Nilda Read Online Free Page B

gone by and school had started. Nilda still felt she ought to keep her promise to the Virgin, to believe. Since the “miracle” in camp she had attended Sunday Mass regularly. But it was getting harder and harder each Sunday morning, especially since her brothers never went to church and could sleep late. When she complained of unfairness, her mother would say, “They are boys, Nilda; what does it matter? But you, you are a girl. For you it is essential. Oh yes.” This explanation did not make sense to Nilda, especially since her mother never went to Sunday Mass. She preferred instead to go to church during the week. “I have special prayers and novenas to say, Nilda. They are best dealt with during the week.”
    Now, Nilda could hear her stepfather grumbling in the bedroom. “Bunch of shit, filling her head with that phony stuff. Fairy tales in order to oppress the masses. Teaching them that to be good is not to fight back, is to take crap.…” He went on, “They’re afraid of the revolution—”
    â€œThat’s enough!” interrupted her mother. “What you say has nothing to do with God. One has to have faith. Faith is very powerful, especially faith in God. He will provide.”
    Nilda knew another one of those arguments between her mother and her stepfather was under way.
    â€œI shit on the priest’s bird, is what I do. ¡Carajo! Bunch of impotent faggots oppressing the people,” he shouted. “God feedsus? Clothes us? Mierda, I don’t see him around talking to the bill collectors.”
    â€œGod help us!” retaliated her mother, making the sign of the cross. “And may God forgive you, Emilio.” She said this addressing the closest of the many portable altars set up around the apartment.
    â€œI’d rather he sent me next month’s rent first.”
    Nilda listened to the voices arguing and wondered at all the possibilities of truth set before her. Making a choice was a heavy responsibility, and for Nilda the choice would change as unpredictably as the weather.
    At Mass in St. Cecilia’s Church, she sat in the pew with the other children and watched intensely as the kids and adults received Holy Communion. Every Sunday Nilda tried to develop a closeness to the church.
    On cold days after school last winter, Nilda remembered how she would go off to play in church all by herself. She did not want Petra or little Benji to go with her. Once she had almost got caught lighting rows of candles.
    â€œWho’s there?” someone asked loudly.
    Recognizing Father Shea’s voice, she ducked, quickly sneaking out. Most of the time nobody bothered her. Nilda found the church a warm place to play in and the fragrance of melted wax and incense had a comforting effect on her. She would spend a good deal of time looking at the statues, all the carving and the tall stained-glass windows. She marveled at the idea that a mortal person could do all this. Surely somebody made out of flesh and blood must have done all this, she thought. Was it one person who did it all?
    The snake beneath the Virgin’s feet and the scenes on the Stations of the Cross captured her and she would extend her arm, touching the forms and curves with the tips of her fingers, feeling the shapes develop into recognizable objects. Sometimes,in an effort to feel “religious,” she would look into the faces of the holy statues, and their expressionless eyes would stare back at her with a porcelain look, grotesque and unreal, making her think of the dummy figures in the wax museum at Coney Island of people who had committed horrible crimes.
    She also recalled how when she got home from camp, she told little Benji about her miracle. He had listened wide-eyed, and respectfully nodded when she embellished the story. Nilda loved little Benji; he was a whole year younger than she and she could hover over him and protect him at times like a mother hen. He