Everyday Unusual
an excerpt

This is a story about a boy. Now there are many stories about boys; not to mention very special boys with interesting scars, undead nemeses, prophecies, chocolate factories, and the like. This story is different in that some of it is real, and some it actually happened in the last century in this country. This story is about a boy, but along the way, you will learn about his family and his friends, and how things will happen to him. All of this made him what he was, after all.

When the boy was born, there was great rejoicing in his family. His father, Antonio, had wanted an heir for so long; he had 2 older daughters and loved them, but since their society was male-oriented, very macho (despite the fact that it was the women who quietly made everything work so well, something his wife, Elena, did every day), he felt he needed a son to make his life complete. There was now one to carry on his name. A name he claimed was an old name, coming from the old country of the race that had conquered the land they lived in, a name of noble origins, even. The fact that his first noble ancestor had been born on the wrong side of the blanket was no reason for shame with him. He reveled in it, even, for this ancestor also had an interesting story. I shall tell you more about that as we go, but for now, let us briefly pause in our boy’s infanthood.

On the day of the boy’s christening, he was called Santiago. There was a big celebration at their house. All their relatives (and they were quite numerous) were there. The house filled to bursting; and still people came. They brought food and drink in addition to the feast Santiago’s mother had prepared, and they came prepared to eat and drink it all too. The scent of tomato-rich stews filled the house, mixed with beef and goat, olives and peanuts. Whole roast pigs (two of them!) were laid on the groaning tables and chopped into pieces, the crunchy crackling deep orange-brown skin glistening with fat, liver pate sauce ready beside it for dipping. Gifts were showered on the baby. Guns were fired. (This being the country, and in the province quite a ways from the city, it was a common practice. Any event was an excuse to fire one’s weapons in the air, God help those on whom the bullets land. This happens until now, in those self-same parts of the country, and no one is safe when there’s a wedding or a baptism.)

Santiago was an ordinary baby. At four months of age he was cute enough to stand the scrutiny of many relatives and friends, having gained more baby fat and lost the awkward, sometimes lizard-like look newborns have. What he did possess was a pair of very dark eyes with large irises; you only saw the whites at each corner. Santiago’s eyes made him look very alert. He almost looked as if he could speak.

His sisters, Margarita and Teresa, were about a decade older. They treated Santiago as if he was their own baby, and not a brother. They helped raise him, and this was a boon to their parents. On this day of Santiago’s baptism, they took turns showing him off to the guests, and were as proud as their parents.

Like all babies, Santiago would smile and laugh at empty spaces, at which his maternal grandmother, Eleonora, would say, “He plays with the angels,” and would laugh along with Santiago.

Maria, his paternal grandmother, was another matter. She would sigh to herself and shake her head, saying, “Nothing good will come out of it.”

Santiago’s mother paid her mother-in-law no mind. Elena was used to her strange ways, having lived with her in her house when she and Antonio were first married and had no money. She was devoted to her own mother, who was kind and gentle and very religious, although not in a strict way. She was determined to raise Santiago the same way. (Although not the itinerant gypsy way Eleonora had adopted when Elena was a child. Eleonora had been flighty in this respect. She would go to live with her daughter Veronica, Elena’s much older sister, for a while, and when they got into an argument, would pack up and return to her hometown. She uprooted her youngest daughter more times than Elena could count. As a result Elena had quite a lot of friends and acquaintances from her sister’s town and her own hometown, and went to at least four elementary schools and 3 high schools. Now that Eleonora was alone, she merely moved from child to child, and the siblings had established a system of shuttling their mother about.) She felt that Maria was too superstitious, too provincial in her views, and in Elena’s practical mind, there was no room for anything unusual.

Maria knew that there was always room for the unusual. It happened everyday. It was the things out of the blue that you had to watch out for. She resolved to prepare Santiago for that eventuality. She didn’t bother with Margarita or Teresa, because they were just like their mother Elena. Santiago, however, was like Antonio.

When the boy was 2 years old, one of his uncles died. This uncle loved Santiago like his own son. He was unmarried and had no children, and was only in his thirties when he died in a car crash. Santiago was playing in the next room in his playpen, and his family was grieving in the dining room, when they heard him speak. The boy was talking to someone in the other room.

Maria rushed over to the next room, the living room, and saw that Santiago was quite alone. She asked him, “Who were you speaking to, Santiago?”

The boy replied, quite preoccupied with his toys, “Tito Carlo,” he replied. “He said he had to go now, and I said bye-bye.” Santiago spoke quite well. When he learned to talk, which was quite late for a child his age, he never slurred or mixed up his syllables, and could be quite hard to keep quiet.

Maria knew then for certain that Santiago was just like her side of the family.