didn’t look up from his newspaper when he addressed Diego. He sipped coffee and smoked a cigarette. “You’ll attend Mass each Sunday with us.”
“Yes, Grandfather.”
Doroteo folded the newspaper and looked up at Diego. “Come here,” he said. “Sit.” He rose now and pointed to an empty chair across from his. “You should eat.” He rang a bell, and a servant appeared. “Give the boy some oatmeal. Bread. A glass of milk,” Doroteo said to the woman, who nodded and went back inside.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Diego said, keeping his head down.
“Sit up straight,” the old man said. “And look a person in the face when you address them, child.”
“Yes, Grandfather.” He sat up, pushing his shoulders back, and raised his head.
“After you eat, I want you to return to your room. Someone will be in to take measurements. I’ll have them go out and purchase some new clothing.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Diego responded. The servant returned with a bowl of warm oatmeal, two pieces of sweet bread, and a glass of hibiscus water.
“Very well,” the old man rose now, whistling as he strolled back into the house.
That Sunday, they took him to Mass. His grandmother wore a black dress with white gloves and a lace mantilla over her head. His grandfather donned a striped suit and a top hat and held a cane. Diego wore a new shirt, the collar tight and itchy and stiff, and a pair of thick wool trousers with buttons and suspenders. His black shoes were uncomfortable, and his grandmother had instructed one of the maids to wash and comb his hair and to scrub his hands and beneath his nails. His fingertips hurt now, as he fought the urge to run them through his hair. They arrived at the church and took seats in one of the front pews. Diego tried hard to contain his excitement; the church was massive. There were swooping arches and columns and pilasters with gilded edges. Ornate iron candelabras swung from the high ceilings, supported by thick chains bolted to wooden beams. There were huge stained glass windows, statues of saints resting atop tall pediments, a baptismal font made entirely of silver, and an organ with many brass pipes and a choir that stood nearby, singing. Diego felt small and insignificant sitting there, among such grandeur and opulence. And there were so many people crammed inside the pews that seemed to go on and on, row after row. This was nothing like the church in San Antonio—small, intimate, each individual voice distinguishable when the congregants prayed or sang. There were two lines for Communion, and it took a long time before Diegoreached the front. The priest hardly looked at him and muttered the words “Body of Christ” so quickly that Diego didn’t have time to answer him before moving on. When the priest ended the Mass, and everyone rose from their pews and made their way out, the crowd was vast, deep, hundreds of feet shuffling forward. Diego felt disoriented, dizzy, overwhelmed, and he was relieved once they were outside and he felt he could breathe again.
Several people stopped to say hello to his grandmother and grandfather as they stood on the steps near the main entrance.
“You say he’s your grandson?” a young woman with hair the color of corn silk asked his grandmother.
“Yes,” Doña Julia said. “He’s been away. Living … abroad.”
The woman was so exquisite, her face smooth and flawless, lips bright red, her eyes so wide, like an animal’s, he thought. She wore an elegant pleated dress made of soft fabric with large gold buttons that shimmered and danced each time she took a breath. The top flap of her purse was open and, as she talked to his grandparents, gesturing excitedly with her hands, a lace glove tumbled out and fell on the ground near her feet. When he reached out to grab it, she jumped, startled.
“Give it back,” his grandmother snapped at Diego, taking the glove and handing it to the woman. “My apologies,” she said.
“The
“Yes, Grandfather.”
Doroteo folded the newspaper and looked up at Diego. “Come here,” he said. “Sit.” He rose now and pointed to an empty chair across from his. “You should eat.” He rang a bell, and a servant appeared. “Give the boy some oatmeal. Bread. A glass of milk,” Doroteo said to the woman, who nodded and went back inside.
“Thank you, Grandfather,” Diego said, keeping his head down.
“Sit up straight,” the old man said. “And look a person in the face when you address them, child.”
“Yes, Grandfather.” He sat up, pushing his shoulders back, and raised his head.
“After you eat, I want you to return to your room. Someone will be in to take measurements. I’ll have them go out and purchase some new clothing.”
“Yes, Grandfather,” Diego responded. The servant returned with a bowl of warm oatmeal, two pieces of sweet bread, and a glass of hibiscus water.
“Very well,” the old man rose now, whistling as he strolled back into the house.
That Sunday, they took him to Mass. His grandmother wore a black dress with white gloves and a lace mantilla over her head. His grandfather donned a striped suit and a top hat and held a cane. Diego wore a new shirt, the collar tight and itchy and stiff, and a pair of thick wool trousers with buttons and suspenders. His black shoes were uncomfortable, and his grandmother had instructed one of the maids to wash and comb his hair and to scrub his hands and beneath his nails. His fingertips hurt now, as he fought the urge to run them through his hair. They arrived at the church and took seats in one of the front pews. Diego tried hard to contain his excitement; the church was massive. There were swooping arches and columns and pilasters with gilded edges. Ornate iron candelabras swung from the high ceilings, supported by thick chains bolted to wooden beams. There were huge stained glass windows, statues of saints resting atop tall pediments, a baptismal font made entirely of silver, and an organ with many brass pipes and a choir that stood nearby, singing. Diego felt small and insignificant sitting there, among such grandeur and opulence. And there were so many people crammed inside the pews that seemed to go on and on, row after row. This was nothing like the church in San Antonio—small, intimate, each individual voice distinguishable when the congregants prayed or sang. There were two lines for Communion, and it took a long time before Diegoreached the front. The priest hardly looked at him and muttered the words “Body of Christ” so quickly that Diego didn’t have time to answer him before moving on. When the priest ended the Mass, and everyone rose from their pews and made their way out, the crowd was vast, deep, hundreds of feet shuffling forward. Diego felt disoriented, dizzy, overwhelmed, and he was relieved once they were outside and he felt he could breathe again.
Several people stopped to say hello to his grandmother and grandfather as they stood on the steps near the main entrance.
“You say he’s your grandson?” a young woman with hair the color of corn silk asked his grandmother.
“Yes,” Doña Julia said. “He’s been away. Living … abroad.”
The woman was so exquisite, her face smooth and flawless, lips bright red, her eyes so wide, like an animal’s, he thought. She wore an elegant pleated dress made of soft fabric with large gold buttons that shimmered and danced each time she took a breath. The top flap of her purse was open and, as she talked to his grandparents, gesturing excitedly with her hands, a lace glove tumbled out and fell on the ground near her feet. When he reached out to grab it, she jumped, startled.
“Give it back,” his grandmother snapped at Diego, taking the glove and handing it to the woman. “My apologies,” she said.
“The
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