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faith by renaming the saints, the orishas, after African gods to whom they prayed for guidance, forgiveness, even wrath and punishment for others, or that Santeria had been condemned by the church.
    I had tried to explain the contradiction to my grandmother, as well as the origin—that Santeria was a consequence of forcing Roman Catholicism on Africans brought to the Caribbean by slave traders—but she would never listen. She went to church regularly and did not see any conflict. As a kid she had me memorize the names and powers of the individual orishas even while she was dragging me to church every Sunday. Between my maternal Jewish grandmother telling me about the deadly Passover plagues while stuffing me with latkes, and my abuela ’s heavy-duty mix of Christianity and Santeria, it pretty much explained my becoming an agnostic. But my abuela loved Jesus as passionately as she loved Olodumare, the supreme being, and I’d long ago given up trying to convince her otherwise because I loved her.
    “Nato, pensé que te había oido.”
    Of course she’d heard me come in, she always did.
    She turned to her customer, whispered something in Spanish, handed over candles with garish images of saints, and explained when to light them.
    “Did you charge her for those candles?” I asked after the woman had left.
    My grandmother planted her hands on her hips and narrowed her dark eyes. “I do not steal from ones in need and pain.”
    “I know that, uela. But you can’t spend all your money on other people.”
    “Cálmate,” she said, a nice way of telling me to shut up, then got a tender grip on my face with both hands. At five feet tall, the top of my grandmother’s head just cleared my shoulders. “Ven, estoy cocinando.”
    “Yeah, I know you’re cooking, but what, the cat?”
    “Ay, qué chistoso.” She shook a finger at me, but smiled. “Why you never shave, Nato?”
    Nato, her favorite among several nicknames for me; neno, nenito, the others. Nathan was impossible for her to say with its th sound, plus she’d never liked the name. She brought this up to my mother at least once a month, and I gave her credit for never quitting. Lately, she’d been lobbying for Anthony or Manuel. At my thirty-third birthday this past January she’d presented me with a wallet with the letter A stamped on it. “What’s with the A?” I’d asked. “In case you decide on Anthony,” she’d said. You had to give it to her. My mother almost plotzed, which was myJewish grandmother’s favorite word or saying: I could plotz, she’d say, or I’m plotzing. My two grandmothers adored each other, though I don’t know if they ever understood what the other one was saying, which is maybe why they adored each other. Occasionally my abuela used the word plotz, and it always made me laugh.
    We headed into the kitchen and she asked me again why I didn’t shave and I said it was because I didn’t like to look at my face. She called me a mentiroso, a liar, and waved a hand at me, the bangle and beaded bracelets at her wrist clanging out a tune.
    I glanced at the pot on the stove. “Cooking up one of your potions for a client, a riego, right?”
    “You think you know everything, chacho. ” Another nickname, this one generic, boy, to put me in my place.
    “And of course you’re paying for it.”
    “¿Qué importa?” she said.
    “It matters because I don’t like to see you wasting your money.”
    “It would be better if you worried a little about yourself, Nato. The way you stay in your apartment, alone, or at work, making pictures of those diablos . It’s time you found a girl, una mujer, to start making babies.”
    “Oh, brother.”
    “Do not oh brother with me, chacho. Find a nice girl, it’s time.” She took my face in her hands again. “Oye, guapo.” She was playing at being exasperated, but still called me handsome. My grandmother thinks I look like Fernando Lamas and every other good-looking Spanish actor that ever