A Greater Love Read online

  The lady looked thoughtful. “Them homes ain’t so good, I hear.”

  Miguel drank his water quickly and left the woman behind.

  Sara and Octávia were waiting when he arrived at the shack. His aunt had already consumed at least two bottles of the barrel wine. Her temper was particularly foul.

  “What’d ya get?” she asked without preamble.

  “Four contos,” he said, handing them over. “And a ring,” he added in a lower voice, hoping Sara wouldn’t hear.

  His sister frowned, but to his relief she didn’t say anything. Later, when Octávia was gone or asleep she would probably lecture him about not stealing. Miguel almost wished he’d never met those church ladies at all.

  He handed Sara his plastic sack. “I got milk and two fish,” he told her. “And a surprise for ya. I was gonna save it for Christmas, but that’s still a month away. I’ll get ya somethin’ else by then.”

  “Oh, it’s so pretty!” Sara breathed, touching the scarf with a tiny finger.

  “It’s your favorite color.”

  “What is it?”

  “Unfold it.”

  She did, and five pieces of candy he’d received earlier on the ferry fell out. A lady with kind brown eyes had given them to him. Sara’s laugh tinkled like a rolling brook as she wrapped the scarf around her head and neck and scooped up the treats. She hugged him, and Miguel was happy.

  But Miguel had forgotten Octávia. “No way you’re gonna wear that,” the old woman announced. “That red’ll make it seem as though you’re not in mournin’ and then people won’t give us as much money. Nope, black’s all ya can wear.”

  “Can I at least keep it here?” Sara begged. “Maybe wear it out to play in the woods with Miguel?”

  Octávia stalked to the door, her words slurred. “You can’t wear it and that’s final.” She stumbled and nearly fell. Miguel tried to help her, but she shrugged him off. “God knows I’ve done my share,” she muttered in a voice like gravel. “Why does it gotta be so hard?” She left without another word.

  Sara cried into her scarf, and Miguel held her. He could take Octávia’s wrath, but it broke his sister’s heart. Octávia was the only mother she had ever known.

  After a while, Sara’s tears ceased and they set to work building a fire and eating their wonderful fish dinner. Miguel forgot completely about Octávia, but Sara saved her an equal portion. Then she stacked the dishes while he pulled their carpet pieces and blankets closer to the dying embers of the fire. They cuddled close to share the warmth of their bodies.

  Sara passed him one of the candies he’d given her and opened one for herself. “Can I see her picture?” she asked sleepily. It was the first time she’d asked for at least a month.

  Miguel felt for his most prized possession nestled in his shirt pocket next to the golden toy ship. At the top of his pocket, he’d placed a worn safety pin after the time when he’d nearly lost the picture last year. Above everything, he had to protect this precious treasure. It was all he had left of her.

  He undid the pin and gingerly drew out the identity card, no different from the card everyone in Portugal was required to carry, except that it was long expired. The card displayed not only a thumb print, but also the face of a beautiful young woman who was their mother. Even in the black-and-white picture Miguel could see she had eyes like Sara’s and the odd streaking in the long hair as well. His mother’s skin was a darker olive, though, and her face oval, with soft curves, not thin and pinched. He handed the card to Sara.

  “Tell me ’bout her,” she murmured, tracing the laminated picture with her finger. “’Bout how we usta live in a real house.”

  Miguel thought hard. The memories were few and far removed from their present life. He could barely recall the apartment building they’d lived in with their mother. Of her he remembered almost nothing—just the singing, the sweet smell of her clothes, and the warmth of her embrace. She’d been sick for a long time, that he knew, but she’d always found the strength to hold and love him. He had distinct memories of looking up into her eyes and touching the olive-skinned face, feeling her arms tighten about him.

  Miguel touched the picture. There was a signature on the bottom, beneath the thumbprint and picture, and on the back there were a lot of words. Miguel wouldn’t admit, not even to Sara, that he couldn’t read them.

