Nilda stepped down and stood aside. She looked at her mother who would be the last on line to say good-bye to her stepfather. Aunt Rosario sat with her mother, consoling her. Willie, her husband, sat apart with Aunt Rosario’s two children.
Next to Willie sat Aunt Delia, crying quietly and nodding her head to anyone who spoke to her. Paul walked in; he had been home since yesterday, on special leave from the Naval base in California. Greeting everyone, he sat down next to his mother, taking his place as the oldest son present.
Nilda looked about her. It was quiet and people spoke in whispers. Leo sat off to the side with Doña Concha and her two married sons and their wives. All of Benji’s family had come and they huddled together. Benji’s father was dressed in his black suit and held his widebrimmed fedora in his hands. His mother, also dressed in black, had lots of light powder all over her face. They look like they are dressed for a church service, thought Nilda. She looked at Benji and smiled, wishing he could sit with her. As if understanding, he returned Nilda’s smile and looked toward his father. He wouldn’t let him come over to me, she thought. Doña Tiofila sat in back with her eyes closed, quietly praying and occasionally making the sign of the cross.
Don Jacinto was there with his wife and three of his younger children. Other shopkeepers from the area and most of the neighbors were present. Nilda saw many union officials and members of the local Communist Party Club. She recognized them from the meetings she had attended with her stepfather.
Her stepfather had no living relatives in this country or in Spain. His people had been killed in 1936, in the Spanish Civil War, during a bombing raid which had almost totally annihilated his tiny village on the northern coast of Spain.
Nilda’s mother had full intentions of giving her stepfather a proper Catholic funeral even though he had not received extreme unction. A priest had been sent for when it was apparent that her stepfather would not last the night. He had been under an oxygen tent when the priest arrived and began quietly praying and administering the last rites. It seemed the hospital staff had never heard such foul language and blasphemy from any dying patient as that from her stepfather when he awoke and began to yell. He tore down the tent and began attacking the priest. After they had calmed down the patient, the night nurse and attending doctor decided, despite her mother’s protests, not to try that again.
Her mother had been upset, but felt that he was really in purgatory now, and that everyone had to pray for his soul. She had faith that someday his soul would be allowed to enter heaven. “I will not make the same mistake I made with my father. I will make sure that Emilio gets a proper burial,” she had said.
Nilda waited apprehensively; they all had said their goodbyes and it was time for her mother to finish. Then they would close the casket for the last time, go to church for Mass and finally drive out to the cemetery in Queens.
“Nilda! Nilda!” someone called. It was Aunt Rosario. “You have to stand next to your mother with Frankie and Paul. What is the matter with you?” she said crossly.
Nilda had been trying to avoid this final scene somehow. Even though her stepfather’s body had been in the chapel for five days, her mother had insisted that some member of the family always be there. She had kept Nilda home from school, restricting her either to the apartment or the chapel. Nilda had never seen her mother this way, so depressed and easily subject to crying and fits of hysteria. Very often she shouted at Nilda and Frankie, accusing them of bringing on her husband’s death. Everyone had tried to console her and reason things out, but she continued to break down several times a day, sometimes refusing to leave the chapel even at closing time.
“Nilda! Here! Are you deaf, muchacha!” Rosario insisted. Nilda walked over to her mother and stood at some distance from her. Rosario grabbed her arm and placed her by her mother. Nilda began to feel unreal. Like a dream, she thought as she walked alongside her mother, who took short uncertain steps, moving slowly. They reached the casket and everything was perfectly still for a moment. Nilda watched as her mother suddenly lunged forward and began to scream. She jumped back in fear. Rosario and Paul grabbed her mother.
Leo came forward, trying to help. “Lydia,” Leo said, “calm yourself.”
“Mamá, please,” Paul said gently. “Mamá, come on now.”
“Ayyy-ay. I don’t want to live. What for? What for? For more misery. More hardship. How much longer? God let me die … me! Emilio … me, I have to die!” her mother sobbed.
“Lydia, mi vida, por favor. Pull yourself together; you have young children. Please, honey,” Rosario pleaded.
