Читать книгу Blood Brothers - Colleen Nelson - Страница 6

Lincoln gives a low whistle. “You did that last night?” He tilts his head, pushing up the flat brim of his baseball hat. His narrow slits of eyes with their heavy line of lashes scan the piece, drinking it in. The piece looks even better in the daylight.

“Yeah. Where the hell were you? I went by your place at midnight and the lights were out.”

Lincoln pulls the brim of his hat back over his eyes. “Henry’s back.”

I give a noncommittal grunt. “Is he gonna hang around for a while?” I pull my hood up. It’s the last few weeks of summer, still hot out, too hot for a hoodie, but I like being able to disappear under it.

All I can see is Link’s mouth. “Got a new tattoo. It says ‘Brothers to the End.’ Right across his chest,” Link brags.

What lies did Henry spin to make Lincoln think the tattoo was for him? Biting down hard, I want to tell Lincoln that after a year and a half in jail, Henry has a whole gang of brothers. But criticizing Henry never gets me far. Some weird hero-worship thing keeps Lincoln from admitting who his brother really is: a criminal.

We walk toward the park, kicking a can back and forth. A few kids on BMX bikes are doing tricks around the fountain.

I pull my black book out of my backpack. A gift from Father Dom last Christmas, the book’s textured paper holds the lead of my pencil and makes my drawings come alive. Not an inch of space is squandered. “What do you think about this?” I show him designs for a big piece, something that will take up a whole wall.

Lincoln pushes his hat back to see it better. He raises an eyebrow, but other than that, his expression doesn’t change. “Think you’re a king now?” There are only a couple of graff writers in the city who are kings. I’m not there yet, but maybe someday.

“Thought we could work it together.”

“Another neighbourhood beauti-fuck-ation project brought to you by Morf-Skar Productions!” He holds his knuckles up and I hit them with my own. “Bam!” we both whisper.

A crew of Red Bloodz rolls into the park with swagger and red bandanas, five of them fanning out. Henry’s in the middle, head shaved, his arms bare in a white tank top. Bigger than I remember. He doesn’t look like anyone I want to tangle with. I wince at the tattoo on his neck. That had to hurt. He catches Lincoln watching him and gives him a chin nod.

Henry’s muscles and blistering white undershirt make him look like a Roman god, perched on the fountain. “He wants me to join them,” Lincoln tells me, so quiet it’s like he doesn’t want me to hear.

I narrow my eyes. “Are you going to?” I ask.

Sticking his fingers through a rip in the bottom of his T-shirt, he doesn’t look at me. “I dunno. He’s my brother,” he says with a shrug.

“Who’s been gone for the last year and a half,” I mutter. I stuff my sketchbook into my backpack. A page tears. Valuable, thick paper. I zip up my bag, a couple cans bang together.

“Where are you going?” he asks.

“It’s Tuesday. I have to help at the church.” I sling my pack over my shoulder. “Wanna come?”

Henry’s eyes are on us. I can feel them. Link probably can, too.

He shakes his head. “Nah, I’ll hang here.”

“He’s not here to stay, you know that, right?”

Lincoln looks at the ground and nods. “But he’s here now.”

I have to go. Father Dom will be waiting. I can’t force my friend to come with me, no matter how much I want to.

The best time of day to go to church is late afternoon on a summer day. Outside, the sun is at its hottest, the pavement baking. And in our sweltering apartment, with its one small electric fan whirring in futility, odours emerge, clinging to the heat seeping out of furniture and carpet. There’s nothing to do but sit and sweat in the stink.

But the church is always cool; none of the heat finds its way into the silent cocoon. Smelling like furniture polish and old wood, it’s the most familiar place I know. No matter how many times we’ve moved, there’s only been one church: St. Mary’s Parish. Invitingly cool, the heavy wooden doors slip shut behind me.

