“You always have warm hands, Antonio.” She was shivering. “I know you’re angry.” My father looked at Edite, then looked away, up toward the altar. “Agnes is doing okay. You boys were very brave.” I tried to wriggle my hand out of her pocket but she held on. From the corner of my eye I could tell she was forcing a smile. Gazing at the front of the church, she leaned down to my ear. “And your friend Ricky is going to be just fine,” she whispered.
James probably went to her again to ask for help with Ricky because he couldn’t think for himself. He pulled everyone in to fix the things he screwed up. Even she couldn’t forgive James for that. But I doubt she knew James had been pimping Ricky out to Red.
My mother looked tired. She still had to knead the dough one more time before covering it with tea towels and letting it rise a couple more hours. But she would never complain about the length of the service. She’d be up by five o’clock in the morning to bake. There was nothing like the sweet smell of
massa
on Christmas morning, she would say. My mother placed a lace veil over her head and passed an extra one to Edite, who refused it at first, but then took it and buried it in her coat pocket.
Missa cantada
meant that high-pitched singing stretched the Mass until almost two in the morning. I had already been
pinched by my mother for snapping the bronze purse clips on the backs of the pews. At one point I looked over to see Terri brushing her fingertips on the same clip in front of her. It was something we had done as kids. Her nails had been painted pink, a shade so pale my father wouldn’t notice.
“From Mary’s womb, He was born to die for our salvation.” Padre Costa held the golden chalice. He belted the words out over the heads of the parishioners in the crammed church. The light fell over his head and face, and I had a sudden vision of Baby Mary floating in the lake. “Bread of life, with new life feed us breads from heaven and to heaven lead us.” Padre Costa’s mouth continued to move, but I could no longer hear. I could only see Ricky, the blood blooming in the snow where he sat; James kneeling at my feet and begging for forgiveness. It was then that I decided I would take Communion and I would follow it up by kissing the statue of Jesus. My father told me I didn’t have to—he never did—claiming the thing was a disease sponge with all those people breathing and coughing over it. I noticed the statue was only a little bigger than Baby Mary.
We were all packed into the pews, thousands of candles flickering. The air hung over our heads like in a smoky kitchen. I undid my scarf and loosened my tie, and that’s when I saw Manny’s head, his hair controlled with globs of Brylcreem. He stood between his mom and dad. Eugene wasn’t with them. I used my powers of thought to get him to look at me, to notice that I was standing there, only a few pews behind him. I even stood on the kneeler to look taller. It didn’t work.
I was glad when people got up to inch down the aisle for Communion. I was hoping my line would shuffle forward
until I could pair up with Manny, but that wasn’t going to happen. We would take the host first from some helper priests. Padre Costa stood behind them, about a hundred feet away from me, in front of the altar, holding the baby Jesus up in the air, an offering to the congregation. We got up from the pew when it was our turn. My father poked me in the back and winked, and for a moment I thought about how good it would feel to tell him everything.
We shuffled down the aisle, behind old people with canes and tired mothers carrying miserable children awakened to kiss the baby Jesus. The closer I got, the clearer the statue of the naked Jesus became. It lay on a velvet pillow trimmed with gold cord that reminded me of my own cape. I wanted to believe the priest when he said the spirit’s breath would take the baby to a place where there was no weeping. A woman sang “Ave Maria.” Her voice warbled up to the vaulted ceiling.
Ave Maria, gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena. Maria, gratia plena. Ave, ave Dominus, Dominus tecum
. There were only about six people in front of me now.
My mother was the first in our family to reach the statue. Not content to give the statue a kiss on one foot, she snapped quickly and kissed the other foot.
“It’s not anatomically correct,” my sister whispered through the corner of her mouth. “He should have a helmet head for a penis. He was a Jew.” I knew she had been influenced by Edite, who had told me Jesus was Jewish and so couldn’t have a foreskin, though the statue of Jesus did. My heart pounded as Terri followed my mother and kissed the statue’s toes. Padre Costa was about to turn away when Edite faced him. She bent down to kiss the statue. I was standing
beside her when I saw her eyes twitch. Padre Costa took in a huge gulp of air. I saw the lipstick stain left on the thigh, dangerously close to the statue’s dick. Edite’s lipstick was a bit crooked, some pink on her teeth. I looked away, felt like I had at my grandmother’s funeral when I found myself on the kneeler in front of her coffin, fighting my giggles.