Her mother turned and looked at Rosario. “Yes … children? Yes. Rosario? Remember? You remember when we were little girls in Ponce? Is that true? Was I a child once? Little Rosario … I remember, sometimes. I really do.” Nodding her head and rocking gently, her mother began to sing a children’s game song in Spanish. “Doña Ana no está aquí, está en su jardín … tendiendo las flores … y …”
Nilda could not control the tears welling up in her eyes, and she shook with fright at the enormous sense of pity she felt for her mother, who seemed like a stranger she hardly recognized.
“I wanna die. Help me. Emilio? Please, help me, help me … help …” her mother began to cry more quietly. They were able to take her away quickly before the men in charge closed the casket.
Everyone began to leave the funeral parlor and head toward the church service.
At St. Cecilia’s, the closed casket sat in front of the altar. An organ played, accompanying Father Shea’s monotone voice as he said Mass. In English, Father Shea began to speak from the pulpit. “We are gathered here today, on a sad occasion, to pay tribute here today to a fine person. Although of no worldly fame or monumental achievements, he was, nonetheless, important as a father and husband. A simple hardworking person …”
Nilda was aware that no matter what Father Shea said, he always spoke in the same flat way. Even in Latin, when he says Mass, he sounds the same, thought Nilda. She remembered her stepfather’s last days at home. “Nilda, when I die, don’t go around weeping no stupid tears for me. Tell your mamá not to give them damn priests no money to bury me. Don’t be a sucketa! Be smart, Nilda. Go to school; learn something important, no fairytales. They mustn’t take your mind and use you. Your mamá, she is too far gone with that crap. But you, Nilda …”
“Emilio Ramírez,” Father Shea continued, “was a good Catholic at heart, a believer in the word of Jesus, the Holy Trinity, Father, Son and the Holy Ghost, the resurrection with life ever after. Amen.”
“Using a pregnant woman and a poor Jew to turn people’s heads,” her stepfather had lectured. “They are a bunch of faggots, Nilda. No wonder they don’t live normal lives. Look at that, men with men and women with women, a bunch of hypocrites! Them priests don’t believe in birth control; they don’t need it!”
“Although,” the priest went on somberly, “Emilio Ramírez did not receive extreme unction, his soul is in purgatory and we must pray for its release into heaven. He was a good Catholic at heart. Let us pray.…”
“What kinda heaven and hell do they promise us?” She could almost hear him shouting. “Here on earth is heaven and hell, Nilda! Heaven for a few and hell for the rest of us!” Father Shea never even met Papá, she thought, and, looking at the closed casket, she half-expected her stepfather to jump out and begin to swear at the priest. He’d punch him right in the nose, she said to herself. She put her hand up to her mouth, suppressing a giggle at the thought of her stepfather listening to his eulogy by a priest. He’s gonna be furious … and she became aware that he would not budge from the casket, that he was really dead. Gone forever. Everyone prayed and Nilda automatically made the sign of the cross and began to pray, feeling sad and tearful.
“Remember, Nilda, no crying? And no praying nonsense! Leave that to the ones that got no sense!” She remembered how he had smiled at her when he had left for the hospital. Okay, Papá. You don’t want me to and I won’t, sh
e said to herself. Nilda sat there listening to the voices droning on in prayer and looked over at her mother. Her face was covered by a thin black veil and she prayed quietly.
For some time now, Nilda had experienced a feeling of helplessness gnawing at her insides. It began to bother her again; she wished there were something she could do to make things right for everybody. Everything seemed a lot simpler when she was younger, and she thought, Now things are getting too confused. Nilda continued to sit silently while the others prayed. She tried to make some decisions and understand what was going on, making an effort to avoid the feelings that upset her, but things became even more confused and muddled than before.
Mass was finished and everyone filed out to the parked cars. Nilda had never seen so many cars in her life.
“Nilda, come on over here! You ride with your mother and brothers,” someone said. She stepped into the large black limousine and sat next to a window. It was early December. Outdoors it was balmy; most of the snow had melted and the streets were wet. As they drove out to Queens, they passed many small houses and trees. It almost feels like spring, Nilda thought.
