The Silent Pain

Chapter 4

The school bell dismissing class rang out shrill and loud, cutting off the teacher’s last words

—“. . . your final grades, and have a happy holiday!”—but we kids didn’t care. We were free . . . for two whole weeks. A couple of desks got overturned in the mad dash for the classroom door, and once we broke out into the halls they cleared within seconds amid loud whoops of celebration and ghetto- blasters cranked to ear-splitting levels. It was Christmas. Nothing could contain our excitement.

“Hey, John, I’m gettin’ some good stuff this year. What about you?” my friend Junebug shouted as we pushed through the outside door into the freezing air of the schoolyard. Everybody turned to see what my response would be.

“My brother, I’m gonna get the bike I always wanted and my GI Joe set,” I said boastfully, then turned around and murmured under my breath, “Like I’m really gonna get these toys this year.” But Mom had said that this year my father was going to cooperate and be part of our Christmas—even promised it—so I allowed myself a spark of expectation. My brothers and I had a good feeling that, for the first time, we were going to have a good Christmas.

“Man, Christmas is my favorite holiday,” Junebug went on. “Christmas at my house is always the best time of year—we always get the very best. My father always does the right thing.”

“Really? Well, at my house we always step it up for the holidays,” I lied, falling into the rhythm of things.

“Hey, you wanna go hang out? You wanna go to the candy store?”

“Nah, man, I gotta get home. My brothers and I are gonna help my mother put up the lights on the window and decorate the Christmas tree—my dad’s supposed to bring home a tree today.” We talked on as we headed down the block toward our apartment building, our feet crunching over clods of icy snow stained brown from the street sludge. People jostled along the streets with the ever- present noise of traffic and police sirens in the background. New snow started to fall as we walked, covering the dingy Bronx neighborhood in a fragile coat of white. In spite of myself, I really did feel hopeful about Christmas this year.

When I burst through the door of our apartment, there was the Christmas tree, still bound with twine and leaning in a corner of our tiny living room. Mamí came in from the kitchen smiling. “Guess what we get to do tonight, John?” she said, her eyes sparkling.

“Did Papí bring the tree? It sure is a good one,” I said, admiring the spindly balsam fir, my voice loud with excitement. “But Dad brought it, right? Just like he said he would?”

My mother’s eyes flickered. “Of course he wanted to, but Papí was very busy with his taxi service today, so your Uncle Alberto brought it instead. It is a good tree, isn’t it? We’ll decorate it with lights and ornaments and make it real pretty for Christmas morning. Your father promised to be here this year—remember how I told you that? It’s going to be a good Christmas, you’ll see.”

A twinge of disappointment bit at my insides, but I pushed it away, determined to be happy for my mother. Later that night we hauled the box of ornaments and lights down from the closet shelf. My brothers and I transformed that plain-looking tree into a real Christmas tree. In our childish glee we didn’t notice how few ornaments and lights there really were. To us, it was the most beautiful Christmas tree we’d ever seen. I imagined waking up Christmas morning, running down the hall into the living room, and finding gifts piled underneath the branches, just like they did in the movies. After all, he had promised this year.

The days leading up to Christmas passed quickly, and suddenly it was Christmas Eve. After I helped clear the dishes away from the dinner table, I went over and stood beside my mom as she scraped leftovers into a container. “What time is Dad coming home tonight?” I gazed at her face and watched for her reaction.

She paused a second too long. “Oh, I’m not sure, but he’ll be here for Christmas morning.” She smiled at me and placed the container in the refrigerator. “He’s bringing the gifts he promised. You and your brothers are gonna have your toys to play with in the morning.”

“Okay,” I said, mustering a feeble smile.

That night I leaned out the window of my bedroom and looked up at the stars, praying to the only god I’d ever known—the Indian spirit who gave me my protective necklace. “Tawata, please let my dad come home for Christmas like he said he would.” I fingered the necklace around my throat and squeezed my eyes shut. “For once, let him show up.”

Date: 2015-01-11; view: 805