Maria is the only passenger that gets off the bus at the stop on 89th St. and Lincoln Ave., carrying nothing but her beaten-up purse and the guilt of Sally’s suicide.
The guilt.
The unbearable, inescapable sense of guilt.
Sally would perhaps be alive now if Maria had not insisted on her meeting Jesus. Why did Maria do that? She has asked herself this question a thousand times now.
It all began with God and good deeds, and yet ended with misdeeds. Back then, she defined good deeds as whatever God commanded her to do—through Father Kelly. She depended on Father to interpret God’s convoluted words. That led her to committing something that is distinctly wrong, and somehow Maria’s eyes were tricked not to see that. Now, however, she can see that with all her heart.
Maria has gone through a shake-up to squeeze some sense out of the world that no longer made sense. As the tides of its tsunami receded back to the ocean of doubt, they left Maria’s once perfectly orderly world in ruins, leaving her no choice but to reconstruct it with her own bare hands, by her own new principles, having no architect to oversee but her own battered heart.
In Maria’s new world, everything still starts with God and good deeds. The difference is that she understands God’s will only after she recognizes good deeds, and she depends on no one but her heart to do so.
Her destination is Number 78, right across the street. Old Maria would first walk all the way to the intersection to use the crosswalk. New Maria, however, questions the rationale behind the rules and laws. What would be the point of using the crosswalk when the neighborhood is so calm and quiet. After all, this is a senior living community, where life stands still. Maria jaywalks the calm street when the departing bus clears out of her way.
Across the street, a young Black man sits on the sidewalk, hugging his knees as he leans against the wall of Number 78 by the entrance. Who else would be visiting Arthur?! The poor old-timer has no one! The young man looks like Jesus! But he cannot be. This must be another mirage. Maria has been yearning to see her son again for so long that she has become delusional, seeing him everywhere she turns. The other day she almost hugged a Safeway worker she bumped into, mistaking him for her ungrateful son, who never returns her calls.
Squinting, Maria peers at the boy sitting by Arthur’s door. Yes, that is indeed Jesus, her son. Before the involuntary happy smile forms, she forces it out of her face when the memories of the bitter past cross her mind. Maria stops in the middle of the street, her feet on the opposite sides of the center stripe. Part of her wants to embrace her son, showering on him the motherly love that he’s been neglecting. And part of her cannot let go of his wrongdoings. Although Maria blames herself for Sally’s suicide, Jesus is the one she cannot forgive.
Sentencing Jesus to remain unforgiven, Maria does the hardest thing a mother could do. She turns away from her only son, heading back toward the bus stop. What would she say to Jesus otherwise? How can she scold him for Sally’s death when Maria herself is partly at fault?
“Mom,” Maria hears from behind before she takes the second step. She tries to dismiss it but, no longer in her control, her uncooperative legs refuse to walk away from her son. Maria takes a deep breath and turns back to Jesus.
Jesus stands up, his face splitting into a wide grin.
How can a mother resist the smile of her son? She has heard that Jesus is bearded now, but she wasn’t expecting him to have become so skinny. My poor baby! Fighting the tears that well up in her eyes, Maria steps toward Jesus. “What are you doing here?” she asks, putting on her I-am-mad-at-you voice.
“Miss Daisy said you come here every day.”
Maria stops just a breath’s length before Jesus. Knitting her brows, she stares into his eyes. “What do you want?” she asks as she leans in.
Jesus retreats only to be stopped by the wall behind. “I…I…I couldn’t reach you by the phone.”
Maria leans in further. “Says the boy who never returns his mother’s calls,” she growls, pouring into that sentence all the anger she has suppressed about Sally’s suicide. Maria can hear the sound of her own breath laboring through her nostrils.
With shame covering his eyes, Jesus drops his head. “I’m sorry,” he squeaks out, trembling.
“Sorry? Is that all? Sorry doesn’t make it right.”
“I’ll make it right,” Jesus responds, looking up at her.
Maria’s labored breathing halts abruptly at the sight of a tear trickling down her son’s cheek. “I’m a mother,” she says, holding back a sob. “Forgiving you is practically my part-time job. I can do that. But that wouldn’t help you. It doesn’t work that way. You cannot just make a confession and someone magically absolves you of your sins. Do you understand? It doesn’t work that way.”
With his eyes absorbing Maria’s scorching glares, Jesus’ trembling hand rises and wipes the tears that she didn’t realize are running down her face.
