“Not really. But I think we need to.”
“All right.”
The two said goodnight and retired to their respective bedrooms. But neither Antonio nor Lupita could sleep. Antonio lay on his back and thought about Lupita: her beauty, yes, but also her grace, her intelligence, her spirit. He could not imagine living a single day without her. Lupita was also in love, but she was more cautious. She adored what she knew of Antonio, but so much remained a mystery. She felt torn apart by passion and reason.
Lupita was still awake when Antonio, wearing only a pair of cotton pants, slowly opened her bedroom door and silently shut it behind him. He walked barefooted to the side of her bed. He could see Lupita’s black eyes shining in the moonlight that streamed through the window. She said nothing, and Antonio gently pulled back the bed quilt. Lupita was wearing her favorite man’s dress shirt.
They were motionless for an instant, and then Lupita opened her arms to him. Antonio slipped onto the bed, one leg between hers, and kissed her on the mouth. Lupita rolled his body over hers, turning him onto his back. She straddled him, her hair falling across his face. Antonio undid the first two buttons of her shirt, and Lupita pulled the garment off over her head.
“I want you,” she said, running her hands across his chest and stomach. Her mouth was open; she was breathing heavily. Her head swayed as she felt Antonio writhing under her. Then her face suddenly contorted. She straightened her back and lifted herself out of the bed. She picked up the white shirt and pressed it against her breasts, backing up against the window. “I cannot do this.”
Antonio lay still, staring at Lupita’s silhouette. “What is it?”
“I am sorry. I do not know who you are,” her voice said in the dark.
He sat up in the bed. “You do know who I am. I am Antonio.”
“Are you?”
“Of course, I am.”
“But who is Anthony?”
He was silenced by the incessant question. “I do not know, but when I find out, I will give you all of me.”
Lupita bowed her head in the moonlight. “Antonio, I do not want all of you. I just want to know that what I have is real. Right now, tonight, I do not know what is real and what is illusion.”
“I understand. But I will not stop loving you.”
“I do not want you to stop.”
Antonio rolled out of bed, took Lupita’s face in his hands, and kissed her quickly on the mouth. “Good night, Lupita.”
“Good night, my love.”
ANTONIO HAD DIFFICULTY CONCENTRATING ON anything other than Lupita; she was all he wanted. Yet, he also knew she was right: their relationship would never be sealed, until the mystery of his own life was unraveled. So, until that time, Antonio decided to throw body and soul into his work in the orchards.
There was always much to be done. The ground between the rows of trees could be turned to better oxygenate the roots. He could snip the suckers sprouting from the base of the trees. And, now that the harvest was over, the trees could be sprayed for pests and fungi.
Diego was Antonio’s teacher in all of this—an arrangement that was mutually rewarding. It gave Antonio the chance to better understand the man he so much admired. As for Diego, it was a joy to share his knowledge with such an eager student.
One late morning in mid-December, Diego found Antonio in the orchard, hard at work clipping suckers. He had been at it since sunrise.
The two exchanged warm greetings. Both men were always genuinely happy to be in each other’s company.
“How about some hot coffee?” Diego said, settling down at the tree where Antonio had been working.
“You talked me into it.”
Diego poured the coffee from an aluminum thermos. They both sat back in silence, sipping their hot drinks, Antonio punching holes in the ground with his heel.
“You seem a little troubled this morning,” Diego offered.
Antonio stopped kicking at the dirt. “I have just been thinking about you and Lupita.”
“More about Lupita than me, I suspect.”
They both smiled.
“Yes, especially about Lupita. I love her Diego.”
“I know that.”
“But I cannot have her.”
Silence for a moment.
“Antonio, do you know what an epiphany is?”
Antonio thought and then replied, “I think so. Is it not God’s manifestation on earth?”
“That is right. But there is also a second meaning. An epiphany is a sudden leap of understanding.”
“That is what I need, all right: A leap of understanding.”
“It is something that we all need. Here in Spain we always celebrate the Epiphany on the fifth and sixth of January in remembrance of the three kings who brought gifts to the infant Jesus. I always participate in that ceremony,” Diego said, almost reverently.
