From time-to-time I’ll add observations of the publishing world and short stories here. Today, the short story will be Heaven,winner of the top prize at Short Story America. As always, your comments are welcome.
It was nearly nine when Amalia Pedrosa entered the portales, those covered walkways fronting the hotels, restaurants and businesses along the north side of Morelia’s Avenida Madero. By then, most of the tables along the arcade were occupied, predominantly by middle-aged men taking their morning coffees, reading newspapers, smoking or chatting with friends.
As she had for the past two years, since she was five, Amalia held her small tray of chewing gum, nuts and cheap chili-flavored candies in front her and set out toward the nearest table. Reaching it, she would stand silently until the men glanced up and, as often as not, waved her away. It was easier now to accept the indifference, the rejection. Two years ago it had been hard. Frequently, then, she had cried knowing she had failed and wouldn’t be able to provide the pitiful few extra pesos her grandmother and her brother, who washed the windshields of passing cars, depended on. On a good day, working six hours, her brother Luis might make 200 pesos, a tenth of which he’d have to share with others who “owned” the corner where he worked. Amalia might provide another 15 or 20 pesos. Because her grandmother was old and unable to work, it was all they had.
Amalia’s grandmother, her abuela, had tried to comfort her those first days by reminding her that Morelia’s cathedral stood across the street from the portales. “It is the house of God,” she’d said, “so you see, you are close to God. Like your dear mother.”
Her grandmother had told her that when a person died and went to heaven, they were, “close to God.” That was good, Amalia supposed. But when she asked questions about heaven…where it was and what one did there, her grandmother could provide no details. Was it like a city? No, it wasn’t. Were there streets? No, there weren’t. Were there things to eat there? No, there weren’t. You were only “close to God.”
On any day the portales were busy. Aside from the passersby and the bustling meseros bearing trays of coffee or food, there were other vendors: shoe shine men with their wooden boxes of rags and wax, men selling maps, older women begging for alms or trying to sell small cloth dolls dressed in native costume. Sometimes there were troubadours dressed in medieval costume or young men and women playing guitars and flutes. At the end of the first arcade was a man in a wheelchair selling chewing gum who always scowled at her. She always stopped short of the kiosk selling newspapers and magazines where he usually sat.
Throughout the morning, Amalia wended her way from the first arcade to the second and back several times. Frequently she glanced across the avenue at the cathedral. Many times she had wondered… if she was “close to God” as her abuela said, was God inside? If she crossed the avenue, looked inside and found him, would God tell her more about heaven? About her mother? She knew she would be afraid to ask.
At noon Amalia walked to the portales on the west side of the cathedral and offered her meager wares to the people seated outside the Hotel Virrey de Mendoza and, farther on, at the tables outside Trico. This day, she had sold more than usual, enough to buy a refresco and still have a few pesos extra. She crossed the street to the Plaza de Armas and hoisted herself up on one of the concrete benches to eat her lunch, a bolillo with a thin slice of queso blanco, an inexpensive soft white cheese. She enjoyed watching the students who gathered there, the girls on cell phones and flirting, the boys showing off on skateboards they rode up and down the broad western perimeter of the plaza. On most days there was a man who walked in circles around the plaza’s bandstand, reading from a bible. Mostly he shouted and frightened her.
The woman and the girl were already there when she returned to the portales. The woman might have been the same age as Amalia’s mother, had she lived. She was wearing crisp, new designer jeans, a fresh, sleeveless white blouse, simple gold earrings and chain and black heels. She was kneeling down in front of a little girl, tucking back an errant lock of the girl’s hair that had escaped from a white, butterfly barrette. Fascinated, Amalia edged back behind one of the walkway’s thick columns and peeked out. The girl, slender and near Amalia’s age, wore spotless, shiny black shoes and the most beautiful dress Amalia had ever seen. It was entirely pink, made of some rich material that seemed to glow in the diminished light of the portales. A wide sash of the same material circled the girl’s waist and tied in back into a huge bow.
The woman finished re-clipping the stray tress. She smiled and gently caressed the girl’s face. Amalia gasped. It was as though her own face had been touched and she felt her heart make a sudden unexpected jump.
The woman stood, took the girl’s hand and laughed at something the girl said. Hand in hand they crossed the avenue. As if drawn by an irresistible tide, Amalia followed, forgetting completely her tray of small treats. Staying as close as possible, she trailed behind the couple as they passed through the Plaza, turned right, then left again into a series of small, narrow streets. Mezmerized and with no thought to what she was doing, Amalia followed. She was dimly aware of the slap-scuffle of her yellow rubber flip-flops on the stone sidewalk, of other people on the street and passing cars. But she was acutely aware of how oddly warm her hands felt. It was almost as though the woman held her hands instead of the other little girl.
Time seemed to float away, to cease to express itself in seconds and minutes. Still, it was perhaps only ten minutes after leaving the Plaza de Armas when the woman paused in front of a tall, elaborately carved door. Releasing the girl’s hand for a moment, she fished in her purse and withdrew a key. She opened the door, placed a hand on the little girl’s shoulder and the pair entered.
And the world stopped. As suddenly as though dropped from a cloud, Amalia found herself alone on a cold, gray-stone street staring at a massive, uncommunicative door. For long minutes she stood there, uncertain what to do, hoping the door would magically swing open and the woman and the girl would step out. A half-hour passed. Finally, realizing the woman and girl would not reappear, she turned slowly and began to retrace her steps. There had been many turns and, focused as she’d been on following the pair, she had not paid strict attention. For a while she feared she was lost and it was all she could do to choke back tears. Eventually, however, after many wrong turns, she managed to find herself back to the Plaza de Armas.
She entered the Plaza and slowly crossed it, finally taking a seat on a hard, stone bench facing the cathedral. For a long time she stared at the graceful twin towers, the elaborate stonework, now framed by a background of darkening clouds. Feeling empty. Lonely. Immensely sad.
She no longer needed to ask God about heaven, she realized.
Heaven was a place where mothers touched your face and smiled. Where mothers laughed and held your hand.
Amalia touched the worn fabric of her faded dress.
And dresses, she thought. In heaven you wore pretty, pretty dresses.