In her remarks—that’s what they were called in the program, “Miss Julie, Remarks”—the teacher stressed the importance of being independent. She said that at Sunny Days Preschool, four-year-olds hung up their own backpacks, four-year-olds took themselves to the restroom, four-years-olds solved sharing problems on their own. These seemed like very unusual remarks to Honorata. What else would a four-year-old do?
Miss Julie also said that she encouraged children to think their own thoughts and to stick up for their own ideas. While she was saying this, one of Malaya’s classmates, a boy, was yelling “Bang! Pow! Shazam!” Honorata looked around to see if his mother was coming to get him, but everybody sat smiling on the very small chairs. Nanay was one of the ones sitting and smiling. She couldn’t understand a word. Honorata thought about asking what Miss Julie would do if the child’s idea was not a good one, but she decided against it. She didn’t feel comfortable speaking.
After the teacher’s remarks, the parents were free to wander around the room. A man wearing a blue T-shirt said hello.
“My name’s Mark. Father of Adam. You’re Malaya’s mom?”
Honorata was not sure how he knew this. She nodded.
“I’m a single dad. I feel sort of awkward at these things. You?”
Honorata wondered if he was insulting her. How did he know she was a single mom?
A ring. She didn’t have a ring. She wondered if it would be lying to wear one, for Malaya’s sake. She gave the man a discouraging look and turned away.
Later, he tapped her on the shoulder.
She didn’t want to talk to him.
“Hey, listen, I’m sorry. That came out wrong earlier. Miss Julie’s my sister, so that’s how I know you’re Malaya’s mom. She told me Malaya didn’t have a dad, so I was just trying to be friendly. I didn’t mean to scare you. I’m really sorry.”
He did look like Miss Julie.
“I’m sorry that Malaya doesn’t have a dad. I know that’s bad.” Her voice didn’t come out strong, as she intended.
“What? No. That’s not what I meant. Hey, no big deal. Like I said, I’m a single dad.”
He hadn’t seemed mean, more like a puppy, but Honorata had walked away, and when she could persuade Malaya to leave the sandbox, she and Nanay had gone home.
Virginia was still talking about joy, and Molly had apparently stuck up for the priest.
“Molly,” Virginia said, “the problem is not with the idea, it’s with the command. Of course, we should feel joy. Of course, we are meant to enjoy this world.”
Was that true? Were we meant to enjoy this world?
Did Honorata feel joy?
When it was the morning of Malaya’s birthday, when Honorata had impulsively pulled over at the pet shop, a dirty little place, not at all reassuring; when she had gone in and seen the gray kitten, fluffy and blue-eyed, and known that it might not be healthy, that getting a pet from one of these stores was not a good idea, that in any case Malaya couldn’t be relied on to care for a pet yet, that a cat would shed hair and snag its claws on the silk fabric of the dining room banquette; when she had thought all these things and brought the kitten home anyway; when Malaya had stood there, shocked to absolute stillness, with tears pouring down her cheeks, so surprised and so happy, and yes, so utterly joyful; hadn’t Honorata felt joy then? Hadn’t she laughed and sat down on the floor, and set the kitten near her daughter’s feet, and watched while Malaya bent her knees and squatted in her Swiss dot dress and gently, oh so gently, stroked the kitten with one small finger?
Surely that was joy.
And was it not joy when she walked the three short blocks from her home to the church office, and let herself in with the key, and poured the honey over the pandesal she had baked that morning, and brewed the coffee, and opened the blinds, so that when Virginia and Molly and the priest walked in, they would know the day was starting right?
Wasn’t it joy when she spent the afternoon in her garden, wiping the bugs off the rose petals with her fingers and wrapping the sweet pea vines on the trellis? Wasn’t it joy when she and Malaya stopped at the Blockbuster to choose a movie, and then walked to the Dairy Queen for an ice cream dipped in red candy, and then sat in a heap on the couch with Nanay while Malaya shrieked in delight as an enormous dog shook mud all over his owner’s bed or stood on his hind legs to eat the Thanksgiving turkey? Malaya used her whole body to watch a movie—jumping to her feet to bounce up and down when something funny was about to happen, or throwing her arms out wide to sing “roll over baked oven” whenever the music started up again.
That was joy.
Honorata wanted to say something about joy to Virginia and Molly. She wanted them to know that she felt joy, that her daughter did, that joy was possible even if there was also a great deal of pain, but she couldn’t find the right words. She wasn’t quick enough, and Virginia always spoke so fast.
What Honorata said was: “Malaya has a kitten, and even when he scratches us, we love him.”
Virginia looked at her quizzically.
Molly said she loved cats, and that she’d had her cat YoYo since he was three weeks old. She’d fed him with a bottle, and he still crawled in her lap every time she sat in the one particular chair that she’d fed him in.
Just then, the priest walked in.
“So, Virginia,” he said. “What was wrong with my sermon?”
“We were talking about cats,” said Virginia.
The priest laughed. “I bet.”
Honorata didn’t know how they had ended up talking about cats. She had started it, but it wasn’t what she meant. It would have taken her a long time to explain what she meant, and it wasn’t really that sort of conversation, this Monday morning quarterbacking. It was more like a ritual, like a way to start the week, and it didn’t matter too much what anyone said. It had taken her quite awhile to figure this out.
It was confusing, being in America.
It wouldn’t have occurred to her to think about whether she felt joy or not.
What occurred to her was whether or not she was doing the right thing each day. Whether she was using the money in the best way, whether she was raising Malaya to be a good person, whether her nanay was happy, whether she was a fair landlord to her tenants, whether her work at the church was correct.
She liked Americans for thinking about things like joy, even if she thought that someone should have made that little boy stop yelling when the teacher was talking. And the man, that Mark. Maybe he was just being friendly, and there wasn’t any reason to feel afraid of him, and maybe he hadn’t meant that he knew she was not a nice woman. Maybe he didn’t think things like that at all.
But Honorata did. She regretted the mistakes she had made, how foolish she had been. It didn’t seem fair that she had won a jackpot and that she had a daughter, and that her nanay was here with her. She didn’t deserve these things. She tried to be as good as she could, to make up for everything she had done wrong before, but she knew that it wasn’t really like that. People didn’t get what they deserved, you couldn’t hold off bad luck by being good, you couldn’t say you earned your good luck. You just got what you got, and did the best you could, and tried not to be afraid of what might happen next. At least, that’s how Honorata did it.
23