A Greater Love Read online

  When he arrived at the shack, Sara was singing. She jumped guiltily as he entered. The red scarf was tied around her head, and her cheeks were bright red as though she’d been dancing. “Oh, it’s you.” She sighed with obvious relief. “Do I look pretty?” She twirled for him, and the black skirt lifted high enough for him to see her bare ankles in his old shoes.

  “Sure do.” He set the bottles down with a clang. “But you gotta remember to lock the door. Where’s Octávia? I hate it when she leaves ya alone.”

  Sara laughed. “I’m a big girl, Miguel. Octávia says pretty soon I’ll be able to go beggin’ on my own. Ain’t that gonna be neat? But I won’t sit in the subway pretendin’ to be lame. No way. I’m goin’ to sing and dance. I’m practicin’ already. Wanna see?”

  Miguel didn’t like the idea of Sara being alone in the subway at all. What if some stuffy do-gooder picked her up? He’d have to talk to Octávia about it. Generally, she listened to reason—if she wasn’t too drunk.

  He watched Sara’s routine. “You’re really good.”

  “Think so?” She giggled. “I feel like I was born dancin’.” She whirled again with a flourish. “Do ya think Mamãe was a dancer?”

  “She was. I think I remember that. For sure she sang a lot. She musta danced, too.”

  Sara pulled him to his feet and made him dance with her. Miguel felt awkward, but he went along with it for Sara. A knock at the door stopped him in mid-stride. Thinking it was Octávia, he motioned for Sara to hide her scarf while he opened the door. “What do ya want?” Miguel asked when he saw Paulo.

  His friend shot a meaningful glance at Sara. “Gotta talk to ya, man to man, if ya know what I mean.”

  Miguel didn’t, but the words sounded good. “Yeah,” he grunted.

  Sara laughed, eying Paulo’s thin frame up and down. “You ain’t no man, Paulo. Be serious. What’s wrong? Did your brother go and break his arm again?”

  “Naw, it ain’t that. Come on, Miguel.”

  Miguel turned to Sara. “I’ll only be a little while. You got the key to the padlock, don’t ya? Good. Lock the door. Don’t open it ’less it’s Octávia or me.” Paulo choked when Miguel mentioned Octávia’s name. Or was it his imagination?

  Miguel let some space grow between them and the shack. Then, “Come on, out with it,” he ordered. “What’s up?”

  “She’s in the woods,” Paulo said. “Octávia is. Or at least I think it might be her.”

  “What you sayin’?”

  “Some of my little brothers was playin’ there. They saw a woman drinkin’. Then she fell down like she was dead. Stone dead.”

  “Liar!”

  “Honest. They’re pesterin’ my mom right now to go to the phone booth and call the police. Better go see. Before the police come.”

  Miguel started walking, knowing Paulo was right. If it was Octávia, he needed to get her inside before the police became involved. “Ain’t you comin’?” he asked Paulo over his shoulder.

  “Heck no. I’m scared of them woods in the dark. ’Specially with a dead woman around. That’s creepy!”

  “She ain’t dead, I tell ya! Oh, forget it. I’ll go myself. Where is she?”

  “Straight ahead, on the path. Can’t miss it.”

  Miguel left his friend without another word. He hadn’t been afraid until Paulo had pointed out the need for it. The small woods were as familiar to him as any part of this neighborhood. Many times in the summer he and Sara camped there under the protective canopy of trees.

  “Chicken, lily-livered, no-good liar,” Miguel mumbled to himself. He added a few more phrases he’d learned from the men who spent their evenings in the pub, without really knowing what the words meant. But they sounded mean like he was feeling inside.

  Paulo hadn’t been lying. When Miguel finally reached the border to the woods, he saw a small crowd of people clustered on the edge, staring at a blanket-covered mound some distance away. Whoever the woman was, she was obviously dead. The desolate feeling in Miguel’s heart told him the mound was Octávia, but he had to know for sure.

  “Doesn’t she have any identification at all?” an important-looking man was saying. Miguel craned his neck, but he didn’t recognize the man. In fact, no one in the group was familiar.