  “She loved to hold me and read me stories,” he began. “Then you was born one night. I remember that real good. It was dark and rainy and we had two old candles by the bed. Octávia and a neighbor lady was helpin’ Mamãe. My job was to keep the candles lit if the wind blew through the blanket over the window. I was scared ’cause Mamãe was hurtin’ so bad. I thought she was goin’ to die, but she didn’t. Not till the next year.”

  “Why’d she die?” Sara asked as she always did.

  “Don’t know. Octávia never said. But after a while, she brung us here.”

  “I wish I remembered her.” Sara sighed. She paused for a moment and then asked, “What’s this other card? I never saw this one before.”

  Miguel felt blood rush to his face. Behind his mother’s card, Sara had found the other one he’d pulled out of his shirt pocket by accident. He’d put it there only last week after stealing the wallet from the black-eyed man on the ferry. In person the man hadn’t acted very nice, but his picture called up all sorts of friendly images in Miguel’s head, and so he had kept it.

  “Is this our father?”

  “Naw, it’s just a card I found.”

  “I like his hair. You hardly ever see that color. It looks like sand. Remember when we went to the beach that once?”

  “Yeah. I remember the boats, way out in the water.”

  Sara studied the picture. “He looks like he’d be a nice father,” she stated, voicing the thought as he hadn’t dared. “What’s his name?”

  He took the card from her. “It don’t matter. He ain’t our father, so forget it. For all we know, we never had a father.”

  “We gotta have one. Don’t we?”

  “Guess not. I’m gonna throw this card away.”

  Her face fell. “Well, if he’s nobody, can I keep the picture? I gotta pocket in my skirt. I promise I won’t lose it. It don’t matter anyway, if you was gonna throw it away.”

  Miguel reluctantly handed over the identity card, which she stored carefully in the pocket of her skirt. What did he care about such an unhappy-looking man? It wasn’t as though he had given Miguel anything on the ferry except the money—and that Miguel had stolen. He patted the leather wallet in the back pocket of his pants.

  “Can I see the ship, too?” Sara asked.

  He handed it to her and she touched it lovingly. Miguel could see that the bright gold paint was rubbing off from the months of handling, but he didn’t mind if it made Sara happy. After a while, she returned both their mother’s card and the toy ship, and Miguel securely pinned them in his pocket once more.

  “Tell me again how Mamãe’s an angel. Can ya read it to me?”

  Miguel left the warm blankets and lifted Octávia’s Bible from the shelf. Back with Sara, he flipped through the pages, as if knowing what he searched for. Finally, he stopped and pointed to a verse. “And the Lord God said that good mothers will be angels in heaven, and when they ain’t too busy singin’ and stuff for Jesus, they’ll be lookin’ down on their children and takin’ care of ’em.”

  “Mamãe musta been lookin’ down on us today,” Sara murmured, holding the red scarf tighter to her chest. Her eyes were nearly shut, her cheeks rosy with sleep.

  Miguel rose and returned the Bible to the shelf. The blankets called to him, but he first needed to put out the lantern. He also had to stay awake to let Octávia inside the shack or she would be angry. He hoped she wouldn’t be long.

  Chapter Six

  Cristina was late coming home from work, so Daniel, who had been somewhat delayed himself, started dinner willingly. He wasn’t as good a cook as his wife, but he knew how to make rice and
fry turkey strips in butter and lemon juice.

  When he heard the door open, he went into the entryway. Cristina’s face flushed when she saw him. “Is it that late already?”

  He nodded. “Last-minute customers?”

  “No, I—I . . .”

  Her hesitation piqued his curiosity. “What is it?” Was she hiding something? Was she still angry at his comment this morning about her birth control pills? Another thought occurred to him, much less welcome. Cristina was a beautiful woman and men were attracted to her. Had she . . .? No, he wouldn’t dishonor her by even thinking such a thing. He knew her too well. But she was hiding something. What?

  She must have read the anxiety in his expression. “I’ve been doing a little research—or trying to. I wanted to find out what happened to Manuel’s gypsy girl.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “I want to know what happened, that’s all. Please don’t be angry.”

