“From Number Thirty-seven,” the old woman said, on one of her rare excursions into English. “This is who I am. From Number Thirty-seven.”
“From Number Thirty-seven,” Michael said. “Yes, mother, I understand. But I must go into the church now. I am late.”
Hernandito was standing on the top of the church steps, waiting for him. Hernandito’s arms were folded across his chest and his mouth was set into a line. “I’m glad you decided to come back,” he said. “We all thought you’d taken off for Miami.”
“I took off for the hospital,” Michael said. “It was Friday night.”
“It is Saturday morning.”
“From Number Thirty-seven,” the old woman said again. “From the first floor above the street. From the back.”
Michael Doherty was a naturally courteous man. He made it a point to be even more courteous with his parishioners, who came from a culture of civility and who were touchy about their honor. He didn’t want to put this old woman off or to offend her, but he didn’t know what to do with her. It was obvious that she wasn’t in any of the usual kinds of trouble. She was stiff with age but not ailing. Her back was strong and her skin was a good healthy color, in spite of the fact that she was forty pounds overweight and probably fried everything she ate. Her eyes were clear and without cataracts. None of her bones was broken and none of her muscles had snapped. When Michael got to the top of the church steps and the door, she was right behind him. She was as quick as a girl of sixteen, if not as nimble. He held the door open for her and motioned her in ahead of him, even though he knew it wasn’t expected of him. She would have thought it perfectly proper for her priest to precede her. When she had disappeared into the vestibule, Michael turned to Hernandito and asked, “Do you know her? Is she from the neighborhood? I can’t understand her Spanish—”
“That’s Señora Gretz from Two-D in Thirty-seven,” Hernandito said. “You don’t have time to talk to her now. The clinic—”
“Is in full swing and is barely being held together by Sister Mary Gabriel.”
“It’s Sister Marietta this time. There will also be Mass? The women are disturbed—”
“There will be Mass at twelve o’clock,” Michael told him. “I’ll apologize in my homily. Isn’t Gretz an unusual name for someone from Central America?”
“There are many people with names like that in Central America. You do not have time—”
“I’m going to have to make time, Hernandito. The woman obviously wants something. She’s not going to go away until she gets it.”
The woman was standing on the other side of the vestibule, staring at them both. Michael got the uncomfortable feeling that she understood more English than she spoke. He covered his embarrassment and his exhaustion both by shooing her in the direction of the small side hall that led to his office. To get there they had to pass the stairs that led to the basement. Michael could hear the familiar sounds of the clinic: the crying of babies, the squabbling of children, the firm high voice of a nun saying, “Yes, Mrs. Gomez, I understand that you usually get a prescription for your piles, but I’m trying to tell you it will be much simpler and much cheaper to use—” Today, the nun was saying all that in Spanish. Michael was impressed.
He let them all into his office, threw a stack of papers off a chair, and offered the chair to Señora Gretz. She sat down with the brown paper bag still clutched firmly to her bosom. If he hadn’t just been told differently by both Señora Gretz and Hernandito, he would have wondered if she were a bag lady.
Inspiration struck him, and Michael said, “Excuse me, mother, but you have not been evicted from your apartment? You have not been forced out of your home?”
Michael Doherty’s Spanish was Spanish-from-Spain and ferociously formal. He had learned it out of a book and never spoke it except here—and here only rarely. He had no talent for languages. Now he found himself repeating the thought every way he could, just to make sure she understood, but she was shaking her head vigorously.
“I am Señora Gretz,” she said, “from Number Thirty-seven. From the back.”
“Yes,” Michael said, “you told me so.”
Señora Gretz looked at him long and hard. Then she turned to Hernandito and let out a stream of virulent Spanish that made the boy blush.
“She is committing blasphemy left, right, and center,” Hernandito said, when she gave him a chance to say anything. “She wants me to tell you she doesn’t believe in God. And that she is a Communist. And that she will not be—” Hernandito groped for the English word and failed to find it. He tried a few in formal Spanish instead.