Don’t Know’s on third,” he said, and winked again. “See you Tuesday.”
9
I barely had time to finish all my homework that weekend. Saturday got kind of busy after dinner, when Dad and I trounced Mom and Abuelo in team dominoes after a lengthy match/rematch syndrome that nobody wanted to end. Abuela came out to kibitz during the commercials of the Spanish television miniseries she was watching,
El Amor
y Almuerzo
.
“Love and Lunch?”
I said. “What kind of show is that?”
Abuela scrunched up her face, cracking the thick whitish-pink lipstick she’d applied with a steamroller. “No love and lunch,” she said. She began to try to explain, then shook her head. “These things, they do not translate literal-
mente
.”
And Sunday we all drove to the old neighborhood to go to twelve o’clock Mass. This seemed to take all day, because Abuela and Abuelo stopped to chat with a few hundred of their old friends out on the church steps afterward.
St. Ignacio’s is nothing like St. Edna’s, our sleek, modern church in the suburbs. At St. Edna’s, the furnishings are so spare that the stations of the cross look like the universal symbols on rest rooms and road signs. St. Ignacio’s, on the other hand, was built a hundred years ago, when Catholics still believed in pumping up the decor to inspire the proper state of awe.
The building itself is made of huge limestone blocks set stories high, broken by vaulted archways of heavy honey-colored wood at every door and window. Wide concrete stairs frame the church on all sides, and an old-fashioned copper-tipped steeple, the metal long gone to sea green, tops it off. Tiny first-floor windows shine a deep amber, etched in a crisscross pattern, and a rainbow of stained glass forms starburst designs around ornamental crucifixes in the large panes overhead. Personally, I wouldn’t mind visiting St. Ignacio’s more than just a couple of times a year.
Inside, hundreds of votive candles flicker from orange glass holders in little alcoves set with kneelers. Rows of maple pews face a high stage that houses the altar and organ. The loft above them holds a choir balcony. The way it’s cut out of the wall reminds me of a puppet theater. St. Edna’s doesn’t have a stage for its altar, much less a loft, choir, or puppet theater. We are supposed to focus on the priest, and therefore on God. I couldn’t help thinking that if God had a flair for the dramatic, as all accounts suggested, he’d probably like St. Ignacio’s better.
Out on the steps, my brother, Mark, practiced his pitching windup while I trailed after Mom and Dad, who were saying hello to people they knew. A man about Dad’s age, huskier and with more dark hair, approached, shook Dad’s hand, then grabbed him in a bear hug.
“Berto Paz,
¿cómo estás?
”
“
Quién
. . . Rudi? Rudi García, is that you?”
They danced around a minute; then the man released my father. “This is Rudi García, everybody. Diane, Violet,” he presented us. “Mark,” he said uncertainly, looking over a shoulder; then he spied Mark’s blue Cubs hat a ways away and pointed him out. “Rudi and I grew up on the same block. He moved away when we were teenagers. What are you doing back in the old neighborhood,
amigo
?”
“You know what? I got tired of L.A. It’s no place to raise four daughters. Too many movie stars, no?” Rudi smiled, his round cheeks pushing laughter right up into his dark brown eyes. “So this is your Violet,” he said. “I hear you are making your
quinceañero
. Congratulations!” To Dad and Mom, he said, “You must be very proud.”
“Proud?” Dad’s olive skin ripened a shade, and he tried to cover with a goofy smile.
Mom came to the rescue. “Oh, we are
very
proud. Violet turned fifteen this month, but the celebration is in May. You’ll come, won’t you? And bring your family.”
Rudi nodded. He clapped a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Put me down for some of the refreshments,
amiguito
.
9
I barely had time to finish all my homework that weekend. Saturday got kind of busy after dinner, when Dad and I trounced Mom and Abuelo in team dominoes after a lengthy match/rematch syndrome that nobody wanted to end. Abuela came out to kibitz during the commercials of the Spanish television miniseries she was watching,
El Amor
y Almuerzo
.
“Love and Lunch?”
I said. “What kind of show is that?”
Abuela scrunched up her face, cracking the thick whitish-pink lipstick she’d applied with a steamroller. “No love and lunch,” she said. She began to try to explain, then shook her head. “These things, they do not translate literal-
mente
.”
And Sunday we all drove to the old neighborhood to go to twelve o’clock Mass. This seemed to take all day, because Abuela and Abuelo stopped to chat with a few hundred of their old friends out on the church steps afterward.
St. Ignacio’s is nothing like St. Edna’s, our sleek, modern church in the suburbs. At St. Edna’s, the furnishings are so spare that the stations of the cross look like the universal symbols on rest rooms and road signs. St. Ignacio’s, on the other hand, was built a hundred years ago, when Catholics still believed in pumping up the decor to inspire the proper state of awe.
The building itself is made of huge limestone blocks set stories high, broken by vaulted archways of heavy honey-colored wood at every door and window. Wide concrete stairs frame the church on all sides, and an old-fashioned copper-tipped steeple, the metal long gone to sea green, tops it off. Tiny first-floor windows shine a deep amber, etched in a crisscross pattern, and a rainbow of stained glass forms starburst designs around ornamental crucifixes in the large panes overhead. Personally, I wouldn’t mind visiting St. Ignacio’s more than just a couple of times a year.
Inside, hundreds of votive candles flicker from orange glass holders in little alcoves set with kneelers. Rows of maple pews face a high stage that houses the altar and organ. The loft above them holds a choir balcony. The way it’s cut out of the wall reminds me of a puppet theater. St. Edna’s doesn’t have a stage for its altar, much less a loft, choir, or puppet theater. We are supposed to focus on the priest, and therefore on God. I couldn’t help thinking that if God had a flair for the dramatic, as all accounts suggested, he’d probably like St. Ignacio’s better.
Out on the steps, my brother, Mark, practiced his pitching windup while I trailed after Mom and Dad, who were saying hello to people they knew. A man about Dad’s age, huskier and with more dark hair, approached, shook Dad’s hand, then grabbed him in a bear hug.
“Berto Paz,
¿cómo estás?
”
“
Quién
. . . Rudi? Rudi García, is that you?”
They danced around a minute; then the man released my father. “This is Rudi García, everybody. Diane, Violet,” he presented us. “Mark,” he said uncertainly, looking over a shoulder; then he spied Mark’s blue Cubs hat a ways away and pointed him out. “Rudi and I grew up on the same block. He moved away when we were teenagers. What are you doing back in the old neighborhood,
amigo
?”
“You know what? I got tired of L.A. It’s no place to raise four daughters. Too many movie stars, no?” Rudi smiled, his round cheeks pushing laughter right up into his dark brown eyes. “So this is your Violet,” he said. “I hear you are making your
quinceañero
. Congratulations!” To Dad and Mom, he said, “You must be very proud.”
“Proud?” Dad’s olive skin ripened a shade, and he tried to cover with a goofy smile.
Mom came to the rescue. “Oh, we are
very
proud. Violet turned fifteen this month, but the celebration is in May. You’ll come, won’t you? And bring your family.”
Rudi nodded. He clapped a hand on Dad’s shoulder. “Put me down for some of the refreshments,
amiguito
.
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