Olga Dies Dreaming(36)
Her sadness at her mother’s departure was tempered by what she saw as an opportunity. She begged her grandmother to enroll her in catechism, reminding her about good secrets and Constantina, the animal lover who used to live next door. Her grandmother obliged. She loved all of her grandchildren, but felt, she would tell Olga as she brushed her hair at night, that perhaps God put them so close together to give her a second chance at raising a restless spirit. Although her grandmother would say that her mother had chosen “a life based on her convictions,” she would still sometimes lament that “perhaps she’d have been less angry if I’d been home a little more.” And Olga would take the old hand that held the brush and kiss it and tell her that she had just done her best. This was the truth.
It was also true that Olga and Prieto had more time with their grandmother than their mother and aunt and uncles ever had. By the time Olga was in grade school her grandmother had retired from the factory and instead did alterations out of the house for people in the neighborhood. Prieto would make her flyers and post them around and ladies would come with their occasion dresses. Spring was the busiest time. They would learn all the local gossip as everyone needed fixes on prom dresses, outfits for weddings, and, of course, communion gowns. If it seemed like one would fit, her grandmother would lay out a bedsheet on the ground to protect the dress and let Olga try it on. Another good secret. On these occasions, Olga would look into the mirror and practice kneeling and opening her mouth, waiting to receive the Host.
On Wednesdays, public school kids who went to catechism got early dismissal: 2:15 P.M. instead of 3:00. Olga was beside herself to finally leave with those kids, who she knew all walked to Our Lady of Perpetual Help together, stopping for gum and Quarter Waters along the way. She was thirteen and trying to get baptized and make communion all at once, while her classmates were already studying for Confirmation, so Abuelita talked to one of the nuns about giving her special classes. This was a familiar situation for Olga and Abuelita both. Her grandmother had sent one of her girls “away” before, busing Olga’s mother to every gifted program the city offered. She’d felt that she’d lost Blanca in the balance. Abuelita wanted to keep Olga closer to home, but also didn’t want to stifle her. She aggressively solicited Olga’s teachers for special help, pleading her granddaughter’s unique case, asking for extra work, anything additional to keep her bright Olga engaged, but close. Olga thought nothing of having private lessons with one of the sisters because she spent her days getting special attention at school, all of her teachers charmed by the ambitious grandmother and her bright granddaughter.
Olga jumped from her seat when the special release bell rang, holding hands with her junior-high boyfriend as they walked the ten or so blocks towards the church’s school building. But as they turned the corner, flanked by a pack of their classmates, Olga’s blood grew cold. She could hear a commotion, if one man yelling could be called that. She pretended to forget something, told everyone to go ahead, reversed her course just long enough to seem believable, and then hid behind a tree until she saw them all ascend the stairs and walk into the building. The ranting continued. Louder still.
“But what I want to know is, who the fuck told you that my daughter was available for brainwashing? Tell me! Who?”
It was her father. High. Crack this time, clearly. On smack he was like a baby, would just curl up in anyone’s arms, looking for proof he was still loved. On crack, he was brave. And angry. And loud. She saw him, at the top of the stairs to the entrance of the school, all up in the face of the nun, Sister Kate, her face stoic under her habit. In the corner, slumped on the top step, was her brother, that fucking Benedict Arnold. That fucking people pleaser. Her father was barely a functioning being at this point, just nerves and synapses either stimulated or dulled senseless. He was, she surmised even at her young age, embarrassing but harmless. Her brother, on the other hand, was of sound mind and body and had brought him here with the sole purpose of ruining her dream.
“???Lombriz!!!” she called out to him using the word worm that her parents had always used for sellouts of their own culture. “?Lombriz!” She pointed, her voice louder than her father’s, loud enough to stop her father’s rant.
“??Mija!!” He turned to her. “?Dime! Who put you up to this?”
But she swatted him away, hissing at her brother, “Take him away, you fucking piece of shit.”
“Olga,” Prieto replied, matter-of-factly, “he’s still our father, don’t his wishes count for anything?”
She ignored him and turned her attention to Sister Kate.
“Sister,” she pleaded, “my father isn’t in his right mind. I have wanted be a true Catholic—”
But Sister Kate cut her off. She was an old Irish woman. She had seen this all before. If not crack, alcohol. The vice really didn’t matter. Her eyes oozed with compassion. She put her hands on Olga’s face.
“Beautiful child. God’s timeline is long, and Jesus lives for always, so your time for the Sacraments will come. But for now, I cannot prepare you for them. Your grandmother told me that your parents were dead. You’re only thirteen. If your father doesn’t consent, I must abide by the law.”
Tears streamed down Olga’s face.
“But Sister, I will work so hard. So very hard.”
The sister blessed her before she went inside.