AFTER Bodega and Vera left I went back to bed. All I can remember of the rest of the afternoon was waking with Blanca next to me. She had arrived home tired, hadn’t even bothered to take her clothes off, and flopped down on the bed. Blanca is not a light sleeper, so I got up thinking I didn’t have to be very quiet.
“What’s that bottle of champagne doing in the kitchen?” she mumbled.
“Wha’?”
“The champagne. What’s it doing in the kitchen?” I told her. “When did she arrive?” I told her that, too. “Who’s this Izzy?” With my help she remembered. “Oh, that’s the guy she was going to marry but didn’t.” Her voice conveyed complete exhaustion. She shifted her body into a more comfortable position. I was happy that she didn’t really care and happier still that I had not used Bodega’s name but rather his old one, Izzy, keeping her from making a connection.
I went to the living room, opened the window, and took the ring that Vera had given me out of my pocket. It was as I remembered it when she’d placed it on my palm; just as radiant, golden, and heavy. The inside was engraved For My Wife, Veronica. Not anymore, I whispered to myself. This is my wife’s now.
Then I thought, no woman wants another woman’s ring. But the diamond was huge, so that took care of that. But then Blanca would read the engraving and know whose it was, so that was a problem. What about sending it to an engraver to scrape the inside, get rid of the dedication? But Blanca would still ask me how I’d got it. I found it? Nah. So that left me with the truth. The truth was all I had and Blanca believed in the truth. To her the truth would set me free. I hoped that it would at least let us keep the ring. So I waited for Blanca to really wake up. When she opened her eyes, I showed her the ring.
“We have to give it back!” she said without hesitating.
“She doesn’t want it.”
“They were drunk, Julio. It’s the right thing to do.”
“Look, your aunt never wanted to marry this guy,” I said as Blanca held the ring up to the light.
“She loves this Izzy guy. Always has. You should have seen them, they were like kids.” Blanca stared at the ring. She liked it, but her conscience was a strong judge. I wanted her to have it, so I lobbied as hard as I could.
“No one will know.”
“God will know,” she said, taking her eyes off the ring to glare at me as if I had personally ripped the ring off God’s finger.
“Yes, but He knows everything, so why even bother? No disrespect, but since He knows everything, even the outcome of our lives, why even have Him be an ingredient in this discussion? Look, she gave it to me. It’s like throwing it away and me finding it. Can that be bad?”
“Yes, you’re right, let’s leave God out of this because you know nothing about God. And we didn’t find it,” she said, clamping her lips together firmly. “If my aunt doesn’t want the ring, the right thing to do is to give it back to the man who bought it for her.”
“Why!”
“Because it’s his ring.”
“Not if he gave it to her. If he gave it to her, that makes it her ring and if it’s her ring she has the right to give it to whoever she wants.”
“This is wrong, Julio.” Blanca gave me back the ring. “Return it.”
“NO! I’m keeping it. If you don’t want it then I’m pawning it. We have at least four or five months’ rent here.”
“Give it back. He gave it to her as part of a promise. She broke that promise so she has to give it back!”
“Blanca, come on—”
“I’m not going to be a part of this, Julio. Pastor Miguel Vasquez and Claudia come on Friday …” That did it. That day I said things I shouldn’t have ever said, or at least not the way I did.
“You know, Blanca, you really light me up when you get this way. You constantly knock me about being sexist and whine that all Latin men have some sort of sexism in them and that you feel as if your intelligence is being ignored when I do certain things, even though they are for the good of the family, may I add—”
“Julio—”
“No, let me finish. Then you come up with this shit about sin and your church. And see, Blanca, you can’t fully believe in that book”—I pointed to the bookshelf where Blanca kept her Bibles—“because it’s the most sexist book ever written. Yet you get on my ass and say I disrespect you when I sin, when I do things that I shouldn’t do, like when I smoke a joint here and there, when I want to keep a ring that was given to me, but”—I was on a roll—“when you go to church you get disrespected all the time. The women are treated as if they were just there to glorify their husbands, their children, and their pastor.” And with that remark, I saw Negra in Blanca’s eyes. I looked around for things she might throw at me.
