MY GRANDFATHER, Daniel “Danny” Brennan, spent the first sixteen years of his life hemmed in by what he called that “goddamn southern man’s world.” Gramps, even as a teenager, couldn’t stomach pre-civil rights Mississippi and left home as soon as he was old enough to earn a real wage. He still likes to tell me how one Saturday morning, before his parents and younger brothers woke, he packed a patched-together cardboard suitcase with a few pieces of clothing, gathered up $16.25 from a sock he had tucked away under his mattress—money carefully saved working for two years as a soda jerk in town—and left Biloxi forever.
Mississippi. The word still emanates from Gramps’s mouth with disgust. Why his father, Sean Brennan, decided to leave Ireland and settle with his new wife in Biloxi never made any sense to Gramps. After all, what was wrong with Chicago, New York, Boston, or even the West Coast for a good Irish family? But Sean Brennan was, by all accounts, a bit off. He thought he could make his fortune selling men’s suits in Biloxi. He said the Irish had helped settle the place a couple of hundred years back so the Brennans should fit right in. But a couple of hundred years in a place could change a people. Those old Irish families now resembled all the other good southern clans while the newly arrived Brennans did not. The fresh-off-the-boat Irish immigrants were just one step above Jews and Blacks as far as the town was concerned. This simple fact did not help the men’s suit business. Even with the establishment of Kessler Air Force Base in 1941, Sean Brennan couldn’t sell enough to make a decent living. Suffice it to say that when Gramps slipped out that morning, his father had little to show for his efforts other than an impossible mortgage on a small house, a ridiculous five-year lease for a less-than-elegant storefront, four growing sons, and one despondent wife. It was probably a relief that he had one fewer mouth to feed.
So Danny Brennan, in glorious 1948, hitchhiked to sun-soaked Los Angeles to make his life among the movie stars, palm trees, and ethnically diverse population. Houses were going up like crazy to make room for the returning G.I.s. Culver City, Canoga Park, North Hollywood, everywhere. Gramps found work pretty fast in construction, helping to bring these new neighborhoods to life. Danny Brennan looked much older than he was, and at six foot one, with an easy smile, he found steady work without too much trouble. He eventually became a foreman with Boyle Construction, the youngest man on the payroll. James Boyle was an Irishman too, and he kind of saw himself in Gramps. But then it was easy to like Danny Brennan. Sure, everyone teased this big Irish boy who spoke like a southern gentleman. But he laughed at each joke and made certain he sounded more southern than before.
That charm held him in good stead. It even landed him a date with James Boyle’s niece, Katherine Elizabeth Boyle, who worked as the receptionist for her uncle’s business. Katie’s father had been an officer in the army but he didn’t make it back from the war. And her mother died of breast cancer a year later. Boyle and his wife took Katie in without a moment’s hesitation. Anyway, after a half dozen dates, and with James Boyle’s blessing, Danny and Katie got engaged in 1951. But then the Korean conflict intervened and Gramps enlisted with the Marines rather than be drafted. He came back in one piece two years later to a relieved, steadfast Katie. They married on February 6, 1954, in a fine Roman Catholic ceremony at St. Agnes Church on Vermont near Adams, the Reverend Joseph T. G. Ryan officiating. That church still bustles with parishioners in the new structure built in the 1960s, but most of the masses are now held in Spanish, with one in Korean. It’s a few blocks from USC, where I went to law school. Gramps and Grammy now attend Corpus Christi in Pacific Palisades. A really rich parish. Anyway, Gramps did pretty well for himself at Boyle Construction. James Boyle happily made him a full partner a few years after Gramps married Grammy. And Gramps eventually took over day-to-day operations and tripled the company’s size by implementing modern business theory mixed in with a lot of sweat and common sense.
About ten years ago Gramps sold Boyle & Brennan Construction for more than I even want to think about. At first I thought it was crazy to sell, but in the end it made perfect sense even to my teenage logic. You see, Gramps and Grammy could only have one child, my mother, Anne. And there was no way Mom was going to run a construction company. She had other plans, like majoring in biology and then going on to medical school. Which she did. Mom’s in obstetrics at Cedars-Sinai. And Dad practiced with the district attorney’s office for about fifteen years before running for an open seat on the Superior Court, which he won pretty easily four years ago when I started law school. They have nothing against the building industry. They just had other interests.
