Someone Like Summer

by M. E. Kerr

  “When I feel joy, what do I do?”

  “Praise God!”

  “When I feel depressed, what do I do?”

  “Trust God!”

  “When I feel at peace, what do I do?”

  “Thank God!”

  Everyone sat down again.

  “They heard an atheist was coming,” Esteban whispered in my ear. “They hired a translator so they can convert her.” He took my hand and winked at me.

  I closed my eyes to concentrate on the English words following Antolin’s.

  Antolin told of being born in Antioquia, in the rugged region of Medellin, Colombia, where orchids grew wild.

  A woman called out in Spanish, “You are a wild orchid, Antolin of Antioquia.” I was surprised that the translator gave the English on the microphone, and then Antolin’s smiling answer.

  “Our orchids grow in every color of the rainbow. Not just the lavender ones and white ones from here, but any color you can name we have at home. I miss my home as you all miss yours. I wish I could pick an orchid for every lady here today.”

  In the background a drum beat, then someone shook a tambourine. It was unlike any church I’d ever attended. It was a performance, and every face—black, cinnamon, brown; I saw only a few whites—every face looked relaxed and glad.

  Antolin continued, waving his arms as he said, “When I came to this country, I was lonely, a sun hidden behind clouds, trying to show myself. Have you seen such a sun, ever? Yes, you have seen one and been one! All around me colors and sounds and aromas different than any I knew ever. The gavachos looking down on me. I was not so sure I liked them, either, and what did I miss? I missed my identity.” The translator pronounced it “ideneetea.”

  “No one said hello to me, no one knew my name but the cold uncle who brought me here. He was a thief and not a blood relative, not a Christian, not even from Colombia. I was given to him when my family was killed by the murderers who called themselves the Heroes of the Maria Mountains. I was handed to someone who says he will become my uncle and take me to the United States of America. I thought I was blessed, but be careful when you think you are blessed, for sometimes you are used instead.”

  The tambourine shook again, and there was another drum roll. Somehow that was eerie, and at the same time fascinating.

  Antolin went on to tell of his life in a gang called the Barrio Kings in New York City. He told of becoming addicted to cocaine. He said one day on a fire escape, holding a pillow to muffle the sound when he broke the glass of an apartment window to burgle, he asked himself, “Is this my life? Is this how I live now? Who am I?”

  Then he told of hearing Jesus tell him he was Antolin of Antioquia. “My son, He said, you are My son, and you will come to Me and find My father, for you are family.”

  Antolin came away from the pulpit and moved in front of it.

  “We are one family. We will stick by, stand up for, love, and help each other! We are every color, not just one white field of cotton, every color and texture and sound and smell and WE…ARE…GOD!”

  Then everyone called out in Spanish, “WE ARE GOD!”

  There was a tinkling from the piano, a drumbeat, someone strummed a guitar for a second, and the tambourine was shaken.

  Antolin held up his hands for silence.

  “I want you to come down here”—pointing beneath him at the floor behind a gold railing—“meet me and tell me your biggest problem. Now, when we sing ‘Power in the Blood,’ you receive power, telling me what it is. A place to live? A doctor for the baby? A daughter who dates a gavacho? A beloved who is deathly ill back home, where you cannot afford to go? How will I know if you don’t come and tell me before God Almighty?”

  The translator did not say the English as the congregation rose and sang.

  “Hay poder, sí, sin igual poder,

  en Jesus, quien murió;

  hay poder, sí, sin igual poder,

  en la sangre que Él vertió.”

  Esteban whispered to me, “‘There is power, power, wonder-working power, in the blood of the Lamb. There is power, power, wonder-working power in the precious blood of the Lamb.’ That is what they sing now.”

  The music grew louder and louder, and there were some people dancing in the aisles as they formed the line for Antolin.

  “Go if you want to,” I said to Esteban.

  “I am content sitting with you.”

  “But it’s okay. It may be your only chance.”

  “No thank you, Anna.”

  Several people fell down, stretched out where they fell, people passing them.

