Firefly Summer Page 3

“But we have to have someone in charge the first night,” said Grandmother.

  “What about you, Mamá? How would you like to wear the first ribbon?”

  “Why I have not sung a feast since I was a young woman, but I believe I would like to do it again.”

  “Very well, then you shall be the first godmother,” said her daughter.

  Grandmother was more excited than she cared to confess.

  “We have to make the “capias,” ribbons, and the altar must be dressed, and the refreshments selected,” she said, growing more and more excited.

  Teresa came into the room at that moment, and an idea came to her: Teresa was old enough to take some of the responsibility of the feast, especially when one of the family was involved.

  “I am to be the first godmother, Teresa,” she said. “How would you like to make the capias for the feast?”

  “Oh, Grandmother, do you really mean it? Make all the capias? There’s nothing I would like better,” she said.

  “Then get Antonio to fasten the safety pins on for you.”

  While Teresa ran to the kitchen to tell Antonio the news, her grandmother brought the work basket and took out a roll of narrow white ribbon, thread, needles, and a carton of small safety pins.

  “Let’s go to the neck to work,” said Teresa, gathering up her work.

  “Did Grandmother ask to be the first godmother?” asked Antonio, putting up his forefingers so that Teresa could wind the ribbon around them. Teresa wanted the capias to be real butterfly bows.

  “No, no, Mother selected her, of course.”

  “But do you suppose she wished for it beforehand?”

  “Now, Antonio, who could possibly know that? Don’t wiggle your fingers. I don’t want these capias to be loose.”

  “Who else will get capias this summer, Teresa?”

  “I don’t know that either,” she answered.

  When Teresa had finished making the capias, she asked Antonio to begin attaching the safety pins while she went to look for an empty box to put the bows in.

  No sooner was she gone than Antonio pinned a capia to his shirt. He smoothed the ribbon gently. “I wish I was big enough to get one of these capias,” he said, unfastening the safety pin. When he finished his work, the nine capias looked like small white butterflies with their wings wide open.

  Teresa had not found a box, but she had a large piece of tissue paper. “This will have to do,” she said. She wrapped the capias and went to the shed to find her grandmother.

  “They are beautiful,” said Grandmother, “but why didn’t you sew them.”

  “Because they looked better tied like that, don’t you think?”

  “Yes, I do. Come now and give me a hand here.”

  They spread a white runner over the altar and put on the first step. Ramón brought the mahogany cross he had made for the feast and stood it on the altar. Antonio placed jugs at either side of it.

  “That’s all I want now, except for the flowers which I will cut tomorrow,” said Grandmother.

  “I must not forget to bring your chair, Grandmother,” said Ramón. “I better bring it at once.”

  That night after dinner, Doña Anita assigned each member of the family a special job to do. Juana was to make the manjar—a dish made of milk, rice, flour and yolks of eggs, sweetened with sugar and sprinkled with cinnamon.

  Lucía, Antonio’s mother, was to help Teresa’s grandmother with the tomato marmalade for the casabe bread. Teresa had to prepare the sangría—diluted wine with lemon, water and sugar. Ramón was to ride to Cayey and bring the cookies Lucía’s husband had ordered from the baker. Lucía herself would brew the coffee for the men who she knew would pass up the sangría.

  Next day by mid-afternoon, everything was ready.

  A large table was brought out and placed at the kitchen entrance, and plates, spoons, cups and saucers were piled on it. Juana and Lucía were put in charge.

  At sundown, the workers began to arrive, and the shed was soon filled. Those who could not find seats sat outside on the grass. There were eleven children, and Teresa and Ramón gave them the first bench, right next to her grandmother. “This will be your seat for the entire feast,” Ramón said. The children were delighted.

  “There are lots of new faces,” said Teresa. “Do they live on our finca?”

  “No,” Ramón answered. “Have you forgotten how many guests come every year with the workers?”

