When I Was Puerto Rican - Esmeralda Santiago [39]
“Our Father, who art in heaven ... ,” I repeated after Abuela.
“Hallowed be thy name ...”
“What does that mean?”
She raked her fingers through her hair, fluffing it, untangling the knots. “It means His name is holy.”
“Hallowed be thy name ...”
“Thy kingdom come ...” Abuela fed me the prayer in short phrases that echoed the rhythm I’d heard when Papi led novenas and when she clicked her beads at night before bed. It was like learning a song. If I left something out, the rhythm didn’t work.
“Give us this day our daily bread....” I imagined a long loaf of pan de agua, the kind the baker made with a coconut frond down the center of its crunchy crust.
“And forgive us our trespasses ...”
“What does that mean?”
“We’re asking God to forgive any sins we might commit by mistake.”
“Forgive us our trespasses ...”
“And lead us not into temptation ...” She didn’t wait for me to ask: “That means we’re asking God to keep us from sinning.”
When I’d repeated the prayer several times and could recite most of it without stumbling, she taught me how to cross myself.
“Cross your thumb over your pointing finger, like this.... No, not with that hand.... You must always use your right hand,” she said, holding it out to make sure I knew the difference.
“Why?”
“Because the left hand is the hand of the Devil.”
I wondered if that meant the Devil had two left hands but didn’t dare ask because just saying the word Devil made Abuela drop her voice into a near whisper, as if the Devil were in the next room.
“Then you go straight down to your heart.... Then across ... No, this side first.” I’d seen women cross themselves so many times, it had never occurred to me there was a right way and a wrong way to do it. ”Then you kiss the cross on your fingers.” I did as she showed me. “You must always cross yourself before and after saying the Lord’s Prayer. Let me see if you can say the whole thing.”
I tried to look grave, eyes down, face expressionless, the way people in velorios looked when Papi led them in prayer. I lowered my voice to a near mumble, quieted my lips until they barely moved, and let the rhythm guide the words out and up to the sky where Abuela said Papa Dios, my other Father, lived.
“¡Hola, Negrita!” Mami wore a printed dress she called a muumuu, which stretched across her pregnant belly like a round plot of exotic flowers. I couldn’t get enough of her to hug, so I clung to her hand as she huffed up the three steps into Abuela’s house. “How are you, Doña Margara?” she asked cheerily, as if she knew the answer.
“Oh, I’m fine, m’hija, just fine,” Abuela said, pulling out a chair for Mami to sit in. “How about some lemonade?”
“Wonderful!” Mami’s cheeks were flushed, partly from the hot walk down the street, partly because she’d colored them. Her hair was twisted up and held with pins that she kept pushing in so they wouldn’t fall out.
“I hope you don’t mind that I came to bring Negi home. I’ve missed her.” Now that she was sitting, I could hug her around the neck, kiss her soft, powdered face, smell the fruity perfume she put on for special occasions.
“I missed you too, Mami.” I whispered, and she pulled me close and kissed the top of my head.
Abuela brought in a pitcher of lemonade and three glasses. “I thought Pablito was coming on Sunday. We waited all afternoon....”
Mami’s face flashed into the hard expression I’d come to expect when she talked about Papi. “You know how he is,” she said to his mother.
Abuela nodded and poured us lemonade. “Who’s watching the children?”
“My neighbor’s daughter.”
“Who?” I asked. Mami turned to me as if she’d just remembered who I was.
“Gloria.” She sipped her drink. “Guess what? We have electricity!”
“Really?”
“Yes! We only use the quinqués if the lights go out.” She turned to Abuela. “Which is every time the wind blows hard.” They laughed.
I leaned against Mami and sipped my drink, listening to them talk about people whose names were familiar, but whom I hadn’t met—Flor, Concha, Chia, Candida,