that day because Papi had stayed home sick from work. Usually, Junior and I would go to Ana’s first and then play outside till Papi got home. I didn’t need to check in with Ana, because she would know that Papi was home. My mother had coffee with Ana every day before she went to work; there was nothing about each other’s lives that they didn’t know instantly.
When we came round the corner, I could see Moncho, Ana’s husband, hanging out the window on the third floor of their building, washing the windows but also looking intently at passersby. That was odd, I thought. When he saw me, he waved at me. He didn’t stop. He kept on waving furiously, signaling to me, and then he yelled “Sonia! Junior! Come upstairs!” in a voice that meant business. Junior bounced ahead of me, happy to see Moncho.
But when Ana opened the door, something was terribly wrong. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and her face was pale. This wasn’t some everyday fuss that just happened to reach the level of tears; something had shaken her deeply. She wouldn’t explain, but she started to cry and made us wait while she phoned Mami, saying to Moncho, “Celina should tell them.” Moncho was quieter than I’d ever seen him. This was all so strange that I was scared but also riveted as I watched to see what would happen next. Ana said, “Let’s go,” and we walked downstairs and across the way to our building. It was the shortest of walks, butit took forever. It was hard to move my legs, as if dread were weighing them down.
Alfred opened the door to our apartment. His eyes, too, were red. Tío Vitín was there, and I could hear other voices. I looked into the living room and saw many faces looking back at me with the same teary gaze. Mami was sitting in the chair by the telephone in the hallway, staring into space, her eyes wide and wet. Junior said to her, “Where’s Papi?”
“Dios se lo llevó.”
God took him. I could see that Junior didn’t understand. I did. She meant that Papi had died. But what did
that
mean? Had he become a spirit? I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel, or say, or do. As if from a far distance, I could hear my own voice joining all the other voices crying. I ran down the hall and threw myself on the bed. I was sobbing, pounding my fists, when Ana entered the room.
“Sonia, you have to be a big girl now. Your mother’s very upset; you can’t cry anymore. You have to be strong for your
mami
.”
So that’s what I’m supposed to do? I stopped crying. “I’m okay, Ana.” She left me alone. The stillness in the room was louder than the noise down the hall. I remembered that morning how Papi had called out from the bathroom, saying that since he wasn’t going to work, he wanted to make us a Sunday breakfast, even though it was a weekday. Mami had yelled: “Go back to bed if you’re sick, the kids don’t have time, they have to get to school, and why are you taking so long shaving?”
WE HAD BEEN at the funeral home for hours. It felt like forever, but my mother and Abuelita and my aunts had been there even longer, for days. It was important not to leave the body alone, and they all had to keep each other company. Mami didn’t want Junior and me to come, but Titi Aurora insisted, because the nuns and Monsignor Hart were coming from Blessed Sacrament. It wouldn’t be respectful if Junior and I weren’t there when they showed up.
The room smelled of flowers, cologne, and perfume masking a mustiness. People were speaking in whispers, looking at the floor, shakingtheir heads. There was talk of premonitions, a greeting or casual word exchanged with my father over the last few days that now took on greater significance; the way he had shaved and dressed up that morning, even though he was home sick. As if he had known. Everyone agreed that he was a good man, a family man, and that forty-two was a tragically young age to go. And Celina so young too, a widow at thirty-six with two young kids!
My
When we came round the corner, I could see Moncho, Ana’s husband, hanging out the window on the third floor of their building, washing the windows but also looking intently at passersby. That was odd, I thought. When he saw me, he waved at me. He didn’t stop. He kept on waving furiously, signaling to me, and then he yelled “Sonia! Junior! Come upstairs!” in a voice that meant business. Junior bounced ahead of me, happy to see Moncho.
But when Ana opened the door, something was terribly wrong. Her eyes were puffy from crying, and her face was pale. This wasn’t some everyday fuss that just happened to reach the level of tears; something had shaken her deeply. She wouldn’t explain, but she started to cry and made us wait while she phoned Mami, saying to Moncho, “Celina should tell them.” Moncho was quieter than I’d ever seen him. This was all so strange that I was scared but also riveted as I watched to see what would happen next. Ana said, “Let’s go,” and we walked downstairs and across the way to our building. It was the shortest of walks, butit took forever. It was hard to move my legs, as if dread were weighing them down.
Alfred opened the door to our apartment. His eyes, too, were red. Tío Vitín was there, and I could hear other voices. I looked into the living room and saw many faces looking back at me with the same teary gaze. Mami was sitting in the chair by the telephone in the hallway, staring into space, her eyes wide and wet. Junior said to her, “Where’s Papi?”
“Dios se lo llevó.”
God took him. I could see that Junior didn’t understand. I did. She meant that Papi had died. But what did
that
mean? Had he become a spirit? I didn’t know what I was supposed to feel, or say, or do. As if from a far distance, I could hear my own voice joining all the other voices crying. I ran down the hall and threw myself on the bed. I was sobbing, pounding my fists, when Ana entered the room.
“Sonia, you have to be a big girl now. Your mother’s very upset; you can’t cry anymore. You have to be strong for your
mami
.”
So that’s what I’m supposed to do? I stopped crying. “I’m okay, Ana.” She left me alone. The stillness in the room was louder than the noise down the hall. I remembered that morning how Papi had called out from the bathroom, saying that since he wasn’t going to work, he wanted to make us a Sunday breakfast, even though it was a weekday. Mami had yelled: “Go back to bed if you’re sick, the kids don’t have time, they have to get to school, and why are you taking so long shaving?”
WE HAD BEEN at the funeral home for hours. It felt like forever, but my mother and Abuelita and my aunts had been there even longer, for days. It was important not to leave the body alone, and they all had to keep each other company. Mami didn’t want Junior and me to come, but Titi Aurora insisted, because the nuns and Monsignor Hart were coming from Blessed Sacrament. It wouldn’t be respectful if Junior and I weren’t there when they showed up.
The room smelled of flowers, cologne, and perfume masking a mustiness. People were speaking in whispers, looking at the floor, shakingtheir heads. There was talk of premonitions, a greeting or casual word exchanged with my father over the last few days that now took on greater significance; the way he had shaved and dressed up that morning, even though he was home sick. As if he had known. Everyone agreed that he was a good man, a family man, and that forty-two was a tragically young age to go. And Celina so young too, a widow at thirty-six with two young kids!
My
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