Jesus slowly inches closer, hesitating as he extends his arms halfway before halting them in mid-air.
No longer able to resist, Maria opens her arms too. They are barely up when Jesus swoops into his mother’s embrace. The lost piece of her heart finally falls back into place. Showered with the once-estranged sense of serenity, she feels like floating in the sky, free from any earthly gravity.
“I know. I know,” Jesus says. “I’ll make it right. I promise.”
Tightening her embrace around Jesus, Maria gently pats him on the back with affection. “I forgive you,” she says, sniffling. “I forgive you.”
Jesus hugs her so firmly as if he never wants to let go.
“You better leave now,” Maria says, gently separating herself from her son. “I have some making-right to do myself.”
“I can help,” Jesus says with excitement.
“No. I don’t think Arthur should see you for now. Or ever, perhaps. Plus, it’s partly my fault.”
“No! You hadn’t even seen Sally in ages. Is there—”
“It’s getting late. You better leave now.” Maria rushes to open the door and realizes that she hasn’t unlocked the door yet. As she hastily searches in her purse, she senses Jesus still standing behind her. Maria takes the key out, unlocks the door, and opens it. With her hand on the handle, she takes a deep breath and turns back to Jesus.
Jesus gazes at her as though he already anticipated Maria’s words. ‘Yes,’ he replies even before she calls out to him.
“Look, none of us are purely good,” Maria says. “But all of us can get better.”
Jesus smiles, the light in his eyes revealing his eager desire to hear more.
“You’re a sinner, true, but your words…they are… I mean they did make a difference. You know what I mean?”
“Thanks, Mom,” Jesus responds, his smile growing wider.
Maria smiles back, then opens the door and enters. Her eyes remain fixed on Jesus as she slowly closes the door on him.
“Hey, it’s me, Mary,” Maria announces, stepping into the living room.
Kicking back on the old, brown couch, Arthur—Sally’s 86-year-old father—watches TV. “Welcome, my dear,” he says, staring at the small CRT TV at the other side of the room.
“What are you watching?” Maria asks while putting on the apron that hangs on the wall.
“I don’t know. Hannity is finished and now this stupid tampon commercial is on.”
“Why don’t you turn it off, then?”
“I can’t find the remote.”
“Let me take care of that. What did Hannity say today?” Maria turns off the TV from its base.
“Same old shit. Mexicans are coming, Muslims are coming, Chinese are coming, and nobody does a goddamn thing about it.”
“I’ll find the remote later when I’m done with the bathroom, Okay?” Maria says, putting on the yellow, cleaning gloves.
“We didn’t lose so many good men in Vietnam so that these godless liberals could come and take over this blessed land.”
“I thought communists took over Vietnam.”
“I’m talking about the US, not that shithole.”
“Oh, don’t worry. Everything will be fine.”
“How? How will it be fine?”
“God will protect us.”
“God,” Arthur sneers. “He better hurry up then before… Speaking of God, what day is this, dear?”
“Monday.”
“Monday! I thought it’s Sunday.”
“No, God’s day was yesterday. Remember? You had Chinese.”
“Oh, yeah, Sunday. That was a good Dim Sum. So…if it was Sunday, then how about…ah… Didn’t you miss the mass?”
“That’s OK. I’d rather be here with you,” Maria says, entering the bathroom.
“Mary.”
“Yes,” she says, sticking her head out from the bathroom.
Averting his gaze, Arthur says, “You’re a good girl, always have been. You don’t have to come here every day, you know. I’m not blaming you for what Jesus did—May he burn in Hell.” Arthur looks up at Maria.
“What are you talking about? I love coming here. How else would I learn about your love adventures in Vietnam?”
“Well, you’re the only one who finds them amusing,” Arthur chuckles.
Leaving the toilet cleaner in the bathroom, Maria steps outside toward Arthur. “Tell me again about the girl you met in Bang Bang. How was she?” Maria asks, sitting on the coffee table before Arthur. Still wearing the yellow cleaning gloves, she rests her head on her hands as if she is a five-year-old kid about to hear Jack and the Beanstalk for the first time.
“Da Nang is the name of the city. Most men were gone. It was heaven, the true city of angels. Everywhere you looked, there were young women, all of them beautiful, and all of them looking for boyfriends. Pham was the first girl I dated there. Oh, and she was gorgeous. Black eyes, long black hair.”
“I bet you were handsome too,” Maria says, touching him on the knee.
“Well, at least Pham thought so. The first time we met was behind a…”