To enter this morada, place the right foot, praising the most sweet names of Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.
Once he crossed the threshold, Amadeo was to kneel before the old men who were to be his brothers, and ask for forgiveness.
“Then you cut me?”
“You take the oath first.”
“And then?”
Tíve gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“Deep?” Amadeo whispered, keeping his voice steady.
His great-uncle shrugged. “Not too deep. Go on, do your lines.”
Pardon me, my brothers, if in anything I have offended you or given scandal.
And Tíve sang in reply. May God pardon you who are already pardoned by me.
Amadeo’s eyes filled, an abrupt sadness caught in his throat. He looked away, embarrassed.
Tío Tíve cleared his own throat. “Be ready.”
There were practical reasons for the sellos—the three vertical cuts that were going to be made in his back—when he began whipping himself, the blood would flow from the wounds, so the skin wouldn’t swell or bruise.
At first Amadeo had enjoyed the prospect of kneeling before the sangrador who would mark him. On the morning of Ash Wednesday, though, his courage began to fail. All day, he thought of the sellos, and his knees weakened.
He shaved for the entrada （though he didn’t shower again, because he wanted to preserve the smudge of ash on his forehead, proof to his great-uncle that he’d gone to Mass）， put on a new plaid shirt still stiff from the package, dress shoes, splashed cologne on his neck. Even so, he could smell the unpleasant tang of his sweat.
In the end, just before presenting himself at the morada door, Amadeo had buckled to his fear: though he’d fasted all day, he dug a bottle of vodka out of his sweater drawer, broke the seal on it, and took deep gulps.
The entrada, then, was a blur of impressions. The hermanos’ song, cresting and falling like waves. The secret oath, binding him for life. And the pedernal: obsidian with a knife-sharp edge, a dangerous crescent moon. Al Martinez’s big hand warm and steady on his shoulder, the man’s low assurance. “They’ll be shallow, son. Deep breath.” Amadeo’s heart like a steady, too-loud drumbeat, his sides slick with cold sweat. And, as the blade slid into the skin of his back, Amadeo’s swelling sense of his own falseness.
NOW, FINALLY, Tíve crosses himself. “All right,” he says irritably. “Amen.” Amadeo stands, legs needling. Around him the hermanos gather themselves. Some will talk quietly in the parking lot about this or that, trying out their rusty voices, and others will hurry to their families, kiss their wives, take their places on the couch in front of their TVs.
Angel is waiting for him at home, so Amadeo lingers. Tíve’s Doberman Honey is beside herself with joy to see the men emerge, and tears around the lot, barking her head off, her long, narrow muzzle pointed to the sky. Based on this particular specimen, it’s hard to believe the breed is a fierce one; Honey is relentlessly attention-seeking and ill-mannered, her expression demented and eager. Her reddish fur is dull, as if she’d once been a normal black or brown dog and had been left to fade in the sun. She pushes her head under Tíve’s hand and wags her tail nub furiously.
“Buddy,” says Al Martinez in the doorway, clapping a hand on Tío Tíve’s skinny shoulder. Tíve flinches. “I want to show you Elena’s newest—my second granddaughter!” He’s already pulling his phone out of his pocket, expertly swiping at the screen. “See her?”
Tíve peers at the photo, and Amadeo also cranes to see a charmless, purple-faced infant with a frothy lace headband strapped around her wrinkled head. “Well,” Tíve says.
“Oh, she’s a beauty. Got her grandma’s pretty mouth.” Al brings the phone close to his own face, examines it blissfully, then tucks it into his pocket. He clears his throat. “Listen, buddy, Isaiah, my youngest, wants to join us. He wants to be an hermano. And since we’re taking novicios”—he angles his head at Amadeo—“he’d be a great candidate. He wants to get back to his history.”