  When they were settled, Grandmother took the crystal beads off the altar and began her offering. “Oh, Holy Cross, we who gather here humbly offer you this floral feast of May,” she said. Then she began to chant the rosary.

  The workers all joined her enthusiastically. On and on she led them. When she reached the “Adórate—We adore thee,” the workers took the leading choruses, singing with abandon and gaiety. There were all types of voices, and the merging of them, though somewhat dissonant, gave the feast the mark of spontaneity for which it was known. Grandmother followed with the “Salve Regina,” which she sang alone in her thin but firm voice. After that, she closed with a carol for the Cross.

  The workers applauded and thanked her for the way she had opened the feast. Those who had been sitting on the grass stood up to stretch their legs and light their cigars. But when Doña Anita stood up with the new capia in her hands, a great silence fell over the group. The children stood on their benches to see who would get the new capia. She went in and out of the line of benches as if she were looking for a special person. She left the shed and went out to a group of men who stood with José and pinned the capia on Gregorio’s chest.

  Poor Gregorio, taken by surprise, almost jumped out of his shoes.

  “Say something, hombre,” said his friends.

  But Gregorio, known for his political speeches, now could not think of anything to say.

  “Vamos, Gregorio,” said José, “a capia is a capia, and you have to accept it. Can’t you even do that?”

  Gregorio bowed to Doña Anita and thanked her while the crowd shouted and applauded.

  “Now,” said Don Rodrigo, “let us all have refreshments and a toast to the new godfather of the feast.”

  Juana and Lucía served everyone, and the group spread about the place eating and drinking sangría and black coffee.

  Teresa sat at the edge of the shed with the children, watching the stars between mouthfuls of manjar. Ramón kept running back and forth, bringing them extra portions of cookies and glasses of the sangría.

  Finally, the workers began to leave, and the family walked to the edge of the hill with them.

  The next day it was Gregorio’s turn to honor the Cross.

  At noon his wife, Fermina, came to dress the altar. She added a second step to mark the second rosary and stood the mahogany cross on it. Then she spread a blue runner with a heavy crochet border on the altar and asked Ramón for an extra chair. She refilled the jugs with fresh water and put in carnations she had brought.

  Teresa and Ramón watched her work, wondering all the time why she had asked for the extra chair. But Fermina left without telling them the reason.

  Late that afternoon, the family came out to the shed. Already a group of workers were sitting admiring the altar, and soon after they saw Gregorio’s family coming up the hill. With them came Nicanor, the town guitarist, holding his guitar under his arm. They were followed by children, skipping and laughing.

  “Buenas tardes,” said Gregorio, taking his chair and offering Nicanor the other one.

  Teresa and Ramón looked at each other. This was the reason for the extra chair. Gregorio was going to have music tonight. They were glad their seats were close enough so that they could watch Nicanor play.

  The workers soon began to fill the shed, and again there was a surplus sitting out on the grass. Gregorio picked up the crystal beads and began the rosary. There were no frills to the simple way in which he conducted the prayer. When he finished, he nodded to Nicanor, who began to pluck his guitar. His tune rose tenderly
and plaintively. On and on he played, and the crowd sat quietly listening. How long he played no one really knew. They sat absorbed in it, as if the strings of his guitar were magic threads that held them to their seats. Every eye was on the Cross, and every mind was filled with the solemnity of the moment. There were no carols sung in praise of the Cross, yet there was a carol in each of the hearts of those gathered there. When the music ceased, the group still sat quietly until Don Rodrigo broke the spell with loud applause. Everyone went up to Nicanor and thanked him for the music and also thanked Gregorio for having thought of it.

  “Music was a splendid offering,” said Grandmother. “Whatever made you decide upon it?”

  “I can’t sing,” said Gregorio. “I had to have Nicanor do the singing for me. That, I think, he has done well.”

  The third capia went to one of the guests of the workers, a young woman from another finca.

  “Play an extra tune,” she asked Nicanor.

  “One tune for Rosa, please,” said Benito, who had brought her to the feast.

  “If I do, who will sing?” asked Nicanor.

