From the story, The Major
As in:
The priest was a large man with thinning black hair, a squared jaw and a deep, rich Irish voice. His Christmas homily began abruptly, without a welcome.
“Who is the child?” he asked. “And to whom does he belong?”
From my father’s retelling, I understand the priest to have said that the Christ child did not necessarily belong to those blessed with American ingenuity and good fortune. We would not encounter Mary and Joseph at the Roosevelt Room in the nearby Tivoli Hotel. No. If the infant savior were to come today, he and his parents would be more likely found in the sweltering shantytown of El Chorillo. I do remember hearing him say “Chorillo.” I was surprised by this. But not as surprised as Paris.
“Chor-eee-ooo!” she blurted.
Rows of startled Catholics turned their heads our way. The priest paused for the commotion.
“Chor-umph!” said Paris.
The last syllable was due to mother’s palm muffling Paris’s mouth.
Mother smiled wanly and gently pulled Paris to her side. Dad looked straight ahead trying to hold his composure, his eyes still fixed on the priest. But the woman in front of him could not stifle a giggle and, consequently, my father’s face buckled, his chin fell, and he began to vibrate as quietly as he could with laughter.
A short eternity later, in the car, mother insisted it wasn’t funny. Except. Except they were both trying hard not to laugh. And then mother tried, not for the first time, to explain Christmas to Paris and me, how it was a story from long ago, how Jesus was seen as the son of God and told people how to get to heaven.
It was all very confusing to us. The baby Jesus was either coming, or he wasn’t. If he was, fine. Paris told me what we would be doing and how I could help her care for him. Mother had even acquiesced to the point of allowing us to stock the pantry with extra oatmeal, Ovaltine, and cans of Hi-C fruit drink.
But now it seemed Jesus was either going to be coming somewhere else, or that he’d already come. The priest in his gold and red-trimmed ivory vestments, with the supporting cast of alter boys, a choir, candles and incense seemed authoritative. Mother, on the other hand, seemed tentative, as though she lacked confidence in what she was saying.
