Illegal (14 page)

“How was your exploring this morning?” asked Mama when we returned to the stand for lunch.

Grandma beamed. Her candle basket was empty and her wallet was full. All but one bowl had sold. “Very good. We went to the church. Do you know when they have confession?” I asked.

I felt lighter. Happier.

Manuela answered, “If you want to do it in Spanish, Pastor Michael will do it late on Wednesday for those who are from the Catholic tradition. They have
another pastor, but we like him the best.”

“Is he the black priest who sings?” I asked.

Her face looked puffy, but her eyes weren't as sad. “Yes, he's Honduran. He says a Mass on Saturday evenings in Spanish. The metal building is just temporary until the new church is built. I'll introduce you if you want.”

I had never imagined a black person knowing Spanish. I just assumed you had to be brown. I didn't even know that differences in religions and color made no difference.

Manuela grasped my hand. “Thank you for giving me Tessa's card.”

I never thought about keeping the card, but it would have made my life simpler. Since I resembled a younger version of Tessa, it would be easy to pretend I wasn't illegal. “No problem.” I scrambled for the words. I had made it this far, and I could go further and still be a good person.

“Flora came by and spoke to me. I gave her some breakfast and discussed which boys had probably attacked you. We can still call the police if you want,” said Manuela.

“No. I think I showed them that I wouldn't play their games,” I said, looking at the scabs on my legs.
“But I worry about Flora.”

“She seems like a decent person, just very alone,” said Mama.

“She's just trying to get by,” I said to both of them. “It's not her fault about her family.”

Grandma touched my hair slightly. “It's not your fault about Papa. Forgiveness will come in time, but anger will only make us bitter. You did everything you could.”

I didn't want to be angry forever, but I wasn't quite ready to absolve the world of my problems. The passion of the anger kept moving me forward. I still wanted more.

“Thank you for helping us. For Grandma. For…for everything.” Without them, we might have just wasted away in the street. Maybe we did count as somebody.

Manuela wiped her brow. “Will you work for us in the restaurant?”

Mama and Grandma were already nodding their head.

I had another idea. “If you don't have a name for the restaurant, I have a suggestion.”

Four days of hard work rolled by in Jorge's new restaurant. Grandma cleaned floors and counters. I folded menus, polished the used chairs and tables, and scrubbed corners. A stink candle sat outside the back door. A neon sign blinked outside the front.

CONTESSA

Grandma wanted to go back to the church. Without a television, she missed nightly Mass.
I wondered if Hector bought the television, too. I said a silent prayer for our friendship.

Even though guilt plagued me about the ugly things I said to God, I didn't mind going. I wanted to see the priest who sang at the funeral.

“
Niña
, wear something clean, please,” said Grandma, “and not the purple shoes.”

“Grandma,” I said, rolling my eyes, “I'm not six years old. I know the proper way to dress.” But I put the flip-flops on anyway.

Grandma pinched my cheek playfully. “You will always be a little girl to me.”

I knew what I was going to wear. I'd hid the dress all summer. When I slipped it over my body, I realized it was shorter. It used to touch the bottom of my knees.

Grandma didn't notice the small flowered bloodstain that sat right over my heart. A small altar of candles sat humbly in the corner, and I lit two. I should have deposited some money, but I'm sure God understood I was a little broke right now. Besides, what I was praying for was courage. God could keep silent, but what I needed was enough strength to open my mouth.

Grandma came out of the confessional looking satisfied.

“How did it go?” I asked.

“Very well. He is a nice priest. It's the same one from the funeral a few weeks ago. Do you want to go in also?” she asked.

I entered the small booth and the door slid open. I was worried my heart would jump out of my chest and land with a splat on the floor.

“Yes, my child,” said Father Michael.

“Forgive me, Father, as I have many things to confess.”

“Go ahead.”

“Father, I haven't been to confession since…I don't know. I've cursed God. I've lost my faith.”

“Why did you curse God?”

“I cursed Him because He let my father die. I cursed Him for all of the bad things that have happened. I feel He has abandoned me.”

“Your father died?”

“It wasn't long ago. We came here to find him. I prayed really hard and God didn't listen to me.”

“Do you think God didn't listen to you because your father died?”

“I'm not sure. But I have a question. Can I ask you?”