How all this relates to my dating La Queenie will make sense in a moment. Particularly with respect to Gramps. You see, I’m a true believer in telling the whole story, not just the bits and pieces that suit me. It’s the lawyer in me. So be patient with my storytelling. Let me begin at the beginning. If you don’t let me, you won’t get the whole picture and you’ll walk away from all this feeling a little uncertain and very confused. And you certainly won’t understand La Queenie and what she did that rainy Monday morning four years ago.
It began on a Sunday. I was a first-year law student at USC. God, that was an exciting time. Dad just about floated above the clouds with joy at my decision to go to law school. And the fact that his alma mater accepted me, well, I don’t think he could have been prouder. And Mom was pleased that I was able to maintain both my Catholicism and liberal politics, just as she had. Even when she couldn’t bear sermons that dwelt too heavily on the abortion issue, Mom attained some kind of sublime peace when she attended Mass. And so did I when I started law school. But I didn’t really like going to Mass at Our Savior Catholic Center on University Avenue. I had more than my fill of other students during the week and I wanted to be out with regular people. You see, my plan was to do something to help the world with my law degree. Maybe poverty law or perhaps the public defender’s office. So I decided that I might as well attend Mass at St. Agnes, which was only a few blocks away from my little apartment and on the hallowed ground where Grammy and Gramps got married.
My Spanish was not too shabby after spending the last three summers before law school in Cuernavaca and taking Spanish all through high school and college. So going to Spanish Mass at St. Agnes was pretty cool, and it reminded me of my time in Mexico. I liked to attend the 5:00 service so that I could grab dinner afterward at this little Mexican place that served the best damned carnitas I ever tasted. And this was a great Mass to attend if you enjoyed people-watching. But you’d have to choose a good place to sit to take it all in. The back of the church was best for that. When I got there the last pew was usually empty. But a few minutes after the Mass started, the stragglers would shuffle in looking kind of embarrassed and trying not to be noticed by the priest. Which means they ended up with me. Because my white face was pretty rare in that church, these folks would usually do a double-take but then they’d nod, smile, and settle in without another acknowledgment of my being different. Eventually, after a few weeks, I recognized the stragglers and they got accustomed to seeing the lone, tall “gabacho.”
One Sunday evening, about ten minutes into the Mass, I saw La Queenie for the first time. She came in later, even later than the stragglers, and stepped over everyone to get to the one small empty spot next to me. She panted heavily as if she’d been running. From the second she took her place until just before Communion, La Queenie kept her eyes on the altar, not the priest. And I kept my eyes on her. She was pretty, not beautiful, but something about her attracted me. La Queenie looked to be about twenty-five or thirty years old. She stood no more than five foot one or two. Her clothes were inappropriate for church: an oversized man’s dress shirt tucked tight at the waist of dark-blue Dickies. La Queenie’s outfit—if you could call it that—was clean but wrinkled, as if it’d been lying in a pile most of the day. She smelled of sweat and too much perfume. A battered pair of white Chuck Taylor high-tops encased her little feet. Maybe because I’m tall like Gramps, I’ve always gravitated to tall women. At least five seven. But at that moment, I imagined what it would be like to get into La Queenie’s bed. Her white Oxford shirt accented both the deep brown of her neck and the brilliant blackness of her hair, which curled this way and that down to her shoulders. I imagined lying on a big bed with this tiny woman on top of me, arching her back, tossing her hair away from her face and then falling forward and encasing me in that black shroud of curls.
The more I stared at her, the more she seemed to concentrate on the altar. I wanted to get her to acknowledge my presence but I didn’t want to be a jerk about it. It wasn’t like I hadn’t dated Mexican women before. But this one was different. My opportunity eventually came with the natural rhythm of the Mass. I don’t know if you’re Catholic, but just before Communion is served, the priest tells us to offer each other a sign of peace. When I was with Mom and Dad, this would include a hug and a kiss on the cheek. But here at St. Agnes, with folks I didn’t really know, it meant a handshake, a nod, and a mumbled “La paz está con usted.” So I turned to La Queenie, held out my hand, and offered an abbreviated “Paz.” And what she did surprised me.
She took in a deep breath as if she were screwing up her resolve and turned to me, head-on. “My name is Reyna Escondida,” she said in softly accented English, even though I had spoken in Spanish. She held out her hand and kept her eyes on mine. “But people call me La Queenie,” she added.
