The Hanging Words

Tap of the Morning

With my eyes closed, I can hear nearly everything happening in the church. The restlessness of children only mildly placated by whatever toys their parents brought for them. The incessant sniffing of several parishioners battling colds. Creaking pews beneath the shifting weight of the uncomfortably seated. The reader's mouth noises amplified by the microphone. Of all the volunteers, Gabriel is my least favorite—and not just because his only talent is to spew flecks of spittle whenever he makes a p sound. I generally steer clear of him due to the over-earnest façade he insists on wearing despite its utter lack of believability. I know it's fake. I've overheard him calling someone a faggot under his breath.

Brian once accused me of sitting in the back with my eyes closed so that I could fall asleep. Though I knew he was joking, I denied his claim—that sort of behavior could get you a stern bitch-fest from Evora. I've never fallen asleep during mass. I'll swear by that. But keeping my eyes closed and listening seems to make it go by faster.

Time passes. The ceremony progresses, then finishes. After the priest et al proceed out the doors behind me, the assembly erupts into the hubbub of visiting hours and the leaving time. I stand as families wander by, ushering their children out into the cold. With the foyer of the church filled, there's no reason to rush.

"Oh, Felix. You're back here!" Aunt Evora is suddenly at my side, gripping my arm. "Good."

I bend down to kiss her cheek. "I always am," I say in a sing-song voice.

"I know, but I'm so short. Sometimes I can't see you."

When I stand straight again, Brian's passing behind her with Mariana. He looks better—the both of them even smile and wave at me. I try to return the gesture, but I doubt how successful I am at appearing amicable.

"You should come with us," Aunt Evora says, leading me out of the pew. "I'm making tocino tonight. Your uncle used to love that recipe—it was his favorite. I think if I was not there to cook for Brian and Mariana, they wouldn't have anything but frozen pizzas, you know. That's not healthy for them."

"I think Brian used to cook sometimes too," I say. "It wasn't always Dores."

Evora waves my response away. "Maybe, but he's too sad now."

"Are you sure about that? I mean, he might be sad, but he's not helpless."

She clicks her tongue. "What are you trying to say? If he doesn't want me there, he would tell me. He likes when I cook for them. Besides, I make all this extra food. I can't eat it all myself."

You could make less of it.

The priest is greeting parishioners in the foyer. Both of us shake his hand as we pass and he addresses us with a welcoming smile.

"Great homily today, Father," Aunt Evora says. "So timely. I'm almost finished with that book you recommended."

Then we're outside.

At the top of the steps, I notice him.

Milo is parked right in front, leaning back against his Jetta, squinting against the morning light and looking like a goddamn movie star in his sunglasses and bomber jacket. I'm not quick enough to recover without Aunt Evora noticing my misstep, and she looks between me and the man who hadn't attended the services.

"Who is that?" she asks through a tight jaw.

Fuck.

"That is Milo," I say slowly. Although my heart had tap-danced at the sight of him, I'm already feeling very on display and uncomfortable. My hands sweat and my face suddenly feels hot. What is he doing here? He didn't ask me if he could show up.