It was midnight mass at St. Malachy’s Catholic Church on Morningside Avenue. All the cool kids were asleep, waiting for Santa, while my mother and I, as well as what seemed to be the last of the devout Catholic Filipino population of Scarborough, were waiting for the return of Jesus.
All of us, and I mean all of us, reeked of pork. Crispy pata. Giniling. Nilaga. Embutido. You could smell it on our coats, on our breath; it wafted into the air when we made the sign of the cross; it spread like wildfire as we shook each other’s hands. Like Jesus was not a sacrificial lamb, but rather, a sacrificial pig.
The only ones who smelled like chicken were the three Menendez sisters who owned the Happy Chicken on Morningside Avenue. Legend has it that Ate Lin, the eldest of the sisters, volunteered for many years to give personal support to a fellow parishioner—some old man knocking on death’s door—including walking him to and from church. Just before the man kicked the bucket, he handed Ate Lin the keys to the Happy Chicken franchise, for free. This happened just weeks before the three sisters were finished their twenty-four months of service under the Live-In Caregiver Program, wiping baby bums and taking lip from abusive employers. What the legend does not account for is that Ate Lin’s unclocked hours helping the old man in and out of his wheelchair and cooking his favourite adobo would have earned her a sizable portion of such a franchise, had she been paid fairly. Ma always said that food tasted better when it was free. And here, these ladies were making the sweetest-tasting fried chicken this side of Kingston Road.
I shook their hands and wished them a Merry Christmas. They pinched my cheeks, smoothed my hair, and asked about my girlfriend as a joke.
“Hoy. Bing. Look at how big you are now. Wow, naman. How is school?” they said with “Row Your Boat”-like phrasing. One of them, my Ate Lou, had braces, so she said the same thing but with a lateral lisp.
“Okay, lang, Ate,” I said shyly while looking at my shiny black shoes. At the door of the church sat my winter boots, which I would change into once we were to head back outside.
I wanted to tell my Ates so badly that I had been kissed by the handsomest boy in school and that I wasn’t sure where it was going to lead, but fingers crossed, we would venture to the nearest Dairy Queen together some time soon. But in real life, I knew it would halt their usual giggles and playing with my hair. Instead, I continued to look at the mirror of my shiny shoes.
“How is your mom?” Ma asked Ate Lin in a whisper as we entered the church. She dipped her middle finger into the holy water and made the sign of the cross lightly on herself so as not to ruin her makeup. We made our way to our pews. El nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo, Amen.
“Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah,” proudly sang a little boy from the downstage corner of the choir. Small in stature at only three feet, the hem of his white gown grazed the floor, and his songbook needed two hands to support. This call and response always sounds best with the highest, sweetest, most angelic voice.
A shuffling of bodies, the sound of creaking wood as the congregation stood and sang in response, “Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.” The organ blared everyone awake once again after a sequence of sitting on hard, unforgiving pews and kneeling on squishy, unforgiving kneelers, hoping to be forgiven.
Father Joseph held the Eucharist high for everyone to see. I was looking forward to communion since I was so very hungry. I love the popcorn flavour in my mouth, as well as the chance to line up for it so I can show off my outfit. While the priest held the unleavened bread, I saw the flames of the lent candles—now all four of them lit—waver. The flames grew tall, then moved side to side so brilliantly, I thought for a second they would set the pinecone wreath surrounding them on fire.
We shuffled like penguins to the side, past winter coats, past children who did not yet observe communion, to join the line of people ready to break bread with Christ.
While I was in line, a small blonde girl rushed past me and brushed against the sleeve of my dress shirt. She was so forceful, for a second I thought the button on my cuff was pulled off. She giggled.
“Laura?” I called out softly. What was she doing here?
Ma quickly adjusted my shoulders forward and said, “Shh.” I looked up at her and saw that she was looking at the altar and not at the girl who had whizzed past. Had she not seen?
I tried to see where Laura had gone. I was concerned that she was in only a summer dress and not proper church clothes, especially because of the cold. But she was nowhere to be seen. There were so many people shuffling about, lining up for communion. They all towered over me while I peered between them trying to figure out where Laura went.
“Sssssst. Look forward.” Ma gently adjusted me again in the line, as the priest approached.
We left the church close to one o’clock in the morning. We stood at the door taking turns changing our shiny shoes for our salt-stained winter boots. Carefully, in slow motion, and with a lot of giggles, Ma and I made our way back to our apartment building on Lawrence Avenue. Sheets of ice lay before us, each one a challenge. Ma held my hand as I skittered across an icy puddle, the threat of bubbles and water underneath its semi-frozen surface. I made it to the other side, leaving only a crack, like on the windshield of a car after an accident.
We heard a fire truck in the distance. My mother made the sign of the cross, as she usually does whenever an ambulance or a fire truck passes. El nombre del Padre, del Hijo y del Espíritu Santo, Amen. The sound of the truck came closer.
When it passed us and beat us to our own apartment building, my mother fell on a patch of ice. I helped her up. We rushed as fast as we could, suddenly impervious to the slip and fall, toward our home.