  “That is called tomada del Espíritu,” Esteban said. “They are taken over by God. They have fallen in the spirit.”

  “Look, Esteban, there’s Virgil.”

  He was in the line to see Antolin.

  “Sí. Even Chino came,” said Esteban.

  Like some of the other men, Virgil wore a tiny black cross in one ear. The red, green, and white, the colors of Mexico, were worn like an ascot, tucked into Virgil’s T-shirt, which asked “BAILAMOS?”—whatever that meant.

  I thought of my strange conversation with Mitzi at the library when she’d said the ones from Ridge Road were different. I promised myself I’d call her. How often had I made that promise to myself?

  It was near the very end of the service when suddenly there was no one waiting for Antolin, and the music had silenced. There was a strange, spooky sound, then a series of them, which came to my ears as something like “Ketcho tampo ketcho tampo po po ketcho,” and on and on.

  It was not Antolin saying it. Antolin was standing back at his pulpit with his head bowed, his hands clasped in front of him in the prayer position.

  The sound was coming from behind us. I turned and saw Ramón, eyes closed, hands open and held up over his head. “Po po ket, cho po ket, cho po ket.”

  “Shhhh,” a woman hissed at him. “It is rude,” she shouted. “It is not your service!”

  Then: “Oh, but it is! It is our service”—from the pulpit. “Who are you, brother?”

  “Ko cho pos, ah, ah, ko tampo. Ah! Ah!” I saw that Ramón was wearing a tiny black earring, too, a black cross.

  “Ah! Ah! Ramón. Ramón.”

  “Ramón from Peru,” said Antolin. “I know your colors. White, red.”

  “Thank you, father.”

  “I am not a father, Ramón. We have only one father. I am your pastor, and your brother. We are from the same family. All of us.”

  There was more music, and a final hymn, “Dios os Guarde.” “God Be with You.”

  Finally we were crossing Montauk Highway, heading toward Esteban’s Pontiac parked in the IGA lot. The moon was big and round in a gray sky, turning darker. Esteban was finding a way for us to get to the other side in heavy summer traffic.

  When we were there, I asked him, “What does gavacho mean?”

  He poked his finger near my belly. “It means you. My gringuita.” I remembered that word from the night of the Fourth, after the film. Ramón had used it.

  Esteban smiled. “I am joking, Anna. But it means others, whites. The translator leaves out things, hmm? I’m told he is there to make English-speaking feel welcome. Townspeople complain we take over everything, even the churches.”

  “Not a lot of people ever went to that church, anyway, until all of you came along. And bai-lamos? What does that mean? It was written across Virgil’s T-shirt.”

  “That is just what he had on. It means nothing. It means ‘Do you want to dance?’” He grinned and took my hand. “That’s what it says. Now tell me, what did you think of Antolin?”

  “He was very forceful, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, he was. And Antolin looks so baby-faced to have such a deep voice, did you think, Anna?”

  “Yes. I liked when he said not to call him father, that he was not a father.”

  “Sí. I liked that too.”

  “Why were some men wearing a black cross in one ear?”

  “They ar
e brothers who accept the Blood Creed. They call themselves Blood Brothers. Ramón is leader.”

  “And Virgil is one?”

  “He’s new. Ramón has been a Blood Brother since I know him. Did you hear him speak tongues? Wasn’t he fast at it?”

  “Yes, he was. But those little black crosses the Blood Brothers wear freaked me out. Why black?”

  “I don’t know why black, Anna. I would rather wear a small gold earring,” said Esteban. “My father wore one. I will get one someday.” Then Esteban squeezed my hand. “You really liked being at the Casa? You are not pulling the leg?”

  “I’m not pulling the leg, E.E.”

  “I know a place we can see the ocean in the moonlight on one side and the bay on the other.”

  “Are we going to Lookout Point?”

  “You know that place?”

  “Sure, I know it.”

  “But you were never there with that Trip?”

  “What do you care about Trip? I love you!”

  “I love you, too, but some say you and Trip were going steady, maybe engaged.”

  “We weren’t, Esteban.”