I reached for her hand and grasped it. La Queenie flinched but then immediately smiled and tightened her own grip. Her little hand almost disappeared in my oversized paw.
“I’m Bobby,” I said. “But people don’t call me anything else.”
“Hello, plain, simple Bobby.”
I started to laugh but remembered that we were in church. La Queenie held my hand for several seconds longer than you should with a stranger. For some reason my touch seemed to calm her. She eventually pulled her hand away and turned her gaze back to the altar. La Queenie seemed to be mouthing something, not to me, but to whatever kept her eyes locked at this spot just below the huge crucifix and to the left, by the wooden throne-like chairs where the priest and attendants would sit at several points during the Mass.
After everyone finished giving the sign of peace, it was time to receive Holy Communion. The ushers came to each end of the pews, beginning with the ones up front. They’d nod to let each row know when they could join the Communion line at the edge of the altar. When an usher finally reached our pew, I tried to let La Queenie go first but she only shook her head and sat down. I didn’t think twice about it then. Receiving Communion is a personal thing and sometimes when I haven’t been to confession for a few weeks, I don’t feel ready for it. But now I know why she didn’t go that day.
After Mass we walked out of St. Agnes without saying a word. The parishioners slowly filed out, at first quietly. And then, as families and friends joined up in little huddles and the children were freed of the holy shackles of Mass, Spanish filled the air and laughter took the place of solemn prayer. This was my favorite part of attending Mass at St. Agnes. I miss it. Anyway, I think the only two people who weren’t talking were me and La Queenie. We stood looking around, not quite sure what to do next. At least I didn’t know.
“Did you drive?” she finally asked.
I turned to her. “No,” I answered. “I live just a few blocks away.”
“Why?”
“Not everyone in L.A. is afraid of walking.”
La Queenie narrowed her eyes. “No,” she said, looking a bit annoyed. “Why do you live around here?”
Before I could answer, the crowd started to react in a different way. I looked up to the church’s front doors and saw that the priest had parked himself where he could meet and greet his flock. He wasn’t the usual priest. His name was Padre Novas and he came from El Salvador. During his sermon he’d said that he’d be visiting for a couple of months and was already enjoying Los Angeles very much. He was pretty young, probably no older than thirty-five or so. He had a full head of black bushy hair with just a touch of gray at the temples. The female parishioners fawned over him and he seemed to enjoy the attention. Even the older women chatted him up. Watching this, I didn’t notice at first that La Queenie had started walking down the street.
“This direction?” she asked, without turning around.
“No,” I said. “This way.”
She turned and walked past me. I had to trot to catch up.
“Let me make you dinner, just plain Bobby,” she said.
“I don’t have much in the fridge.”
But I was more concerned about what my apartment looked like. I tried to remember if I had picked up my clothes from last night and if the toilet was clean. But no matter. La Queenie had her own plans for that night.
Even though I’m engaged now and truly love Brenda, that first night I spent with La Queenie will be with me forever. And we didn’t even make love. In fact, we really didn’t do much other than spend time together, barely talking. I did eventually explain that I attended law school nearby, hoping that would impress her. It didn’t. She wanted to know more about my family and where they came from. So I ended up talking mostly about Gramps. La Queenie listened to the whole story about him running away from home and starting in L.A. from scratch.
“I think I’d like him,” she said.
“He’s getting up there in years, though.”
“My father used to say: Viejo el aire y todavía sopla.”
I laughed.
“Do you know what it means?”
My Spanish is pretty good and I like these old Mexican sayings. “Old is the wind and it still blows,” I proudly announced.
La Queenie clapped. “¡Bravo!” she cheered.
After dinner I served up some Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, the only really good thing I had on hand. La Queenie loved it. Actually, that doesn’t quite describe her reaction to her first taste of the ice cream. She put a little on her tongue, closed her eyes, and went to a different world. I can’t explain it otherwise. She let out a little moan when she swallowed and then her eyes popped open. “This is now my favorite,” La Queenie announced.
I laughed.
“When we finish,” she added, “I want to lie down over there and take a short nap.” She tossed her head back in the direction of my big leather couch in what I called the living room. It was my best piece of furniture by far.
“Sure,” I said, with less than gentlemanly thoughts running through my head.
“And you, just plain Bobby, you can sit next to me in that chair and read a law book.”