“You know nothing!” she erupted. “Let me tell you, Julio, just because I believe in God doesn’t make me a weak woman! My mother was strong. She paid the bills, she made the decisions, she fixed up the house, and she still went to church.”
“Oh please, Blanca, your mother never had your education. Even her sister Veronica only got lucky and married well, in terms of money, that is. But if they’d had your education maybe they’d have done other things with their lives. You are going to be your family’s first college graduate and you know things they don’t. You were influenced by ideas your mother never knew existed. When you complain that you’re gonna feel awkward graduating with a big belly, I know what you really mean. You mean people are gonna think, ‘She may be smart, but she was stupid enough to get herself knocked up.’ But when you go to church it all changes. They like you pregnant and you like them to like you pregnant.” Blanca just smirked, crossed her arms, and looked at me with the confidence of someone who had plenty of ammunition for a counterattack.
“Qué bonito, eh. Qué bonito. You are lecturing me about what it is to be a woman balancing her intellect and her faith. When all you really want is to keep some stupid ring for the cash.”
“It’s not just about a ring, Blanca. You get mad at me for, as you put it, leaving you in the dark. But you know I read that entire Bible and rarely did any of the men tell their wives what they were going to do, they just went and did it. That’s the book you live by. Me, I know that’s wrong. I know I should tell you things because I know you can help me. I know that you’re good for me. And I know you’re smarter than me.” She raised an eyebrow. “I mean it, Blanca. You’re smarter. But at times I think that the things I’m going to tell you will clash with that book and so it’s better not to tell you. Either way, I lose.” I wanted to go for broke and tell her other things. Like, I knew who killed that reporter. But I just couldn’t. She would send Sapo to jail and maybe leave anyway.
“Blanca, why does me becoming Pentecostal have any bearing on you getting your privileges back? On you playing the tambourine in front of the congregation? Why do they look at me and my faults and not you and your merits?”
“Because it was my decision to marry you. Therefore I am responsible. It makes sense. Listen, if I’d cared more about playing the tambourine in front of the congregation than for you I would’ve never married you. I would have married a believer. But I didn’t, right? I married you. I know that the pastor can be wrong at times. The pastor makes mistakes. But God doesn’t. And He knows that I care for you, and if it was wrong to have married you then I just hope His mercy is truly bottomless. There is no sin that can’t be forgiven.”
“Never mind, I don’t want to talk to you when you start preaching.” I started getting my books ready for that night’s class. There was a small silence. After I packed my knapsack, Blanca stepped in front of me. She crossed her arms again.
“I saw Negra today.”
“So what? Look, don’t you have class tonight?”
“She was beat up pretty bad.”
“Victor?”
“Yes.”
I wasn’t surprised. “Hey, Blanca, I got my own marital problems—”
“Stop it! Just listen! She’s in the hospital and she told me to tell you to get in touch with someone named Bodega.” My heart jumped. I stopped what I was doing and looked Blanca in the eyes. I wondered what Negra had told her. “She said that you would know this Bodega. And that this Bodega would take care of Victor, because he owes you. And you owe Negra.”
Have you ever had that feeling, like when you were a kid and had played hooky all last week and thought you had gotten away with it, and then at the most pedestrian of times, let’s say when you are making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich or just watching TV, your father comes with a letter from school in one hand and his belt in the other. And your head feels like it’s on fire and your mouth feels as dry as a saltine.
“I know something is wrong, Julio.” Blanca was calm. Blanca was always calm, especially when she had the upper hand. Her eyes would be steady and her face expressionless. Only her lips would move when she needed to talk. “Is there something you want to tell me, Julio?”
“You know those two, Blanca. They’re schizo. One day they’re like Punch and Judy and the next they’re Romeo and—”
“Bodega,” she said. “That was the man Enrique took you to see that night. And don’t you lie to me. I’ve heard his name too many times since then. They say he owns these buildings. They also say other things about him. Some good, some bad.”
