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“That should do it!” Félix calls.
Luisa gives him a thumbs up, lifts the hem of her skirt as she steps down from the lower rungs of the ladder. She walks along the outer length of the sukkah, the hutlike structure the family has been putting together on their patio over the past few days, and lets her fingers trace some of the embroidery that whorls across its wall.
When she reaches her tío at the opposite end, they gaze at the flat object they’ve just finished affixing to the top of the sukkah’s wooden frame. Made of loosely woven bamboo, like a mat, it’s a roof that boasts both design and function. Meant to remain somewhat open to the elements, the sun and sky, while still offering shade and shelter.
Félix pats his sobrina on the arm. “Ay, nice job!”
“Is it— kosher?” Luisa asks, her lips wrapping round the still-fresh word. Kosher. And not only the roof, but the large booth that it covers, hand-built with mismatched walls: one of them wooden, two woolen, the fourth linen and bearing Mirabel’s expressive needlework.
“Think so,” the good-natured man says, fists on his hips. “A sukkah needs at least two walls, is what Señor Bondia said? And a roof made from, como, materiales naturales, where you can still see the sky… Hecho y hecho.”
“It’s big enough, in any case,” adds Julieta, padding toward them from the house and drying a spoon on her apron. She kisses her tall daughter and tells her to go take a break (“¿Entendido, mi vida?”). Or maybe help her primito with his decorations, if she must do something.
Luisa’s smile is slightly sheepish as she replies, “‘Kay, Mamá.” Before striding off, she says her thanks to Tío Félix and her hellos to Tío Bruno and Tía Pepa, who have followed behind their sister with cestitas in tow, packed with decorations and items for the long table inside the booth.
“It’s looking fine,” Pepa says. She’s set down her basket and is fitting herself into her husband’s embrace. A rosy little rainbow unfurls over them. “Didn’t Señor Bondia say he’d come and check?”
Bruno and Julieta nod in tandem. Their neighbor, Moisés Bondia, promised to stop by a bit later that day, before the start of the holiday, to make sure their sukkah is kosher. A long-time resident of the Encanto, the only practicing Jew left there, he is the closest thing to a rabbi they’ve got. And ever since the Madrigals unearthed what turned out to be some Judaica among Casita’s rubble, heirlooms belonging to Alma’s family, he’s been guiding them through the puzzle of their own Jewish ancestry.
One day, over lunch at his house, Moisés had described the autumn festival of Sukkot to the triplets, Agustín, and Félix, who learned just how much it resonated with their circumstances. They were essentially living the holiday by being housed in rotating temporary shelters: their friends’ homes, the town church. Wandering, not unlike the Israelites had wandered for forty years in the desert.
“The holiday of Sukkot makes us think about… how impermanent, and therefore precious, something like having a home, a community, can be.” The stocky man had smiled, eyes compassionate and somber behind his oval glasses. He knew, the Madrigals knew, all about that, in more ways than one. “We’re commanded by Hashem to build sukkot and dwell in them for eight days, as a way of reminding us of what we have—our casas, and each other.”
(Camilo groaned when he’d heard. “Losing Casita once already wasn’t enough to make us appreciate having a house? We gotta pretend to do it again?”
“Este… it’s not quite like that,” Moisés had reassured him. “Think of it more as camping. ‘Dwell’ is just—you eat meals in the sukkah, anytime you have bread. And sleep, if you care to do that too.”)
And so, it's the Madrigals’ first Sukkot, almost seventeen months since the literal foundation-shattering ordeal that saw the flame of their miracle guttering down even as it cast a sharp light over many family issues. The fact that they’re together—that Bruno returned to them, is with them, is healthier at last—and that everything still feels raw and somewhat fragile, new, and joyful, lends all the more significance to the week-long holiday.
With the roof attached, the hard part of building the sukkah is over. All that’s left to do is the decorating. There are paper chains in the shape of pimientos and papayas, butterflies, clouds and suns, arepas (which made Camilo quip, “Sooo, they’re just circles,” upon seeing them), and, of course, rats. Julieta, Pepa, and Bruno had tapped into their childhood and sat at the dining room table for hours, cutting up sheets of paper, laughing and bickering together enough that Mirabel and Dolores joined in the fun.
“Right there. …Maybe higher?” Julieta is saying. Bruno stretches upward and gives a tentative gesture before looping the string around the nail a few times and tying a knot. He’s oblivious to the eyes watching him, catlike. More specifically, watching the wedge of pudgy tummy that his motions keep uncovering.
“Wah!” He yelps as he feels a pinch to either side of his belly roll.
“Look at you! Getting so soft,” Pepa coos, poking at him. “Our Señor Pancita Perfecta.”
