“Me too,” I said softly. I wanted to lean on her again but wondered how weird it would be to continue doing that in her house. We were quiet for a moment, like we were watching TV together up in my bedroom, eating dinner on little folding tables. Elena grabbed my hand and patted it gently. There was something so warm about Elena’s house, I felt snowed in, and when Teresa marched back in I could have pictured her carrying two steaming mugs of hot chocolate, not the vase cramped and bursting with my flowers.
Teresa set it on the coffee table and looked at her mother. “No boy ever came here to give me flowers,” she said with her hand on her hip. Elena smiled up at her. “Caz,” Teresa went on, “that boy wouldn’t know where to buy flowers even though he lives right next to the store.”
“Aidan is not Caz,” Elena said.
“Don’t I know,” Teresa said. “I’ve heard how wonderful you are,” she said to me.
Elena had told me about Teresa’s successes at St. Catherine’s too, but watching her rock her hips as she spoke with me, I wanted to talk to her, but I didn’t know how. I’d never known how to talk to girls, no matter how much I wanted to. I liked girls, didn’t I? That’s what I’d always told myself, but who the hell had I been with Father Greg? Was that me too? I felt dizzy and rested my head against the back of the couch.
“Okay,” Elena said. She stood and wiped her hands down her hips. “Tere, go add another place at the dinner table.”
“You’re staying for dinner?” Teresa asked me.
“Yes,” Elena answered. She snapped her fingers, and Tere went back to the kitchen. “M’ijo,” she said softly to me, “this is not okay. How did you get down here?”
“Thanks for letting me stay for dinner.”
“What is your mother going to say?”
“Please don’t make me leave.”
“No,” she said as she pulled me close. “I’m happy you came to me.”
My head sank into her. The edge of her sweater’s neckline itched at my eye. “I’m sorry,” I said. I shook out a few tears and held back everything else I could.
Voices mumbled on the stoop, and the screen door wheezed open. I broke from Elena’s embrace so quickly, I startled her. She still held my hand in her lap when Candido let his younger child, Mateo, run into the room. Mateo bounced a basketball once. “Hey!” Candido shouted after him. They both stopped and looked at me. Mateo backed up and pressed into his father’s jeans.
“We have a guest,” Candido said, glancing from me to Elena.
Elena walked over to her husband and kissed him on the lips. “There’s room for one more,” she said in English.
Candido nodded. “Why is he here?” he asked in Spanish. “What’s wrong?”
“He speaks Spanish,” she replied.
“I forgot,” Candido said. He smiled. “Lo siento,” he said to me. He took his time hanging up his leather jacket.
“Aren’t you still on vacation?” Mateo asked Elena.
Elena shushed Mateo and pushed him forward. “This is the boy whose family I work for,” she said.
“I know,” Mateo said.
Candido came up behind him, and I stood to take his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” Candido said. He had a belly that spilled over his belt, but he was taller than I had pictured him, and he made the room seem smaller and more cramped. He and Elena exchanged glances. “Welcome to our home,” he added. He excused himself and took Mateo upstairs to wash before dinner. Elena patted my shoulder and followed them.
I dropped back onto the couch and stared at the ceiling, not wanting to bring my head back down and make eye contact with Mother Mary. I closed my eyes and listened to Candido’s and Elena’s voices upstairs. It was hard to hear exactly what they were saying, especially with the radio playing a few feet away from me, but I didn’t have to hear the words, I only had to hear their chatter to know they were used to talking over each other and listening at the same time. I heard my name, but it didn’t concern me. I was at Elena’s house, and without Mother and Old Donovan around it was peaceful.
“Hey,” Teresa said. She hovered next to me, behind the couch. “Don’t fall asleep. You just got here.” She shook my shoulder.
“What’s for dinner?” I asked.
“Not what she cooks at your house.” She came around the couch and sat down next to me.
“She makes this chicken, red bean, and rice dish sometimes,” I said. “If it’s just me and her for dinner. I love it.”
“You mean, like, her Dominican food?”
“Yeah, I guess.”
“I don’t know it,” Teresa said, playing with the little gold cross on her necklace.