  “Were you at Lookout Point with him?”

  “No. Locals don’t go to Lookout Point that much, I guess, because we can go anytime.” I was more pleased that he was jealous than I was curious to know what he had heard about Trip and me, and who he had heard it from. Mitzi must have told Virgil about Trip.

  “Because I would not like to go with you places you were with him,” Esteban said.

  “Don’t worry.”

  “We can talk more there, where it is beautiful to see. Someday I hope we will have memories of this time when we were new. I would like those memories to be in places of great scenery. Oh Anna, I have a warm feeling.”

  I wanted to say, You have the hots at last, but there were certain times and ways I knew not to tease Esteban. He was so solemn sometimes.

  “I have a warm feeling too,” I said.

  “I want to love you so! Do you want to love me?”

  Before I could answer, a familiar battered red Toyota barreled toward us, coming to a squealing stop as it passed us, then backing up.

  “Gioconda,” Esteban muttered.

  “Never mind,” I said. “Let’s just say hello and get in your car.”

  But Gioconda leaned out the window, wild-eyed, yelling at Esteban in Spanish. “Emer-gencia!” she said. “Policía!”

  He yelled back, then turned to me and said, “I have to drop you off, Anna, quickly.”

  “She has no right—” I began.

  But Esteban took my hand and began to pull me toward his car. “Trouble!” he shouted. “Back at my house! The police are there!”

  FIFTEEN

  THE SEAVIEW STAR wrote it up this way:

  RIDGE ROAD RAID

  Monday evening a house at 7 Ridge Road was the scene of an eviction by Seaview police. Estimating thirty men, most of them day laborers from Latin America, Seaview authorities said they do not provide social services, so it is up to the county to help the displaced tenants.

  The house was not only badly overcrowded, but there were also multiple safety and fire violations, including exposed wiring and overflowing cesspools. The landlord, Larry Summers of Montauk, was charging each man $300 in rent per month.

  “Seaview cannot allow firetraps to persist simply because we have an affordable housing issue on Long Island,” veterinarian Dr. Charles Annan said. “Seaview cannot allow immigrants to break our laws, particularly the undocumented.”

  Annan himself has a home on Ridge Road and has often complained to the police and in the letters column of this newspaper about conditions in the house.

  Many of the ousted tenants escaped to the parks or woods. Others were offered haven by Casa Pentecostal. Pastor Luis Gomez and visiting Pastor Antolin were present on Ridge Road soon after the raid, offering emergency shelter.

  Tuesday morning word of what had happened at Ridge Road had reached Dad’s cell phone. Some of his crew would be missing, but for once he was more worried about his date with Larkin than his business. As I was getting ready to leave the house, Dad was trying on shirts—horrible plaid polyester short-sleeved shirts. He was taking Larkin to lunch for her birthday. I couldn’t remember him ever having lunch in a restaurant. Mom always made him lunch at home. Now he always ordered takeout.

  “Which one looks good, Annabel?” He was beginning to go bald, so he wore this old cap inside and out. But anyone could still see Kenyon in his face and body. He was tall and tan like Kenyon and I were, and he kept himself in good shape, kayaking on Accabonac Bay, bowling and fly-fishing down at the ocean.

  “They all look awful, Dad. Wear a long-sleeved white cotton shirt with the sleeves rolled. Wear your good belt.”

  I was wondering if E.E. was okay, hurrying to get to the library, where I could make calls. All I knew then was that the police had raided the house on Ridge Road.

  I wasn’t used to seeing my dad so vulnerable. I wondered if he’d ever been nervous about what to wear on dates with my mother. I doubted it. They’d known each other since grade school, and started going steady when they both went to the same community college. Mom was never that much into clothes, either. Mostly she wore jeans and T-shirts, except Sundays at church, when she wore a skirt and heels. Not the dagger-point kind Larkin wore.

  “Are my khakis all right?” Dad asked.

  “They’re fine. How come you’re taking her to lunch?”