January 1944
“That was a mean thing she did, Nilda. Man, she had no right to say them things.”
“I know, Sylvia.” Nilda nodded her head in agreement. She was walking to school with her best friend. They had met this term in junior high school. It was an all-girls school, grades from seventh to ninth. Every morning they would meet halfway and walk to school. This way they could go through the dark tunnels on Park Avenue together, avoiding trouble and feeling less frightened.
“I’m glad she didn’t leave me back,” said Nilda. “When I got my report card, I was afraid to look at it or bring it home. I missed a lotta work, you know. I been catching up. I really appreciate your notes, Sylvia. Else, I woulda been up shit’s creek.”
“It’s okay,” Sylvia smiled. They walked along quickly, hugging their books as they fought the cold wind. Reaching the old school building, they rushed across the schoolyard and went inside. Nilda and Sylvia walked into their homeroom, put their coats away and sat at their desks. Most of the students were already seated.
The morning bell rang and Mrs. Sheila Fortinash stopped putting things here and there, walked over to her desk, looked at her watch and then at the class. “Good morning, class.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Fortinash.”
“Your English assignment is on the blackboard.” Looking at her watch again, she said, “Start! We will collect yesterday’s homework papers now. Mary Gonzales, you may collect them and bring them to my desk.”
Mrs. Fortinash had a habit of constantly looking at her watch. It always seems like we are late for something, Nilda thought, feeling uneasy. The new teacher appeared almost like a young girl the first time Nilda saw her; her yellow hair was cut short and straight, with bangs like Buster Brown. It had taken Nilda a while to get used to the teacher who never smiled despite her childlike looks.
“Today,” Mrs. Fortinash said, “report cards are due. I hope you all have them here, signed by your parents. Remember what I said about lateness. There is never any excuse for lateness in this class. Mañana, mañana, is all right in another country, but not in America and not in my classroom.”
Nilda had brought home her report card, relieved that she had not been left back, although she was just about failing in every subject. She had been out of school for more than two weeks when her stepfather died. A truant officer had been sent to her home, and finally Nilda got back to school. Her mother had seen her report card. “Okay, Nilda, I know you got an excuse,” she had said, “but now I want to see these marks changed. You hear?” and signed the report card.
Her first day back in school had been an ordeal. Nilda shuddered, remembering, and put it out of her mind as she waited to take up her report card.
“All right, you may all bring up your report cards now, one by one,” Mrs. Fortinash said. Each girl walked up to the teacher’s desk, handed her the card and waited. Mrs. Fortinash would look at the report card, carefully inspecting it, and then, with a nod of her head, would dismiss the student. Nilda watched as Mrs. Fortinash raised her hand and called out, “Carmela!” A small girl who was returning to her seat turned around and looked at the teacher. “Carmela, please come back here and explain, if you will, what this is.” Holding up a report card, Mrs. Fortinash gestured to the girl. “What am I supposed to do with this?” Carmela smiled timidly and shrugged her shoulders. “Answer me, please,” Mrs. Fortinash insisted. “What is this?”
“That’s my mother … who signed it.”
“Signed it where?”
Pointing, Carmela put her finger on the report card. “There,” she said.
“That’s not a signature, my dear; that’s an X. Can’t your mother read or write?”
“No.”
“I see,” said Mrs. Fortinash. “How about your father?” “My father don’t live with us.”
“How about your brothers; do you have any older brothers or sisters?”
Carmela shook her head. “They are all younger.”
“How about somebody in the house who can read and write?”
“We got a boarder,” Carmela said.
“Is this boarder related to you?” Mrs. Fortinash asked. There was a long pause and the room was silent.
“No,” Carmela said. “He is just a boarder.”
“Well, I’m going to have to talk to the vice principal because I will not take the responsibility for accepting this. Anybody can make an X and imitate that!” Mrs. Fortinash looked at her wristwatch, shut her eyes, and shook her head. “Incredible,” she whispered.
“My mother said that is her mark,” Carmela said. “That is how she makes her mark all the time. She signs checks and everything like that.” Several girls began to giggle; then everyone laughed.
