THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE LETTER
The day a quiet infant was deposited outside the stone steps
of the Benedictine monastery somewhere in Upstate New York, clothed in a
pale blue blanket, changed some of the rituals at the order. The brothers
took turns bathing him, feeding him. It was as if Little Jesus had come
to them to teach them lessons in caring, humility, and sharing. They discussed
what name to call him. Because of his cherubic demeanor, they decided to
call him Angelo.
Thus Angelo grew up, learning fast, becoming educated in the virtues dreamt
of by every single novitiate: obedience, devotion, industry and, above all,
self-denial (of which he received a heavy dose). He was "different,"
as the brothers exclaimed. He was revered. He was precious. At age twelve,
however, the brothers decided that Angelo must go to the outside world and
join the society of the "living," so to speak.
He was adopted by a couple in the Bronx. With little introduction and preparation,
the world of Angelo turned around 360 degrees. For now there was chaos,
wrangling, with very little respect shown by family members toward one another.
As if fated, Angelo became the scapegoat for the perennial conflict between
the parents. The "father" was cruel, harsh, and often belted Angelo.
Angelo's many attempts to seek comfort from his "mother" were
always rebuffed. For she, too, was intrinsically evil. She was an ungiving
person.
Angelo was given the task to go out early in the morning to collect empty
cans to sell for money. Because of his resourcefulness, Angelo did quite
well. His concentration was excellent. He knew the routes to take, the sections
of the streets to cruise. He watched the opening and closing of restaurants-the
major source of the collection.
He turned all his money over to his parents. He gave everything, hoping
perhaps to receive some kindness in return. He was wrong.
He had moments to himself at night, when all the shadows vanished and silence
reigned in the household. There, in his tiny quarter, he cried. He thought
of the monastery. He dreamt of the laughter he once shared with all the
community, and of the love he had received.
When he was hungry, he dared not speak out. He was well taught, indeed.
His self-denial taking its toll. Angelo was losing his spirits. His blackened
eyes every morning made him look like a Halloween ghoul.
Angelo was not brought to school. He was curious however, about the library
a few blocks away from his apartment. One day, while sitting in one of the
reading sections pouring over a pictorial book on cathedrals, Angelo noticed
a boy about his age sit down next to him.
"You like church?" asked the boy.
"Yes, very much so. They are safe," answered Angelo. "They
look like they are reaching for the stars."
"You go to school here?" he asked Angelo.
"No." Angelo felt a pang. Why should he feel that way?
"But everyone goes to school," insisted his new friend.
"Maybe some day I will be able to go like you. Meanwhile I will come
everyday to read."
"My name is Theo."
"Mine is Angelo."
So they agreed to meet everyday at 4 in the afternoon, inside the library.
Theo brought his school work. He showed Angelo his school picture. Theo
borrowed books for Angelo. Angelo helped Theo with some arithmetic. They
shared the time both saved for themselves-one hour at 4 o'clock, when their
world was sacred for each other.
One wintry evening, when Angelo was going home from his second round of
bottle collecting, he saw smoke coming from the apartment. He dropped all
he was carrying and ran as fast as he could to the apartment. Running up
the third floor he slipped and fell.
When Angelo came to consciousness, he found himself in the hospital. He
was there a long time. His world again collapsed, because he could not
see anymore. His eyes were blinded by the fury of the fire that swept through
his dwelling.
When Theo visited him at the hospital, Angelo brightened a little, feeling
only the touch of Theo and listening to his familiar voice.
"I wanted to go back there to get something I had saved all these
years. It is a cross. The brothers at the monastery gave it to me, to wish
me luck. I wanted to give you that cross for Christmas. It is the only thing
I have."
Theo choked, but did not say anything.
"Are you there? Hello," Angelo prodded Theo.
"Ah, yes. I am here. Thank you, Angelo. Maybe together we will find
it one day."
Theo suddenly remembered something he wanted to give to Angelo. A letter.
"It was written by my Papa and Mama," he said to Angelo. "And
it is addressed to you. Shall I open it and read it for you?"
"Please," Angelo got excited.
"Dear Angelo, For some time now Theo has been telling us about you.
We are very impressed by your devotion to your parents and your special
friendship with our son Theo. We have made arrangements with your parents
to have you stay with us, for as long as you wish. We hope you will accept
us as we accept you into our hearts. What little we can offer we would like
to share with you. Welcome Angelo and Merry Christmas to you. Love from
Mr. & Mrs. Crombie."
Angelo extended both his hands out to Theo.
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