Between Enzo and the Universe Page 9

  Well, maybe not better lives, but a better world.

  And I wanted my family back.

  If I could wish for anything, it would have been those things.

  “And a new job that will pay my bills,” I said while trying to cover my seriousness with a laugh.

  When I told Peter this, he stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, disregarding the cold wind blowing sharply into us and turned to me. Turning to him, I found his arms pulling me in, and he hugged me right there in the middle of the street. At first, my instinct was to push him away, to reject his continued displays of kindness, to scream at him for being so wonderful when no one had been wonderful for so long. The desire to ask him who he thought he was, being so wonderful when I knew for a fact that people were not wonderful, was nearly overwhelming. Instead, I found my body melting into his, my head going to his shoulder, enjoying the warmth of him against me and the affection I hadn’t had from another person in over a year. When I finally pulled back from him—he refused to be the first to let go—I had to wipe my nose and my eyes with the back of my hand, but he said nothing of it.

  “Thank you.” I had said quietly as we began walking again.

  Peter reached out to grab my hand, to lace his fingers through mine, and I let him.

  We walked along the sidewalk, holding hands as two men—a foreign concept for me at the time—and we didn’t bother with caring if anyone saw it.

  At the church, no one was in the chapel so late at night. Peter had asked in a hushed tone if it was okay to go inside so late in the evening, but I had explained that the chapel was open day and night for people to pray when it was convenient for them. Without another word, he followed me inside, down the middle aisle, and then into the row I always chose when I prayed. As I lowered myself into the pew, Peter sat down as well, though he gave me space as he looked around the chapel in wonder. As I usually did, I spent a few moments in quiet reflection, trying to gather my thoughts before doing my prayers. Once I felt quiet and peaceful, I slid from the pew to my knees to kneel, crossed myself, and rested my clasped hands on the pew back before us.

  My prayers always began with telling God in my head—in French, as I still do to this day—that I hoped he was watching over my grandmother, my father, my mother, my sister, and my brother in Heaven. That he had known what he was doing when he took them. I hoped that they knew that I was okay and thought of them every day—that I loved them as much now that they were gone as I had when they had been with me. I asked that he watch over the people in the world who needed it most and that he show mercy to those who might need it. I asked that he continue to guide me and strengthen my faith, to help me to be kind and patient, to practice my faith in all things that I did. And then I asked God the one question that I had asked every day since Noe had left me.

  Why?

  I want to know why, God.

  And I will ask every day in every prayer—in every language if I have to—I will learn every language to make sure you understand me if I have to—until I feel you have answered me.

  I have always trusted in you, God.

  But this I cannot trust.

  I am a forgiving person, God.

  But this I have not been able to abide.

  Then I added a new message to my prayers.

  Thank you for Peter, God.

  Please look after him when he returns to America and every day thereafter.

  Show him the kindness he shows others.

  Love him and guide him so that he is safe and healthy.

  I don’t know if he even believes in you, but that doesn’t matter to me, so please don’t let it matter to you.

  In the name of the Father and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.

  Amen.

  I crossed myself once more.

  When I rose from my knees, sliding back into the pew, Peter was no longer sitting there waiting on me. He had disappeared.

  And, for some reason, I felt panicked.

  God Loves Dirty Feet

  I was holding my grandmother’s hand when she was dead. It wasn’t the warm hand that I had held the night before, as I sat at her bedside, doing nightly prayers with her. She had been sick for months, though no one—the doctors that is—could ever really tell us what was wrong. She was nearly ninety-years-old, having had my father late in life, just as my mother and father had done with me. My grandmother was going to die, that was something that my parents and I knew, and I think Noe and Ila were mostly able to understand that would happen. When the moment would come, we weren’t so sure, though we all assumed that she would get so sick that she would go into the hospital a final time, get sicker, and then never come home. When my mother went into my grandmother’s room that morning after I did her nightly prayers with her, and found her dead, we realized that our expectations were not always what God had in store for us.

  Memories of my grandmother are varied and many, reaching back as far as my earliest memories—the fuzzy ones that seem more like dreams than actual memories. In those fuzzy, hazy, dreamy thoughts, I remember running around on legs much shorter and plumper than mine are now. At birthday parties, holiday parties, family gatherings where food and love, not to mention God, were the main focus. I remember sitting next to her in church when we were in Paris visiting, smelling her powdery, flowery perfume, and leaning my head against her silky shoulder as the priest would give his sermon. I remember clutching her hand with both of mine excitedly as she would wink down at me as we stood for the Benediction of the Blessed Sacrament because I knew that it was almost time to leave church. Grandmother didn’t care that I was more excited to get out of church than I should have been. She understood a child’s need to run and play and tear the knees of their pants.

  She knew that God understood that.

  When we’d leave church, when I was very young, I remember that I’d immediately strip off my shoes and socks, glad to have my feet free from the tight, uncomfortable dress shoes. When my mom or dad would try to admonish me, she would intervene.