Dreams of wild passion dashed. At least I had the Ben & Jerry’s. But that was fine. Because I had a feeling—eventually proven correct—that something would happen between me and La Queenie. Anyway, after another serving of ice cream, she put our bowls in the sink and let out a yawn. “Do you have a blanket?”
She was serious about that nap. I ran to the bedroom and grabbed a blanket and a fresh pillow from the closet. I came back to the kitchen but La Queenie was already curled up on the couch. As I approached, she put out her hands to receive the pillow, which she slid under her head. She smiled. I covered her carefully with the blanket and she closed her eyes. I grabbed my civil procedure book and settled into the chair next to her.
Within a few minutes little snores emanated from La Queenie. I felt good and just a bit proud of myself, as if I had taken in a stray kitten. I read a few pages, looking over to La Queenie every so often. Before too long I grew tired and dozed off too.
I woke with a start as the front door clicked closed. In La Queenie’s place on the couch was the blanket, neatly folded, with the pillow placed carefully on top of it. I looked at my watch. Almost midnight. I sighed but felt good about the evening. It had been odd, nothing like any other time I’d spent with a woman. But that was okay. Then a wave of panic came over me. La Queenie had never given me her phone number or told me where she lived.
All through my classes the next day, I worried about how I could find her again. I even went to Monday night Mass hoping to find her. Padre Novas was there again but the crowd was light, which is pretty common for weekday services. It seemed that mostly the older folks prayed that often. But I had hoped that La Queenie would be an exception. I went to Mass each night that week looking for her. I got to recognize the regulars and they started acknowledging me. Even Padre Novas nodded and smiled at me right around Wednesday when I went up for Communion. But I didn’t see her at any of these masses. It wasn’t until Sunday that she appeared again. And again, La Queenie came in late, again looking wrinkled but wearing a different outfit. And yet again she didn’t go up for Communion but focused on an invisible spot on the altar.
This time I had made certain that my apartment was clean and that my fridge and cupboards were filled with as many dinner options as I could dream up. La Queenie seemed pleased. She settled on spaghetti with a salad. And I had overstocked the freezer with six different kinds of Ben & Jerry’s. But she went straight for the Cherry Garcia. I couldn’t blame her for that. And afterward, instead of La Queenie taking a nap while I studied, she kissed me and led me to my bedroom.
This became our routine. I’d only see La Queenie on Sundays, at Mass, and then off to my apartment for dinner, dessert, and bed. She always waited for me to fall asleep before she snuck out. I tried to stay awake but never managed to, and La Queenie possessed a preternatural talent for disappearing when I was dead to the world. And during those five weeks I told her more about my life and family but she didn’t tell me much about hers. It’s not as if I didn’t ask. She just found a way to answer without giving away much and then she’d change the subject. She never divulged her phone number or address or even what she did for a living. La Queenie evaded my queries so expertly that I didn’t realize until much later that I knew virtually nothing about her.
On our fifth Sunday together, after dinner but before dessert, she made an announcement. “I must meet your grandfather.”
I blinked. She hadn’t met my parents yet. It wasn’t as if I was hiding her or anything. My parents are cool with my dating women of different backgrounds. But at the time they’d wanted me to focus on law school so I’d been hesitant about mentioning her to them. And La Queenie had never asked to meet my parents. But now she wanted to meet Gramps. No one else. Just Gramps.
“Why him?”
“Because he’s like me,” La Queenie said very slowly, as if she wanted to be careful about how much she revealed. “He took a chance for a new life.”
“And?”
She shifted in her chair, clearly not comfortable with my probing. But I persisted. “And what else?”
“And I think he’s someone I can trust,” she answered.
I didn’t push her any further, though in retrospect I probably should have. Anyway, we planned a nice little dinner for the three of us at my place for the next Sunday after Mass.
Gramps had to fib a little to Grammy. He knew that I wanted to keep La Queenie a secret, at least for a while longer. He kind of found it exciting and quite flattering. “But do I have to call her ‘La Queenie’?” asked Gramps when we spoke on the phone the day before our planned dinner date. “I mean, Bobby boy, ‘Reyna’ is so much prettier, don’t you think?”
He was right, of course, but La Queenie had been so insistent about what I should call her that I never broached the subject again. “Gramps, you’d have to ask her.”