“Shhh. Stop it, girls! Carmela, you will have to come with me to the office. You can tell them all about it.” Carmela stood by and said nothing. “Well, go on. Go on, get to your seat.”
Nilda remembered her own note, that first day back at school. Her mother had still been upset after the funeral, so Nilda had written the note herself, and her mother had signed it absentmindedly.
Dear Mrs. Fortinash,
Please excuse my daughter Nilda Ramírez for being absent from school. Her father died and she got lots of things to take care of at home. That is our custom. Thank you.
Very truly yours,
Lydia Ramírez
“What custom is that?” Mrs. Fortinash had asked. “How dare you return to class after almost three weeks and hand me such a note! You just walk in, like it’s nothing; perhaps you were away on a picnic!” Nilda had not known what to say or do, so she looked at the floor, avoiding the teacher. “You will just have to come with me to see Mr. Shultz. You people are the limit! No wonder you don’t get anywhere or do anything worthwhile with these kinds of customs. People pass away every day—you are not the only ones, you know! That does not mean that one stops meeting responsibilities! Your mother will have to come in and explain that custom and what tribe you belong to!” Nilda felt the blood rushing to her face and the anger surging in her as Mrs. Fortinash went on talking. “Irresponsible, that’s what you people are. Then you expect the rest of us here to make it easy for you. Well, you are not the first ones to be allowed into this country. It’s bad enough we have to support strangers with our tax dollar; we are not going to put up with …” Mrs. Fortinash had turned beet red and was screaming. Nilda had looked up at her and felt herself shaking. “Don’t you look at me like that! You should be ashamed!” Nilda thought, Dear God, make her stop! Please make her finish. “You come down with me right now. Follow me!” she screamed.
Nilda waited on a bench at the office of Robert Shultz, Vice Principal. Mr. Shultz opened the door. “Come in, Nilda,” he said. She followed him into the office. “What about this note?” he asked. “Can you be more specific and explain what happened?” Mrs. Fo
rtinash stood close by, looked at her watch and tapped her foot. Nilda was unable to answer; I will not cry in front of them, she thought. There was a long pause. “When you said custom,” Mr. Shultz said, “did you mean that is the way things go in your family?”
“Yes,” Nilda said softly.
“I see,” Mr. Shultz said gently. “Go on.”
“Yes.” Nilda paused. “My mother was sick and so I had to do a lot of things and help. My older brothers, they are away in the service and so …” She hesitated, shrugged and stopped talking.
“Well, I’ll tell you what, Nilda. Could you manage to have your mother write another note, explaining a little better what happened?” Mr. Shultz paused. “Okay?”
“Yes,” Nilda said, “I’ll tell her.”
“That’s all. Thank you. You can go back to class now.”
Her mother had written a note, as requested, and had not been asked to come to school after all.
Now, Nilda watched Mrs. Fortinash and said to herself, “I hate her worse than Miss Langhorn almost.” She felt a sense of relief when the bell rang sharply, and she could go on to her Spanish class.
A petite woman with silver hair, neatly done up in a permanent wave, greeted the class. “Buenos días, alumnas,” she said in a thick American accent.
“Buenos días, Señorita Reilly.”
“Today we are going to review chapters seven and eight in our Spanish grammar book. Turn to page forty-eight, girls.” She spoke to the class in English most of the time. When she did speak Spanish, Miss Maureen Reilly’s American accent was so thick that Nilda had a hard time understanding what she said. Most of the time the teacher spoke about her trips to the different Spanish-speaking countries around the world. Her favorite country was Spain, and today she spoke in English about Spain. “Now, of course, with this terrible war, there is no traveling. But I just can’t wait for the war to end; I must go back to Spain and just listen to the way they speak. There they speak Castilian, the real Spanish, and I am determined, girls, that that is what we shall learn and speak in my class; nothing but the best! None of that dialect spoken here. If only you could hear yourselves chat chat chat! Like a bunch of Chinamen!” Pausing, she picked up her hands and brought them together, clasping her bosom. “Spanish is a language of drama … inspiration … love. Not to be slaughtered, young ladies, as some of you do to it!” As she went on talking, the girls looked at each other and giggled.
Nilda Page 17