Just nerves
, my mother had said. Padre Costa brought the statue of baby Jesus up to my lips. The people in line and in the front pews went silent.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son
… I placed my lips on the statue’s knee. It felt cold.
And of the Holy Spirit
. I hoped I’d feel something, a kind of tingle that warmed my insides, a sign that God had heard my silent prayers. But everything stayed the same. Padre Costa wiped the statue’s knee with a cloth just as my father approached. He glared into my father’s eyes, dared him.
My father’s body coiled, as if ready to strike. He moved close to Padre Costa, who grinned and raised the statue of Jesus to meet with my father’s chin. My father’s hands were not pressed together in prayer. He held his fedora in front of him and rubbed its brim with his thumb. Instead of kissing the statue, he squinted at the priest before placing the hat on his head and flicking its brim.
I stood at the second-floor back window that overlooked our garage and the laneway. It was almost three o’clock in the morning. I could see the flicker of blue light coming from the TV James now left on day and night.
I heard the bustle of activity downstairs. It had always been our custom to have a shot of Port and open up one gift before going to bed. Our choice. But tonight I just wanted to
be far away from them all. I wondered if James was spending Christmas with Agnes, if he was sitting by Ricky’s side, patting his forehead with a cool cloth. I assumed James wouldn’t be working the streets tonight. I couldn’t imagine there’d be anyone out looking.
“Antonio!” Edite called.
Edite leaned against the banister, biting her cuticles. “You can hate me later, but not on Christmas.” I decided I’d just have some Port, then go to bed. If I didn’t, they’d think something was wrong.
When I went into the living room, my mother was staring at the Christmas tree. She was pale. Her lips trembled, and she seemed on the brink of something.
“You sit there, Antonio, and we’ll begin.” Edite pointed to the end of the couch. The shot glasses filled with the golden liquid were clustered on a silver tray. My father sat in the armchair, his coat still on, but his boots were off and the toes of his socks were wet. He was drumming his fingers on the armrest. My mother looked at everything in the room except us. My father stared up at the wall, at the picture of his mother standing in a field somewhere in Lomba da Maia with the meanest frown on her whiskered face. Terri was under the tree, a kid again, trying to decide which gift to open.
“
Um calsinho
?” Edite’s pronunciation was awful. She lifted the tray and offered us the tiny cups of booze. I threw the liquor back, smacked my lips, then winced at the burning that coated my throat and settled in my stomach.
“Força!” my father said, half-heartedly. “Georgina, why don’t you open your letter from Dr. Patterson?” my father said, every word of Portuguese clear and deliberate.
Terri made a big deal of opening her gift from Edite. I knew her well enough to know she was trying to create a diversion. She held up a silver lamé angel top and pressed it across her chest.
My father got up from the couch, his beer in hand. His feet smelled from being trapped in his boots too long. When he reached the tree, he picked up the envelope that sat on top of the television, a large “G” written on the front.
“This came for you today,” he said. “Your
friend
came right up to the door and dropped it in our mailbox.” My father flicked it on my mother’s lap. At first she didn’t touch it, but then her hand hovered over the envelope. Shadows of her fingers crossed the letter. She stared at my father. She took the envelope and, without looking, slipped one finger in, tearing it along the crease in a determined rip. She reached in, unfolded the letter. A crisp fifty-dollar bill flittered to the floor. My mother reached down and picked it up. She crumpled it up in her fist. “Is this what you wanted?” she said, her voice firm and in control, and she threw the bill at my father.
My father looked embarrassed, but he held his stare. He took another swig of his beer.
“Antonio, come on, it’s your turn,” Edite said, trying to tug me off the couch. “Which present do you want to open?”
“What’s in the letter?” my father asked. He wasn’t going to let it go. “Antonio, read the letter out loud,” he demanded.
“Leave it alone, Manuel,” Edite said.
He shot up. “This is my house! Don’t tell me what to do!” He sprayed Edite with his spit. She wiped her face.