“Yeah, I heard them too, so what?” I brushed past Blanca to make believe I was going to get something from the fridge.
She followed me. “What do you have to do with him?”
“Nothing.” I opened the fridge but there was nothing in it I wanted. I closed it and there was Blanca in front of me. “I’ve got nothing to do with him.”
“You sure?” Arms folded, she moved in closer and pinned me against the fridge. Her face was right there and she must have seen my pupils grow small.
“Nothing. Other than we have to pay him rent,” I said, and moved my body away from her. Blanca cocked her head slightly, making a mental note of this.
“Julio, tell me whatever it is that you are doing.”
“Negra is crazy! Victor is crazy too!” I lost it and began to shout at Blanca. “And you’re crazy for even listening to her!”
“This isn’t about Negra, it’s about you,” Blanca said, raising her voice and poking a finger at my chest after every syllable. “It’s about you and what you’re not telling me.”
“Aren’t you pregnant? God, that kid must have a headache.”
Blanca trailed me around the apartment. “This has nothing to do with Negra. I don’t want us to get involved in Negra’s marital affairs. This has nothing to do with them. It has to do with you hiding things from me about this guy, Bodega, whoever he is. This is what it’s all about, you hiding things. It’s not about church or God or sexism or whatever it is you want to bring up in this fight. It’s about you”—she poked my chest again—“hiding things from me.”
“All right, you win! You want to know everything,” I said, holding up the ring. “You win! You win, Blanca. When I give this back to your aunt you just come with me, cuz he’ll be there.”
“Who’ll be there?”
“Bodega. Thass who. He is this Izzy, the same guy your aunt really wanted to marry. And if you want to ask him anything, anything, any damned thing, then you go ahead.” Blanca fell silent.
That was the day I knew Blanca would leave if she found out all that had been happening. So I had no choice but to throw Bodega at her, knowing he wouldn’t tell her everything and it was just as well. Stupidly, I was hoping for the best. As if things left alone can fix themselves. I hoped things would bury themselves, like reverse evolution, creation going backward. I hoped that everything would just take care of itself, that the hurtful things Blanca and I had said would be forgotten when the baby came along. The baby would make us allies again because the baby was more important than either of us and we had to be together to fight all those horrible things the world had in store for our kid.
Afterward, after the yelling, the apartment took on a sinister hue. Blanca did everything in her power not to speak to me and I did the same. When we both needed the bathroom we had to say a few words to each other. Small, polite words that meant no more than when you brushed a stranger in the street and apologized.
I walked out of the apartment fed up with all of them: Blanca, Negra, Victor, Bodega, Vera. All of them.
•
AFTER CLASS I decided to wander around the neighborhood and look for Sapo’s car. I didn’t see it and asked around. No one seemed to know anything. I had to leave it alone because it was obvious something was being covered up and I didn’t want to look like some idiot who didn’t get the picture. So that night, I kept walking amid sounds of fire engines and the smell of smoke. But the night sky looked calm and the concrete beneath me was no different than before, covered with gum wrappers, tinfoil, plastic bags, and other garbage. It was a good night to walk and think. What worried me was Negra. I needed to talk to her about Bodega. I needed to find out what Negra knew about Salazar. Because if Negra knew everything, I didn’t want her telling Blanca. Unlike Negra, Blanca would go to the police and then they’d be closer to Sapo.
I really didn’t want to ask Negra why Victor had beaten her up; I wasn’t their marriage counselor. And there was no way I was going to ask Bodega to beat Victor up. I had my problems, Negra had hers, Bodega had his.
But it was too late for visiting hours at Metropolitan Hospital, so my talk with Negra would have to wait for another day.
I didn’t want to go home with Blanca still angry at me. I decided that just this once, I would go and meet her at her church. Maybe that would lighten her up, get me back on her good side.
So I ate a slice and killed some time reading until it was time for church.