“Well, this time is reserved for the confession of sins. Why don't we finish and then you can ask me questions.”

“Yes, Father. I'm mostly finished.” I could have confessed for hours, but I think I covered the big stuff.

“Child, your sins are forgiven. Pray to God to restore your faith. Look for Jesus in your everyday life. Say the Lord's Prayer, and know God forgives those who ask to be forgiven. I will pray for you.”

He shut the window. I peeked out of the booth. No one else was in line. I moved into the pew and waited for Father Michael.

I wasn't exactly sure if I had my faith back. I wasn't sure if I was finished being mad at God. I wasn't even sure if God was finished being mad at me.

Grandma knelt against the altar. Several more candles had been lit, including a pink stinky one. She was deep in prayer.

“Those are some big thoughts for someone as young as you,” said Father Michael as he sat next to me. His skin was the color of warm flan. His voice made me feel comfortable, and my heart stopped beating so hard.

“I'm not legal. I don't have any papers.” I could feel the bloodstain on my dress burning. I didn't know if that was a good thing or not.

“God doesn't care about your status. He wants you to have faith.”

I sat in silence. So many questions I wanted to ask,
but Father Michael said what I needed to hear.

“And like your own father, he wants you to have hope. You have not been abandoned.”

He patted me on the back and I sat in silence for a while. It didn't matter about the voice anymore, because I think I had found my own.

As I turned around, I saw Flora sitting in the shadows. “Where have you been?” I asked in a loud whisper.

“Hiding. The police have been in and out of my house lately. My brother's been arrested. I've been staying with a cousin across town. If I'm not home, I don't have to watch.”

“Sorry about that,” I said. “My dad died. I mean he was dumped or killed or something.”

Flora bunched up her lips. “Yeah, I know. I'm sorry. What are you going to do?”

I shrugged my shoulders. “Not sure. Survive.”

Flora nodded with knowing. “Yep, you gotta make your own way.”

“Yeah, I think I can. I mean, I'm almost sure I can,” I said with more confidence. “But if things get too bad for you at home, why don't you come to my place?”

“We'll see,” said Flora. “That's a lot of people for one bed. But, your grandmother is nice. It'd be good
to be around a family who cares. She was feeding me just like you did.”

“You can be my family, Flora. No matter where you are, you can belong to us.”

Flora's eyes moistened. She gripped me close and then disappeared out the doors before I saw Grandma rise from her place.

When Grandma and I exited the church, I saw Mr. Mann sitting on his corner. He never asked people for charity, but I knew what he needed.

I went back inside and made a sign on an old church bulletin.

I MATTER
.
—
MR
.
MANN

I didn't pause at the door of the school. I pushed it open and walked up to the desk.

“I like to school,” I said in halting English. Grandma stood behind me, huffing and puffing from the two-block hustle.

The woman nodded her head and her wide braids brushed against her cheek. She opened a filing cabinet and handed me a stack of papers. On her feet was a pair of neon pink flip-flops. They had bells, crosses, and a black Jesus glued to the plastic part of the thong.

“Do you need a pen?” she asked. I nodded my head yes, but I couldn't take my eyes off the shoes.

She rattled off so many words at once. “I'll need a copy of your ID, a Social Security number, proof of residency, a copy of your mother's driver's license, and your last school report card so we can get the records.” Her nails were long and painted with tiny curlicues.

My heart sank. I didn't have any of these things—just fake papers. “I no have.” I shook my head.

Her eyes were soft and familiar. “Honey, how old are you?”

What should I say? I didn't have anything left but the truth. “
Quince
. I'm fifteen.”

“Where do you live? Are you in this district?”

“Quitman. By the park.” I pulled out Mama's fake work papers and her Mexican voter registration card. This was as much as I had.

Grandma pulled on my arm, whispering,
“Vámanos. No es importante. No hoy.”

“No,” I whispered back at her. “It is important. I need to do this.”

Keisha came around the corner slurping from a carton of milk. “Nora! Where have you been?”

It felt like the cool breeze coming off the top of the grapefruit trees.

“Is this your swimming-pool friend?” the woman with the braids asked. I knew why she seemed so familiar. Keisha was a younger, slimmer version of her mother.

A warm, comforting feeling surrounded the room. “Yes, yes!” I said.