  “Nothing, not even an identity card,” a balding man said. “But she was wearing this necklace. A nice one at that.”

  The first man held out his hand and fingered the gold before giving it back. “Stolen, I bet. It won’t tell you anything about her. We’d better keep it for the police.”

  The balding man repocketed the necklace. “We’ve questioned everyone here, and nobody recognizes her.”

  “They’ll probably match her up with her records eventually, if they ever get around to it.”

  “Yeah, I know. She’ll be at the bottom of the list—unless someone misses her and identifies the body.”

  Miguel had crept closer to the men during the conversation, glad for the cover of night. He stared at the mound on the forest floor. Was it really his aunt there? Did he dare peek under the blanket? Would the men let him?

  “It’s these woods that are the problem,” someone behind Miguel complained. “They attract these kinds of people.” Murmurs of assent rippled through the crowd.

  What kind of people? Miguel thought. Dead ones?

  The arrival of the police quenched his curiosity. It wouldn’t do to be available for questioning. If Octávia was under that blanket, he had to distance himself as much as possible. He angled away from the two men toward the edge of the crowd, waiting for an opportunity to slide away unnoticed.

  “She’s dead, there’s no doubt,” he heard the important-looking man say to the officers. “This man here took off her necklace so that no one would steal it. It was the only thing on her.”

  “It’s right here,” the balding man said. “Hey, where’d it go? I swear it was right here in my pocket! Help me search the ground. Maybe I dropped it. Question the people. Excuse me, have you seen a gold necklace?”

  Miguel faded into the night, smiling grimly. Once out of sight, he ran, slowing only when he arrived at the cluster of shacks. A cloud moved across the sky, causing the night shadows to sway. Was that the dead person’s soul? His shoulders recoiled, but he forced himself to keep moving. He paused only when he reached Senhora Monteiro’s house. The family had put in a real glass window and the light from inside was bright enough for him to examine the necklace in his hands.

  He jiggled the heavy gold, testing the weight. It was thick and so long that its wearer had worn doubled and fastened with a gold clip. Hanging from the links were three gold charms. Two were thin octagonal pieces the size of Miguel’s fingernail, one of which was engraved with the figure of a bull, complete with pointed horns, the other with the sinewy shape of a lion. While the animals were interesting, he had no idea what they represented and dismissed them after a quick study. But the third charm captured his attention. It was a shiny gold ship, half as long as his smallest finger and intricately detailed.

  A flash of memory came—of him holding this same charm in his hand long ago. He saw his mother’s laughing face. This necklace had belonged to her! When Mamãe died, Octávia must have taken it. But why hadn’t she sold it as she did all the other gold things he stole for her? Did it remind her of his mother? Miguel knew enough about money to know that the chain was worth more than he would make during several years of begging on the ferry.

  A ghastly fear came over him, running through his spine until his entire body trembled with it. If this necklace had belonged to his mother, then Octávia really was dead! He sank to the hard-packed dirt, letting his back rest against the rough wood of the Monteiro’s shack. For a long moment he sat there, his eyes clamped tight, his body unmoving. He didn’t even breathe.

  The awfulness of being alone engulfed him. His trembling increased as he remembered all the good things Octávia had done for him. Even at her worst she had been a constant in his life, and he love
d her. The finalness of her death vividly reminded him of his mother and how he longed for her touch. He rubbed the gold chain between his fingers. He wished now that he’d taken Senhor Fitas’s suggestion and asked Octávia about the necklace he hadn’t believed existed. Now he would never know why she kept it or what it meant.

  Miguel slipped the chain around his neck, tucking it inside his sweater and T-shirt. The necklace had obviously been special to both his mother and his aunt. He would never part with it, except to share it with Sara, of course.

  Putting away this piece of the past seemed to prompt a new vein of thought. His heart still grieved, but his practical mind moved on. What would happen to them now? It was only a matter of time until people found out they had no guardian. Then they’d be sent to the orphanage.

  Miguel thought hard. Unless . . . unless he could make everyone believe the woman in the woods was not Octávia at all. Miguel rubbed at his face, making sure there were no tears, or tale-tell streaks before angling up the slope to Paulo’s shack. The door was covered with an odd orange paint which flaked with age. A white number two, also peeling, sprawled over the upper half of the door.