  Then came a loud call for “Pilar, Pilar.”

  “Sing La Borinqueña,” said Rosa.

  “No, no,” cried the children. “Sing Flor de té first.”

  They had never forgotten the plight of the shepherd boy who lost his shepherdess to a king. The song was as good as a story to them. “Sing it, please, Pilar,” they pleaded.

  So she sang it for them and then sang La Borinqueña for everybody else. Before she had gone very far, the entire crowd joined her in the song they all knew and loved. Inspired by it, Nicanor continued to play until the workers were ready to go home.

  So the feast progressed night after night, one rivaling with the other in originality, until the time came when there were eight steps leading to the Cross. That evening, the capia had fallen to Sixta’s mother. She had dressed the altar in bright red and had filled the earthen jugs with tall branches of red berries.

  All morning the children had sat watching her work, dressing the altar as bright as the blossoms of the flamboyán tree.

  The altar was covered by white muslin, on which rosebuds of red crepe paper had been pinned. The steps to the Cross were hidden by masses of rosebuds delicately fashioned.

  “You must have sat all night making those rosebuds,” said Doña Anita.

  “Good work,” said Grandmother. “I think, this is one of the prettiest altars I have ever seen here, María.”

  “I’m glad to be here to see it, too,” said Teresa.

  That night the crowd was as large as on the first night, for the eve of the last rosary meant a chance to close the feast, if the last capia was pinned on you. That was a thing many a worker wished for. When they had walked around the altar and had told María how much they admired her work, they went back to their benches, and María began the rosary.

  When she finished and closed with two improvised carols, Doña Anita stood up with a small box in her hands, out of which she took three capias. A loud murmur rose from the crowd; Teresa and Antonio exchanged glances quickly. There were two extra capias in Doña Anita’s hand, which they knew they had not made. Who, then, had made them? And why? They were not the only ones who wondered about them. The workers, too, were certain Doña Anita had made a mistake. Hadn’t she noticed the eight steps on the altar? Had she forgotten how many capias had been given already?

  But Doña Anita knew what she was doing. She crossed the shed and came to the bench where the children sat behind María and pinned one capia on Ramón, one on Antonio and the other on Teresa.

  “The children! Three capias for children,” cried the workers, shaking their heads in disapproval. This was the first time anything like that had happened. Why had she wasted three good capias on the children when the shed was full of grown people? True, Ramón was almost a man. Did they not take orders from him now and then in things concerning the finca? But there was Teresa, only eleven, and Antonio, who was just eight-years old. They did not know what to make of Doña Anita’s choice.

  But the children were delighted.

  “Gracias, gracias, Mamá,” said Teresa, kissing her.

  “The closing of the feast,” said Ramón, conscious of the honor Doña Anita had conferred upon them. “Oh, Doña Anita, I do not know what to say.”

  But Antonio said not a word. He stood in their midst looking at the butterfly bow on his chest. Teresa and Ramón had received the two extra capias, but he had the last of the ones he had helped make. Perhaps it was the very one he had pinned on his chest that day when Teresa had left him alone for just a minute…the very day he had wished to be grown up, so he too could have a chance at one of them. And here he was now with a capia on his chest and still a small boy. He looked at he rest of the children on the bench and smiled a smile of complete satisfaction and pride.

  On the morning following the unusual events, Teresa and Ramón were up earlier than ever. When they came to the shed, they were surprised to find Antonio surrounded by a group of children.

  “They want to help,” he said.

  “All right,” said Teresa. “We are going to pick ferns, come along.”

  “I know a place that is not far, and it’s full of young plants,” said Roberto.

  “Let’s go there,” said Ramón. “Lead us to it.”

  Roberto led them to a secluded spot near the spring, where the young ferns looked like plums and the green moss stretched out like a rug.

  “Let’s carry some of the moss, too,” said Teresa. “Antonio, you and the boys stay here while Ramón and I cut some branches from these bushes. We’ll need lots of them.”