He thought for a moment. I could hear him take a sip from his Saturday night treat of Jim Beam on the rocks. The ice cubes tinkled just a bit. “Why does she go by ‘La Queenie’?” he finally asked.
“Her real name translates to ‘queen,’ so I guess that’s where it comes from.”
He took another sip of his drink. “Makes sense,” he said. And then he surprised me: “Do you mind if I join you two for Mass before dinner?”
I didn’t think that Gramps went to Mass much anymore. But what the hell, I thought. Why not? “Sure, Gramps, but you won’t understand a word.”
“Not to worry, Bobby boy,” he laughed. “I think I’ll know what’s happening.” And then another pause. Finally, he added: “How about I pick you up and then we’ll swing by Reyna’s place so we could get to Mass together?”
I hesitated. I didn’t want Gramps to know that I had no idea where La Queenie lived or that I didn’t even have her phone number. To me this wasn’t odd but Gramps, he’d smell something fishy. I thought fast. “She said she had something to do before Mass and that she’d meet me there,” I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
“Oh,” said Gramps.
“Why don’t you come by my place and we’ll walk over to Mass? It’s only a couple of blocks and I want you to see the neighborhood.”
“Don’t forget I got married at that church.”
“But a new building went up after that,” I reasoned. “And the area has changed a lot. Some people say not for the better, but I like it.”
That seemed to assuage him. Anyway, the next evening Gramps showed up wearing a blue blazer, gray slacks, and a crisp dress shirt, the ensemble anchored by a brilliant red tie. He looked sharp. I wore my usual Levi’s and a sweater over a white T-shirt. He shook his head and teased me and my generation for how we dressed, even for Mass. After an appropriately short tour of my tiny apartment, we headed over to the church. He looked around at the neighborhood shops and restaurants, grinning. “These folks knew where to settle when they left their countries,” said Gramps. “Not like my da,” he added.
When we approached St. Agnes, Gramps let out a sigh. I almost could hear his thoughts: things have changed so much over the years, from the church itself to the parishioners, with their dark skin and different language. I didn’t see sadness in his face, just a wistfulness that must come with age. We walked up the steps and found a place in the back pew, even though Gramps had wanted to sit up front. When Mass started and La Queenie was nowhere to be found, Gramps grew impatient. He craned his neck to the left and right, searching for her, even though he didn’t know what she looked like.
“Relax, Gramps,” I whispered. “She always shows up around ten minutes late.”
Gramps frowned at this bit of information. He thought lateness was a sign of disrespect. Luckily, La Queenie showed up at that moment. She had dressed up for the occasion in an outfit I had never seen before: a baby-blue silk blouse and a navy skirt. Simple, but it accentuated her petite figure and made my mind wander to our times in bed. I almost regretted that Gramps was there. I looked at him. His face had broken into a wide grin, his eyes crinkled up with delight. La Queenie gave him a big hug and he hugged back. She had enchanted Gramps in seconds. After settling in, we all turned our attention to the altar. La Queenie’s smile fell from her face. She leaned into me. “Where’s Padre Novas?” she asked in an almost panicked voice.
Sure enough, a different priest was up there where Novas had been these last six weeks. I shrugged. “He was only visiting,” I ventured. “Maybe he went back to El Salvador.”
Throughout Mass, La Queenie shifted and squirmed as if she wanted to make a break for it and flee the church. When it came time for Communion, she again stayed put while Gramps and I went up. Gramps found this odd—at least that’s what his expression told me. La Queenie didn’t calm down until Mass finished and we went out to the cool evening air. As we started our walk to my apartment, Gramps asked what was on our menu.
“Chilaquiles, nopales salad, and Ben & Jerry’s,” announced La Queenie.
“I understood only that last part,” laughed Gramps.
“You’ll love the rest,” I said. “And it’s a fast meal to cook.”
Gramps suddenly stopped in his tracks. “Say, Bobby boy, mind if your lady friend and I let you go ahead and we’ll drop by a store to get dessert?”
“But we have ice cream.”
“Can’t do dairy anymore, Bobby boy.” He added in a confiding tone as he tapped his midsection: “Gets me sick to the stomach, if you know what I mean.”
La Queenie grabbed Gramps’s arm. “Yes, Bobby, I know where we can get some great pan dulce. Go ahead and start cutting up the tortillas for the chilaquiles.”