LA CASE Bethel Pentecostal, Blanca’s church, was filled to capacity that night. Many Pentecostals from neighboring temples had come to see and hear for themselves the seventeen-year-old anointed, Roberto Vega. He who was supposedly anointed by God and would rule with Christ for a thousand years. I couldn’t have picked a better night to show up and make up with Blanca. I arrived a bit late, but when I went inside the temple, anyone that caught my eye smiled knowingly at me, as if they were saving me. They were always looking out for new converts. Knowing I was Blanca’s husband, one brother ushered me to the row where she was sitting. Blanca was really into the sermon, and only when she saw it was me sitting next to her did she smile and squeeze my hand. She quietly introduced me to the stocky, short woman with beautiful black hair sitting on the other side of her. It was Claudia, the girl from Colombia that Blanca was trying to help. After that, Blanca just held my hand and her eyes returned to the figure standing alone behind a lectern on the platform.
“There was once a slave girl,” the tall, handsome, and very young Roberto Vega said calmly in Spanish. “And she was bought at a huge price by a king who transformed her into a princess, me oyen? And she was given laws and riches, me oyen? And out of all the princesses she was the most beautiful because her king blessed her, me oyen? And he treated her with respect, kindness, and love.” Someone yelled “Alleluia!” “He treated her like she was his flesh. Like she was gold, silver, and jewels. Me oyen? Ustedes me oyen?” Yes, we hear you, the congregation murmured in unison. Blanca and Claudia were hanging on this kid’s every word, like he was telling them a love story.
“And he loved her. And she, and she—don’t tell me you don’t know what she did. Don’t tell me you don’t know that she later left to fornicate with other kings. Don’t tell me you don’t know that she left her king and went with others, and don’t tell me you don’t know this princess was called Israel. And she went with other gods and slept with many idols. You still don’t know what she did?” Alleluia! Tell us, tell us, sí dinos, the congregation begged him. Roberto’s speech was picking up speed. He talked faster and faster but he knew exactly when to apply the brakes and give the people time to contemplate what he was saying. “I’ll tell you what she became. You all know what she became, don’t tell me you all don’t know what she became. She became a harlot!”
Alleluia!
“A whore!”
Alleluia!
“A prostitute!”
Alleluia!
“A slave girl to the nations again!” Roberto’s words rushed one after another, like a Catholic reciting the rosary. “And you know who her king was. Don’t tell me you don’t know who her king was. He was the Lord Jehovah who bought her, paid highly for her! She was a slave in Egypt. And He broke her chains, sending her to Moses to free her. And the Lord treated her like a queen. Treated her like gold, silver, jewels.”
Now Roberto Vega was bouncing his head as if jazz were being played somewhere not far away and the congregation was coiling slowly like a snake, waiting for the Holy Spirit to strike. Roberto’s arms waved in the air like windmills and his face was no longer that of a boy but of a prophet baptized by fire.
“But she forgot who saved her! Who took care of her! Who brought her out of bondage. And to punish her, to punish her, to punish her, you know what happened? Don’t tell me you don’t know what happened. I know you know what happened.” Although they know, they beg for the answer. They can feel the Lord in their midst. Their souls are swollen with excitement, just waiting to erupt. They will soon fly with angel wings and He will wipe every tear from their eyes, and death will be no more, nor will mourning or strife or pain. “To punish her He made her walk in sand for forty years. And she returned to her king, the Lord, and He loved her and sent her David!”
Alleluia!
“But when David died, she returned to her immoral ways!”
Alleluia! Cristo salva!
“And He sent her Isaiah!”
Alleluia!
“Sent her Jeremiah, to make her quit being a whore!”
Gloria a Dios!
Alleluia!
“Sent her Ezekiel! And she didn’t repent!”
Cristo salva!
“Sent Daniel! And she didn’t repent!”
Bendito sea el Señor!