“Pepa, don’t do that while he’s standing on a chair.”
“Yeah! —W-wait. You mean, ‘don’t do it at all’… Right?” Bruno’s feet fumble on the stone that lines the patio floor, and he’s fluttering his hands at his sisters: Pepa, who flexes her fingertips at him, aglow beneath her sunbeam, and Julieta, who’s fighting to hide a smile.
“You two are terrible,” he grumbles, though his scowl melts away as soon as they enfold him in a tight hug.
“And teasing you is too much fun,” the middle triplet says.
Bruno releases a muffled humph. “–Anyway. How’re your decorations going?”
With a sweep of her arm, Pepa casts his attention to the side of the sukkah that she and Félix were working on. Not only did they string up some paper chains, but they set out the tablecloth, a couple of vases, and a pair of candlesticks on the table.
“Tan hermosa. What a lovely sukkah we have,” Julieta beams. “Okay!” She gives her siblings an extra squeeze, cups Bruno’s chin. “I’m going inside to tend to dinner.”
Pepa shoos Bruno in the same direction, telling him to "see how Toñito's doing.”
After all, the remaining wall, the lone wooden one, is still mostly bare, awaiting its share of decorations.
*~ |’```’```’```’```’```’| ~*
Mirabel spies her tío crossing the courtyard. He’s muttering to himself with a light smile on his lips, wearing a newer shirt that’s beginning to look a bit snug around his middle, and she can’t help but quietly marvel over how much change is possible in a year.
“Mira, Luisita! You seen Toñi—” A small body barrels headlong into Bruno’s torso, knocking him back a couple of steps. “—to,” he oofs.
“Tío, Tío! Come look!”
Antonio wastes no time in tugging Bruno the rest of the way and over to the loveseats in the alcove, where his primas are seated. There are pieces of paper strewn along the cushions and on the floor between the chairs. Some bear doodles of rats dozing together in piles or eating avocado slices in sukkot, rainbows arcing through the sky, while others depict various family members doing holiday things.
“Do you like them? Mira an’ Lu made those ones!” He points, tipping his cheek against his tío’s belly.
Bruno chuckles. “Ooh, yeah, they’re great! Whadd’ya guys think? Ready to put them up?”
“Yes!”
It’s not only Antonio who seems excited about the evening’s festivities. As the four of them gather up the drawings, Mirabel and Luisa fill their tío in on the order in which they’re all going to shake the lulav and etrog, and how they’re going to arrange the cots for sleeping once dessert has been eaten.
When they reach the sukkah, they note that Isabela has made her mark. Jacarandas line the hut’s upper edge; vines twine up and down the columns of the wooden frame, and blooming cactuses squat in the corners. She’s grown geraniums in the vases on the table.
“Whoa,” gasps Antonio upon seeing the fruits (and flowers) of the family’s efforts.
“Our first sukkah!” Mirabel hollers, hugging Luisa’s bicep.
It’s fast approaching three o’clock in the afternoon, and Moisés should be arriving soon. They can smell the alluring aroma of dinner in the air. Stomach growling, Bruno ushers the kids forward, and they set about hanging up their artwork.
*~ |’```’```’```’```’```’| ~*
The flame hovers above the unlit candlewick. For a moment, Abuela’s expression is inscrutable. The old woman inhales, exhales, softly; she can feel the past welling up, lapping at her heart, bittersweet.
La inquisición española. La expulsíon. Conversos, marranos. How many generations has it been? Quelled by hushed voices and spilled blood and signs of the cross.
Abuela catches a glint of something—Emerald? Looking up, she sees her youngest nieta smiling back; those green eyeglass frames pull her away from the tangle of history. The family and Moisés (whom they’d convinced to stay) have collected around the table in the sukkah, and the sun is skirting the horizon as though it, too, is waiting for her to start the holiday.
There is a time for building.
She lights the first candle, then the second, and shakes out what’s left of the match.
“…b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel yom tov.”
The blessing over the candle-lighting is met with a chorus of ameins. Tears spring unbidden to Abuela’s eyes as her children lead the next three customary b’rakhot. Pepa raises her glass of grape juice and blesses the fruit of the vine, Bruno makes the b’rakhah over the new season, and Julieta finishes with the blessing over bread, a large loaf that she passes around after tearing off a hunk for herself.
“Altogether, now,” the matriarch proclaims once everyone has eaten their piece of bread. In a single voice, they acknowledge that this is the first time they’re fulfilling the commandment to dwell in a sukkah.
“Let’s eat!”
The bowls are brimming with hearty sancocho. There’s a platter of trucha, too, spiced and grilled to perfection alongside colorful, caramelized vegetables. Julieta heaps arroz y frijoles onto her brother’s plate, while at the other end of the table, Antonio nudges Dolores and asks for the fried plantains.