“Okay,” I said. “But if Gramps can’t have dairy, you’ll have to skip the cheese in the chilaquiles.”
Gramps waved his large hands as if he were shooing away flies. “Cheese doesn’t bother me. Just ice cream and milk.”
“All right,” I said. “Go get the pan dulce and I’ll prepare the tortillas.”
“But don’t rip them with your hands,” she instructed. “Use a knife and make pretty triangles.”
As we separated, I could hear Gramps announce to La Queenie with a chuckle: “Even I know what pan dulce is.”
I strolled back to my apartment. A beautifully restored Buick Riviera coupe glided by blasting a Reggaetón song for all of us to enjoy. A couple of young cute girls looked up and waved at the occupants. The driver honked. Normally I would have enjoyed this scene, but something about the way Gramps maneuvered this time alone with La Queenie made me suspicious. Gramps was nobody’s fool. And neither am I. I racked my memory. I was certain that I’d seen him enjoy mounds of ice cream at every recent family birthday party. But what could I have done? Accuse him of lying?
When I got back to the apartment, I pulled out the tortillas from the fridge and located my sharpest knife. Pretty little triangles, La Queenie had instructed. By the time I heard them walking up the creaky wooden steps that led to my front door, I’d cut a huge plateful of tortillas and had time left over to heat the oil in a skillet and set the table. The door opened and La Queenie came in first, looking radiant. Her face expressed something beyond happiness. It was relief; she’d looked as if she’d just gone to confession and unburdened her conscience. And Gramps followed closely. He sported a wide tight grin. But his eyes expressed strain, something akin to pain but not quite. La Queenie presented me with a large pink bakery box and then inspected my handiwork. “Pretty little triangles,” she said as she proudly held up a specimen for Gramps to admire. “¡Excelente!” she added and then kissed my cheek as if I were a well-behaved child.
Gramps nodded. “My grandson is a smart boy,” he said. “A smart boy.”
Dinner went exceedingly well and my prior suspicions slowly faded away. La Queenie let Gramps call her Reyna and Gramps relaxed after a couple of cold Dos Equis. La Queenie easily persuaded him to regale us with tales about Biloxi and his first days in L.A. She was a perfect and adoring audience. After dessert Gramps called it a night, claiming that Grammy was a distrustful old lady who would surely think he was running around with a loose woman. We all laughed and tried to imagine the kind of “loose woman” Gramps would fall for. He eventually left, but not before La Queenie gave him a tight hug. Her face reached only as high as his chest—just as it did with me. Gramps, patting her dark hair, looked at me over the top of her head. I couldn’t decipher his look then, but the next day I understood what his eyes were saying.
“You’re lucky,” said La Queenie as we lay in bed that night.
“I know,” I answered as I pulled her in closer.
“No, that’s not what I mean.”
She untangled herself from my arms and propped herself up on one elbow so she could examine my face. The streetlight outside my bedroom window offered just enough of a glow so that we could discern each other’s expressions. A curl fell over La Queenie’s left eye. “I mean to have a grandfather like that,” she said.
I reached up and tried to move her hair away but it simply fell back over her eye with a slight bounce. I then coaxed her into my arms and pulled the blanket up to our necks. It was a cold night and I thought that maybe, if I held her tight enough, La Queenie would stay until morning. But my plan failed.
When the phone rang, I sat up abruptly, not remembering where I was. With each sharp ring, reality seeped in. La Queenie was gone. I glanced at my alarm clock: 7:00. My first class didn’t begin until 10. I finally reached over to the nightstand and grabbed my cell.
“Bobby boy,” said Gramps.
“Hi.”
“Is she there?”
“No,” I mumbled as I rubbed my chin’s stubble.
“I figured as much.”
“What?” I said. “Gramps, what do you mean?”
Silence. Then: “Bobby boy, can I buy you a cup of coffee this morning? So we can talk?”
We settled on a Coffee Bean midway between my apartment and his home. It had rained a bit the night before and the streets were slick. It looked as if it could shower again at any moment. I found Gramps already sitting at a table with two cups in front of him. He seemed ready to give me his impression of La Queenie. And I tried to brace myself for the worst. But I wasn’t prepared for what he did say. “She’s a pretty girl,” he began as he wrapped large hands around his coffee cup. “And I think she has a good heart.”
“But. . . ,” I said.
