A Greater Love

by Rachel Ann Nunes

  Only when the voices faded did Miguel dare to move. Methodically, he tested each part of his body. The side of his head pounded terribly, but aside from a few cuts and bruises the rest of his body seemed undamaged. He pushed himself into a sitting position. Shoes and debris scattered from his body. The scene whirled and threatened to turn black, but he forced himself to crawl a few steps so that he was hidden from the door by the cobbler’s massive work table.

  “Gotta get outta here,” he told himself as he collapsed. He squeezed his eyes shut, willing the pain to go away.

  Something moved in the shop, and Miguel froze. Why hadn’t he run as soon as the men left? Now he’d be caught and sent away from Sara. Thoughts of his sister caused tears to fill his eyes. Maybe if he held perfectly still, whoever it was wouldn’t see him. It had worked once before. Of course then he had been covered in shoes.

  He waited for a voice to call out to him, but nothing happened. There was a whine and breathing in his face and something wet touched his cheek. Miguel’s eyes flew open just as a rough tongue licked at his tear. A small, hairy face hovered over him in the dark. Miguel smiled and his hands went instinctively toward the small, mud-colored creature. It cuddled against him and whined again.

  “A puppy!” he said, holding it to him. “Hi there, boy. You scared?” The puppy wagged his tail and pushed himself closer.

  Miguel sat up again, and this time the pain in his head wasn’t as severe. The puppy didn’t try to leave his arms. “I gotta get to the door,” he said aloud to the pup. Little by little he inched over to the opening where the glass door had been, dragging himself over the debris as quietly as possible. There was glass all around; he heard it crunching under his shoes.

  When he reached the door, he peered out. There was a tight knot of men standing several paces outside the door. Beyond them a crowd had gathered. Miguel readied his muscles to make a run for it.

  The puppy whined and Miguel released his tight hold. “You best go on home now,” he whispered. The dog sat on a shoe and stared up at him.

  “You the cobbler’s dog? No, can’t be. Them men said they found a dog that was dead. Are you lost maybe?” Then a terrible thought came. “Was that other dog your mother?” Miguel tried to concentrate past the throbbing in his brain. If the small puppy did belong to the cobbler, there was no one to take care of him. He might die.

  While he thought, Miguel gingerly took off his shoes and exchanged them with some bigger ones, though it took a while to find some mates in the dim light. The ones he finally decided on had a small hole in the sole of one shoe, but they were better than those he wore.

  The cluster of men walked away from the shop entrance to converse with the policemen. Several pointed in the shop’s direction. There wasn’t much time left. Collecting the puppy in his arms again, Miguel readied himself to run. His heart seemed to have never beat so rapidly. With a deep breath, he darted into the street, ignoring the renewed pain in his head.

  “Thief!” a cry rang out.

  What! Did they think he’d come to loot the shop? Remembering the new shoes on his feet, Miguel ran faster, back the way he had come earlier. Footsteps echoed after him, but he was well ahead, even with the weight of the puppy in his arms.

  Now in which building had he left Sara? There. He could see her face silhouetted in the glass part of the door. As he approached, she pushed it open and Miguel raced inside, pulling the door shut after him.

  “Miguel, where was you? I heard a big noise. Look at your head! It’s bleedin’. And—”

  “Shush!” He pulled her out of the window. Footsteps ran past the apartment building but didn’t stop. Sighing in relief, Miguel sank to the floor and leaned against the lobby wall.

  “Where did ya get that puppy?” Sara asked eagerly. “Oh, he’s so cute. He’s looks like chocolate.”

  “I think he’s an orphan like us,” Miguel said. “We can take care of him.”

  “Octávia won’t let us. She don’t like dogs much.”

  “He ain’t a dog. He’s a puppy. And we can’t just let him be all alone.”

  “We can be his mommy and daddy.” Sara let the puppy lick her hand. “What we gonna call him? He’s gotta have a name.”

  “How ’bout Lucky?”

  She giggled. “Lucky for us and lucky for him. I like it.”

