Between Enzo and the Universe Page 2

  This, too, would cause glances to be exchanged and snickers to be…snicked?

  “Hello, Enzo.” Mr. Paquette asked suddenly after making his way down his row of students. “How are you doing this evening?”

  “I am doing good, Mr. Paquette.”

  “You are well.” He corrected me, his eyes peering at me over the glasses I was certain served only a theatrical purpose. “We do good through actions, and we are feeling well.”

  “Bien sûr, Monsieur Paquette.”

  He sighed.

  Snickers.

  Holding back from cringing, I cleared my throat.

  “Of course, Mr. Paquette. Thank you. I am sorry.”

  “We are not sorry in this class.” He went to the board to start another lesson. “We just try harder each time.”

  Instead of responding, I sank back into my chair, tucked my knees in and hunched my back, trying to make my tall, lanky frame disappear in the half-circle of my fellow students. For the remaining fifty minutes, for I had missed the first ten, I held my body in, making it as compact and as invisible as possible. By the time that Mr. Paquette dismissed us, urging us to read an American or British classic novel in the following week, my joints hurt, and my neck felt as though it was on fire. My fellow students thanked Mr. Paquette, en Anglais, of course, and exited class in a lively, raucous group, speaking of plans to go have drinks. None of them turned to offer an invitation as they passed. My knees popped as I rose from the folding chair, and Mr. Paquette was methodically wiping the board clean. The French language class for immigrants would be conducted the following night, so Mr. Paquette liked to be prepared.

  “Monsieur Paquette?” I always approached him after class, though I knew he was as anxious to be somewhere else as my fellow students were. “Devrais-je nettoyer maintenant?”

  “Enzo.” Mr. Paquette turned to me, his eyes already gazing over the tops of his glasses. “If you do not practice speaking English, you will not get better at speaking English. Yes?”

  “I speak English fine.”

  “Your English is lazy and slow.” His looks were always stern, but his eyes radiated warmth. Usually, only when speaking with me. And only when we were alone. With everyone else, he was direct and cold, though he could feign friendliness just fine if a student required it. “You come to my classes and only interact when forced. Enzo, have you thought of returning to France? There is nothing keeping you here now.”

  My bottom lip may have jutted out as I looked away, doing anything I could to keep my eyes turned away from his. Mr. Paquette, having realized what he had said, cleared his throat, and tried once more.

  “You are free to make choices that are best for you.” He said. “You do not need to consider anyone else now. Have you considered that Québec does not feel like home to you?”

  Finally, I risked a glance in his direction.

  “I have no one left in Mantes.” I made sure to speak in English, though I took my time with my words. “It is just me.”

  “Exactly.” His eyes seemed to light from within. “You are free of all constraint. You could go to Paris or Nantes! Marseilles or Monaco! Think of the possibilities, Enzo. The whole world is yours to claim if you were to just take a risk.”

  Maybe you plan to fund this travel, Monsieur Paquette?

  “Yes,” I said slowly. “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He sighed, his body slumping. Obviously, my eyes had told a tale.

  “You look hungry, Enzo.”

  “Would you like me to sweep the floors?” I asked, ignoring his observation. “Should I put the chairs away tonight or tomorrow night?”

  Mr. Paquette reached into the back pocket of his trousers as I asked a second time about my cleaning duties, though in English this time—my creative method for paying to attend ESL classes. It was an arrangement Mr. Paquette and I had agreed upon merely a day before the class began.

  “Enzo.” He glanced up from his wallet momentarily. “I want you to go get something to eat. The room is clean enough for class tomorrow. You can clean tomorrow night.”

  “Mrs. Bishop will expect me at her house to clean tomorrow,” I said. “Is it sufficient to clean the room after that?”

  “It’s acceptable for you to clean after that.” He actually smiled as he pulled a bill out of his wallet and presented it to me. “Go eat. Please.”

  I didn’t dare let my eyes turn to the money held out to me.

  As is often the case, my stomach groaned desperately, betraying my fixed expression.

  Mr. Paquette pretended to not hear while I pretended to not feel it.

  “Charity was not offered when it was most useful,” I said sharply, my English improving considerably for a moment. “I do not need it now.”

  “Enzo.” Mr. Paquette gestured sternly with the money. “This is not charity, and now is not those times. Please get something to eat. It would mean a great deal to me.”

  My eyes flicked to his hand.

  Twenty dollars. Mentally I calculated how many dumplings twenty dollars would buy in the restaurant below. I could eat until I was sick and torpid. Saliva pooled at the back of my mouth as I thought of the warm soup and crunchy wontons, the steaming, doughy dumplings, a cup of herbal tea, and maybe even a moon cake. Or two. The sun was beginning its journey to meet the Western horizon, and I did not have to linger behind in class to clean. If I walked to the Autumn festival that was just beginning in the city center, I would be able to buy even more food. The street vendors and food carts sold heaping plates of food for barely any money. I could eat until my stomach was extended and still afford food to take home and put in the refrigerator for the following days. Cautiously, I reached out to take the money from Mr. Paquette.