“But,” Gramps ventured, “but she has a couple of problems.”
I took a sip of coffee and burned my upper lip. “Shit,” I blurted.
“You need some cold water?”
“No, thanks,” I said. “I’m ready, Gramps. Let me have it.”
Gramps patted my arm. “She’s disturbed, Bobby boy.”
“Well, so am I,” I said as I patted my lip with a napkin.
Gramps took his hand off my arm and sat back. “She’s mentally ill,” he said.
I didn’t really understand what he’d just announced. I mean, I knew what the words meant, but I couldn’t quite absorb them.
“But we had a great evening,” was my inappropriate response.
“She told me a few things when we went for the sweet bread.”
I focused on his eyes. The usual twinkle was nowhere to be found. He looked, well, I don’t know how to describe his face. It was as if he were about to tell me that my parents were dead or something. Gramps gritted his teeth. And then he let it all out. “Reyna told me that she’s pregnant,” he began. “But the baby isn’t yours.”
I didn’t expect this. La Queenie was as petite as the day I met her. Not a sign of pregnancy. And why would she tell Gramps this? Why not me? Didn’t she trust me? And how does this make her “disturbed”?
“Did she tell you who the father was?” I finally ventured. And then it struck me. That priest, Padre Novas. La Queenie had seemed so shaken by his absence yesterday. I asked Gramps if my suspicions were correct.
“No,” he said. “If she had said that, I think we could deal with the situation. After all, it would have been fairly normal in the whole scheme of things.”
“Who then?”
Gramps looked over to the line of people waiting to order their lattes, Earl Greys, and Guatemala Antiguas. His eyes rested on a young woman who held a squirming girl in one arm while she chatted on her cell phone. The girl wore Hello Kitty pajamas and big pink slippers. She smiled at Gramps. He offered a grin and a little wave, to the girl’s delight. And for a moment Gramps seemed to forget that I sat across from him waiting for an answer. Finally he turned back to me.
“So?” I asked. “I don’t see how she’s crazy.”
“I didn’t say she was crazy,” he said, a bit annoyed at being misquoted. “I said ‘disturbed,’ which is not as coarse.”
“Okay, why is she disturbed?”
“Bobby boy, Reyna told me that”—and then Gramps coughed as if he couldn’t get the words out—“she said that Jesus was the father of her baby.”
I blinked hard. “You mean Jesús, right?” I said. “It’s a common Mexican name.”
Gramps shook his head slowly.
“She couldn’t really believe that,” I said.
“Let me tell you everything she told me, Bobby. This isn’t easy to say, but I better.”
“Okay,” I said as I fell back into my seat. “Shoot.”
And Gramps did. He said that La Queenie had wanted to unburden herself of this secret but she’d been fearful that I wouldn’t understand. She felt that someone like Gramps would be good to talk to because of his age. She wanted some reassurance. Anyway, she told Gramps that Jesus had first appeared to her two weeks before I met her at Mass. In fact, it was the first Mass that Padre Novas had said as a visiting priest. During his sermon, La Queenie learned of the atrocities that Padre Novas had witnessed in his country. She felt that he was wise and serious and brave. After Mass La Queenie introduced herself to him. She asked him to hear her confession, which he did. Afterward, as La Queenie walked back to her apartment, she heard a voice behind her. She turned. By a mailbox a few yards away stood Jesus. La Queenie told Gramps that she was a bit startled, not because Jesus stood right there on Vermont Avenue, but because she knew without question that he was, in fact, Jesus.
“He smiled at her,” said Gramps. “And then said: ‘Be my bride, Reyna.’”
“You don’t believe this?” I said. It was a stupid question but the words came out of me before I could think.
“Of course not, Bobby boy,” Gramps whispered without taking offense. He took a sip of coffee. “But she believes it without question.”
“What happened next?”
“Reyna said that she had to obey because no one can deny Jesus. But she immediately went back to Padre Novas and told him what she had heard and seen. The priest offered to walk her home so they could talk in private. She said the priest believed her. After that Padre Novas would make a habit of visiting Reyna for an hour or two each Sunday before Mass. They’d pray, or so she said. And each time the priest left to get ready for Mass, Jesus would appear to Reyna—standing in her bedroom, not wearing a stitch of clothing, ready to embrace his new bride. And that’s how she believes she got pregnant.”
