A Greater Love (6 page)

He was nearly home when two boys his age stepped out in front of him. A cold lump of fear grew in his gut as he recognized the nameless leader of the rich boys who’d been harassing him. It was the first time in the few days since the rotten fruit trick that he had seen any of them.

“Better be careful,” Miguel warned. He lifted the plastic sack in his hands. “I got another surprise in here for ya.”

The boys stepped back nervously, and only fear stopped Miguel from grinning. There was no way they could know he had nothing but fish and milk in the bag, along with the scarf he’d just stolen.

 The leader raised his chin. “We want you to know that we haven’t given up. You’re going to pay for what you did. And pay big!”

Miguel raised his bag overhead as if he were going to throw it. The boys retreated further. Miguel lunged toward them and they bolted. “We’re going to get you!” the leader called over his shoulder. “We’re going to sweep our streets clean of trash like you. Wait and see.”

“Just try it!” Miguel yelled. When the boys disappeared, he lowered the sack, ignoring the worry in his gut, and started to hum.

As usual, he stopped at the community spigot for a drink of water before heading to his shack. One of his neighbors was there, a Senhora Claudia Monteiro. A grubby toddler at her feet tried to touch the water. “No, no,” the woman said. “It’s much too cold. You’ll get your coat wet.” She dragged the child away and focused on Miguel.

“Hello, boy. How ya been? Ain’t seen you around since them lady missionaries left.”

It was at Senhora Monteiro’s that Miguel and Sara had listened to the lady church workers, especially the one from France who’d been the first and Miguel’s favorite. All of the Monteiros except the dad had been baptised into the church, but Miguel hadn’t heard of them attending the church since the missionaries left. It didn’t make any sense to him to join a place and not show up like you promised.

Miguel gave a grunt. “Been busy.”

“That aunt of yours don’t look so good,” Senhora Monteiro continued. “You two might be better off in a home. She drinks worse than my husband.”

“She’s family,” he said shortly.

The lady looked thoughtful. “Them homes ain’t so good, I hear.”

Miguel drank his water quickly and left the woman behind.

Sara and Octávia were waiting when he arrived at the shack. His aunt had already consumed at least two bottles of the barrel wine. Her temper was particularly foul.

“What’d ya get?” she asked without preamble.

“Four contos,” he said, handing them over. “And a ring,” he added in a lower voice, hoping Sara wouldn’t hear.

His sister frowned, but to his relief she didn’t say anything. Later, when Octávia was gone or asleep she would probably lecture him about not stealing. Miguel almost wished he’d never met those church ladies at all.

He handed Sara his plastic sack. “I got milk and two fish,” he told her. “And a surprise for ya. I was gonna save it for Christmas, but that’s still a month away. I’ll get ya somethin’ else by then.”

“Oh, it’s so pretty!” Sara breathed, touching the scarf with a tiny finger.

“It’s your favorite color.”

“What is it?”

“Unfold it.”

She did, and five pieces of candy he’d received earlier on the ferry fell out. A lady with kind brown eyes had given them to him. Sara’s laugh tinkled like a rolling brook as she wrapped the scarf around her head and neck and scooped up the treats. She hugged him, and Miguel was happy.

But Miguel had forgotten Octávia. “No way you’re gonna wear that,” the old woman announced. “That red’ll make it seem as though you’re not in mournin’ and then people won’t give us as much money. Nope, black’s all ya can wear.”

“Can I at least keep it here?” Sara begged. “Maybe wear it out to play in the woods with Miguel?”

Octávia stalked to the door, her words slurred. “You can’t wear it and that’s final.” She stumbled and nearly fell. Miguel tried to help her, but she shrugged him off. “God knows I’ve done my share,” she muttered in a voice like gravel. “Why does it gotta be so hard?” She left without another word.

Sara cried into her scarf, and Miguel held her. He could take Octávia’s wrath, but it broke his sister’s heart. Octávia was the only mother she had ever known.

After a while, Sara’s tears ceased and they set to work building a fire and eating their wonderful fish dinner. Miguel forgot completely about Octávia, but Sara saved her an equal portion. Then she stacked the dishes while he pulled their carpet pieces and blankets closer to the dying embers of the fire. They cuddled close to share the warmth of their bodies.

