Someone Like Summer (7 page)

I
N FRONT OF THE
C
ASA
there was a tent where inside a man sold small flags and
pañuelos
. They were in boxes with labels saying Argentina, Colombia, Costa Rica, Cuba, República Dominicana, on and on. Ten dollars for the little flags; fifteen for the
pañuelos
. There were also small lapel pins for five dollars.

Esteban waited for me by the tent, his black hair parted on one side, neatly combed like his sideburns. He wore jeans and a
guayabera
, a lightweight blue cotton shirt with four pockets.

“This is my Canul Jr. Number One,” he said proudly. “The other is yellow. I wear them on special occasions only.”

Around his neck he wore the yellow, blue, and red–striped bandanna. I tied my
pañuelo
to my yellow belt. I was all in yellow except for the red and blue stripes in my
pañuelo
. I wore a long skirt, sandals, and a lacy blouse.

The first thing I noticed was many flags hanging above the pulpit. Esteban whispered softly, “The blue and white is Argentina. Red and white, Peru.”

“Green, white, and red, Mexico,” I said.

“
Sí
, Anna! You remembered.” He named a few more countries that went with the flags, until it was hard to hear him.

The building was packed. I did not see anyone there I knew. While people filed by, a woman began singing “
Cristo Salva
,” a man behind her playing a bass guitar, joining in on the chorus. Then others did, and then Esteban did too. He knew all the words. He sang loudly, as though he was proud of his voice, and he held my hand
and smiled up at me.

Soon a drummer began beating time, and a pigtailed man wearing a blue and red
pañuelo
around his forehead played the electric piano.

“Remember Ramón? He's sitting behind the piano, in the
pañuelo
from Peru.”

“Yes, I remember him.”

“He speaks in tongues. He works for your father, too, sometimes.”

Soon we could not hear each other at all, there were so many worshippers, and then suddenly we
could
hear each other, for the place became hushed, the white-and-gold curtains rustled, and a man with the same
pañuelo
Esteban and I wore came out on the stage and went up to the pulpit. His
pañuelo
was peeking from the pocket of his light-blue suit, a royal-blue shirt under the coat open at the neck. He wore a red carnation in his buttonhole. He looked very young and thin, and as he stood there with his head bowed, the roar came up from everywhere.

“AN-TO-LIN! AN-TO-LIN! AN-TO-LIN!”

It seemed so spontaneous and heartfelt, I
couldn't help feeling excited, feeling part of it, the same way sometimes a great marching band (usually one I saw on TV) would thrill me.

Antolin finally looked up, paused to regard us for a moment, then shouted a question in Spanish. Everyone stood.

I heard a microphone voice translate: “When I feel scorned, what do I do?” Hearing English, I gave Esteban a surprised look.

Then the congregation shouted back in Spanish, and the translation came again in English: “Seek God!”

“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.

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 are 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.”