“Sent her Zechariah, Malachi, but she didn’t repent!” The congregation was growing angry because Roberto had imbued them with outrage. When was the Holy Spirit going to strike? How could the nation of Israel have done this to their Lord, who treated her so kindly? “And then He sent them the ultimate prophet! Don’t tell me you don’t know who that is. Don’t tell me you forgot who delivered you. Don’t tell me you forgot who took you out of slavery. Who is your savior? Cristo! Cristo is your savior and He carried your sins! And He healed you! And He—! And He—! And He—!”
“He saved me!” someone cried, leaping from her seat. “He saved me, He saved me.”
On the platform Roberto Vega wiped his forehead, pointed at the sister in tears. “Yes, yes, He saved you! And He paid a price for you. He gave His life for you. He was nailed for you. He became a man for you.”
“He delivered me!” another person confessed, joyfully bouncing up and down.
“Yes, for you too! He died for you! For who else, for who else?”
“Gloria a Dios!” someone from the back shouted.
“For who! For who!” It had started. The Holy Spirit had invaded. I was thinking, Please, Blanca, don’t freak on me. Please, I’ve never seen you like this ever, I know you do this but please, not in front of me.
“He saved me!” Claudia shouted. Her thick torso and hips were shaking, her eyes watering, her small hands pounding at her heart.
Roberto pointed at Claudia. “Yes, He saved you. Before, you were a slave. A prostitute! A whore! A harlot to the ways of the world. But now He has delivered you!” Claudia began to wail as if someone close to her had died.
“He saved me! Cristo salva!” some brother cried, poking at his eyes as if he was in torment; as if he was Oedipus about to rip his eyes out. Blanca smiled an enlightened smile as tears poured down her face. Her eyes glowed as if she could see the kingdom of God. It was a strange glow, lighting eyes all over the room. Blanca’s face didn’t look hysterical, just a little transfigured. She had been there, in paradise. Had seen it for herself and it was all true.
“And He carried your sicknesses! Your sins! Forgave your transgressions! Your imperfections!”
Alleluia!
Alleluia!
Alleluia!
It was infecting every corner, spreading in all directions, resonating from wall to wall. A palace of vibrations praising Jehovah.
In a church full of Latinos with tear-stained cheeks, young and old had gathered together to hold hands, rough hands, soft hands, and pray and reach out to the Lord. They had waited for the Holy Spirit to arrive and take over their bodies. And now, that joyous moment was at hand. I felt strange and wished I could believe like they did. But I couldn’t. Blanca’s hand was sweaty and hot in mine. Her heart beat just as fast. The congregation was about to sing, to make a joyful noise to the Lord. Roberto Vega was leading them, making them see the promised land. Even though they lived here, in this concrete desert, tonight they would go home, walking the streets of Spanish Harlem fearing no evil, for the Lord was with them.
Now Roberto was telling them love stories. About God in love with mankind. Of Jehovah being the personification of love. It was a love song he was yelling, although only I could hear him yell, to the rest he was whispering.
“Owing to the fact that I have found you precious in my eyes,” Roberto read quietly from the book of Isaiah, “you have been considered honorable and I myself have grown to love you. And I shall give men in place of you! And nations in place for your soul!” The Holy Spirit was calmed, like an ocean after a storm. Many people had returned to their seats. Roberto had calmed them, calmed the Spirit of God. He now spoke softly; I could feel the young girls start to swoon. The older women shut their eyes and returned to their past; the older men envied Roberto. Blanca for a moment was in love with the figure standing alone on a bare platform with only the American and Puerto Rican flags keeping him company.
It was a humble place, made up of rows of folding chairs and walls of Sheetrock covered by cheap wood paneling. A dirty red carpet, with huge gum-stained circles as big as cherries covered the floor. The ceiling had two fiberboard panels missing, exposing the electrical wires. The room provided no distractions. Perfect for those like Roberto Vega who wished to have all eyes, ears, and hearts tuned to their words.
“My brothers and sisters, never leave the truth,” Roberto pleaded. “Never turn from the light. The darkness will enslave you, like before, before the Lord saved you. Our Lord Christ will never turn His back on us. Even if we leave Him, He will never leave us.”