  “God loves dirty feet,” she would always say as she took my shoes and socks from me, to keep them safe, as I ran off to play with the other kids in the park across the street. Sometimes, if my mother and father were not too upset with my childish displays, she would kick off her shoes and walk around the park with me, too old to play, but not too old to follow along.

  Other than our love of leaving church so that we could experience the world that God created, which we worshipped in church, my grandmother and I shared our eyes. Though hers were more prominently almond-shaped than mine. Born in Cambodia, my grandmother met and married my grandfather, moving to France long before the Khmer Rouge takeover. She had avoided a lot of her country’s strife during that period of time, but she also missed the connection to her culture and heritage, though she never spoke explicitly about it. She was happy in France, she adored my grandfather, as he was a good man, and she was positively enamored with my father when he came from their union. Because she felt so fortunate to have a husband she loved and was good to her, and a son who was the light of her life, she assimilated well to French culture. Anyone who spent time with her could feel the tucked away sadness at feeling removed from her heritage, though. I was one of the people who spent a lot of time with her.

  Often, I would ask her to tell me what it was like in Cambodia, to tell me about food and clothes and customs, especially what Christmas was like in Cambodia because it was my favorite holiday when I was young. I was too young to realize that not everyone in the world was a Catholic, and I was so enamored with the holiday, that my grandmother would admirably sidestep the question—as she did with most questions about her heritage. I was always told that one day she would tell me about her life before France before she met and married my grandfather. That day never came. I often wonder if my grandmother had lived to one-hundred if she would have finally told me something…anything…that would help me understand more about my eyes. But that was a wish I knew to be pointless.


  Catholicism was not exactly my grandmother’s idea of a perfect religion, but she did her best to be devout because of her love for my grandfather. When I asked my grandmother about God and being Catholic, she would grow very quiet and take a long time to form an answer. At the time, I didn’t understand why, but now I have realized it was because she never really saw herself as a Catholic, but she did not want to speak ill of something so entrenched in my family’s history. Finally, after much staring off into the distance and consideration on her part, she would always say the same thing:

  Be good to the universe, Enzo. And it will be good to you. What you give out is what you get back. That is where you will find God.

  So, when my mother came out of my grandmother’s room, a hand clasped over her mouth and tears rolling down her cheeks as she ran to find my father, I went to my grandmother’s bedside and sat down beside her. My hand slid into her flaccid, cold hand, and I said a final prayer with her. Because maybe if I told the universe about my love for my grandmother, it would show her love wherever she was. Even when my father’s sobs suddenly rang out, sharp and sudden, echoing off of the walls of our house, I prayed for the universe to take care of my grandmother.

  Hopefully, wherever she was, whoever was looking over her, they loved dirty feet, too.

  The Kindness of Not Being So Polite

  Peter’s disappearance was not shocking to me, though I was panicked at the thought that seeing me pray had scared him off. Most people who are not religious can become uncomfortable around those who are devout. Assumptions can be made that we are planning to judge them or speak in tongues or…I don’t know…slaughter a goat and ask for God to bless our house. My family was not that kind of Catholics. While we always did our best to honor God and family, to honor and respect others, to do service to mankind, to practice what we preached, we were not zealots. When I was approaching my teen years, and we weren’t sure that we were moving to Canada yet, my mother and father sat me down. They told me that I would not be going to private Catholic school like a lot of my friends. They didn’t trust the church to give me a proper education, and they feared that the biases would be thrust upon me. I was a little disappointed, thinking that they were treating me poorly, not letting me join my friends in school, but I have since realized that they were protecting me from a system they saw as profoundly flawed and troubling. They loved God, but not his bureaucracy.

  As I sat in the church pew, making sure to breathe and not cry as I mourned the loss of Peter and his kindness, I realized that his kindness had come when I needed it most. If it was gone, I was going to have to be okay with that. I had received more kindness in one evening than I had received in many months. Maybe even years. So, I made sure to breathe deeply, filling my lungs with my gratitude for having met Peter. For my belly being so full that I wanted to lie down and take a nap before walking home to my own bed. A smile came to my face as I thought of how Peter had shared the donuts and then an extravagant meal. Like a lightning bolt, I suddenly realized that I was still wearing his coat. I rose from the pew, panicked for a new reason. I had to find him so that I could return his beautiful peacoat before he disappeared from my homeland.

  Dashing through the chapel, which I never would have done, simply out of respect, I pushed through the doors and skidded out onto the street, the rubber soles of my canvas shoes squealing against the concrete.

  “Where are you going?”

  Startled, as though my spine would climb up and out of my shoulders, I spun around to find Peter behind me, next to the doorway of the church. He was leaning against the stone wall and sliding his mobile phone into his pocket as he held a half-smoked cigarette that glowed in the darkness of the church entry. My heart leapt in my chest—not from being startled, but from seeing that Peter had, in fact, not run away—and I had to take a breath before I could answer. If I responded with the first thing that came to my mind, which was I was sad that you left, I would have seemed weird. Taking a breath, thinking the moment through, I was able to respond in a way that did not make me seem so enamored with my new companion.

  “You forgot your coat,” I said.

  Peter smiled and brought the cigarette to his lips.

