The Offering by Angela Hunt Page B

for a barnyard bird. “The only time the rooster crowed at midnight,” she said, wagging her finger as she smiled at Marilee, “was when the Baby Jesus was born.”
    My mom had driven down from The Villages to spend the holiday with us, so she accompanied us on our traditional visit to church and to Mama Isa’s house afterward. Mom stayed in the pew during the service, her Protestant conscience unable tosanction taking Communion from a Catholic priest, but I had come to adore the beauty of the service and figured I could partake of the Lord’s Supper with any group of believers that would let me.
    After Mass, we climbed into our respective vehicles and drove to Mama Isa’s house, a modest home only a block from the grocery. The house had originally been constructed with concrete block and jalousie windows, a style typical of old Florida, but over the years Isa and Jorge had added Latin touches. A knee-high concrete block fence, topped by white wrought iron and bright Christmas lights, enclosed the property, and Jorge had added a front porch supported by a row of square columns linked by arches. The entire house had been enclosed in pale orange stucco, and though a riotous thicket of purple bougainvillea grew by the side fence, over the years Jorge had turned the front lawn into a concrete parking lot.
    Once when I asked Mama Isa if she missed seeing grass outside the window, she responded with a shrug. “Grass I have to cut and water, but concrete never complains.”
    My mom had been horrified the first time she saw the stone forms spread over the lawn like a patchwork quilt. Personally, I had grown fond of the multisectioned slab—in it I could trace the family’s past, from the original driveway at the left side of the house, the narrow two-strip drive that came later, the double parking pad installed when Amelia bought her first car, and finally the “everything but two flower beds” paving Jorge had surrendered to in the end. My neighbors in Town ’n’ Country would stage a revolt if Gideon and I were to substitute concrete for landscaping, but no one on St. Louis Street dared rebuke Mama Isa.
    As the cold wind quickened our steps and the moon played peek-a-boo in the clouds, Gideon carried Marilee into the house. I followed with our gifts and my mom.
    After a delicious Christmas dinner and the subsequent cleanup, all of us went in search of places to sleep for a few hours. Marilee had nodded off during dessert, so Gideon carried her into one of Mama Isa’s guest rooms and Mom and I followed. Gideon dozedin an overstuffed chair while Mom, Marilee, and I lay down on the bed, covered with only a thin quilt. I knew Yanela and Gordon would sleep in the master bedroom, while Amelia and Mario would nap in the living room. Tumelo and Elaine actually went home to sleep, but they only lived a few blocks away. I never knew if or where Mama Isa and Jorge slept. They were always awake when I went to bed and awake when I woke up.
    We didn’t need a rooster to wake us at sunrise on Christmas morning; we had Marilee. She ran from room to room, banging on doors and announcing that Santa had come once again. I emerged from the guest room with rumpled hair and bleary eyes, but the house shone with bright lights and glowing candles. Fragrant pastries and fresh-brewed coffee beckoned us to the kitchen, where Mama Isa stood in her holiday apron, her eyes bright and her cheeks flushed.
    Maybe, I mused, she never slept at all on those holiday nights. Or maybe she was energized by the Spirit of the holiday.
    After filling a plate with the bounties of Mama Isa’s breakfast buffet, I tried to prepare Mom for the traditional Lisandra gift exchange. The extended family rarely gave expensive presents—tradition dictated that we draw names, then find something inexpensive, funny, or especially appropriate for the recipient.
    With our plates in hand, we moved into the living room