Then what’s the point, I was thinking. If He would stay with me anyway, why should I pay Him all this attention?
“He suffered for us. He was crucified, nailed for us.”
I agreed. They nailed his left hand to Spanish Harlem, his right to Watts, his feet to Overtown, Miami. The slums were full of his followers. His words were all over the neighborhood, murals screaming at you in the street, that He was your Lord and Savior. His spirit was all over El Barrio, but I didn’t see Him living among us. You wouldn’t catch Christ, in the flesh, living in the projects.
“Please, now,” Roberto said, his voice lifting again, “join me in song.” The congregation rose. Blanca reached for her tambourine. Some brother put a record on an old player and music began booming from the loudspeaker. Four sisters joined Roberto at the head of the platform to clap their hands and pound their tambourines. It was a privilege to praise the Lord on the platform, to lead the congregation in song. Once, before she married me, it was Blanca up there, and it still pained her to have lost such a privilege. But that night I knew she was happy. Like the rest, she was high on Roberto Vega’s words. They had seen the coming of the Lord. He was coming soon, maybe even that very night. Roberto Vega had told them so. The kingdom of God would arrive, and they would all go to heaven, to the penthouse in the sky. Until then, they would go back home to the rats and roaches.
“Arrepiéntete, arrepiéntete, Cristo salva! Arrepiéntete, arrepiéntete, Cristo salva,” they sang. Blanca, her heavy body, baby and all, joined in the song. The sounds of feet stomping, hands clapping, tambourines shaking, and the sobbing of both men and women filled the room. Whole families were worshiping: aisles full of husbands; wives near the broken piano, babies asleep in their arms, as if angels were covering their tiny ears so they wouldn’t wake up as everyone praised the Lord at full volume. “Hoy se ven todas las señates! El fin está cerca, arrepiéntete, arrepiéntete, Cristo salva!”
Afterward, Roberto said a prayer, and when he had finished everyone murmured Amen. The church now had its feet back on the ground. Everyone was back on planet Earth, the Holy Spirit had left the building, and casual conversations started up.
Blanca hugged me. “I’m so happy you came,” she said.
“I’m happy you’re happy,” I replied. From the corner of my eye I saw Roberto Vega join his parents and hug them. Others came up to shake his hand, congratulating him on such a great sermon.
“So you’re Claudia. I’ve heard all these good things about you,” I said in Spanish to Blanca’s sister in faith, but she didn’t acknowledge my presence. Her eyes were still on Roberto Vega.
“She’s in love with him,” Blanca whispered as Claudia left to go to Roberto’s side. He was the Lord’s stud, swarmed by sisters in Christ who all hoped to be his chosen.
“Let’s go meet him.” Blanca took my hand and led me toward him. I was just happy that the fight we’d had earlier seemed to be forgotten.
“That was beautiful. As if Paradise was there in front of me,” a teenager gushed to Roberto.
“All praise be to my Lord, Jesus Christ. We are all but vessels for Him to use,” Roberto said modestly. Sweat streamed down his face and his shirt was drenched. His mother was holding his hand, his father standing tall because his family had been touched by God.
“When he was just nine years old,” his mother told the brothers and sisters that surrounded them, me and Blanca among them, “I remember I was cooking. I was making pasteles and Robertito walked into the kitchen. He had the most beautiful expression you can imagine. His face was always handsome but that day his face was so beautiful that I knew something had happened. So I asked him—”
“Mami, please, not again—” Roberto protested, half joking.
“Just one more time, Robertito.… He walked into my kitchen,” she continued, “and his face was like a fire. And he said, ‘Mami, I want to get baptized.’ I said, ‘You are too young to get baptized. You have to study more about the Bible before you can make a commitment like that.’ But his face was still aflame, and that’s when he told me, ‘Mami, last night, He came and spoke to me, Christ spoke to me.’ And it was his face that made me believe him.”