Over the months, Diego had shared much of his life with Antonio: his marriage with Lupe, his brother’s disapproval, his friendship with Juanito, and his wife’s tragic death. He knew about his disdain for the church and found it curious that he would talk about a Christian holiday in such respectful tones. “You surprise me, Diego. I did not think you had anything to do with the church.”
“I do not—except for the Epiphany. I do not think I ever told you that Lupe was born on the eve of Epiphany. The day is very special for me. It is a day for revelation, just as Lupe was a revelation for me. She taught me how to love and how to be courageous, when my heart was no longer in it. So every year, I think about her, and I pray for new revelations.”
“You pray to Jesus?”
“I pray to whatever source of wisdom is beyond my grasp.”
“You do not give it a name?”
“Why would I do that? Nations go to war over a name. I just listen.”
Antonio sensed that Diego was leading up to something. “Why are you telling me all this?”
“I think you have learned to read my thoughts.”
“Well, I just have a hunch that something mischievous is brewing in that great mind of yours.”
“You are right, Antonio. I have an idea. On the evening of January fifth, the three kings announce the beginning of Epiphany by entering the square in Espejo and tossing candies to the children. I have been one of those kings, Melchior, for thirty-five years. Miguel has been the second king, Gaspar, ever since he became the chief of police five years ago. And I would like you to be the third king, Balthazar.”
“Hold on just one minute. What happened to the old Balthazar?”
“The old Balthazar is praising the King of Kings in heaven. He died of old age last year.”
“And why me?”
“Because you have come from afar, like the great King Balthazar from Ethiopia.”
“Ethiopia! Then Balthazar is the black king.”
Diego grinned.
“Oh, I do not know. For one thing, I am not sure I want to get in a shoving match with King Gaspar.”
“That will not happen. Miguel will behave himself. I will see to that.”
Antonio still hesitated.
“There is something else,” Diego said. “Do not forget the second meaning of epiphany: A leap of understanding.”
“I have not forgotten.”
“I am sure that if you do this thing for me, you will have an epiphany. You will understand.”
Antonio let out a slow breath. “Of course, I will do it. It will be a great honor.”
That night Antonio had another bout with his forgotten past, shrouded memories that once again would not be remembered in the morning light.
It was 11:30 when the morning sun cleared the apartments on the opposite side of Pleasant Avenue. A beam of light passed through a hole in a tattered sheet that served as a makeshift window shade. It formed a luminous shaft that awakened the particles of dust in the room, shimmering like a constellation of miniscule stars in another galaxy, and ultimately fell across Tony’s face. The light was not a fanfare to
the new summer day; it was a rude reminder of the boy’s gnawing hunger.
Tony awakened slowly, pressing his fingertips into the corners of his eyes and stretching the small of his back, which ached as it always did after a restless night on the hardwood floor. Lifting himself to a sitting position, he looked at the single, frameless bed where his mother lay. Tony was never sure if she were dead or alive. He crawled to the edge of the bed and held his hand over her nose and mouth, and then smiled faintly when he felt his mother’s warm breath. It was part of his morning ritual: confirming that his mother was still breathing and that he could begin his day.
Tony was already dressed; he was never undressed. He wore a grimy pair of khaki coveralls and a blue and white striped t-shirt that was already two sizes too small for his lean seven-year-old frame.
The boy walked to the kitchen sink and stepped onto an overturned orange crate to reach the tap. He cupped his hands under the stream of water and doused his face and ears. Then he slid his index finger across his front teeth and gums—two, three, four times. Done. That was good enough.
Tony turned and looked again at his mother. He knew she would not get up for three or four more hours, and there were chores to be done. His first morning task was to make his way to the old Negro’s basement apartment on 122nd Street and pick up a bottle of moonshine for his mother and her clients. He would take care of that, as he always did, but first he was hungry. He walked across the one room apartment, unlatched the front door, and walked down the three flights of stairs to the street. It was the middle of June in East Harlem, but the boy’s bare feet were tough enough to take the heat of the sun on the concrete and asphalt.