  “You used to work as a custodian, right?”

  “Yes.” I nodded slowly, still afraid to say too much too quickly.

  “Would you have trouble getting to work now?” He asked, then his tone changed, as though afraid to say more. “Now that it’s just you?”

  For a moment, I just stared at Peter, wondering why he was asking such weird questions.

  “I only have to worry about myself now,” I said. “I am never late anymore.”

  I didn’t tell Peter that sometimes I got to Mr. Paquette’s ESL classes late because my tardiness was predicated on my fear of being humiliated by my fellow students.

  Peter took a long drag on his cigarette, which made my mouth water. I had not had a cigarette in several months. I hadn’t been able to afford them since before my mother had died, and even then, I limited myself to two a day. When I had first started smoking when I was seventeen-years-old, it was possible to have a cigarette anytime I wished. We had money then. But cigarettes had become a luxury I couldn’t partake in anymore. I found myself staring at Peter’s cigarette, transfixed on the glowing red tip, and his elegant fingers pinching the butt.

  “Would you like one?” He asked, reaching into the breast pocket of his coat.

  “Non,” I said. “Thank you.”

  “Enzo?”

  “Yes? My eyes were still on his cigarette.

  “I would like to share my cigarettes with you.” He said. “Do me the kindness of not being so polite, please.”

  Slowly, my eyes came to rest on Peter’s. Nodding, I silently agreed. A moment later, Peter was lighting the cigarette that was held tightly in my mouth as I cupped my hands around the tip. When he pulled the lighter away, I took a deep draw of the cigarette, inhaling deeply, my eyes closing in ecstasy. Immediately, my head swam. I loved it.

  Smoking was a habit that my mother had always hated, and on more than one occasion, she had hidden my cigarettes from me. On a weekly basis, I had gotten a lecture from her about the dangers of smoking and how God would not like that I was damaging my body with such things. Her lectures had never really interfered with my habit but made me more creative at hiding it from her. It was my one pleasure I allowed myself that was bad for me. I’ve since given up the habit, but at the time, most days, I thought about somehow getting a cigarette at least five times a day.

  For several minutes, we stood near the entrance to the church and smoked. Smoking cigarettes so closely to the church made me uneasy and ashamed, as though God would be looking down upon me angrily for sullying the entryway to his abode. However, the alcove kept the wind, even though it was slight, from slicing into our flesh. Even with coats on our backs, the wind found cheeks and foreheads and noses and hands. It was unrelenting in its desire to chap skin and awaken the senses. So, instead of being ashamed, I smoked and stood with Peter, wondering what it was that I now had to say to this handsome American who had clothed and fed me.

  “What does God say to you in there, Enzo?” Peter asked suddenly, relieving me of finding something to talk about.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you talk to God—pray—does he ever reply?”

  “I am not crazy.”

  “I don’t think you’re crazy.” Peter smiled warmly. “I mean metaphorically. Do you ever feel something when you talk to God?”

  I thought about this for a moment.

  “Yes.”

  “What do you feel?”

  Being asked such a big question made me realize how little I could explain my emotions and feelings about something infinite like God.

  “I was raised Baptist,” Peter said, obviously realizing that I had to think. “I’ve been to church hundreds, if not thousands, of times. I’ve never felt God there.”

  Bringing my ciga
rette to my lips for another glorious puff, I looked Peter in the eyes, wondering if he was mocking me or deriding my belief in God.

  “Where do you feel God?” I asked, finally.

  Peter smiled. “You really listen, don’t you?”

  “I like listening to you.”

  “I feel God when I have food in my belly.” Peter began slowly. “When I wake up in the morning, and I have a new day to try again. When I feel the wind at my back and the sun on my cheeks. God seems to be with me when I take a long hike through the woods and hear his creatures and creations whisper. I feel God when I walk into a flea market and meet someone who does a kindness simply because it is the right thing to do. But, most of all, I feel God when I am able to buy a new coat and give my old one to someone who is looking for one.”

  It took a moment for me to realize what Peter had said, but then my eyes grew wide.

  “I cannot take your coat.” I shook my head violently. “It is too nice, and—”

  “Does God teach you politeness, Enzo?” Peter asked. “When you kneel there and thank him for all he has given you? When you ask him to look over people?”

  I just stared at Peter.

  “Because being polite…being nice…is not the same as kindness,” Peter said. “It’s not the same as being good.”

  “It is not.”

  “Do me the kindness of not being so polite. Again.” He said gently. “Please keep the coat. When we go our separate ways, I want that coat to go with you. It would mean the world to me.”

  “But it is so nice, Peter,” I said, suddenly stricken with how lovely his name sounded rolling off of my tongue. “I know that it was not inexpensive.”

  “Who needs two coats?” He shrugged.

  “I will have many coats one day.” I nodded firmly, taking another draw of my cigarette. “My closet will be full of them. I will never be without a coat.”

  Peter’s eyes locked on mine, and without so much as another word crossing either of our lips, I knew that we had an understanding. Outside of my chapel, where I did my morning and evening prayers, I actually felt that maybe God was listening.