  “She’s making dinner for me and Kenyon. She says it’s her chance to get to know him. I wish this was on another day. I’m probably short half a work crew thanks to Charlie Annan!”

  “Just relax, Dad. Your face is bright red.”

  “Are people wearing socks anymore?”

  “No one wears socks with sandals, Dad. No socks. Just your loafers. No cap. I have to go. I’ll be late for work.”

  “You were invited to dinner too, you know.”

  “Larkin knows me already. I promised Mitzi I’d come over.”

  I felt guilty lying, and bringing Mitzi into it again. I still hadn’t called her. Everything was so complicated trying to arrange times to see Esteban, and I didn’t want to take on her problems with Virgil. I was curious to hear what she had to say, but at the same time I didn’t want to hear her put down Latinos, particularly the poor guys from Ridge Road. I wasn’t crazy about Ramón, but I had an idea a good Catholic girl like Mitzi just couldn’t stand Ramón talking Virgil into leaving Holy Family.

  Dad was too involved with Larkin to keep close track of me. He had never been the disciplinarian in the family, anyway. That was Mom. The funny thing is, I never would have lied to Mom about seeing Esteban. I would have minded her, at the same time pleading my case, appealing to her as the only one who knew me. I still think she was. Mothers and daughters have something different going on than fathers and daughters.

  Kenyon was waiting for me outside the library. He was angry about the raid at 7 Ridge Road, as Dad was. Kenyon disapproved of it on moral grounds. How could the city displace people with no warning, and no promise to help them find shelter? Our father feared that the eviction would permanently scare away half his work force.

  “Here’s the key to my place,” Kenyon said. “It’s an extra for Esteban, if he has no place to go.”

  “Thanks, Kenyon. You lock your door?” I’d forgotten that at Cornell he’d locked his dorm room door. At home we never locked up. Dad used to say all a lock did was make a burglar break your window.

  “Anyone could get to the kennels from my place,” Kenyon said. “Tell Esteban to remember there are valuable animals there. They all are to their owners.”

  “I don’t know where Esteban and his homies are. I have to wait for his call.”

  “His homies,” Kenyon said. “Are you going to start talking like him?”

  “That’s what they call each other.”

  “Sis…”

  “What?”

  “Never mind.�
�� He shrugged his shoulders and sank his long hands into his pants pockets. He brushed back a strand of blond hair that fell across his forehead. “Will you meet Esteban at my place when you reach him?”

  “If it’s all right with you.”

  “It’s okay, I guess…. How involved are you with this boy?”

  “How involved am I with Esteban? You’re beginning to sound like Dad, Kenyon.”

  “Have you joined the Casa Pentecostal yet, Sis?”

  “When you dropped me off there, how many whites did you see waiting out front? Did you ever think they might not want me to join them? You and Dad are pains in the butt, Kenyon!”

  “Well, we’re two guys trying to look after a motherless young girl.”

  “Sorry. I know you’re always there for me.”

  “It’s not easy.”

  “How come I suddenly need looking after?” I asked him.

  “Oh, how come,” he said. “How come?”

  When I got inside the library, Esteban reached me. I’d left a message on his cell phone to call me there before ten. Miss Chidister usually arrived at ten fifteen in the morning.

  “Anna? I would not call you at your workplace if you had not left the message on my cell.”

  “It’s all right. We’re not open yet. Where are you staying?”

  “In the basement at Casa Pentecostal. I keep the furnace company.”

  “You can stay at Kenyon’s apartment until you find a new place.”

  “Tell your brother thank you, but I have Gioconda with me. And my homies, Ramón, Dario—all but Chino. We can’t find Chino.”

  “Then at least meet me there tonight. Kenyon is going to dinner at Larkin’s with my dad.”

  He took down the address.

  “How come your homies didn’t show up for work?” I asked Esteban. When I’d left the house, I’d heard my father on his cell to the crew boss asking how many they could count on.

  “We let the dust settle,” Esteban said.

  “I don’t know what you mean, E.E.”

  “We wait for la migración to get out. He called them, your fine Dr. Annan, so now you cannot anymore praise him.”