“Does she teach you any recipes?”
“Irish stew. Lasagna. Soups and chili. You know, stuff we can pick at all week.”
“Oh, yeah.”
“But one time she showed me how to make lengua picante, and lambí guisado.”
“Those sound cool,” I said, hoping I could get out of this conversation. “She never made those at my house.”
“Yeah, I’m just playing,” she said. “She never made those here, either.”
I laughed uneasily.
“But my friends love coming here to eat. We’ll do our homework, and then I’ll heat up some leftovers. They all know how good a cook she is.”
“She could work in a restaurant.”
“Yeah, she should.” Teresa’s glare challenged me.
I nodded in agreement. There had been plenty of nights growing up I had fantasized that Elena was my actual mother. I had come to envy Teresa and Mateo, thinking they were lucky to have such a devoted and caring mother, but as Teresa stuck her nose down into one of the bunches of flowers, I wondered if she felt differently about Elena. She’d seen her mother less than I had, for God’s sake.
“These must have been crazy expensive,” she said sullenly.
It had been the wrong gift to the wrong person. It frightened me to realize how much I knew about her mother and that there was no way for me to share it with her. It was easier to pretend all my memories with Elena didn’t exist. Teresa turned the vase in a circle.
“I should have gotten more,” I said. “I should have gotten some for you, too.”
“Oh my God, did you just say that?” She laughed and shook her head. “Damn, I thought you were supposed to be shy.” She smiled as if she knew something I didn’t and was waiting for me to catch on. Maybe it was just like her laugh, an easy openness that said something like, Hey, buddy. Relax already. Tranquilo. She put her hand down on my thigh and smiled. “Why don’t you help me fill the water glasses for dinner?”
“Yeah, of course,” I said, standing up quickly. I was as surprised as she was that I had said what I had said. It felt good, though, and safe, but I wanted to get busy doing something before I blew it and said something stupid. In the kitchen, she handed me the glasses and talked about her classes at St. Catherine’s. It was good to be a senior, she kept saying. Her whole life was going to change in just a few months, and she was excited. She wanted to face it head-on. I was jealous of her breezy confidence: I admired her.
Before we could eat, the Gonsalves family and I gripped hands around the table, the hot food only a foot away, tempting us. My hands were in Elena’s and Teresa’s. The food was blessed, and God was thanked that I could join them. I hazarded a blink and opened my eyes: Steam rose off the plates in the dim air, wavering to the incantatory tone of Candido’s voice, thanking the Lord for his guidance and his strength. I couldn’t follow along with Candido, because I had my own prayer, and although they usually felt so empty, just chants to beat away the pain, I had something I wanted to shout: Christ, leave me alone with this family. I closed my eyes again as Candido ended the prayer. “En el nombre del Padre, del Hijo, y del Espíritu Santo, amen.”
Elena sat between her boys, Mateo to her right and me to her left. She cut her meat delicately, taking her time, as Candido talked to his children. She occasionally offered some advice, b
ut she mostly ate in silence, smiling, watching Candido and Mateo slap hands as they talked basketball. Candido winked at Elena occasionally, when she hushed him.
“You should have had that game against St. Mike’s. Coach Carney’s an idiot.”
“Candi,” Elena scolded.
“What’s that lesson you were getting at before, Papi?” Teresa asked. “Play a team sport to learn how to be indignant?”
Candido stuffed a forkful in his mouth and chomped it slowly. “Mira, la pequeña maestra. You can add something to this conversation after you’ve come and watched one of your brother’s games.”
Teresa sighed with what seemed habitual melodrama. “Jesus Christ, Papi. Always with the guilt.”
“Eh! Watch your mouth,” Candido said in Spanish. “There are rules in this house.”
Elena reached across the table in front of me and touched her daughter’s arm. “Please. Listen to your father,” Elena said in Spanish.
Teresa got up to get more water for the table. “Whoa,” Candido boomed as he leaned back in his chair. “She lifts a finger!” She bumped him with her hip as she walked past him to the sink. He laughed.
