DANTE ASKED IF IT WAS okay if he went to Cassandra’s brother’s funeral with me. “I know that I don’t really know Cassandra—and I didn’t know her brother. But I feel like I should show a little solidarity. Does that make sense to you?”
“It makes sense, Dante. It makes perfect sense. I’m sure Cassandra wouldn’t mind.”
My mother told me she would be wearing a white dress to the funeral—which seemed odd to me. She explained that all the Catholic Daughters were going to march in procession wearing white dresses. “For resurrection,” she said. My father and I were wearing white shirts, black ties, and black suits. We were on the porch, waiting for my mother—and my father kept looking at his watch impatiently.
I don’t know why my dad got impatient at moments like these. Our Lady of Guadalupe Catholic Church was close, and it didn’t take but five minutes to get there. “I’m going to go pick up Dante,” I said. “I’ll meet you at the church.”
Just then, my mother walked through the front door. I saw a look on my dad’s face I’d never seen before. Or maybe that look had been present many times before—it was just that I hadn’t noticed. My mother could still take my father’s breath away.
Dante and I were sitting next to my father. The priest was about to bless the casket at the entrance to the church. Susie and Gina sat right next to us. We nodded at one another. I leaned over to Susie and whispered, “I didn’t think you were Catholic.”
“Don’t be stupid. You don’t have to have to be Catholic to go to a Catholic funeral,” she whispered back.
“You look pretty,” I whispered.
“At least you’re learning how to make up for saying stupid things,” she whispered back.
“Shhh,” Gina said.
My father nodded and whispered, “I’m with Gina.”
The opening hymn began, and the voices of the choir sang out. The Catholic Daughters filed in, two by two, in a slow and respectful procession. There were maybe sixty of them, perhaps a few more. These women knew something about solidarity. I saw a look of grief on many of their faces, including my mother’s. Mrs. Ortega’s grief was their grief. I’d always thought those ladies were a little bored with their lives and they themselves were a little boring—and that was the reason they’d become Catholic Daughters. Yet another thing I’d been wrong about. They had far better reasons. I’d never found it difficult to keep my mouth shut—but maybe I should think about keeping my mind shut when it came to judging the things other people did that I didn’t understand.
The Mass was a typical funeral Mass—except it was bigger than most. And there were a lot of young men there who were about Diego’s age, men in their twenties, and they all sat in the back of church and there was a lot of sadness in their eyes and they had this look as if they knew they weren’t welcome, and it made me angry that they’d been made to feel that way. Anger, there it was again, and I think I was beginning to understand that it was never going to go away and that I’d better get used to it.
Dante and I got in my truck, and we became a part of the procession leading to the cemetery. I thought about my parents. I agreed with my dad and his thoughts about the religion they were raised in—and the religion I was raised in. And I knew somewhere inside him, my father still considered himself a Catholic. My mother was every bit the good Catholic woman she made herself out be. She didn’t have a difficult time forgiving her church for its failings.