  The place was full of wild violets and there was a row of hyacinths ready to blossom. While Ramón cut the branches, Teresa gathered the flowers and piled them near the moss the children had gathered. When they had a large pile of branches, ferns and flowers, Ramón, sorted them out and gave each their share to carry.

  Once again at the shed, they settled to work. Ramón brought a ladder, and Antonio climbed up to place the last step on the altar. He stood the mahogany cross on it. Teresa handed him handfuls of ferns, which he began to spread on the steps until they were all covered. The rest of the children helped Teresa cover the altar with the moss and the remaining ferns until not a piece of wood was seen. Meanwhile, Ramón had stood the branches around the rear of the altar. He had even covered the ladder Antonio had climbed previously to make it look like a tree.

  “The shed looks like a grotto, Ramón,” said Teresa. “Do we have to have all three lanterns on tonight? I wish we could have just one over the cross.”

  “I can move two of them further back, but we have to have them all, even though the moon shines so clear.” He brought the long ladder from the woodshed and untied the two lanterns from the rafters where they had hung. He then tied them in the rear of the shed, leaving just the one over the cross.

  When Doña Anita came to look at their work, she was surprised to see what they had accomplished. Grandmother, too, came bringing arms full of freshly cut flowers from her garden.

  “It is simple and beautiful,” she said.

  “Do you think Papá will like it?” asked Teresa.

  “I am sure he will,” she answered.

  They sat to watch the children sort the flowers and place some in the earthen jugs. The smaller ones went into the making of three bouquets and a tiny wreath. They wrapped them in long leaves and brought them to the house to keep them fresh for the evening.

  “Now to start the carols,” said Teresa. “We have to teach Antonio his, and drill him until he knows it by heart.”

  “May we stay, too?” asked the rest of the children.

  “Carols are surprises,” Teresa explained. “You will hear them tonight.”

  The children left, promising to come early and see if there was anything else they could do. Though they had not received capias, the other children felt part of the last day of the feast because their frie
nd Antonio had one.

  In the midst of drilling Antonio, Grandmother called Teresa. A peasant had come with a box for her. She ran to the kitchen. She did not know the man. The box was square and tied with a strong cord. On one side of it was a scrap of paper pasted with her name written on it. She did not know the handwriting either.

  “Who could have sent it, Mamá?” she asked, turning the box to see if it had any other marks of identification. The man had said it came from the confectionery in Cidra, but he did not know who had bought it.

  “Open it,” said Grandmother, “and stop asking questions.”

  The box was filled with almonds, lollipops, rock candy and all sorts of cookies. There was an envelope addressed to her, and she recognized the handwriting.

  “It’s from Papá!” she cried, tearing open the envelope.

  She read the note quickly. The expression that came upon her face was one of complete disappointment. She closed the box slowly.

  “What is it, Teresa?” asked her mother.

  “Papá won’t be able to come to the closing of the feast. Business,” she said.

  “Whatever is detaining him must be important,” said Grandmother, trying to cheer her granddaughter. “Rodrigo has never missed a closing or opening of the feast.”

  “What are you going to do with so much candy?” said her mother, trying to take her daughter’s mind from the bad news. “You should see what Juana has for you, too.”

  But Teresa showed little interest. What could be keeping her father in town all day and part of the evening? Not to have him the very first time she was to conduct the feast, that was the worst possible thing that could happen to her. She laid the box on the kitchen table. Ramón was waiting for her to finish the carols. She felt all her previous enthusiasm leaving her. As she turned to go, Juana came into the kitchen, her arms full of packages. At the sight of Teresa, she stood still, not knowing what to do.

  “Come along, Juana,” said Doña Anita, “we have told Teresa already. Her father has disappointed her, and not even the sight of all the candy you have in those boxes will cheer her. What will ever happen to the feast tonight?”

  Juana made room on the table for her packages and opened the boxes to let Teresa see their contents. There were all shapes and varieties in her selections of homemade candy, for which Juana was famous.