Sara passed him one of the candies he’d given her and opened one for herself. “Can I see her picture?” she asked sleepily. It was the first time she’d asked for at least a month.

Miguel felt for his most prized possession nestled in his shirt pocket next to the golden toy ship. At the top of his pocket, he’d placed a worn safety pin after the time when he’d nearly lost the picture last year. Above everything, he had to protect this precious treasure. It was all he had left of
her
.

He undid the pin and gingerly drew out the identity card, no different from the card everyone in Portugal was required to carry, except that it was long expired. The card displayed not only a thumb print, but also the face of a beautiful young woman who was their mother. Even in the black-and-white picture Miguel could see she had eyes like Sara’s and the odd streaking in the long hair as well. His mother’s skin was a darker olive, though, and her face oval, with soft curves, not thin and pinched. He handed the card to Sara.

“Tell me ’bout her,” she murmured, tracing the laminated picture with her finger. “’Bout how we usta live in a real house.”

Miguel thought hard. The memories were few and far removed from their present life. He could barely recall the apartment building they’d lived in with their mother. Of her he remembered almost nothing—just the singing, the sweet smell of her clothes, and the warmth of her embrace. She’d been sick for a long time, that he knew, but she’d always found the strength to hold and love him. He had distinct memories of looking up into her eyes and touching the olive-skinned face, feeling her arms tighten about him.

Miguel touched the picture. There was a signature on the bottom, beneath the thumbprint and picture, and on the back there were a lot of words. Miguel wouldn’t admit, not even to Sara, that he couldn’t read them.

“She loved to hold me and read me stories,” he began. “Then you was born one night. I remember that real good. It was dark and rainy and we had two old candles by the bed. Octávia and a neighbor lady was helpin’ Mamãe. My job was to keep the candles lit if the wind blew through the blanket over the window. I was scared ’cause Mamãe was hurtin’ so bad. I thought she was goin’ to die, but she didn’t. Not till the next year.”

“Why’d she die?” Sara asked as she always did.

“Don’t know. Octávia never said. But after a while, she brung us here.”

“I wish I remembered her.” Sara sighed. She paused for a moment and then asked, “What’s this other card? I never saw this one before.”

Miguel felt blood rush to his face. Behind his mother’s card, Sara had found the other one he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket by accident. He’d put it there only last week after stealing the wallet from the black-eyed man on the ferry. In person the man hadn’t acted very nice, but his picture called up all sorts of friendly images in Miguel’s head, and so he had kept it.

“Is this our father?”

“Naw, it’s just a card I found.”

“I like his hair. You hardly ever see that color. It looks like sand. Remember when we went to the beach that once?”

“Yeah. I remember the boats, way out in the water.”

Sara studied the picture. “He looks like he’d be a nice father,” she stated, voicing the thought as he hadn’t dared. “What’s his name?”

He took the card from her. “It don’t matter. He ain’t our father, so forget it. For all we know, we never had a father.”

“We gotta have one. Don’t we?”

“Guess not. I’m gonna throw this card away.”

Her face fell. “Well, if he’s nobody, can I keep the picture? I gotta pocket in my skirt. I promise I won’t lose it. It don’t matter anyway, if you was gonna throw it away.”

Miguel reluctantly handed over the identity card, which she stored carefully in the pocket of her skirt. What did he care about such an unhappy-looking man? It wasn’t as though he had given Miguel anything on the ferry except the money—and that Miguel had stolen. He patted the leather wallet in the back pocket of his pants.

“Can I see the ship, too?” Sara asked.

He handed it to her and she touched it lovingly. Miguel could see that the bright gold paint was rubbing off from the months of handling, but he didn’t mind if it made Sara happy. After a while, she returned both their mother’s card and the toy ship, and Miguel securely pinned them in his pocket once more.

“Tell me again how Mamãe’s an angel. Can ya read it to me?”

Miguel left the warm blankets and lifted Octávia’s Bible from the shelf. Back with Sara, he flipped through the pages, as if knowing what he searched for. Finally, he stopped and pointed to a verse. “And the Lord God said that good mothers will be angels in heaven, and when they ain’t too busy singin’ and stuff for Jesus, they’ll be lookin’ down on their children and takin’ care of ’em.”