  The automatic light went off in the lobby, but Miguel wouldn’t let Sara turn it on again. He waited until the street was empty before leaving the building. They circled around the street where the boys had thrown the bottle bombs, taking the much longer way home, and finally arrived at their shack.

  By the light of the dim lantern, they ate a dinner of bread, cheese, milk, and vegetables from Senhor Fitas. Lucky gobbled everything they tossed his way, until at last he curled up between them on the bed and went to sleep.

  It was the warmest December night Miguel remembered for a long time, and the most comfortable, despite the gash in his head. And Lucky was the best Christmas present he had ever received.

  Chapter Ten

  Daniel finally stifled his pride enough to search out Cristina at her travel agency, but her employees told him she was out. From their furtive expressions, he suspected they were lying. He tried to barge past the desk to her office but the two hefty ladies blocked in his way.

  “If you don’t leave, we’ll have to call the police,” one threatened.

  “I’m her husband!” When that didn’t move them, he added more softly, “Then tell me where’s she’s staying. Or give me a number to call.”

  “We can’t,” came the reply.

  Daniel hated the feeling of helplessness, the same helplessness he’d experienced when Manuel drowned. A month Cristina had been gone, one whole month! He had to have her back. He swallowed his pride and took one more try. “At least”—his voice broke—“tell her I need to see her. Tell her I love her.” There was pity in the women’s eyes now and it made Daniel angry. He turned on his heel and stalked out the door.

  The cold breeze in the streets struck against his exposed throat, but he didn’t cover up, welcoming the discomfort. Anything to take his mind off the torment in his heart. His short hair moved lightly in the draft, like gentle fingers, toying, stroking. Many times Cristina had touched him in much the same way.

  The thought almost collapsed his remaining self-control. He clenched his teeth and worked the muscles in his jaw to keep from crying aloud. A man didn’t cry—or shouldn’t—especially not one in his position.

  There was still hope Cristina would see reason.

  Daniel put in a long and difficult day at work, but when the torture finally ended, he didn’t go immediately home. Home. The word tasted bitter because the apartment he’d shared with Cristina no longer felt like a home. It was empty without her love.

  Blindly, he walked the cold streets, alone and unhappy. He visited a bar where he sometimes went with several of his friends but found the conversation coarse and meaningless. Without conscious thought, he found himself at the park, staring at the nativity scene the religious groups had built in a grassy area off the cobblestone paths. It was singularly beautiful, even to his melancholy heart.

  Before him lay Baby Jesus in a manger, surrounded by straw and soft light. A loving mother knelt beside him with a hand on his tiny head, while the dignified Joseph looked nobly on. There were no signs of the death the Child would one day take upon Himself, or any other symbols the different religious sects used to personalize their worship, but the simple glory of the Baby’s presence was unmistakable. For a brief moment, Daniel forgot his own pain.

  The initial impact faded slightly, and he was able to take in the rest of the exhibit. Further from the Baby, shepherds knelt in their humble attire, bowing their heads, their seasoned faces turned slightly as if to peek at the Baby. Beyond them, wise men were in the act of falling upon their knees in the straw, unheeding of their expensive robes. In their bejeweled hands, they carried presents for the Infant King. A few sheep, cattle, and e
ven a dog filled out the display. Each faced toward the Baby and the glow emanating from behind the manger. The backdrop was a wooden shack, the front part having been cut away, or never built, to let people see inside. A bright star graced the top, beckoning to passersby in the dark.

  “Good evening, Senhor Andrade.”

  He glanced up to see the intense young man who had been with the group seeking approval for the display. “Good evening,” Daniel returned, nodding. “It’s nice,” he added, feeling he must say something more.

  “It is, isn’t it? We’re grateful for your help in obtaining the permit.”

  “Any problems?”

  “With vandals? No. We haven’t had a single problem so far,” the man said with a trace of a smile. “We’ve been patrolling the area ourselves, but it’s been unnecessary. This exhibit has evoked a sense of community.”

  Daniel nodded without smiling. “I’m glad.” He meant it. He regarded the nativity for a polite interval before moving away.

  “Hope to see you here on Christmas Eve,” the young man called after him. Daniel waved, but made no promises. Whatever these lifeless statues signified for the community in general, they held nothing for him, aside from their artistic appeal.