Tony walked toward Charlie Ding-Ding’s Candy Store on the corner of Pleasant and 118th Street. It was a place that was famous for hosting the block’s late-night poker games. Tony already knew about that, but didn’t care. He had something else on his mind: a Hershey bar for breakfast, before making the liquor run.
Even for Tony, the concrete was getting hot under his feet, so he picked up his pace.
Mrs. Mancini was sitting in the center of her building’s stoop, watching the boys play stickball—the same Mrs. Mancini who was the mother of the terrible Jackoff. She was wearing a flowered, black and white cotton dress. Tony thought her breasts looked round and plump in the morning sun. With her long, black, curly hair and smiling eyes, she was one of the most beautiful women on the block.
When Tony passed by, she called out to him. “Hey, little Tony. Whacha doin’ wid-a no shoes? “’At’s-a no good, Sonny.”
Tony stopped and looked at Mrs. Mancini, who was smiling back at him with kind eyes. “Hello, Mrs. Mancini,” he said, not answering her question.
“You come-a sit wid me,” she said, tapping the step at her side.
Tony obeyed. He liked Mrs. Mancini, and he felt at home at her side. When she tousled his hair, he looked up into her eyes and wondered if what he felt at that moment—a warm wave of gratitude and tenderness—was love.
They sat in silence for a long moment. When Mrs. Mancini spoke, it was softly, consolingly. “Tell me, Sonny. You’re mama. She is still no feelin’ good?”
Tony smiled to himself. He did not fully understand what was wrong with his mother. But he did know that what she had was not something out of her control, like the flu or the measles or the mumps. It was something else: something meaner and inexplicable.
Tony didn’t say anything. He just shook his head “no.”
“’At’s-a no good,” she said slowly, pronouncing each word as if it were a line in an Italian ballad. “I’m-a sorry, Sonny.” And then, after a pause, “Mia poor lit’le Tony.”
Again, the two sat in silence for another moment, when Mrs. Mancini said, “Hey, Tony. You no like-a somethin’ to eat maybe? Huh?”
Once again, Tony said nothing. He just looked up into Mrs. Mancini’s eyes, smiled, and nodded.
“’At’s-a wh’d I t’ought,” she said, standing up quickly and smoothing her dress over her hips. “You no move. I-a gotta somet’in’ a-good for you. You wait-a see.”
Mrs. Mancini escaped into the tenement. In a moment she stuck her torso out the first-floor apartment window. “Now, you no go-a no place, Sonny,” she said with a laugh.
Tony just smiled and settled back into the stoop. He had no intention of leaving—certainly not now, with a meal so close at hand.
Five minutes later, Mrs. Mancini opened the front door and again sat down beside Tony. In her lap was a white cloth napkin and a dinner plate, heaping with spaghetti and three enormous meatballs.
Tony’s eyes expanded and then began to tear.
“What’s da madder?” Mrs. Mancini asked. “You-a no like?”
“I like,” Tony said, transferring the plate to his own lap and immediately twisting the fork into the mountain of spaghetti. “Humm,” he said, not lifting his eyes from the plate.
Tony ate and ate until he could not possibly take another bite. When he was finished, he wiped his mouth on the cloth napkin and sighed a deep breath of contentment. He had never been so satisfied . . . nor so much in love.
It was within that same week that Mrs. Mancini telephoned New York City Social Services and explained that there was a seven-year-old boy running wild in the streets of East Harlem. Three months later, Tony was sitting in a court room, his chin barely clearing the edge of the defender’s long oak table.
“Where is the child’s mother?” the judge asked.
The dependency attorney stood up, buttoning his suit jacket in the process. “Mrs. Rossi is not present your honor,” he said.
“I can see that,” the judge said, mindlessly tapping the tip of the gavel handle on the sound block. “What is her status?” he said with a tinge of irritation in his voice.