“Mamãe musta been lookin’ down on us today,” Sara murmured, holding the red scarf tighter to her chest. Her eyes were nearly shut, her cheeks rosy with sleep.

Miguel rose and returned the Bible to the shelf. The blankets called to him, but he first needed to put out the lantern. He also had to stay awake to let Octávia inside the shack or she would be angry. He hoped she wouldn’t be long.

Chapter Six

Cristina was late coming home from work, so Daniel, who had been somewhat delayed himself, started dinner willingly. He wasn’t as good a cook as his wife, but he knew how to make rice and fry turkey strips in butter and lemon juice.

When he heard the door open, he went into the entryway. Cristina’s face flushed when she saw him. “Is it that late already?”

He nodded. “Last-minute customers?”

“No, I—I …”

Her hesitation piqued his curiosity. “What is it?” Was she hiding something? Was she still angry at his comment this morning about her birth control pills? Another thought occurred to him, much less welcome. Cristina was a beautiful woman and men were attracted to her. Had she …? No, he wouldn’t dishonor her by even thinking such a thing. He knew her too well. But she was hiding something. What?

She must have read the anxiety in his expression. “I’ve been doing a little research—or trying to. I wanted to find out what happened to Manuel’s gypsy girl.”

“Whatever for?”

“I want to know what happened, that’s all. Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry. I’m not. I just don’t understand why she makes any difference to us. You’ve never been interested before—you’re not jealous, are you?”

Cristina laughed. “No, I simply want to know what happened to her. Manuel was
your
friend. Don’t you want to know what became of his wife?”

“Not particularly. I already told you that.” Daniel returned to the kitchen and she followed. In silence, she watched him flip the turkey strips with a fork.

“So what did you learn?” Daniel asked casually.

Cristina paused at the cupboard where she was taking out the dishes. “I thought you weren’t interested.” She set the plates on the small marble-topped table with a muffled thump.

“I’m not. But since you are, I thought I might ask.”

“I talked to a few of her old neighbors. I found out her name. Ana.”

“Ana Paula,” he said, his fork poised in midair. “That’s right. I remember now.”

“After Manuel died, she and her child moved.”

“Was it a boy or a girl?”

Cristina grimaced. “No one seems to agree on that fact. But I did trace her to an apartment building here in town that had a severe fire about the time Manuel died. Apparently, she lived there with no heat, electricity, or running water.”

A lump formed in Daniel’s throat. He swallowed with difficulty. “And rent-free.”

“Exactly. But about five years ago, they rebuilt the place.”

“Kicking out all the indigents.”

Cristina nodded. She looked up at him, her brown eyes soft and wide. “That’s where I ran into a dead end. If I knew her maiden name, I could go further, maybe check—”

“The death records? But why would she be dead?” Daniel was surprised at the fervency in his voice.

“I wasn’t going to say that. I meant check to see if she still has family around. They might know what happened to her.”

“We know Manuel’s full name. His birth certificate would have their marriage recorded, along with her maiden name.”

“That’s it! Why didn’t I think of it? As long as they were actually married, we should be able to find her.”

Daniel shifted his feet uneasily, immediately regretting his input. Why wouldn’t she leave it alone? If she kept digging, she might eventually discover the truth. “I wish you wouldn’t look for her.”

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why not? I don’t get it. What will it hurt to know how she is? Maybe she needs help. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, maybe she’d like to see someone who cared about Manuel.”

“What does it matter?” He snarled the words to hide his guilt. “What does it matter if she’s happy, or sad, or even dead? It can’t bring Manuel back, and frankly, I don’t want to relive those memories.”

“He was
your
friend!”

“He’s dead. I’m just trying to go on with my life. You’re the one who keeps dredging him up.”

Cristina shook her head slowly, side to side as if she were a marionette with no volition of her own. “I don’t understand.”

“
I
don’t understand
you.
You never even knew Manuel. Why do you suddenly care about his wife?”

“I want to know if her child looks like him. I thought it might bring you peace from the nightmares you’ve been having. Yes, I’ve heard you pacing the floors at night.” She held onto the back of the chair and her knuckles stood out white against the dark wood. “I also thought if you could hear how happy Manuel and his wife had been with their baby, if you could see how a part of your friend lives on in that child, I could convince you.”