  Full night had fallen during his wanderings, and now he headed toward his apartment. Once again his thoughts were with Cristina. He opened the outside lobby door, fingers fumbling because of the cold. Even in his warm coat, he shivered. What he needed was a hot cup of tea and a warm robe. As usual, he used the stairs; he prided himself on keeping fit and the effort helped keep his mind from Cristina.

  Inside his apartment, he looked through the pile of mail he’d retrieved from the box in the lobby. His hand froze when he saw a letter from their attorney. Accompanying it were the divorce papers he hadn’t expected, in all their black-and-white ugliness.

  There had been hope—until now.

  Daniel had believed she’d come back to him, but these documents proved how serious she was about living her life without him. Part of him wanted to sign immediately, to show her his indifference and put their life together in the past, but his heart wouldn’t allow him the luxury.

  Daniel dropped the papers on the coffee table in the TV room. All thoughts of a warm drink and his comfortable robe vanished. He slumped to the sofa and put his head in his hands.

  Chapter Eleven

  Senhor Fitas handed Miguel a small box of slightly bruised fruit. “I saved you some of the rotten stuff, too.” He thumbed toward a big box by the door. “It’s pretty heavy, though. I don’t know if you can carry it.”

  Sara crinkled her nose. “We don’t want that.”

  Senhor Fitas looked surprised. “What about Miguel’s pig? Here, I’ve been worrying that he’s going hungry since I haven’t had many scraps to give you.”

  “My pig?” asked Miguel, thinking fast. Then he remembered the rotten fruit trick he had pulled on the rich boys, and the story he’d told Senhor Fitas. “Oh, him. Me and Paulo had him in the woods, but he ran away. I won’t be needin’ to feed him no more. But if ya got somethin’ a dog would eat . . .”

  Senhor Fitas gave a short laugh and bent to pet the puppy at Miguel’s heels. “For Lucky, I take it. I guess a dog is better than a pig any day.”

  “He likes to lick my face.” Sara gathered the brown puppy into her arms and let him do just that.

  “So where’d you get him?”

  Miguel felt uncomfortable at the question. If people knew he had taken Lucky from the cobbler’s shop, they might not let him keep the dog, and he couldn’t risk that. The few days since Lucky had come to live with them had been the happiest he could remember in a long time. Miguel was sure the puppy wouldn’t be happy with anyone else.

  “He just found me one day,” Miguel said.

  “He’s sure a lively one.”

  “I like him that way.”

  “It takes kids to keep up with a pup, that’s true. Well, say hi to your aunt for me. Haven’t seen her around lately. Is she all right?”

  “She was a little sick, but she’s fine now.” Miguel had said the words so many times, he almost believed them.

  “I thought she was allergic to dogs.”

  “Naw, she ain’t a bit allergic.” Miguel hesitated. Sara had followed the puppy a few paces down the alley. In her bright blue sweater and red scarf, she stood out from the gray cobblestones and the deep chocolate of Lucky’s coat. He glanced back at Senhor Fitas. “You know that necklace you talked about? Well, I saw it. But did she ever tell you what the charms meant?”

  The old man’s face grew sober. “She never told me. Just that it belonged to family.”

  “My mother.”

  “I think that was it.” Until Senhor Fitas answered, Miguel hadn’t realized he had said the words aloud.

  From his pocket, Miguel took a handwritten slip of paper he had found in the stolen wallet. “Do ya know where this address is?” He asked not because he really cared, but to steer the subject away from Octávia and his mother. Or was it because his conscience was telling him it had been wrong to steal the wallet?

  Senhor Fitas frowned at the paper. “Cova da Piedade,” he read. “That’s a long way from here, across the river.”

  “Oh.” The name seemed to call up an image in Miguel’s mind, one he couldn’t quite remember. He thought it might have something to do with his mother.

  “Why do you want to know?” Senhor Fitas asked. “Does a friend of yours live there?”

  “Naw, it’s just a paper I found on the ferry, that’s all. I wanted to know where it was.”

  “They don’t teach you a lot at that school of yours, do they?”

