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custom we did, of wearing black for
el luto
when people die. Louie attended Hebrew school and didn’t play much with the other kids in the projects, but Gilmar and I played with him because I liked his grandmother. She invited us in that day, but we only stayed for a minute, because we also had to say good-bye to another grandmother in the next building over.
    Mrs. Beverly also had a grandson living with her, in this case because his mother had problems. Jimmy might have had something wrong with him too; it was hard to say. Maybe he was just different, or a little slow; anyway, it was clear to me that he was more than the typical burden an elderly woman might bear caring for a young boy, and that gave Mrs. Beverly a heroic aura in my eyes, especially since she also held down an office job. Sometimes my mother and I would run into her on the street and stop to chat. She always wore a fur coat even when the weather was mild, and I thought she was very elegant. Mami explained to me that her coat was probably the only precious thing she owned and that’s why it was important to her. I could see that it gave her pleasure to wear it.
    Mrs. Beverly wasn’t expecting Gilmar and me at the door, of course, and when he explained about California and said good-bye, she almost cried. I’ve always thought grandmothers who take care of kids are special.
    In the building kitty-corner from ours was Ana, my mother’s best friend, who kept an eye on Junior and me after school until Papi got home. Ana’s husband, Moncho, and her daughter, Chiqui, were both home. Junior was there, too. That was no surprise. He worshipped Moncho and followed him everywhere, even to take out the garbage.Ana called Junior Moncho’s
rabo de conejo
, his rabbit tail. Ana’s next-door neighbors, Irma and Gilbert, heard the commotion, so of course they came over to see what they were missing. It became almost a party as Gilmar said good-bye to everyone.
    We decided to walk over to Blessed Sacrament next, to say good-bye to the nuns. Junior wanted to come with us, but Moncho asked him to stay and help him cook an octopus, which he had in a bucket. He showed it to us, all slimy arms and suckers. Junior’s eyes widened, his mouth was hanging. “Mami doesn’t cook
that
,” he said. Moncho was a merchant marine who brought his kids exotic souvenirs from far-off lands. I imagined he knew all about the depths of the ocean, as well as how to cook things we’d never even heard of. He certainly knew how to keep Junior occupied, and we continued our good-bye tour unencumbered.
    When we reached Blessed Sacrament, the school yard was empty and silent, abandoned for summer vacation, but the office door was open. Sister Marita Joseph and Sister Elizabeth Regina both looked up.
    “Hello, Sonia. Hello, Gilmar. Is everything all right? What brings you here on a Saturday?” Sister Marita Joseph looked apprehensive. When Gilmar explained that he was moving to California and saying good-bye to everyone, she asked, “And you, Sonia? Are you accompanying Gilmar on his good-byes?” I just nodded. I might have been a compulsive talker at home, but at school I spoke when spoken to. “That’s very unusual,” she said, looking at me strangely. I thought she approved, but I was not 100 percent sure. Why would it be unusual to keep a friend company? It had practically been my idea, even if it was Gilmar who was leaving.
    Sister Elizabeth was our teacher that year. The best I could say about third grade was that it was a more or less continuous state of dread. As hard as I tried to keep a low profile, trouble seemed to find me. At Christmas, for instance, all the students brought presents for their teachers. That year my father had chosen my present for Sister Elizabeth. He’d never once come to school, had never even met her, but he chose the present, which he proudly handed to me in a long box, already gift wrapped by him. He wouldn’t even tell me what it was.
    Sister