Page 3 of An Immaculate Deception

There’s no possible arrangement because wherever he ends up he will still exist somewhere in the world, in a physical space, thinking and breathing and interacting, and I will not be there.

Mother starts fixing the sleeve of my dress. “Adriana and Caio may take the baby. I will pay them a visit this weekend. She’s been having trouble conceiving, so perhaps God has sent us a solution for both your troubles.”

Mother continues talking but I cannot hear her. Tia Adriana, Mother’s sister, and her much-older husband, Tio Caio, the preacher who taught Bible class when we were kids. You never knew when he would call your name—it was always when you were least expecting it. The first time you got an answer wrong he’d cane you with a rod. The second time, he’d lock you in the utility closet until the end of the school day.

This is even worse than Santa Casa da Misericórdia.

“My baby is not a trouble.”

“It will be if Leandro does not propose.”

“He will. And it’s Leandro’s baby, too, and until he says otherwise, no one will take it from us.”

By God, I found the angle she can’t argue with. I close my fingers around the cross that I always wear around my neck, even to sleep, and straighten my spine.

Doubt flickers in her eyes. Could it be true, she’s thinking—could there truly be hope for this union?

Despite all her plans for the worst, what she really wants is the same as what I want: a proposal.

“Even if he proposes”—her voice lowers—“the child was still conceived in sin.”

“I’ll see him at São João next weekend,” I say. I’ve learned that whenever Mother gets like that, it’s best to keep my responses practical. “I’ll speak to him then and you’ll see.”

She silently deliberates for a moment, lips pursed tightly. I school my features into a mask of confidence, look her in the eye, and clutch my cross. As long as I have my cross in hand, God won’t let me down. Please, my angels.

“Eloisa will chaperone you,” Mother finally says. “You shall not spend a moment alone with him from now on.”

2

The church bells announce the beginning of São João when night falls on the twenty-third of June.

Eloisa and I shoulder past hordes of revelers to reach the praça where Leandro awaits us in the square’s center. Bonfires blaze at street corners and send curls of smoke into the air. Women wear colorful checkered dresses and paper ribbons in their hair while men wear checkered shirts and straw hats. Firewood and salt permeate the cool evening air. Paper flags and lanterns hang between building tops and pepper the streets with bright colors. Children set off little firecrackers that pop, fizzle, and crackle. But there’s a breeze in the warm winter air that sends shivers up my arms and feels at odds with the festive atmosphere.

Leandro looks sickeningly handsome standing by a pamonha stall in the plaza, a head above the throng, dressed in all-black sharp elegance. Why must he be so handsome, with that lopsided grin of his? It almost pains me to see him.

In the days since my conversation with Mother at church, I reread all of his letters, soaked in his sweet love language, breathed in the perfumed paper, and recited my favorite verses in my head. I forgot about Dante’s infernal circles and was instead consumed by the romantic sonnets of Álvares de Azevedo. I feel in my bones that Leandro loves me and we are meant to be together as a perfect family. But now that I face him, tasked to attain a proposal, apprehension grips me. What if Mother was right and I am mistaken about him? What if he does not truly intend to marry me?

Arrangements shall have to be made. They will do it, I know. Father won’t put up a protest if this is Mother’s will. They will force me to give up my baby to the yellow-brick orphanage, to my aunt and uncle, to the neighbors, to anyone’s doorstep. The mere thought makes me sick to my stomach.

Leandro takes off his wide-brimmed straw hat—his only nod to the traditional São João peasant attire—and beams at Eloisa as though he expected her all along. Others would be embarrassed to wear such a hat, afraid to look like a bumpkin, but Leandro makes it look charming and satirical. Then he unveils a bolo de rolo for me, thoughtfully wrapped in bread paper. I once told him that the seven-layer guava cake was my dearest obsession, better than a dozen flowers or chocolates, and now he never forgets to bring me some. He always comes with a gift.

“I like your freckles,” he says with a grin.

I drew in the freckles one by one, filling my cheeks with them, then braided my hair to create the classic São João peasant look. The winter solstice celebration of Saint John the Baptist, the last of the prophets, began with the setup of great bonfires. Now we eat as we stroll the plaza, Leandro making lively conversation, and me stewing in anxiety while silently debating at what exact moment I should break the news to him about the baby: earlier in the evening, giving us plenty of time to discuss it, but potentially ruining the evening if the conversation doesn’t go well? Or should I wait until the end, so that Leandro will be in a happy mood after much food and dancing?

Should I just…tell him now?

I glance back at Eloisa. She stands a few steps behind, giving us a measure of privacy, but potentially within earshot. I just know Mother told Eloisa to listen in on everything and report back to her. It irritates me. It makes me want to find a private spot so I can keep our conversation from reaching Mother’s ears. Why must she have such complete dominion over my life?

It’s not her baby.

“You don’t like it?” Leandro says, noticing I only took a few tiny bites out of my guava cake.

“I don’t have much of an appetite.”

This time, my lack of appetite has nothing to do with morning sickness. I love this baby that has taken root inside me, even though Eloisa said he’s the size of a pomegranate seed. But what if Leandro doesn’t feel the same way?

Leandro continues perusing stalls with his voracious appetite. Pé de moleque peanut brittle, coconut cocadas, creamy cornmeal cakes. He’s always like that, so eager to try everything, even the unusual foods others balk at. His enthusiasm for life is sometimes hard to keep up with.