  “Yes?” Paulo’s mother answered his knock. She was an old woman like Octávia—at least forty, Miguel figured. Heavy wrinkles crowded under her eyes, though the skin of her cheeks was stretched smooth by underlying fat. Her face was the only part of her that had any meat. The rest of her body sagged, as if the skin had lost its elasticity. A silver chain encircled her neck, crammed with many small charms, all of which were dulled by dirt and age. In her pierced ears she wore thin gold hoops.

  “I need to talk with Paulo,” Miguel said meekly.

  His mother called for the boy, not allowing Miguel inside. She kept her gaze averted, as if not wanting to involve herself with Miguel or his life.

  “Well?” Paulo demanded. His mouth was full and he carried a bowl of soup in his hands.

  Miguel’s tongue stole over his lips. “Someone’s dead, all right, but it ain’t Octávia,” he said in a rush. “The police up there is gonna take the body away.”

  “It really ain’t Octávia?” Paulo’s mother asked.

  “No, it ain’t.” If Paulo had asked the question, Miguel would have asked him if his ears were working, but he knew better than to speak like that to a mother, even one as homely as Paulo’s. “I heard ’em say the lady wasn’t even from around here,” he added for good measure.

  “That’s good news,” Paulo’s mother said.

  Paulo looked at him with new respect. “Wasn’t you afraid, seein’ that dead body?”

  “’Course not. I ain’t afraid of nothin’,” Miguel lied. “A dead body can’t hurt nobody.”

  Paulo shivered and didn’t look convinced. He ladled a huge spoon of soup to his mouth, sipping noisily.

  Miguel stared. “I gotta be gettin’ home.”

  “Stay and eat some soup, if ya want,” Paulo’s mother offered, her dark eyes suddenly eager for juicy details. “You can tell us ’bout what ya saw.”

  She wasn’t alway so generous, and for a moment, Miguel was tempted, but then he thought of Sara. “Can’t,” he said, stepping back. “Octávia’s waitin’ dinner on me.”

  “Some other time then.” Paulo slurped up another spoonful of soup. Drops fell on his chin, and he wiped them off with the back of his hand.

  Miguel walked slowly to his shack and knocked on the door. “It’s me, Sara.”

  She opened the door, a chunk of bread in her hands. “I was gettin’ a little scared. What took ya so long?”

  “Nothin’. There any bread left?”

  “A whole loaf that Octávia bought for us. A small chicken, too. I was waitin’ for you to start it cookin’.

  They shared a nice meal by the fire, and though the room was warm enough, he was cold inside. Sara yawed as he put away the bread and chicken breast they’d saved for Octávia.

  “Why ain’t she back yet?”

  He shrugged. “She’ll come when she’s done drinkin’. You know how she is. But here, give me the key. I’ll let her in when she comes. It’ll probably be late and you gotta sleep.” He took the string with the key and put it around his own neck.

  When Sara was asleep, he staggered to the lantern, blew it out, and walked blindly back to the blanket near the dim coals of the fire. Cuddling next to his sister, he let the warmth of her body flood him, easing the fear. Whatever happened, he had Sara.

  But no! It couldn’t be true. Tomorrow Octávia would be at him again to get more money. Maybe she would even slap him. He would be nicer to her. He would even find her a Christmas present. Tonight’s event was all a nightmare and tomorrow when they awoke Octávia would be alive and well as she had been this morning. Yes, tomorrow everything would be all right.

  Chapter Eight

  Daniel strolled along the cobblestone sidewalk, his feet heavy and dragging despite his conscious effort to pretend everything was normal. Under his thigh-length wool coat, he wore an expensive wool suit and a gray and white pin-stripped shirt, open at the collar. In his hands he clutched a leather briefcase.

  “Good morning, Senhor Andrade,” his secretary said a short time later. She flashed him a smile, white in contrast to her ebony skin.

  Daniel started. How did I get here? He remembered nothing of his customary commute on the bus. “Uh, good morning, Claudia. How are you today?”