  “I’m not angry. I’m not. I just don’t understand why she makes any difference to us. You’ve never been interested before—you’re not jealous, are you?”

  Cristina laughed. “No, I simply want to know what happened to her. Manuel was your friend. Don’t you want to know what became of his wife?”

  “Not particularly. I already told you that.” Daniel returned to the kitchen and she followed. In silence, she watched him flip the turkey strips with a fork.

  “So what did you learn?” Daniel asked casually.

  Cristina paused at the cupboard where she was taking out the dishes. “I thought you weren’t interested.” She set the plates on the small marble-topped table with a muffled thump.

  “I’m not. But since you are, I thought I might ask.”

  “I talked to a few of her old neighbors. I found out her name. Ana.”

  “Ana Paula,” he said, his fork poised in midair. “That’s right. I remember now.”

  “After Manuel died, she and her child moved.”

  “Was it a boy or a girl?”

  Cristina grimaced. “No one seems to agree on that fact. But I did trace her to an apartment building here in town that had a severe fire about the time Manuel died. Apparently, she lived there with no heat, electricity, or running water.”

  A lump formed in Daniel’s throat. He swallowed with difficulty. “And rent-free.”

  “Exactly. But about five years ago, they rebuilt the place.”

  “Kicking out all the indigents.”

  Cristina nodded. She looked up at him, her brown eyes soft and wide. “That’s where I ran into a dead end. If I knew her maiden name, I could go further, maybe check—”

  “The death records? But why would she be dead?” Daniel was surprised at the fervency in his voice.

  “I wasn’t going to say that. I meant check to see if she still has family around. They might know what happened to her.”

  “We know Manuel’s full name. His birth certificate would have their marriage recorded, along with her maiden name.”

  “That’s it! Why didn’t I think of it? As long as they were actually married, we should be able to find her.”

  Daniel shifted his feet uneasily, immediately regretting his input. Why wouldn’t she leave it alone? If she kept digging, she might eventually discover the truth. “I wish you wouldn’t look for her.”

  Her eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Why not? I don’t get it. What will it hurt to know how she is? Maybe she needs help. Maybe she doesn’t. Either way, maybe she’d like to see someone who cared about Manuel.”

  “What does it matter?” He snarled the words to hide his guilt. “What does it matter if she’s happy, or sad, or even dead? It can’t bring Manuel back, and frankly, I don’t want to relive those memories.”

  “He was your friend!”

  “He’s dead. I’m just trying to go on with my life. You’re the one who keeps dredging him up.”

  Cristina shook her head slowly, side to side as if she were a marionette with no volition of her own. “I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t understand you. You never even knew Manuel. Why do you suddenly care about his wife?”

  “I want to know if her child looks like him. I thought it might bring you peace from the nightmares you’ve been having. Yes, I’ve heard you pacing the floors at night.” She held onto the back of the chair and her knuckles stood out white against the dark wood. “I also thought if you could hear how happy Manuel and his wife had been with their baby, if you could see how a part of your friend lives on in that child, I could convince you.”

  “Convince me to what?” he said tightly. She didn’t answer, but he already knew where the conversation was heading. Hadn’t they rehashed this many times over the past months? “Please don’t go on with this, Cristina. I don’t want to know about Ana Paula or her child. And Manuel having a baby has nothing to do with us.”

  “I think it has everything to do with us. At least it does if Manuel’s death has even a little part to do with why you’re so against having children.” She paused before adding, “I want a baby.” Her voice held a soulful longing that knifed into Daniel’s heart. “I want us to have a baby.”

  He clenched his jaw. How can she do this? “Bring a child into this world?” he sneered, forgetting both his love and respect for her. “I’ve told you before that no child of mine will have to endure this mess we call life. And I won’t add to the world’s problems by having any spoiled brats. I’m right about this. Why can’t you see that?”

  “We’d raise them right,” Cristina pleaded. “They won’t be brats. We could even adopt a child. That way we’re certainly not adding to any problems. We’d be helping to solve them.”