When we were finished eating, Elena grabbed my plate and stacked it on top of hers. Candido leaned back in his chair, threw his napkin on the table, and picked his teeth with his tongue. Before Elena could reach for the others, I stood and asked if I could clear the plates. I couldn’t stand the thought of Elena slipping on her rubber gloves in her own house. Everything seemed upside down anyway. Why couldn’t I do the damn dishes for once? But Elena waved me off. “Please,” I said. “I want to. I want to do something.”
Candido sniffed.
“There’s no need,” Elena began, but I ignored her. I stacked the rest of the plates and carried them over to the sink.
The phone rang. “Don’t anybody answer it,” Candido said. “We’re still eating. We haven’t had dessert.”
Elena hung her head and sighed. The answering machine picked up after four rings. I snapped the rubber gloves over my hands as the message began. “Elena? It’s Father Dooley again. I’m worried now. Have you still not seen him? He’s still missing. Please call me as soon as you get this. I’m with Gwen. She is about to call the police. Please, call me.”
My back was to the rest of the room, and I couldn’t bring myself to turn around. I just stood against the sink, gripping the edge.
“What the hell is going on?” Teresa asked. She stepped back toward the table.
“This is what I was talking about,” Candido said. “I said something was seriously wrong.” His chair squeaked against the floor as he pushed it back and stood. “What did he mean, again? Again what?” His voice grew louder. “You knew about this?”
Elena shook her head. “I’m sorry. He wasn’t here when Father Dooley called before. Then he came.” She wiped at her face. “He came to me.”
“Eh, Mami?” Teresa said. “You knew and kept it a secret from us? What?” She pushed my shoulder. “You think you can buy my mami, rich boy? Come in here with your flowers and your mopey-ass face. Go get your own mami, eh, rich boy.” She hit me again.
“Tere!” Elena yelled, but Candido stepped over and grabbed Teresa’s arm. “Okay, okay. That’s enough,” he said without much force. He stepped between us and pointed at me. “Are you bringing trouble into my home?”
“Please,” Elena said. “Please. He hasn’t done anything,” she said in Spanish. “He wouldn’t.”
“You don’t know that,” Candido said.
“Yes I do!” Elena yelled back. “Yes I do.” She stepped between me and Candido. When I turned around, he reached beside her and grabbed the cordless from the wall. “He hasn’t done anything,” Elena pleaded. “It’s his parents. I’ve told you before. Look at him. What could he do?” She reached for the phone. “Let me call Mrs. Donovan.”
“Yes, you will,” Candido said. “And the priest.”
He handed the phone to Elena, and she stared at it absently for a moment. Then she turned to me and lifted her hand to my cheek. “M’ijo. It’s okay. It’s okay. You’ll be okay.”
I slumped over her, letting her embrace me. Her kids stared at me. Don’t worry, I wanted to tell them, she has enough for all of us, as if I knew and as if that wasn’t an insult.
Elena called, and paced by the sink as she spoke on the phone. We could all hear Mother’s shrill invectives screaming through the earpiece. “No, ma’am,” Elena got out occasionally.
Elena put the phone out to me, but I didn’t want to take it. I held it in my hands and looked down at it. “Honey?” Mother squeaked across the distance. “Honey?” I put the phone to my ear. “Are you safe?”
“I’m with Elena.”
“I know that, but, honey, are you safe?” Her voice was raw. “Are you okay?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m with Elena.”
“I know. I know. You’re with Elena now, but you were missing!”
“No. I left.”
“Can you imagine what I was thinking? Father Dooley has offered to come down to pick you up. I don’t think I can drive—the state I’m in.” I didn’t know what to say. I could hear Mother sniffling.
“Father Dooley?”
“I’m grateful. He has been so kind. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone until he was here.” She breathed deeply. “I’m relieved.” She continued more calmly. “I’m glad you’ll be coming home.”
I put Elena back on the phone. After she hung up, she went straight to Candido, and he wrapped her in his arms. “I was wrong,” she told him. “Please forgive me. I should have said something right away.”
“You don’t need this,” he said. “You never needed this.”
“I don’t understand,” I choked. “She barely noticed that I was gone. She probably didn’t care.”
Elena pushed out of Candido’s embrace. “She misses you,” she said to me.
