“My mom always calls him Bash, I think it’s a nickname from when they were kids.”
“I can’t even imagine him as a little boy, before the church got to him.”
Cruz laughed. “The church was in his blood young, according to my mom. He was only seventeen when they left Cuba, and already he’d spent time in the Jesuit school then. I always thought it was weird that he just picked up and left one night with her, but whenever I ask she shuts down and refuses to say more. I know she thinks highly of her brother, she calls him her knight in armor in Spanish and does a sign of the cross, I don’t know what happened to them before they left Cuba, but it was hard on them, whatever it was.”
I sank into Cruz’s words, this rare glimpse into Bastien’s family a priceless one, although it didn’t reveal any answers, only caused more burning questions.
“I’m sure if you asked Bastien he’d tell you.” I offered as I cut crisp white angel garland to hand at the festival tomorrow.
“We haven’t spent much time together, and I’ve been so wrapped up between school and Rose, well, I haven’t had the time, but I get the sense that they’d both like to keep the past in the past.”
“People gonna people,” I teased, bumping him in the shoulder. Cruz’s shy chuckle turned to a loud laugh when I sliced the head clean off a handful of paper angels by mistake. He sounded so much like his uncle it was uncanny.
“Sounds like the holidays in here,” Bastien entered the sacristy then, cool air engulfing him before the door shut with a thud. “It’s rare I walk into my home to the sound of laughter,” he patted Cruz warmly on the shoulder, “I’d hate to get used to it.”
“You should spend a Christmas in the city with mom, and Rose, and I. Bring Tressa too,” Cruz’s eyes swung from his uncle’s to mine, sparkling with naive hope. “Rose and Tressa and mom would have the best time.”
Bastien’s eyes hung heavy, his nod slow before a smile that looked more like a frown turned his lips. “Maybe, son.”
Realization dawned in Cruz’s eyes—there would never be a good time for Bastien and I to go anywhere together, that was just the plain truth of it. Getting him out of the clutches of the church, with their ability to deny him even time off—a holiday away seemed an unlikely event.
“I wanted to ask you while I’m here,” Cruz started and I felt dread settle in my chest, “I’ve been trying to locate my real father—“
“I don’t think now is the appropriate time,” Bastien cut him off and turned his back.
I narrowed my eyes, wondering how Bastien could have such a cold reaction to his nephew. “But—”
“This is a talk for your mother, Cruz.” I felt the stern warning in his words.
“She won’t even talk to me about the night you left Cuba, I just want some answers and I figured you’d give them to me because you take that vow of honesty or whatever priests do.”
“Vows are easily broken, Cruz, stop being naive.”
“But—”
“The truth is, your mother swore me to secrecy about all of the events surrounding that time, I’d be breaking a vow if I told you anything.” His eyes hung heavy on Cruz’s, tension filling up the small space as the two men—one young and one regal like a king—faced off.
“Just tell me, was it bad? What happened that night?”
Sympathy softened Bastien’s eyes before he covered his mouth for a moment, pain hollowing his cheeks before he uttered, “I won’t say anything more out of respect for her, but be tender with her, son, your mother suffered a tragedy I wouldn’t wish on God’s worst enemy.”
* * *
“See?” I yelled over the chugging of the volunteer fire truck early the next morning, Cruz at my shoulder as a loud spray of water covered the wide, skating-rink-sized layer of snow in the side yard of St. Michael’s. “They are loving you so hard for this already!”
Bastien shook his head back at us, crooked grin on his face. He stood, arms crossed, looking all lush and warm and inviting as we watched the first stages of my winter festival game plan unfold.
Step one—convince someone with an extremely large hose and an endless water source to share a little for our community ice rink. An announcement had run in last week’s church newsletter requesting donations of old or no longer used skates and hockey equipment, and the drop-offs had come in droves. Cruz was headed back to the city on the train tonight, but just in the short time I’d known him, we’d become fast friends. He’d done wonders at helping me with this festival, and his presence at St. Mike’s would be missed by more than just me. He’d been charming the little old ladies socks off—he was a mini-Bastien the way he listened so attentively and nailed you with those warm brown eyes. Whatever nurturing blood ran in their veins was very much genetic, and just working with him side by side the last few hours was enough for me to feel like he was family.
I would be sad to see him go later this afternoon, but he gushed nearly non-step about his new girlfriend Rose and how her and I would get along so perfectly. He promised they’d come for a weekend—and I promised I’d do my best to get Bastien into the city as soon as he had time off. Bastien had only shaken his head when I’d said that last part: without a second seminarian to lead Mass morning and afternoon, time off was a luxury that couldn’t be afforded.
And when a giant fire truck rolled up outside the local parish this morning, the people came out.
I laughed as kids clapped and waved, Cruz darting off to build a snow fort with a few older boys as one firefighter pointed out the control system on the hose to the smaller group of kids, another group of older ladies pointing to the two firemen operating the hose at the business end.
I nearly made a joke to Bastien about the dirty little old ladies but thought better of it, before he caught my gaze and split into a laugh of his own that rumbled so deep, I swear it hit places he hadn’t touched since…ever.
Just a look from this guy was about enough to send me over the edge, the chaste white collar at this throat a taunt, begging me to tackle him and loosen it with my teeth. I expected to burn in hell for these thoughts one day. I’d already made peace with it.