  “Oh.” His hand retracted and went back to his wallet.

  Of course. This was all a game. How stupid of me.

  “Here, Enzo.” His hand returned, another bill in his hand this time. “As you know, we will not have class next week, but I would still like the room cleaned as usual. Since I will not be able to teach, you cannot be expected to clean for free.”

  Biting the inner part of my bottom lip, willing my eyes to not betray me, I reached out and took the forty dollars from his hand. It was as if my hand moved in slow motion, afraid to startle him, as though that would convince him to take the money back. But the money finally found its way into my front hip pocket.

  “It will be spot free when you return to class, Mr. Paquette.”

  It was the only response I could conjure.

  “Spotless.” He smiled. “Now, go. Get something to eat, Enzo. Have a drink like your peers.”

  They are not my peers.

  “I do not drink, sir.”

  His brow rose, appraising me.

  “Maybe just this once?” He finally responded.

  I smiled. Again, unable to conjure a better response. Mr. Paquette patted my shoulder firmly, the way that men like to do to other men as a sign of affection that is not too familiar so as not to be misconstrued. Mr. Paquette turned back to the board to continue his task of clearing away his lessons, and I made my way to the exit, already calculating how many dishes of food I could buy. The coat made of sugar and blue clouds had disappeared from the hook by the door. There was no point in looking to see if it had been misplaced. I descended the stairs without hesitation, knowing that I would never see my brother’s coat again.

  I wanted to be angry.

  When I rushed through the restaurant at the bottom of the stairs and burst out onto the sidewalk, anger was not what spilled forth. I rounded the corner of the restaurant, the bitter wind biting through my sweater, and dropped to my knees at the side of the building, my forehead falling against the cold, rough wall. My tears became wet, black circles on the gray stone.

  Fuck.

  Five is Better Than Four

  My parents had prepared me for the day that my brother joined our family. The setting for the conversation had not been ideal, but I had not been allowed to le
ave the hospital from my most recent stay at that point. Actually, the first conversation about our family becoming bigger began when I wasn’t in the hospital. It had begun as a low rumble of statements. About how so many children with “special circumstances” needed a family to welcome and love them. To treat them as one of their own. So, it was no surprise to me, as I laid in the hospital bed with half of my head shaved and a tube going into my arm, my eyes with black half-moons underneath them, that my parents made the announcement that I was getting a new brother. I was still young then, barely a double-digit age, when my parents, one on either side of my hospital bed, each reached up to lay a hand on one of my knees. Dad, as he always did, squeezed my knee and jostled me, which always made me giggle but frightened my mother. She didn’t understand boys like my father and I did. This was our secret language, knowing what our bodies could endure, even at their weakest. Guys can admit their fragilities, but they hate to abide them. They hate it more when other guys do.

  Noe was his name. A boy from a foreign land—though, luckily, one where French was a common language—who had been abandoned by his parents, though the reason why wasn’t provided to me at that age. I would have to wait five years before my parents sat me down to explain that some parents do not want children who are different. Of course, by then, I had already figured things out for myself, though it was nice to feel that I was a man—capable of being allowed into my parents’ confidence. My new brother, as was relayed to me when his arrival was imminent, would be different from me. He wouldn’t exactly look like he was my brother, and he might not treat me like I was his brother upon his arrival. My parents explained that this did not make him any less my brother or any less a member of our family. We were going to accept him, have patience with him, and love him as if he had been with us since birth.

  I was so excited.

  If Noe arrived with two heads, I would still have a brother.

  And then I would have two different faces with whom to talk to about brotherly things.

  Embarrassingly, I began to wonder if it was pointless to pray for such a thing.

  Receiving two brothers when you only expected one would be glorious.

  Having more children had not been possible for my parents after I was born, and even if it had been, they had been inspired by my own medical issues to help other children with “special circumstances.” Because of this, I lived believing that I would never have a brother or sister to tease and torment, to love and protect, to take under my wing and guide. I wouldn’t have a brother or sister who would look up at me adoringly and who I could introduce to my friends with my chest puffed out with pride, though, of course, I would pretend that they were the greatest annoyance of my life. All of the kids in my school—we were still in France then—seemed to have at least one sibling, yet I had none. Getting a brother, knowing that all that was left to do was to wait for him to arrive, was like Christmas morning when I would first roll over in bed and see the light trying to peek through the curtains. Or Réveillon and Midnight Mass the night before. It was as if I had put my shoes by the fireplace, and I was waiting to wake up and find my brother as my gift.

  Upon Noe’s arrival, he was nothing I had expected. Not because his skin was many shades darker than mine or my parents’. Noe was delivered to our home by a very stern and orderly woman in a suit nearly one full size larger than necessary. She kept glaring at me as I held onto my father’s hand with both of mine and grinned at my new brother, hoping he would look up and smile back. Maybe he would look up and smile back, suggest we go play. I knew that since he was barely half my age, he might not like to do the same things as me, but anything would be fine by me. As long as I got to play with my new brother. He never looked up and smiled. He didn’t speak. He did not acknowledge that he was aware of our family’s existence.