“Why now?” I asked. “When has she ever missed me?”
“You came here. You left and you came right here, to me. She misses you, m’ijo. I know. Father Dooley will come pick you up,” she added. “He’s driving down now.”
Candido shook his head. “God is looking out for you,” he said to me. “Always.”
I think he meant to inspire me, as if that invisible, omnipresent eye was protective, but I saw Father Greg’s eyes, bloodshot from scotch, bleary with pain and rage. “No,” I said. “No, I’ll take the train. I’ll call for a car. I don’t want to go back with him. Please.”
“I’m doing what he asked me,” Elena said. “You’ll leave with him. You need help.”
“I can’t. I don’t want to.”
“Enough,” Candido interrupted me. “Stop yelling. You don’t tell her what to do in this house.” He stepped to me and grabbed my arm. “You came to my house. And in my house, you will do by my rules.” He shook me and then calmed himself. He let go. “We will do as the priest has asked us, and you will go home with him tonight.”
A cold emptiness opened in my stomach and crept through my body. I rocked in place for a moment, and I heard my name but didn’t know from where. It sounded familiar, as if Father Greg was in the room with us, saying my name, calling me to him.
Elena directed Candido to take Mateo upstairs, and she allowed me to help her with the rest of the dishes. Teresa hovered in the doorway, leaning on the molding. “You can’t be that bad,” she said. “You’re, like, barely in the room. You’re like a ghost. How could you do anything that bad?”
“Tere! Upstairs. Now. Leave us alone.” Teresa caught the fright in her mother’s voice and obeyed. She stormed upstairs. A door slammed.
“I’m sorry,” I finally said. “I didn’t know where else to go. I had to leave.”
Elena held a dish under the water for too long, staring at it. “Your mother is very upset.” She shook her head. She turned off the water and passed me the last dish. “Your mother? She’s not just upset with you, m’ijo,” she said. “With m
e, too.”
“I’m sorry,” I said again. “I thought it would be all right.”
“It is,” Elena said. “With me.” She mustered a smile, but one that wasn’t genuine. It was imported from some dying expression I might see on one of my teacher’s faces at CDA, or maybe one that a guest at Mother’s parties might have offered me before she disappeared into the ever-circulating crowd.
“Please,” I said. “What if I didn’t go home?”
“No. You have to go home.”
She led me into the living room and directed me to sit on the sofa. She stood by the foot of the stairs for a while, looking up to where she had banished the family. She seemed to be standing guard, or at least like that was what she wanted to be doing but she wasn’t sure who needed protection from whom. I lolled my head on the back of the sofa and stared at the ceiling and at the lumps and cracks in the paint, the touches of age and natural decay. Through the window, a streetlight below the house flickered, then went out. I felt Elena’s eyes on me, and Mary’s, too, casting down from the wall.
Upstairs, Mateo whined and complained that he didn’t want to go to bed, but Candido had him quiet in less than a minute. He didn’t yell at his son, but there was something resolute and demanding of respect in his voice. I don’t think Candido hated me as much as he wondered why it was too easy for me to bust up his family’s life. I wanted to tell him that I hadn’t tried to. If I’d had anywhere else to go, I wouldn’t have come into his house like a criminal, or I wouldn’t have come to New York, but what else wouldn’t I have done? Isn’t it crazy to keep walking back in time and asking yourself to correct this choice and that choice? You could probably walk yourself all the way back to the beginning and say, Fuck it, why get involved with this mess in the first place—look what’s ahead?
When Father Dooley arrived, we heard his car doing a three-point turn. Elena walked me down the long staircase to the street. “We’ll come to you, Father!” she shouted. He stood motionless beside the car, stooped forward onto his cane. The streetlight had come back on but it flickered and went out again. I could only make out his silhouette as his coat ruffled slightly in the breeze. I wanted to take the stairs two at a time and bust down the street to the elevated train. I couldn’t see into the car, and I wondered if Father Greg had come too and, if they were together, what they would do to me. That familiar sense of inevitability swept through me, that sense that I was being guided down the stairs into the deeper darkness to a place where I had no control.
The Gospel of Winter Page 8
