Chapter 13
Ricardo had texted me that morning. Not called. A text with an address and a time and then a second message right after: Small service. Just us. Father Hennessy said we could use the side lot. Five pm if you can.
I stared at it in my apartment kitchen while my coffee went cold. The church was St. Mark's on 96th, not the cathedral downtown I would have expected for a family like his. It was a low brick building with a cracked parking lot and a chain-link fence along the sidewalk. When I pulled in at ten to five, the lot was mostly empty except for Ricardo's black SUV and an old sedan. The air was cool and smelled like leaves and exhaust.
Ricardo was standing by the trunk with Leo on his hip. He wore a dark sweater instead of a suit, and Leo had on his cream sweater and jeans. On the asphalt behind them, someone had set up a small folding table against the brick wall. Just a card table with a white cloth.
Father Hennessy came out the side door before I could say hello. He was older, in a windbreaker over his collar, and he shook Ricardo's hand and then mine.
"Thank you for accommodating us," Ricardo said.
"Of course," the priest said. "Take whatever time you need. I'll be inside if you want me." He didn't linger. He gave Leo a small nod and went back in, pulling the door shut softly behind him. That was the whole presence he had. Brief, as promised.
Leo wriggled down and went straight to the table. On it was a framed photo I hadn't seen before, a woman with dark hair smiling in sunlight, and beside it a folded silk scarf, pale blue with small white flowers. Leo picked up the scarf and looked at me.
I knelt down so we were level. The asphalt was cold through my jeans.
"Do you want to choose where it goes?" I asked him.
He nodded. He unfolded the scarf carefully, his hands small and deliberate, and laid it flat in the center of the cloth. He smoothed it once, twice. Then he picked up the photo and set it right on top of the corner of the scarf, not in the middle, like he'd decided exactly how it should sit.
"That's good," I said quietly. "That's just right."
Ricardo had brought a small carton of milk and a clear glass, the same kind from the restaurant that first night, half-filled now in his hand. He crouched on Leo's other side and held it out.
"You want to do it?" he asked.
Leo took the glass with both hands. Some milk sloshed against the side. He was concentrating hard, his tongue caught between his teeth the way he did when he was trying not to spill. He carried it two steps to the table, lifted it up high, and set it down next to the photo. A little milk had spilled onto the white cloth, a small wet circle.
"Nobody's angry about spills," I said before I could stop myself, and Leo looked at me and gave a tiny, serious nod.
Ricardo knelt then. Really knelt, both knees on the asphalt. He put one hand lightly on Leo's back and looked at the photo.
"Leo," he said. His voice was low and even, but I could hear the catch in his throat before he started. He paused, breathed. "This is your mom. Elena. We miss her. We can talk about her whenever you want. We can put milk out for her and look at her picture. It's okay to be sad about Mom."
He said her name aloud. Elena. In that empty parking lot with the traffic going by on the avenue, it sounded clear and ordinary and that was what made it feel heavy. Leo didn't cry. He leaned into his father's side and touched the edge of the glass with one fingertip.
I stayed a step back. I had moved myself there on purpose when Ricardo started to kneel. My hands were in my pockets. I didn't lead. I watched. The wind moved the corner of the scarf a little and Ricardo reached out and tucked it back down.
We stood there for a minute without anyone telling us to. No prayer out loud, no speech. Just the three of us and the table. A bus hissed to a stop on the corner and then pulled away.
After a while Ricardo lifted Leo up. "Ready to head home, buddy?"
Leo didn't answer, but he reached down and grabbed the scarf off the table, bunching it in his fist. The photo and the glass we left. That was the point, I realized. To leave them there for a little while, not to pack them right back up.
In the car, Leo sat in his car seat behind the passenger side. I had said I would follow in my own car, but Ricardo had asked if I could ride with them to help buckle him. I got in the front and clicked my seatbelt. Ricardo pulled out of the lot slowly.
By the second stoplight, Leo was asleep. His head had tipped to the side, his mouth open a little, the blue scarf still clutched against his chest. His breathing was even and deep.
May you like
Ricardo glanced in the rearview. He didn't say anything for a block. Then he said, soft enough not to wake him, "He held it the whole time."
He wasn't talking about the scarf. He was talking about the milk glass, how Leo had carried it without dropping it, how it sat empty now on that white cloth outside the brick wall. I nodded and looked out the window at the parking lot getting smaller behind us. The glass was still there, catching the last light.