The dependency attorney drew out a document from his briefcase. “Your Honor, according to the guardian ad litem report, the Mrs. Rossi was recently discharged from Bellevue hospital after undergoing treatment for alcoholism and severe depression.”
“Was the mother notified of these proceedings?”
“Yes, your honor, she was.”
“I see,” the judge said, again punctuating his words with the gavel handle. “Can the State shed any light on this situation?” he asked, turning to the prosecution.
The attorney for the State prosecution was a tall, slender man with a crop of disheveled hair. He wore a crumpled, three-button, charcoal-grey suit; only the lowest jacket button was buttoned. Tony looked at the man as he rose to his feet. He did not like the prosecuting attorney; he thought he had mean eyes.
“Yes, your honor,” the State’s attorney said, looking not at the judge, but at a document he had fished out of his briefcase. “We, too, have been in consultation with the guardian ad litem. We have learned that Mrs. Rossi and the boy live in a one-room apartment in East Harlem. The room is almost entirely without furnishings. There is no bed for the boy. The apartment is described as . . . let me find this.” The lawyer turned a page of the document. “Ah, yes, here it is: ‘The apartment is unimaginably filthy, cluttered with whiskey bottles, clothing, and newspapers. The stench is almost unbearable.’”
The attorney raised his head and for the first time looked directly at the judge. “Your honor, Mrs. Rossi is a single mother. The father is unknown. She refers to herself as ‘Mrs.’ for the sake of propriety. ‘Rossi’ is actually her maiden name. She survives by means of prostitution and the sale of bootleg liquor that, shockingly, is delivered by her son, Tony. In a word, the conditions are ‘untenable.’”
The judge turned to the dependency attorney. “Does the defense have anything to add?”
As the lawyer stood, he placed his hand on Tony’s shoulder. “Yes, your honor. The attorney for the State is correct. The living conditions are deplorable. We do not argue that point. But a boy of this age belongs with his mother . . .”
“If the mother wants the child,” the judge interrupted. “That does not seem to be the case here.” The
judge then paused. Again, he tapped the gavel sound block with the gavel handle. “It seems to me that this boy has a better chance for survival in a state facility.” Another pause. “Does the prosecution have a recommendation as to where the boy should be placed?”
“Yes, your honor,” the prosecuting attorney said, leafing through another document. “The Kallman Home for Orphaned Children in Brooklyn, New York.”
“I take it there is space for him?”
“Yes, your honor.”
“Then so ordered,” the judge said, “but with this understanding. Mrs. Rossi has the right to address this court at any time to seek custody of her child. Until that time, the boy will be under the care of the state.” With that statement, the judge raised and lowered the gavel. The sound reverberated through the courtroom. “Case closed.”
The dependency attorney turned to Tony and placed his hand on his head. “This is probably best for you, young man.”
“What happened?” Tony asked, clearly bewildered.
“You are going to a new home,” the lawyer said. “You will be fine. You’ll see. And one day, when your mother is feeling better, she will come get you.”
That day never came. Tony never saw his mother again.
MIGUEL HAD BEEN BROODING EVER since the scuffle at the restaurant. He was keeping a low profile, and although he knew he was in the wrong, he was, for the moment, too embarrassed to apologize to Lupita. As for Antonio, Miguel would never apologize. The police chief was convinced there was something devious about the stranger, and he would find it out. He would uncover his crime, and then Lupita and Diego and the whole village would be grateful to him. All he needed was a break: Just a small piece of evidence to lead him to the real truth.
His chance came in late December. He was on his routine morning rounds, talking to shopkeepers and keeping his eye open for anything unusual. That was his normal mode of operation. He did not attend to the usual; in fact, he hardly saw it. He was awakened by the unusual: a car without a license plate, a store closed when it should be open, a youngster running down the street during school hours. Those were the things that Miguel noticed.
So when Miguel saw Antonio walk into the village bank on Monday morning, he was on point. Antonio was hardly ever in town and never in the bank. He had no need to be in the bank; he had no money. “What in the world is he up to?” the police chief asked himself.
The Awakening Page 20