  “I don’t listen much,” Miguel said. It was time to leave. The old man’s sharp eyes were taking in more than they should. He retrieved the paper with the address and carefully put it away in his wallet. Why did he keep the paper? Was it because of the man’s sad eyes? His unusual hair color? Or because in his picture he seemed to be so kind? Miguel didn’t know. The idea of returning the wallet had played itself through his mind, but he knew the notion was foolish and he finally discarded it altogether.

  He turned away. “We’d best be goin’. Octávia’ll be waitin’. And she don’t like to wait none.”

  “I didn’t know you and Paulo had a pig,” Sara said as they began the walk home. “I wanna see it.”

  “We don’t. I just said that so I could get the fruit to throw at them boys.”

  “Oh.” She walked a few steps before asking, “Is that why they threw the bottles at ya?”

  “Yeah. But it was worth it. My head’s almost better and we got Lucky. Sometimes you gotta lie. Like about Octávia bein’ gone.”

  Sara nodded, but her frown told Miguel she wasn’t happy about lying to Senhor Fitas. An inkling of remorse squirmed its way into his mind. Senhor Fitas had always been nice to them. Besides the flower lady and the chestnut man, he was Miguel’s only real adult friend. He found himself wishing those church ladies hadn’t told him it was wrong to lie or steal. It would have made his life easier.

  “You knew it already,” Sister Perrault had once told him when he confided that he wished she hadn’t taught him the Ten Commandments—especially the one about stealing. Only to her had he told the complete truth about his life. She even knew about him not being able to read. “You don’t feel good when you do wrong, Miguel. You can’t because the Lord won’t send you good feelings for wrong actions. That’s the way He works.” She had held his gaze with her beautiful eyes. He tried but he couldn’t look away. “And Miguel, you’ll never feel the same when you steal or lie again because you know Jesus won’t be happy.”

  “Don’t got no choice,” he had said.

  She nodded gravely. “But one day you will have a choice, if you’re determined. Just like you’ll learn to read. Look, I’m going to write my address on this pamphlet and one day, you write to me in France and tell me I was right. Will you do it?”

  Miguel had thought about it
for a week before accepting. Now the pamphlet had been in the Bible at the shack for a long time and he was still no closer to writing. He grimaced. At least his conscience was working like she said it would. Maybe the other part would come true as well and he would learn to read and write. He hoped so.

  As usual, they skirted around the street where the bombing occurred. It took them a good twenty minutes more walking, but it was safer. Miguel would give almost anything to know if the cobbler was alive and home from the hospital—anything except Lucky. He wouldn’t hand over his new best friend, so it was better not to know. Soon, he would sneak back there and nose around, but not with Lucky and Sara in tow.

  Dinner went smoothly and Miguel was thinking how wonderful his life was when the banging on the shack door began. “Who is it?” he called, starting to his feet. Lucky ran to the door, tail wagging madly.

  “Maybe it’s Octávia!” Sara cried, jumping to her feet.

  “I don’t know.” An uneasy feeling formed in the pit of Miguel’s stomach. He knew it wasn’t Octávia, and no one with legitimate business visited this late. He kept his eyes fixed on the entrance. “Who is it?” he asked again. “Answer me!” Had someone found out about Octávia? Or had the cobbler discovered where he lived and come to collect Lucky?

  The pounding outside came again. “Miguel, let me in. It’s Paulo.”

  The door strained as the force from the other side grew. Miguel doubted the thin boy had the strength to make such an impact. Someone else must be with him. The shack had no windows, but Miguel pressed his face up against a crack in the boards. Outside, he saw a crowd of dark figures and the glow of cigarettes.

  “Go away!” Miguel said uneasily. “We’re almost sleepin’ now.”

  “I gotta talk to ya,” Paulo said. “Let me in or I’ll break down your door!”

  The shack shook fearfully as Miguel hesitated. Sara pulled a blanket over her shoulders and hugged it around her body, her eyes large. A menacing feeling hung in the crisp air, like smoke around a fire. Miguel knew it was only a matter of time before Paulo and the shadows with him made good on his threat.