Seventy-One

Snow had accumulated on the Wise Man’s head, as well as on the camel’s hump, the sheep’s rump, and the cow’s back. A manger-like awning protected the Baby Jesus, as well as Joseph and Mary. They presented their child to the assembled. Behind the Christmas crèche, an adult Jesus floated suspended in front of a cross, his arms raised in blessing rather than stretched in agony. An enormous statue of the Madonna loomed over all of them, gazing across East Boston.

Sal, hatless in the falling snow, ignored the crèche and crucifix. He moved to stand directly in front of the Madonna. She towered above us, 35 feet tall (it said so on the road sign). Her bronze face and hands shone. They had been polished clean. Her draped garment was the copper-oxide green of the Statue of Liberty. One bronze hand pointed above, to heaven, while the other gestured beyond her. A gray void dominated the space behind her. On a clear day we would have seen a vista that included houses, wetlands, airports, and the earthly realm of Boston. Today, the falling snow blocked it all.

Sal genuflected, stood, and said to me, “Show some respect.”

I took off my Red Sox knit cap. Snow melted on my ears. “What are we doing here, Sal?”

I had seen David Anderson’s East Boston meeting place from the highway, and Sal had turned off 1A to reach it. We wound our way through snow-clogged streets, ignoring the recalculations of my GPS app until Sal said, “Shut the fucking thing off.”

He slushed our car past the cookie-cutter buildings of a housing project, on into the bowels of the working-class neighborhood. Clouds of swirling snow had obliterated the sun. Gray light diffused over the neighborhood. There were no shadows. Sal crept past triple-
deckers, studded with south-facing DIRECTV dishes, and the odd, small single-family house.

Christmas lights dominated the street. Most houses sported strings of red, green, blue, and yellow lights. These weren’t the tiny white bulbs of Wellesley, tastefully appointed and lovingly draped across a dogwood. These were colorful expressions of the happy season, following the lines of porches, rooflines, and doors. The inflatable Christmas monstrosities that breathed across the suburban landscape didn’t fit in the snug confines of Orient Ave. Instead, hard plastic Santas waved their greetings—holiday lawn gnomes.

It was noon. Most of the Christmas lights were dark, saving electricity for nighttime. But some had been turned on, perhaps in an effort to ward off the nor’easter’s gloom. Sal parked on Orient Ave, in front of the Don Orione nursing home. Got out. I had followed him across the street into the Madonna shrine.

Sal pointed at the Madonna. “She was the one who made the real sacrifice.”

“What?”

He motioned at the low concrete lean-to that framed the courtyard. “In the story.” Fourteen mosaics surrounded us, protected by the low roof.

I said, “The Stations of the Cross.”

“Yeah,” Sal said. “You learned something in Sunday school after all.”

“What do you mean, she made the real sacrifice?”

Sal looked up at the Madonna’s bronze face. “Didn’t you see it back there?”

“What?”

“In the manger scene.”

“I saw the wise men, the animals.”

“She was a mother. She had just given birth to Jesus. She suffered to bring him into the world.”

“You think God let her suffer?”

“He says that she will in the Garden of Eden story, right?”

I had no idea what he was talking about. “You mean the apple?”

“Yes, because of the apple. Eve ate the apple and gave it to Adam, so God told her that she’d suffer in childbirth. Mary must have suffered too.”

I said, “It doesn’t seem right.”

Sal raised his hand in a dismissive wave. “Ah, what can you do?”

We stood in the snow.

I said, “We’re going to be late.”

“She has this kid, raises him,” Sal said. “Probably gave him a fucking bar mitzvah.”

“We should get going. It’s noon.”

“Joseph, God bless him, gives Jesus a skill. Made him a carpenter. And then—” Snow melted on Sal’s face as he looked up at the statue. Those probably weren’t tears.

“Then?”

“And then Jesus decides to let the Pharisees kill him.”

“Wasn’t that the point?”

“The fucking point? You think Mary raised that kid so he could be killed?” Sal grabbed me by the arm, pulled me across the courtyard in front of one of the mosaics. Mary stood in front of Jesus, bent by his cross.

“What do you think she’s saying?” asked Sal.

“What?”

“She’s telling him that he’s the Son of God. He should save himself.”

I was helpless. I had no idea what to say.

Sal said, “She didn’t ask for any of it. She didn’t ask to be the Mother of God. She didn’t ask to have her kid killed. Jesus got what he wanted. God got what he wanted. Hell, I get what I want. Jesus died for my sins. I go to Heaven. You think I don’t appreciate that?”

“I—I guess.”

“But Mary didn’t agree to lose her kid for my sins. Mary would have told me to go to hell. And she’d have been right. Who would even ask her to watch her son die?” Sal still had my arm. He was squeezing it. Starting to shake it.

“Sal, we gotta go,” I said.

Sal released my arm. Patted it. “You mean I gotta go.”

“What do you mean?”

“I’m not losing you, little cousin. You don’t know what you’re getting into.”

“Neither do you. It’s even more reason I should go.”

“What, so he can kill you too?”

“My mother’s dead, Sal. She’s not going to suffer. I lost Maria. I’ll get her back.”

Mary stood before us, frozen in tile, weeping before her condemned son.

Sal reached into his pocket, pulled out a gun, and handed it to me. “Keep your fucking finger off the trigger.”

I slid my finger out of the trigger guard.

“And put it in your pocket. We don’t want people to see it.”

“Right,” I said.

Sal pulled me close, kissed my forehead. “I love you, little cousin. If Maria’s there, you take her and you run, no matter what. You hear?”

“We’ll see.”

“Fuck no, we will not see. You grab her and take her to Adriana. She’ll take care of her.”

“You’ll take care of her yourself.”

Sal turned, I followed.