Keisha chattered excitedly. “Yeah, Mom. She's not in my grade, but we're gonna sit next to each other at lunch. See, she's wearing my shoes. I think I'm gonna design them and become rich.”

I answered with a chuckle. “Yes. Chew twin.”

Keisha sauntered over and began writing for me. “Hey, Mama, don't you have that migrant worker paperwork? She hasn't been in the district that long. She's like one of those traveling Mexicans, but the good kind.”

Her mother handed me a green form. “Will you need the reduced lunch program?”

Keisha nodded. “Mom, she needs all that stuff. Where can we get her vouchers for supplies?”

My father's spirit filled my heart. “
Bouchers
. Yes.
Lonche
.” I knew it wasn't exactly how to say those words, but it didn't exactly matter. I had some hope. Perhaps it could grow if I planted enough seeds.

Grandma clutched her purse with wide eyes. I
pulled her away from the door and introduced her. “Keisha,
mi abuela
.”

Grandma smiled, but I could see her shaking as she extended her hand to my friend.

“We live in Texas now,” I said, patting Grandma on the back. “We stay.”

I wondered if I should write Hector a letter to tell him our new address, off Quitman Street.

Next Year

My watch blinked 4:00 p.m. I tied my apron around my waist and hurried toward Contessa's. My homework wasn't finished, and today was a long shift.

This morning, I skipped first period and put a few flowers on Papa's grave. One year ago, on my fifteenth birthday, we found him. His death. My womanhood.

The humidity from the day steamed around us. The sound of a distant lawnmower sang along with the chorus of morning traffic. I wished so desper
ately to hear Papa's voice. A separation of six feet might as well be a million miles.

Occasionally, I found solace in the fact that we were close to him, trying to achieve a better life. But grief is a snake. It climbs into bed with you and occasionally bites you on the toes, filling you with poison.

The smell of the pink candles glowed outside the restaurant on the patio. They do keep the bugs and bad spirits away. Mr. Mann knighted himself their protector because he liked to light them if any of their flames went out. He rarely talked, except for the spelling, and his shopping cart is parked by the back door each evening because the Salvation Army won't let him bring it in. We have the cleanest alley on Quitman Street.

I hope we can buy a real tombstone for Papa one day. I spend less of my time thinking about Cedula, and more on my homework.

My eyes barely had time to adjust to the cool interior of the restaurant. “Happy Birthday!” Mama, Grandma, Keisha, Jorge, and Manuela shouted.

A large pink cake with rose flowers. Manuela pinned a deep red rose corsage to my white shirt. A small bag of doughnuts sat by the cake.

Keisha placed a small tiara over my ponytail.
“I know you've always wanted one, so I designed this one special from the craft store. Maybe you could wear it to the prom next year?”

Flora came rushing into the restaurant, tying her apron. She held a small package of lipstick. “It's red. A real woman should wear red lipstick.” She paused. “And something on her ears.” She held out a pair of dangling earrings. I smiled at her, knowing that her stealing days had stopped when she began working for Jorge.

“A sweet sixteen party for my American girl.” Mama kissed me gently on the cheek and handed me a box.

Grandma clasped her hands under her chin. Her smile spread across her entire face. “
Mija
, open the present.”

I ripped open the white tissue. Inside the small box was a gold necklace.

A small cross with a green stone. A medallion of Our Lady of Guadalupe.

“The Guadalupe is from me,” said Grandma, “because of your faith and courage.”

“I had the peridot put in the cross. It's your birthstone. It came from Mexico to remind you where we came from. The jeweler said this stone can protect
you from negative things in the world.”

Mama smiled but sadness radiated from her eyes. “The cross was Papa's.”

I held it in my hand and closed my eyes. I could barely remember his face. It had been almost five years since I had seen him. But I remember the feeling of being in his arms. Protected.

And then I remembered the way the cross would dangle out of his shirt.

I opened my eyes and looked down at the gold cross. It matched my memory.

I quickly pulled the chain around my neck. I opened the lipstick and smeared a little on my lips. I knew this was just the beginning of all the things I would do.

In the reflection of the mirror, I saw the tall buildings of downtown Houston and saw what my father's hands had made.

I heard the rustle of the trees and knew there was something more.

He's here.

He's all around me.

Finally, we're all together.