  “Good, thank you.”

  “Anything up for right now?”

  “You’ve got that religious group here again wanting the final permission on the nativity scene in the park.” She lowered her voice. “They’re a little upset that we’ve taken so long to approve it. After all, it’s already the first week of December.” The way she said it told Daniel she agreed with the group.

  Daniel blinked. How’d it get to be that late in the year? How long had Cristina been gone? Had it been two weeks? No, almost three. She’d left in mid-November, little more than a week after they had gone sailing for the last time together. Daniel had never told Claudia that his wife had left. Maybe he should. Maybe then she’d be more sympathetic. He sighed. “Very well, I’ll see them now.”

  “Okay.” She rose gracefully from her chair and headed in the direction of the waiting room.

  “Claudia.” His voice stopped her. “Give me five minutes before sending them in.”

  “Sure.”

  “Thanks.”

  She paused and searched his face. “Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head. “I’m just tired. I didn’t sleep well.”

  Daniel opened the door to his office. It was spacious, more room than he needed, but he sometimes felt trapped inside. Four plush chairs sat vacantly in front of his oak desk and a large, high-backed one, upholstered in padded black leather, sprawled behind it. Into this chair he settled, sighing with pleasure.

  The feeling was short-lived. On the desk, a photograph of Cristina mocked him from its silver frame. He grabbed it angrily and shoved it into the desk drawer, slamming his thumb inside. Bringing the throbbing thumb to his mouth, he whirled his chair around to gaze out the third-story window behind him. The pain in his thumb subsided, but the ache in his heart didn’t dim.

  There was nothing to see out the window but a row of unending buildings and a thin crowd of people walking below. The dark colors of winter and the sea of black widow’s garb depressed him further. Maybe he should wear black; he felt as though he were in mourning. Where are you, Cristina?

  A short time later, Claudia ushered in the group of five men and two women. They were members of seven different religious groups in the area, all Christians, joined together for one cause only: to set up a manger scene in the park along Main Street. Three of the seven—the Evangelicals, the Catholics, and the Mormons—had buildings nearby, and most of their congregations would pass the park on their way to church services.

  “We’ve approved your use of public land,” Daniel announced, coming quickly to the point. “But we cannot provide s
ecurity for the display. You’ll have to watch it yourself—or accept the consequences.”

  “I think you underestimate our community,” said one of the older men. Daniel couldn’t remember which faith he represented—or which faith any of the other petitioners represented either. It was unlike his normal thoroughness. Since Cristina left, he’d felt apathetic about many things.

  “Yes,” the youngest man in the group added. “We feel this effort will generate a spirit of community, of family. Of love toward our brothers. We want to remind everyone of the great sacrifice Jesus Christ made, and what it means to us.”

  Daniel waved the words aside. He believed in Christ on some level but hadn’t visibly seen His hand moving in the lives of those around him. Would a Being of so great power even deign to notice these petitioners? What did He care about so many people scurrying around like ants? “Are you still planning on a midnight Mass, or whatever?”

  “A meeting,” the young man corrected. “At eight o’clock on Christmas Eve. All the congregations are welcome to come and sing hymns. We’ll have a brief speaker from each denomination.” His brown eyes were fervently alive, and Daniel envied his belief. But the eyes also reminded him of Cristina and her passionate plea, which sparked Daniel’s anger.

  “Do as you wish,” he nearly growled. “Just so the nearby neighbors approve.”

  “We’ve spoken to everyone,” one of the women said. Her voice was low and soft, and again Daniel was reminded of his wife.

  He didn’t look at her, but at his fingers, strumming the desk. “They agreed?”

  “Yes.”

  “Very well.” He stood up, showing their dismissal. “Good luck.”

  “Will we see you there?” the young man asked with his ever-ready smile. “The public is invited. There will be no proselytizing that night, just a relaxing evening of song and worship.”

  Daniel pasted on a return smile with difficulty. “Perhaps,” he lied. He shook hands with each person and saw them to the door. As they left, he wondered how they would feel when their statues were defaced by vandals, or even stolen.