Olga Dies Dreaming(35)
“I’m going to the store!” she called out to no one in particular, and made her way up Fifth Avenue to Our Lady of Perpetual Help, where she slipped into the tenth pew from the front on the left-hand side of the lower level, the bronze plaque on the bench inscribed with the name Isabel Alicea Ortiz. How many Saturdays had she come and sat in this very spot with her grandmother? It was impossible to count, but enough that when she died, one of Olga’s first acts was to claim the pew—Abuelita’s pew—to be marked with her name in perpetuity.
This was their space, her and her grandmother’s. In a house full of people, lives crowded with crisis and defined by chaos, this ritual, this place, belonged to the two of them alone. Olga’s parents did not forbid her and Prieto from doing much, with the exception of going to church. Their parents felt, generally, that religion was a bourgeois tool for inuring the proletariat to their exploitation, and more specifically, that the Catholic church was the devil’s handmaiden, having played such a prominent role in the colonization of Black and Brown people all over the world. Her mother and father were so vociferous about this, so relentless in their critique, that Olga’s grandmother moved her altar into her closet, simply to avoid having to hear the two of them go on and on. After Olga’s mother left, Abuelita kept it there out of habit. Olga loved the altar. The mystery of it was especially delightful to her, but also the ritual of the prayers, the lighting of the candles. Abuelita would often catch her in the doorway, spying on her grandmother as she knelt and said the rosary. One day she called her over and taught her granddaughter the prayers—the Hail Mary, the Our Father. They were the first and only things Olga could say with confidence in Spanish.
Her grandmother didn’t intend to defy Olga’s parents’ wishes, not overtly. Olga had a curiosity and her grandmother had a faith. Or at the very least, superstition. One Saturday afternoon, when Olga was maybe six or seven, she and Abuelita were running errands when her grandmother looked at her watch and became stressed. Abuelita had long gone to Saturday evening mass, dating back to her days at the factory. Sunday was her only day off back then, her only day to sleep, even if it was just until seven o’clock. So, she would leave work and go to vigil mass, to pray for her job, her children, the roof over their heads. Then she would come home and see her whole family together, with so much food on the table, in a house that against all odds belonged to them. To Abuelita, the two things were connected. The health of her household tied to her appearance at Saturday evening mass. If it didn’t help anything, Abuelita would tell Olga, it certainly didn’t hurt anything, either. And so, on this particular Saturday, pressed for time and unsure if Lola was home to watch Olga, she turned to her grandchild and, in a conversation that Olga remembered vividly, asked her if she knew what a secret was. Secrets, her grandmother said, had a bad reputation, like their neighbor, Constantina. Yes, lots of men did come visit Constantina while her husband was away as a Marine reservist, but she also fed many of the stray cats and dogs in the neighborhood and never bragged about it, so she wasn’t all bad. That was how secrets were; you heard more about their bad aspects than their good. Going to church with Abuelita was a good kind of secret. Did Olga think she could keep a good kind of secret? She nodded, vigorously, yes.
When Olga stepped inside that first time, she was enchanted. She loved the statues, the ceremony, the marble, the gold, the smell of the incense, the sound of the organ, the sense of order, the veil of secrecy … all of it. After everyone went for communion, when the entire parish was kneeling in prayer, Olga shed a tear, so moved was she by the sound of quiet. Abuelita was clearly looking more at Olga than praying, because she kissed her on the top of her head and whispered, “We can come back, you know.” And come back they did, without further discussion. Every Saturday they would find themselves out together, shopping for this or that, always winding up at their pew just as the bells rang to begin the five o’clock mass. Afterwards they would race home—sometimes they would buy soda and ice, just to cover their tracks. By then, her father would be over. Her mother, if she was not traveling, there. Her aunt and often her uncles and whatever cousins all gathered at the house. And they would have dinner surrounded by family, feeling blessed that their prayers had worked.
The only time Olga had ever felt pure envy for her cousin Mabel was when she made her First Holy Communion. Olga cried and cried for weeks afterwards. Her mother called her materialistic for being jealous of a meaningless dress, while her father offered to make her a party of her own, just for being her, “No Jesus required.” Only Abuelita knew that what she was jealous of was not the outfit or the party, but that now Mabel would know the taste of the Body and Blood of Christ on her tongue. Mabel, who gave Holy Communion no more thought than a bird gives its first flight, would enjoy this privilege Olga had pined for. When everyone could be filled with Jesus, sitting in that beautiful silence in the marble hall, Mabel would be full too, and she, Olga, would just sit there. Still hungry.
When her mother left, Olga grew more brazen, saving her allowance to buy a twenty-inch Infant of Prague statue and building her own altar in her room. Not in the closet, but on top of her dresser. She chose that statue with care, because you could change him into elaborate robes that varied according to the season. When she got a little older, Olga worked for Tío Richie’s car dealership on Saturdays and whatever money she didn’t spend sneaking into clubs at night she put towards buying outfits for the Ni?o Jesús de Praga. She would go with her abuela to the Catholic goods store and select a purple Easter gown, a red silk dress for Advent, a baptismal ring too small for even a baby, a miniature crucifix necklace. At her altar she lit candles in front of her mother’s photo, saying novenas for her safety, wherever she was.