at attention in his box. Through the small cellophane window he “called” me - urged me to pick him. I saw the rugged hair and beard of G.I. Joe - a black G.I. Joe with his sparkling dog tag resting outside his army fatigues: rough and manly with a glint of military violence in his eye and he was going to be my Christmas gift. My father would proudly see me playing war games with G.I. Joe and I would still have something I could take care of like the dolls my sister had. I reached for him and raised him to meet with my mother’s relieved and approving face.   

They were calling it a true Indian summer. I wouldn't have known. Her eyes had remained shut for eight days, her voice stolen. The words were all mine and I was growing weary of the monologue. The stagnant silence of the room was punctuated with the only the bleeps of monitors or the soft shoes of nurses coming in to do their work.

 “Your mother can still hear you,” a kindly nurse offered. “It's always the last thing to go.” 

I couldn’t help but feel a certain relief that there was nothing left to say. 

My father rounded the corner of the aisle with my jubilant sister, her Thumbelina doll tucked under her arm. With great confidence I thrust my G.I. Joe to meet my father’s appreciative eyes. But all I saw was his angry glare. His hand came down hard on a display shelf. A few people turned to look in our direction.  

“With everything in dis store you pick a preto!”   

He was not going to say “nigger”.    

“Put dis back.”  He spoke slowly, gritting his teeth. “Agora!”    

Something had gone terribly wrong. I thought he would approve. I was sure…And as he reached for G.I. Joe I saw the velvet trimmed cuff of my mother's winter coat stop him.  

“Manuel, Acalmar. ” She paused, took stock and opted for a more pleading tone.   

“You asked the boy to choose something and he did. He chose a fine soldier to play with so let's leave it at that…please.”   

 My face was inches away from their intersecting forearms. Pee trickled down my leg blotting my corduroys. My sister’s face turned red with the fear that my father would notice.  

The store clerk had been watching the scene. He turned to me, noticed the darkened stain around my crotch and pant leg. “That’s a real brave soldier you chose. He’s going to show you how to be big and strong,” and as he swept past me he patted my head and urged me to move in the direction of my sister – to safer ground. He knew.    

My sister was waiting for me, pulled me close by tugging at my sleeve and drew me down the aisle away from my parents. As we moved away a familiar sound forced us to turn. As if in slow motion, I saw the redness in his face and the outstretched hand swinging away from his body. My mother staggered from the blow, trying desperately not to fall. Her knees buckled as she looked straight at us - eyes pleading for us to look away, as she fell heavily to the ground.    

We didn't move.    

There was no sound.  

My father squeezed his hand and released it. He did this over and over again as he stuttered something nervously that we couldn’t decipher. He didn't even look in our direction, not even when he passed us down the aisle patting his coat, swiping his sleeve and adjusting his cuff. He descended the escalator and just disappeared.   

We turned to look at our mother who was only now slowly helping herself off the floor. She looked around, concerned that someone had witnessed the fall, but thankfully no one had. She rose, removed a tissue from her purse, dabbed the tissue with saliva and then wiped the trace of blood diluted with spit from the corner of her lip. She then passed her hands down the front of her torso, smoothing out her coat and, slightly wobbly at first, walked toward us: too humiliated to look straight at us. She grabbed each of our hands and we pretended nothing had happened - that's what she wanted and that's what we owed her. All she said was, “Let's go pay.” 

The ride on the streetcar home was quiet - distant. The snow fell gently against the fogged streetcar window. My sister and I sat in the seat in front of my mother. She let me carry the Simpson's bag so that I could cover the stain on my pants. Nothing was said. I looked out the window, my sister read her book and we both pretended that the silent sobs of hurt and disappointment were not our mother’s. Later that night I heard those same sounds from the basement. I looked down from the top step and saw her scrubbing my pants on the washboard in the laundry tub. He didn't need to know.  

The pretense dragged on for days, through Christmas and into the New Year. One night my mother came to my room and sat beside me on my bed. She smiled and pulled the covers under my chin. She was about to say something when her eyes met my night table. There she saw my neglected G.I. Joe leaning against a large glow-in-the-dark statue of Fatima and the three shepherds. He hadn't been touched since I took him out of the box that Christmas morning. I had undressed him while in the bathroom and discovered he was missing something. I knew that I wasn't strong like him or handsome like him but I knew that at least we had to share genitalia. He wasn't whole - he was a disappointment.   

She knew that he had been collecting dust since Christmas morning. She sensed something else that only a mother can. She turned to me, felt my forehead and bent down to kiss me. I could still see the faded remnants of a yellowish bruise clinging to the corner of her right eye. I slowly turned onto my side and just as I sensed her weight lifting off my bed…she sat back down.  

“You need to know something…Your father came to this country with nothing - knowing no one. And yet he did well for himself. He's a proud man - he's proud of us all.”  

I wasn't going to say anything. I also wasn't going to listen.  

“I don't doubt your father loves you all but it wasn't supposed to be this way for him. Your father had dreams and yet those he helped come here are already doing much better than he ever will. It's not easy for him. Try to understand that.” And with this she said goodnight and gently closed the door behind her. 

My sister and I met a week after my mother’s funeral to go through her belongings. I went directly to the bottom drawer, pulled it out completely from the chest and carefully placed it on top of her bed. I sifted through old photographs, found a locket of my hair in a Ziploc bag and opened envelopes stuffed with old report cards and grade school crafts. I unraveled layers of tissue paper and then I saw him - staring back at me - urging me to pick him the same way he had twenty-four years earlier. He lay there in his makeshift coffin dressed in his faded army fatigues asking to be reborn on this fateful day – resurrected.   

I understood now what I couldn't before.   

I was only six when I saw the strength in my mother. I was thirty when I understood and forgave the weakness of my father.

Previously published in The Danforth Review

Email: Anthony De Sa

Return to Table of Contents