A side door opens and Father Dominic walks up the aisle. The white smock hides his ever-expanding waistline, compliments of the pierogi and braided sweetbread left on his doorstep by the women of the church.

As often as not, he shares his food with us. After all these years, he and Dad are like brothers, the only family either one has in Canada, besides me.

Father Dom walks with purpose, taking in the paintings, the stained glass, making sure all is in order. He pauses at the end of a pew, lays his hand on a woman’s shoulder, and bends down to whisper something in her ear. With a sympathetic look, he stands and surveys the few of us in his presence.

Straightening some choir books, he makes his way to me. “Jakub.” He says my name like Dad, the old way, making the J into a Y and accenting the oob on the end. Link says it that way, too, or just calls me Koob. Other people, like teachers, get tripped up on the letters and settle with Jay-cub. I don’t correct them anymore. It’s a losing battle.

“You’re late.”

I bow my head apologetically. Father Dom clucks at me. “You missed your father. He left a few minutes ago.”

“Was he serving?”

“Lunch today. Bean soup. That old woman with no teeth asked him to marry her again.”

I smile, feel my crooked teeth rub against my top lip. Dad could have been in the line for free lunch; instead, he volunteers to dish it out. “We help the less fortunate,” he always tells me. “Dad, we are the less fortunate,” I remind him. But he waves a hand at me like I’m talking crazy.

“You look like shit.” A typical comment from Father Dominic. Beloved by all, with a mouth like a sailor. Raised in Yonkers, New York, by Polish immigrants, he’s never lost his accent, or changed who he is.

“Late night?”

I twist around in my seat, checking to see if we’re alone. “Did you see it? Up on the building between Strathcona and Mountain? You know, with the neon sign in the front window.”

“I’ll walk by tomorrow.”

I stopped confessing my graffiti to Father Dom. He knows I’m not sorry. I’m sorry for sneaking out on Dad and lying, and for stealing cans of spray paint, and for the stupid tags I used to leave on people’s garages.

The only time I’ve seen Father Dominic get mad, like spitting-when-he-talked angry, was the day I confessed that I’d tagged a garage the night before. Turned out, the garage belonged to one of the congregation. The old guy had come to Father Dom in tears about the vandalism on his freshly painted garage door. I promised him I was done tagging people’s property. And I meant it.

I don’t want to be just another tagger, laying scribbles down anywhere, like a dog pissing. I want to take what I do with cans of spray paint to a different level. But I don’t have anyone to guide me. I’m self-taught. Other than Lincoln, I don’t know any graff writers, at least not by face. I know the handles of the guys with serious talent, kings who are all-city and put up pieces that run for weeks, even months, in heaven spots; the best, most noticed spots that can’t be cleaned away. But graff writers move like shadows, disappearing when daylight hits.

We settle into silence until Father Dom clears his throat. “Big match tonight. Wisla Krakow is playing Cracovia.”

Father Dom has been trying to lure me into loving his soccer team, Wisla Krakow, since I was a little boy. He bribed me with their red soccer jersey for Christmas one year. I wore it non-stop for a few months. He thought he’d converted me, but I just liked the colour, and that it wasn’t second hand.

“Your dad might come over and watch. You could join us.”

I give a noncommittal shrug.

“Something bothering you?” A group of ladies shuffle past us, nodding at Father Dom, who puts his hands together and bows to them.

I finger the frayed cuff on my hoodie. “Kinda.” He waits for me to say more. I look around the church; everyone is lost in the solitude of their prayers. “Lincoln’s brother wants him to join the Red Bloodz.” Sunlight shines through the stained-glass window above the altar. Suddenly, the room glows with colour.

He lets out a long sigh and sits back, resting his hands on his stomach. “I hope it’s an easy decision for him.”

I shrug, wishing the same.

“I’ve seen a lot of boys follow this path, Jakub.” He draws his bushy eyebrows together and frowns. “They end up in prison, or dead.”

He isn’t telling me anything I don’t already know.