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.
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.