  “I’ll never agree to adopt someone else’s mistake! Cristina, don’t you see that we already have everything we need?”

  She pushed the chair forward so hard it hit against the table and turned to face him. “We’ve got money! All we have is money, what with our oh-so-prestigious jobs and your inheritance from your father. But you can’t hold money to your chest and feel its love.”

  He grasped at her hands. “I love you, Cristina. Isn’t that enough?”

  She stared at him, as if fighting an internal battle. Sighing, her gaze dropped to the white tiled floor, her thick hair sliding forward in brown waves over her low, gently sloped forehead. Instinctively, he reached to touch the strands. She pulled away.

  “I thought your love was enough,” she said. The slow words sounded full of remorse. “But it’s not. I don’t know why, but it’s not. I’m not complete—we’re not complete.”

  “I feel complete,” he challenged.

  She didn’t take the bait, but her eyes rose again to meet his. “When we married six years ago, you said someday we’d have children. Then it became maybe. Then never.”

  “I learned better.”

  “You changed the rules I agreed on! When we married, I didn’t want children right away, but I always wanted them. For a long time, my love for you blotted out any other desire.”

  “What’s different now?” he asked, a bitter taste in his mouth.

  She bit her lip. “I don’t know. Me, I guess. I feel time is running out. I’m thirty-four. That’s not a lot of time left to have a baby.”

  “Even if you had a child, who’s to say it would be yours forever?” Daniel asked. “Look at my parents. Five children, three lifeless at birth and my little brother dead of a drug overdose. Where’s the beauty in that?”

  “There’s you!” she cried. “And I love you!”

  “Then let that be enough!”

  She held her hand up to her mouth, stifling a sob. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I can’t.” She turned and fled from the kitchen.

  In the wake of her passing, a napkin from the table floated to the ground, reminding him of the sail on his boat. He slumped to his chair, waiting. When Cristina didn’t return, he began to eat the rice and overdone turkey, tasting nothing.

  A short while later he thought he heard a click like one made
by the door to their apartment. Springing from the chair, he crossed the kitchen in three strides. Three more brought him to the door. “Cristina?” He opened it, but no one was outside in the hall. The elevator was in use, but that didn’t necessarily mean Cristina was inside.

  He shut the door. “Cristina, aren’t you going to eat?”

  No answer.

  In the bedroom he saw the huge free-standing wardrobe gaping open, with many of her clothes gone.

  “Cristina!” The note of desperation rang out in the empty room.

  He searched the two bathrooms, the television room, the dining room, and the spare bedroom—she wasn’t there. He rode the twelve floors down to the lobby and peered into the night, but there was no sign of his wife.

  Daniel forced himself to return to his apartment and his meal. “She’s just upset and needs to take a walk or something,” he said aloud. “She’ll be back.” Cristina had to return. He loved her and wouldn’t let her go. She was his life.

  Chapter Seven

  With December, signs of Christmas had come to the Portuguese merchants—lights on the streets, pine boughs and glass balls in windows, figures of winged angels, and, of course, bacalhau, the salty, dry codfish that with the potatoes would make up the base of the Christmas midnight feast.

  The unpleasant, pungent smell of the bacalhau permeated the street. Miguel saw it stacked in front of a store, wrapped in white butcher paper, as the merchants restocked their supplies inside. He watched for a moment, his foot kicking at a loose stone in the sidewalk.

  He recalled vividly both the fishy smell and the salty taste from long ago. He had helped his mother soak the hard cod overnight, rinsing occasionally with fresh water to take out the salt. Then she would make a food so delicious that it was what he imagined the angels in heaven must eat.

  He swallowed the odd lump in his throat. “Naw,” he said to himself. “Sara and I don’t know how to cook it. And Octávia . . .”

  The thought reminded him that his aunt was waiting. He hefted the bag of empty glass bottles he had collected from the trash. She’d broken some of her refillable wine bottles and didn’t want to waste money replacing them when there were so many available for the looking. My lookin’, he thought.