  Noe didn’t like to look people in the eyes. He didn’t like for people to touch him, even if by accident. He only spoke when absolutely necessary, and his way of saying things required more understanding and deciphering, and he rarely wanted to actively participate in play. He could stare at the neighbor’s dog playing in the yard for hours on end. He refused to eat foods with blended textures. He liked one pair of shoes and one shirt, wanting to wear them every day, which led to many challenges each morning. He had a lung disease, that I eventually learned was chronic obstructive pulmonary disease, which was quite rare in such a young person, though a deficiency of some kind of protein had led to this diagnosis. In addition to that, his additional diagnosis of asthma required the use of an inhaler multiple times in a day. He tired quickly, and most exercise, even walking sometimes, proved difficult for him.

  The challenges thrilled me. Because Noe was quiet and peaceful. He did not run through the house, screaming. He didn’t take my things. He didn’t hit me or call me names. He was quite peaceful, especially compared to the stories my friends told about their siblings. Noe was happy to watch me play while I told him all about my toys and books without interrupting me. He loved to listen to me talk, which made me feel very important at that age since no one had felt that what I had to say was worth hearing before then. And at least the shirt and shoes he liked to wear were actually pretty cool. He loved the color blue and eventually grew to tolerate me accidentally brushing against him or touching him while we spent time together, sitting on my bedroom floor, playing with my toys. As time passed, when we walked along the street, he would let me hold onto his forearm so that I knew he was safe and wouldn’t accidentally step in front of a motorist or bicyclist. The “hiss” of his inhaler didn’t bother me when he used it and actually sounded cool like a special effects noise from a science fiction movie. I loved the challenges presented in helping to care for my brother, in protecting him from a world that was much too harsh for him.

  He would smile awkwardly when I managed to get him to walk next door to visit the neighbor’s dog—a Spaniel mix of some kind with splotches of brown and white and big floppy ears with fur cascading from them that looked like fringe. I would always have to hold the dog to be certain that it would not jump on Noe as I petted its fur and scratched its ears. Somehow, the dog seemed to understand the reason for me having to hold it still in order for it to receive affection from me, for it was almost reverent around my brother. Noe would clasp his hands and watch with intense concentration as I would pet the dog. I knew that my brother desperately wanted to pet the dog as well, but all of that fur, at all times both coarse and silky, would not be tolerable for him. I would just hold and pet the dog and tell Noe how much the dog was happy that he had come to visit him. We visited the dog often when the weather permitted. Until the neighbor asked my parents that they not let Noe into his yard anymore.

  The neighbor said that I was still welcome.

  I never went back into that yard.

  But I felt sorry for the dog.

  How much love could a person provide for their pet when they could not even find it in their heart to be indifferent, at the very least, to a young child?

  A year after Noe joined our household, my grandfather died, and my grandmother came from Paris to live with us. So, four became five. And Noe had a new favorite person. My grandmother had visited many times in the year previous, and Noe had shown interest in this older woman with the dark, fluffy cotton-candy hair that had not been faded by time. He loved the sparkle of the rings on her fingers and the way her earrings swung as she spoke in her perpetually enthusiastic way. He loved the peppermints that she kept in her handbag and the way she would make sure her hand didn’t touch his whenever she gave him one. My grandmother became only the second person Noe would allow to touch him in any way. In fact, until he became too old, thus too heavy, he eventually came to enjoy sitting in her lap to watch the television with her. He didn’t even care which show she chose to watch. Her lap was one of the very few safe spaces the noisy, boisterous world provided for Noe.

  Both my favorite and worst memory of having a new brother was the day that I had been able
to introduce Noe to my friends from school. They had followed me home one day so that they could see my new brother. I suppose I had misled them in how excitedly I had talked about having a new brother and how trop cool he was.

  That day was when I found out what “retard” meant in both French and English, though my English was very poor then.

  I also learned a derogatory term for people with skin the color of Noe’s, though I have never been able to say or write the word since without rage overtaking me.

  Remembering that word coming from the mouths of my three friends in turn still makes my hands shake and my eyes well with tears, a systematic preparation for an explosion of emotion of some kind, though I never know if it will be violence or weeping.

  That was also the day that I had my first real fight.

  And I decided that the only friend I needed was my brother. Because no one needs friends who use such words.

  Red is the Color of Atonement

  The side of the building which housed the dumpling restaurant and my ESL classes was unforgiving, of both my fists and my tears. Truth be told, I had never been much of one for crying. Crying had been unsettling to Noe and, eventually, to my sister. My parents were not overly emotional people, either, so over time, I had trained myself to express sadness in a different way. As I knelt along the wall of the restaurant, my forehead against the frigid stone, the sides of my fists pounding against an unmovable and undefeatable enemy, I did not cry. I sobbed. Gasping, wail-like sobs, accompanied by the fattest tears I’d ever cried, escaped my throat. Surely, if an officer with the SPVM had happened by, I would have been taken away. Possibly to jail, but most likely to a hospital, such was my display of grief.