“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.
Lincoln
Henry sidles over to me when Koob leaves. “Where’d your friend go?” he asks.
I glance at him. The dagger tattoo stabs me in the face, it’s so close. “Church.”
Henry laughs. “You shitting me?”
I shake my head.
“Church,” he mumbles, like it’s the funniest thing he’s ever heard. “Why’re you friends with him, anyway?”
You’d know if you hadn’t been in jail for a year and a half, I think.
Henry doesn’t wait long to hear my answer. “You’re gonna have to pick sides, you know. At some point. Guys like him and you don’t stay tight.”
Henry doesn’t know shit. Me and Koob are like brothers, course we’re gonna stay tight. Henry points to his crew by the fountain. “You see them? They get it. They know what it’s like to grow up around here. To survive.”
“Koob grew up here,” I tell him.
Henry flicks the brim of my hat. “I know why you wear that hat.