My mouth hung open and I’m certain that I looked like an idiot. I wasn’t certain what to do or what to ask. I eventually let out a weak, “What else?”
“Well,” said Gramps as he cleared his throat, “after that first time she and Jesus made love, Reyna met you at Mass. That’s when Jesus appeared to her during the Mass itself, standing on the altar. She said that Jesus told her that you were a good man and that she should give herself to you as freely as she had to him.” Gramps leaned close. “That’s pretty much it, Bobby boy.”
“Oh, so I’m a gift from Jesus,” I sneered.
“Now, Bobby, don’t.”
I felt like strangling someone. That damn priest. He had preyed on La Queenie knowing full well that he could take advantage of this beautiful but delusional woman.
“Bobby boy, listen: Reyna is a sweet girl, a kind person, but she’s broken. And I don’t think you or I have the ability to fix her.”
He was right and I knew it. But I felt adrift, lost. I asked Gramps what I should do.
“Maybe suggest a counselor,” he said. “Your mother must have some names. And then move on with your life, Bobby. You have too much to lose.”
He walked me to my car and gave me a big hug. Gramps had nothing more to say; he had said all that he could. As I drove home I replayed my nights with La Queenie. Yes, she was a bit quirky, but I couldn’t put my finger on one thing she’d ever said or done that would have betrayed her mental illness. Nothing.
It started to sprinkle. As I approached St. Agnes, I almost jumped when I spotted La Queenie and Padre Novas on the sidewalk just outside the church. The priest sheltered under a huge black umbrella. Several suitcases were stacked neatly by his feet. And La Queenie stood about a foot away, gesticulating wildly, yelling something. It looked as though the priest had been waiting for a taxi and La Queenie had ambushed him. Maybe she’d come to her senses and realized that Jesus had not gotten her pregnant—this handsome charismatic man of the cloth had. I don’t know. As I came closer, I could see nothing but embarrassment on the priest’s face. He turned away from La Queenie, searching for his taxi, I’m sure, and then caught my eye as I eased closer in the thick traffic. His eyes seem to say: Save me, please.
And I’ll never forget what happened next. La Queenie turned to see what Padre Novas was looking at and she saw me. She immediately stopped her tirade. It seemed as if everything had become clear to her at that moment. Traffic started to pick up and I moved faster along the slippery street. I didn’t want to stop. I needed to get to my apartment and think. But then something happened. As I accelerated my tires hit a puddle or grease patch, I don’t know what, and I began to lose control of the car. I pumped the breaks once, twice, three times, but I couldn’t regain control. My car began to fishtail; I heard several honks. And at the last moment before Padre Novas fell in front of me, my eyes met La Queenie’s. Her smile broadened. The priest died before the ambulance came.
At the trial I testified about the incident just as it had happened. I tried to help, though. Over the objection of the district attorney, I said that I didn’t think La Queenie meant to push Padre Novas, that she was troubled because she had found out she was pregnant by him. She never took the stand. I think if she had, she could have gotten convicted of a lesser charge because everyone would’ve understood just how troubled she was. But the jury found that she had planned to kill the priest and if it hadn’t been my car, it would have been someone else’s. I doubt that. I think seeing my face is what gave La Queenie the strength to do what she did. When we locked eyes. . .I’m haunted by the thought she might have misinterpreted what I did. I’d nodded, just a bit, and she’d nodded back. You know, like we had agreed on a plan of action. I didn’t mention this on the stand because I figured it wasn’t relevant, not really.
It’s been four years since the trial. La Queenie used to write to me a lot from prison and I wrote back a couple of times. But I stopped answering after the first year, though her letters kept on coming. Eventually, I guess, she gave up. The last letter I got was in December, a few days before Christmas. I just couldn’t bring myself to maintain contact. I had to begin fresh and put the whole thing behind me.
Brenda and I plan to marry this summer. She’s absolutely brilliant; no doubt she’ll be a judge someday. We both graduated last year in the top 5 percent of our class. Brenda now works for the antitrust division at the U.S. Department of Justice and I landed a nice job downtown with one of California’s largest firms. I figure I can do public interest law later, a few years down the road, after I’ve paid off a few debts. Some of my friends say I sold out. But they don’t realize that some good things are worth waiting for, right? You have to set your priorities and think long term. That’s what Gramps taught me. And he’s the best role model a boy could ever have.