My mother looked up from the letter. “Antonio,” she said calmly. “Do as your father says. He’s the
captain
.”
I hated them all.
“Read it!” my father yelled.
I took the letter from my mother’s outstretched hand, unfolded it.
“Read!”
“ ‘Georgina, another year and another letter.’ ” The paper shook in my hands. “ ‘Thank you for working so closely with me again. I couldn’t have done it without you. As you know, it is always at this time of the year that I sit down and take stock of my life, where it is I want to be. I do not have a family of my own, something I have always regretted.’ ” I looked to my mother for a sign to continue. Her thumbnail was wedged between her two front teeth. Terri shuffled across the room on her knees to sit at my mother’s feet. “ ‘I feel a connection to my work in Tanzania and the sisters at St. Michael’s have always supported my leaves to work with those less fortunate. I will be returning to them, my family, alone. It is my promise to you that I take with me. You will always be in my thoughts. I wish you’ ”—I added “and your family”—“ ‘the very best, always.’ ” The letter ended “Love, Robert,” but the words turned to cement in my throat.
“In
my
thoughts.
Promises
?” my father mumbled.
Love
, I mouthed so quietly only I heard it as a whisper.
My father wiped his mouth with his sleeve. I looked back down at the letter and made out the shape of a tiny swallow Dr. Patterson had drawn after his name. My mother’s fist clenched in front of her throat, the gold chain and the charm hidden in the warmth of her hand.
“Pronto, cama,” my father said. “Is going to be a long day tomorrow.” My mother did not move. Her face had relaxed.
There were no funny lines on her forehead. I had folded the letter, then rolled it like a cigarette. Terri had taken some strands of her hair and held them taut in her mouth. She stared my father down before wrapping her arms around my mother’s legs.
The first move came from my father, who placed a cigarette between his lips. He reached for the crystal lighter on the coffee table and flicked. Nothing. The scratchy sound from the lighter repeated, but there was no flame. My mother didn’t look his way. It was one of her rules: no smoking in the living room. My father raised the lighter over his head. “Always empty.” He looked squirrelly, not certain of what he’d do next.
Edite jumped up from the couch. She made her way to the corner of the room and cleared her throat. Out of nowhere she began to sing one of Amália Rodrigues’s fados. It was about a seagull
—gaivota
. I recognized most of the lyrics right away, but her voice couldn’t hit the notes and she made ridiculous gestures with every line. “If a seagull would come …” she sang, curling her finger, inviting us to come closer. “A wing that doesn’t fly, falters and falls to the sea,” she crooned, tucking her hands into her armpits and flapping like a deranged chicken. She twirled a few times, raised her knees and wiggled her hips in round movements. My sister was the first to giggle. “What a perfect heart would beat in my chest.” Here Edite grabbed her breast as if she was having a heart attack. My mother covered her smile with the back of her hand. It took a while, but even my father gave in to a thin smile that creased his eyelids. Edite danced in front of the TV, and before long we were all laughing out loud, and for a
moment even my father laughed too. Then he caught himself, twirled the cigarette behind his ear, and lowered the lighter back onto the coffee table. He stared at Dr. Patterson’s letter in my hand. Then he simply got up and, without looking at any of us, left the room. My mother began to cry and my sister got up to squeeze into the chair with her. I went to her side also, took the tightly rolled letter and curled my mother’s fingers around it.
“W
HERE’S
R
ICKY?
” Manny sat on the storage chest. I wondered if the tiny blankets and pillow were still inside.
“Why are we meeting here?” I said. Manny whittled a carpenter pencil with his jackknife. “Why couldn’t we meet somewhere else?” I hadn’t seen James since Ricky had been hurt. He had come to our door on New Year’s Eve, asking my father to let him keep his job. My father spoke to him through the screen door, told him he needed someone he could count on. James pleaded, “I need this, man. Give me another chance!” Looking out my bedroom window, I heard my father slam the door. “You owe me!” James shouted, coming into view as he walked backwards to stand on our front lawn. James leaned against the bathtub with Jesus in it, smoking a cigarette. He wouldn’t leave. I turned away from the window.