judgments, because he shared them, too.
His first and predictable line of defence in these situations was to perspire. Profusely. He cursed the early autumn sun pressing its way through the clouds and wiped his brow with his handkerchief. He felt a little faint, so he forced himself to do the breathing exercises a therapist once taught him: inhale one, exhale two, inhale two, exhale four, inhale three, exhale six. It didn’t work at first, and he considered retreating to the house, and making his break to the bar later, after darkness had fallen.
On a breezy summer morning almost two decades earlier, Zubi squirmed in her stroller and pointed stubby fingers toward a small, white dog. It surged ahead of its owner, testing the leash. “Doggeeee!” she screamed, and Ismail thought, When did she learn this new word? Why hadn’t Rehana mentioned it? Reflexively, protectively, he stopped, waited for the dog’s owner to catch up to them, and to reel in his pet.
“Yes, that’s a dog,” he told Zubi. “Don’t touch it.”
“It’s all right, he’s friendly,” the man said apologetically, pulling the dog just out of Zubi’s reach. He stretched out his free hand, gave Ismail’s a firm shake, and introduced himself as Rob Gallagher. Ismail, Rehana, and Zubi had lived in the neighbourhood since the previous winter, and although Rehana had met some of the neighbours, Ismail had not. He rarely accompanied Rehana and Zubi on their speed-walks, finding Rehana’s baby-fat-burning pace and strapped-on ankle-weights both difficult and embarrassing. He wasn’t sure why, but he hardly ever took Zubi out alone. Perhaps being the one solely responsible for her well-being never sat comfortably with him, even then.
But that day, Rehana had an errand to run and had left Ismail with instructions to take Zubi out for some fresh air. He spent a good five minutes wrestling with the stroller before it popped open and he was ready to deposit Zubi into it. Then it was another three minutes of fiddling with the complicated straps, while Zubi squealed Out! Out! Out! before the pair finally left the house. So there he was, strolling to the park with Zubi, when he met Rob Gallagher for the first time.
“Well, isn’t she growing fast these days!” Gallagher said, smiling exuberantly at Zubi. “I swear she’s bigger than last week, even.”
“Yes, she is,” Ismail agreed, regarding his daughter proudly. And then he questioned how well acquainted the stranger was with his daughter and wife, a detail Rehana hadn’t shared with him.
“How old are you now?” Gallagher leaned in, speaking in a high-pitched voice that made him sound like an old woman.
“Doggeee!” she replied.
“That’s right, this is a doggy. His name’s Jack. He’s friendly, want to pet him?” Ismail watched as the dog jumped up, its front paws resting on Zubi’s seat. Zubi recoiled, afraid.
“Er, she’s probably too young for petting the dog. She’s fifteen months old now … actually almost sixteen months,” Ismail said, pulling the stroller back until the dog’s paws fell back to the ground.
The men talked about property values, the good weather and being amongst the few non-Portuguese people in the area. Ismail found it puzzling that Gallagher lumped himself and the Boxwalas, who hailed from India, in the same broad category of “non-Portuguese.” Gallagher went on to detail the history of their neighbourhood, explaining that the original occupants were labourers at nearby turn-of-the-century rope factories. Ismail listened patiently, feigning interest, while Zubi babbled to the dog.
Their relations remained friendly for a couple of months after that. Then Zubi died, and Gallagher stopped talking to Ismail, as did many of the others on the street.
Ismail continued his debate about whether to continue walking to the Merry Pint. When he looked down the street again, he saw that Gallagher was busy chatting with two women. Gradually, his breathing slowed, and a fresh breeze blew through his open jacket.
He inhaled for a count of four, exhaled for eight, and prayed to nobody in particular to permit him to pass by Gallagher unnoticed. When he was just a few feet away from the group, Gallagher looked up, and Ismail thought he saw a look of hesitation cloud over his neighbour’s green eyes. Gallagher frowned, cocked his head slightly to the right, and cleared his throat. Ismail stopped breathing, and felt heat rise through his collar and around his flushed face.
“Ismail, have you met Lydia?” Gallagher asked, with an oddly bewildered expression, gesturing to the younger woman, who was pushing a stroller with a young boy inside. “Um, well, she’s your neighbour from across the street … and this is her son, Marco. Meet Ismail Boxwala.” Ismail flinched at the poor pronunciation: Eyes-smile Boxwaala.
Gallagher’s face looked leathery and lined from the sun. Both men were in their early fifties, but Ismail thought Gallagher already resembled a retiree.
“And I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?” Gallagher gaped at the older woman earnestly, who responded to his inquiry with a slight frown.
Finally she muttered, “Celia. Celia Sousa.”
“My name is Marco!” the little boy screamed at Ismail. Then he giggled, witlessly. He shook his head from side to side, bouncing brown curls over his eyes.
“Uh, hello,” Ismail replied, his voice squeaking. He gave each woman a tight smile and a loose handshake. He wasn’t sure what to make of Gallagher’s unexpected courtesy.
“This is my mother. She’s just spending the day with us, helping me out,” Lydia said, gesturing toward the older woman. “Three-year-olds can be so exhausting.” The adults looked down at the boy, who was struggling to undo his stroller straps. “She lives nearby, close to College and Ossington,” Lydia continued, pointing in a northeasterly direction. Celia’s deep amber eyes locked on Ismail’s, and he averted his gaze, realizing that he’d been caught staring at her. She wore an unbuttoned burgundy coat with feathery trim and with her tanned olive skin, small stature, and near-black hair, she looked almost Indian to him, perhaps a little like that eighties Bollywood actress, Rekha. The little boy laughed uproariously again and Ismail suppressed an urge to giggle along with him.
“Oh yes, you live in the old Little Portugal, the original one,” Gallagher said. Ismail suspected his neighbour was trying to impress Celia with information that was more than likely made up. Still, she paid him no mind, focusing instead on Ismail. He noticed that her irises had an unusual shape, with rippling around their outside edges, resembling petals. They called to mind a girl from his college days who had the same uncommon eyes, who everyone called “Daisy” even though her real name was Sunita.
Surprisingly, the older woman’s odd stare didn’t make Ismail nervous. Rather, her attentions were a strange comfort; he felt the sweat on his neck and face drying in the cool breeze, and the sun’s rays seemed to cast a golden glow over them all. Finally, she turned away from Ismail and looked to Gallagher. She shrugged in his direction, acknowledging him as though he were a bothersome child. He didn’t seem to notice her indifference.
“Well, we should go, Mãe. We need to get Marco home and fed,” Lydia announced. A rowdy flock of Canada geese flew over them in a crooked V formation, honking noisily, and Lydia had to raise her voice to be heard over them. They all watched the birds fly toward the lake.
“Nice meeting you,” Ismail said, turning to walk away.
“Uh, yeah,” Gallagher said, blinking and rubbing his eyes as though startling awake from a less-than-restful nap.
Ismail hurried off, surprised at the lack of enmity in