“So he took his Bible studies,” his father interrupted, to his wife’s annoyance, “and got baptized at nine years old.”
“And later,” his mother jumped back in, “later he told us that the Holy Spirit had told his soul he had been anointed.” No one questioned them. No one doubted for a second. Who would after that speech? I wouldn’t. If that kid was going to heaven to rule with Christ, then I just hoped he wouldn’t forget the little people and would put in a good word for me and Blanca.
Claudia extended a nervous hand toward him and introduced herself. He smiled and asked her where she was from. Blanca butted in and invited Roberto, his family, and Claudia over for dinner. I knew what she was up to. Fortunately, they politely declined her offer. That’s when Pastor Miguel Vasquez joined us.
Pastor Vasquez was in his late fifties. He always wore polyester suits, even during the summer. He was from Ponce but had grown up in the neighborhood, and when he gave his sermons he’d stress how Christ had saved him from a life of petty street crime. I had seen him in action a couple of times, when his church picked a corner and, using the electricity from a lamppost, plugged in a mike and some electric guitars and preached the hell out of the neighborhood. You could hear them blocks away. “Cristo salva! Alleluia! Ven regresa al Señor!” They’d hand out leaflets and later jam their church salsa, with the guitars and tambourines and a drum set. All that church music bounced off project walls, circling its way around the neighborhood. I had seen Blanca join in those sessions, but I had always avoided the chosen corners.
“Julio, qué bueno verte, muchacho!” Pastor Vasquez called out. He always spoke in Spanish, though he understood and could speak English when he needed or wanted to. My parents are the same way.
“Estoy tan ansioso de cenar con ustedes este viemes.” As soon as Roberto’s mother heard that Pastor Vasquez was coming for dinner on Friday, she had a change of heart.
“Of course we’ll have dinner with you, Hermana Mercado,” Roberto’s mother told Blanca. Claudia’s face lit up.
Afterward, Blanca stocked up on the religious cards, booklets, and leaflets she hands out every Saturday morning. Then she kissed half the women in the congregation goodbye, making small talk along the way. I waited patiently because it meant a lot to her. Finally, after more goodbyes and gushing about how great a speaker God’s anointed was, Blanca and I were out the door and walking home.
“So that’s Roberto Vega. Impressive. I thought he was very convincing.”
“You should see, sometimes brothers come from as far away as New Jersey to hear him talk.”
“Blanca,” I said, “if you know Claudia is in love with Roberto, why did you invite him to dinner? He’s only seventeen and Claudia looks at least thirty.”
“She’s twenty-seven.”
“For a Latina that’s not married, twenty-seven is ancient. Nobody is going to want to marry her.” Okay, I could have phrased that better. I waited for Blanca’s wrath. I had just patched things up with her and now here I was, starting something new. But Blanca didn’t get mad, in fact she agreed.
“Yes, isn’t that terrible, Julio?” I was surprised at her reaction. “That’s not one of our finest qualities.” I wasn’t sure if Blanca meant Latinos or her church. “It’s a terrible thing that we feel a single woman at twenty-five is over the hill. You should listen to some of the sisters in the congregation bug her. ‘So when are you getting married, Claudia? So when are you going to have children, Claudia? You’re not that young anymore, Claudia, te vas a quedar jamona.’ So much pressure on that poor girl. Meanwhile all the single brothers, young or old, want nineteen-year-old virgins. It’s amazing.”
I started laughing; I liked it when she trashed them.
“Don’t laugh, Julio. Roberto Vega is different. True, he is still young, but he is as mature as a man in his thirties. And Claudia is the most spiritual girl in the congregation. Once he sees that, he might marry her.”
I laughed even harder. “So you think, Blanca, that Roberto Vega is going to give up his celebrity status in your religion to help this girl from Colombia? Blanca, you can be so dumb.” She knew I was half kidding.
“So? It could happen. It could happen. If it’s God’s will it will happen,” she insisted, laughing in spite of herself.
“Of course it’s God’s will. I know God. We go way back,” I said.
