“Yes. I went to school with Ursula. My name is Rachel.” I feel defensive but try not to show it. Of course they have every right to protect themselves.
Her eyes widen, and she puts a hand on either side of my face. “Madre de dios, Rachel! It’s me, Ursula’s mamí—Mrs. Aponte!” She kisses me on both cheeks, pats my back, and leads me by the hand into the funeral parlor. She doesn’t wait for me to say anything, to express my condolences, apologize for being out of touch, nothing. We pass through a heavily carpeted entry hall which has oak doors leading off into what I suppose are various chapels. I don’t want to think about what else might be happening in the other rooms here, picturing hoses and unidentifiable apparatus, imagining odd smells and waxy makeup. People are staring at us as we make our way through. Maybe they think I am with the news crew, maybe they think I am intruding. But Mrs. Aponte’s firm hold on me helps.
We make a right into a large room where a service is going on. I wonder briefly why she was outside if it had already begun. The room is papered in a dark green moiré, and there are sconces on the walls fashioned to look like candles and giving off only a little more light. At the front, there is a young priest with a shaky voice at a small lectern leading the congregation; he alternates Spanish and English and is standing beside a white coffin. An enormous flower arrangement on top of the coffin frames an 8×10 photograph of Ursula’s daughter. Some people are crying, some sobbing, but most are reciting, Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee. Blessed art thou among women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb, Jesus. Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of death. Amen. At the rear left side of the room, I bow my head during this recitation.
Hearing the murmur of this prayer after all this time reminds me of when we met. Ursula was sitting on the curb outside my building, trying to memorize this catechism. I saw this skinny girl, lanky hair falling over her knees, slapping a paper with frustration, her lips moving.
“Watchoo doin? I’m Rachel.”
“Ursula. Father Perejo says I have to memorize this. Wanna help?” She holds this crumpled, sweaty paper out to me. I take it.
“Sure. Who’s father parayo?”
“Perejo. The priest at church. Don’t you go to church?” She looked at me funny.
“No. Okay, so you say this, and I’ll tell you if you get it wrong.”
The priest goes on speaking, and Mrs. Aponte points toward the front row of seats, where I can see Ursula. Her eldest child, Junior, now in his early twenties, I guess, has his arm around her. I know it is James junior instantly—in profile he is the image of his father as I remember him. He is wearing a white shirt and a skinny black tie. Ursula, too, is dressed in black, and is holding tissues to her face, using them to wipe away tears and stifle sobs. I want to cry. My eyes ache with empathy as I think of my girl, safe at home. She’s never even been on Lenox Avenue. I nod to Mrs. Aponte and make as if to stand in the spot I’ve chosen, but she bends to speak to a teenaged boy sitting near us, and he gets up, indicating I should take his seat. I sit, and Ursula’s mother makes her way up to her daughter.
The service goes on, in Spanish, and I sit staring at my hands in my lap, thinking about Ursula and the last time we spent any time together. It was right after Junior was born. I came over to her place—Adam walked me there—to see her and her new baby.
She was sitting on the plastic-covered couch in the living room,, and in her arms was this tiny perfect baby, with pale brown skin and a head of soft black curls. He was wrapped in a blanket or two, and Ursula looked at him with what I’d now call trepidation. Also in the living room were her mother, father, aunts, and a couple of cousins. Everyone was talking and welcoming us. The noise woke up the baby and Mrs. Aponte’s parrot, who had been dozing in his cage in the corner and was now squawking and flapping. The baby cried that newborn cry that now seems so small and quiet and vulnerable to me, but then sounded like nails on a chalkboard near a microphone. Someone threw a blanket over the bird’s cage, and then there was a flurry of activity as the women went to get food from the kitchen to lay out on the table. Ursula’s dad and cousins went into the back bedroom to watch TV.
I felt shy. I couldn’t stop thinking how she’d had to push this baby out of her body—it was like she belonged to some other universe than mine.
“You wanna hold him?” she kind of held him out toward me like she was passing a dish at the table.
“Uh, sure.” I took the baby, and held him close to me, smelling Desitin and Ursula’s perfume. I rocked him and he quieted down. He was so cute. I loved babies; I took care of a few in my building sometimes, for extra money. My parents wouldn’t give me enough allowance—if it was enough for a movie, it wasn’t enough for popcorn or even the subway to the theatre.
She asked me kind of abruptly, “Jewish people circumcise the boy babies, right?”
“Um, yeah. It’s a party and everything.” I wondered where this was going.
“That’s fuckin’ weird. You cut the kid’s dick in front of the whole family, and then y’all eat cake?” When she said it like that, I had to admit it was freaky.
Yo Sis,
Playin hookie in the projects!
Tsk, Tsk
Love Ya