Blanca just rolled her eyes at me, punched me softly in the stomach, and said, “Stupid.”
Then she said, firmly, “Well, if Christ wants it to happen, then it will happen.” She knew that part of Roberto’s appeal was not just that he was young and anointed, but single, too. If he got married at eighteen he’d be ruining all that. But she had hopes.
I gave her a quick kiss on the forehead. I was glad I had gone to church, because it had made her happy. That night, walking home with Blanca near me, the streets seemed cleaner, the neighborhood quieter and gentler. We saw a little kid kicking a garbage can bigger than him, yelling that he was the Master of the Universe. What was he doing out so late? If he had been a little girl, I bet his parents would’ve been more concerned. When he kicked the can over and all the garbage spilled on the street, his mother yelled at him from a window above. “Mira, Junito, get your ass up here, o te meto una pela.” We burst out laughing, then began talking about the baby. About names again and about education. We talked in a cute and silly private language of our own. But all that was broken when we reached 109th and Third, three blocks from our home.
“Chino! Chino! Blanca!” A man we knew came running over toward us. It was Georgie Vato. We called him that because his name was George and he was Mexican. When we were kids the play Zoot Suit was very popular, and the characters in it kept calling one another vato. The name stuck. Plus, he was a fat little kid and we would tease him, jeering, “Georgie Vato ate all his tacos and then his gato.” He would protest, “Yo, I ain’t got a cat!” which was the dumbest thing to say because then we could answer, “Thass right, cuz you ate him.”
But that night, his face was serious.
“Chino! Blanca! Your house is on fire!” he called out urgently. “The trucks are still there.”
Blanca and I looked at each other. In El Barrio you always think that the fire engines are headed to someone else’s house. You never think it will be your own home that’s on fire, but when it is, all the toughness, the calloused nonchalance of watching fires and hearing sirens falls away. It takes away your immunity, makes you knock on wood and count your blessings the next time you hear a siren at night.
We ran home. From a block away, it looked as if they were filming a movie. Red lights were flashing. The red-orange blaze engulfing the building looked surreal. The people looked like extras on a set, watching in a tight group from across the street. Every time the fire consumed a new window, the wind creating fireballs that would fly out into the air and dissolve in mid flight, the people who didn’t live in the building would yell, “Olé! Olé!” I saw a woman run down the fire escape with a bucket of water. When she reached the floor where the fire was she threw the contents through the window. Everyone laughed. “Oh, that’ll help.” Someone said the fireman that was escorting her down the fire escape let her do it, because she wouldn’t go with him otherwise. When we reached our side of the street, Blanca drew herself toward me and, shaking, buried her face in my arms. When she pulled away from me a bit, she saw one of our neighbors.
“Are you all right?” Blanca asked.
“I’m fine, everyone got out. And we didn’t have much,” she answered, half in tears as her kids clung to her legs. It might not have been much, I thought, but it was hers. Blanca nervously placed her hand on her stomach. I knew she was thanking the Lord that the fire had happened while she, the baby, and I were at church.
“Cristo salva, gracias al Señor. It’s not the end of the world.”
As we watched the fire grow more stubborn, fighting the firemen and their hoses, our faces were blank. I knew Blanca felt what all of us who lived in that building were feeling. Displaced. Disoriented. No insurance, no new place, everything lost.
Then something happened.
Someone appeared. Someone who looked like he came out of the fire itself. Slowly, like a mirage from a desert sandstorm, a figure emerged walking toward the people. A tall, elegant man came into focus with his arms outstretched and a face of pure empathy. It was Nazario. When the people saw him, they rushed him. They all wanted to touch him as if his touch could make the blind see, the deaf hear, and the mute speak. Blanca and I just stayed where we were.
“Who’s that?” Blanca asked.
“I don’t know,” I said automatically, because when our eyes locked, even from a few feet away, Nazario’s eyes told me all I needed to know.
Fischman had done it. The fire was in retaliation for Salazar. The war was in full bloom.