Conversation ebbs and flows throughout the meal, as the sun continues its descent and the lanterns are brought out. They’re all stuffed by the last slice of torta negra—even Camilo. In his chair, Bruno is slouched, smiling contentedly and idly massaging the crest of his belly.
“Thank you, amor.” Agustín gives his wife a kiss. “The food was amazing, as always.” Noises of agreement echo up and down the space. The man then rises to help Félix clean up, well-aware that he’s to take the napkins rather than any of the dishes, or, frankly, the utensils. They all let Julieta sit and chat with Moisés as they do the washing and drying, and store the leftovers.
When it’s time to lay out the cots and sleeping bags, Félix, Agustín, Moisés, and Bruno roll up the linen wall in order to clear a path for Luisa. With her sisters and primos spotting her, she picks up the table and maneuvers it out of the sukkah and over to the grass.
“Mami,” Antonio says. He and Pepa are standing beside Casita’s side door and watching the others work. A pillow flies haphazardly through the air, and they can see, but not hear, Dolores telling Camilo off in her patented hushed tone. “It’s my bedtime now, right?”
It isn’t quite, but Pepa smiles. The remaining blankets are being distributed around now, their neighbor is bidding them una buena noche and a chag sameach, and soon everyone else will be filing back inside; it’s certainly none of their bedtimes yet, either.
“I’m going to bed now,” Antonio announces to his family members as they enter the house, like it’s already been decided.
“Oh yeah, hombrecito?” Mirabel crouches and smooches his cheek. “You gonna be able to fall asleep so early?”
A giggle, then a nod. It’ll happen in the blink of an eye!
*~ |’```’```’```’```’```’| ~*
“Close your eyes, Toñito, bebé.” Pepa murmurs, for what feels like the eightieth time. Her youngest has been fidgeting beside her on his cot for an hour, at least; first wanting to talk about the day, then trying to count the stars as even more of them emerged, and perking up at every other noise.
“Y’know,” a wry voice pipes up from behind. “You’re loud even when you’re trying to be quiet.”
For strategic reasons, Bruno had claimed a spot just out of reach of his sister’s long limbs, and she’s too focused on her son to try and stretch across the extra bit of space. But a thick cloud forms, further deepening the late-dusk sky. It lasts only until Antonio gives a rub to his eyes and a wide yawn that cuts through the grin his mami hadn’t been able to see. He falls asleep with the light from the stars and moon continuing to filter downward through the slits in the bamboo matting canopied above.
After several moments of silence, Pepa turns toward her brother, whispering, “Brunito?”
He’s got to be awake… and sure enough, she catches a mumbly grunt, punctuated by a rat’s tiny squeak.
“Table?” She asks him.
There’s the sound of a body rustling around awkwardly on top of a blanket, and a gentle tone answering, “Yeah.”
Smoothing a palm over his still comfortably full belly, Bruno prepares to rise. He and Pepa had come out to the sukkah for Antonio’s sake, not wanting to leave him alone, even with his animal friends, and knowing that the first night of the holiday would not be conducive to sleep (plus, Bruno volunteered to take Mirabel’s usual support role of primo—well, sobrino-settle-downer). The littlest Madrigal finally being asleep means that his mamá and tío can pick their way over to the small square table that’s tucked into the corner of the sukkah.
The others begin to trickle in not even an hour later. Julieta arrives first, lantern casting enough light to reveal her siblings with their hands clamped over their mouths, Pepa trying to stifle her snorts and Bruno’s stomach shaking with silent laughter.
The eldest triplet decides not to ask, but whispers, “Ay, you two,” while running a thumb across Pepa’s temple and patting Bruno on the cheek. “Come on. Es la hora de dormir.” As the two of them stand and stretch, they hear a soft swishing behind them. It’s Félix pulling aside a corner of the wall to let Camilo, Mirabel, and Isabela shuffle in.
Julieta sets her lantern down and slides its shutter open just a touch more. The adults exchange hushed goodnights with the kids, who tiptoe around the sukkah and find their spots, wordlessly, probably having already worked out who will go where. A grinning Félix greets Bruno by shaking his shoulders before offering an arm to Pepa. When she gives it a squeeze, he kisses her and strides off into the gloom, making his own way to the double sleeping bag that had been rolled out after dinner.
There’s little else for the triplets to do but retire to their own cots. They linger, however. Bruno purses his lips in Casita’s direction, a silent question that Julieta rightly interprets as: “Lola and Luisita?”
“Still talking, I’m sure,” she mouths back with the accompanying gesture. Pepa hums. Dolores and Luisa bonded over the past year, renewing the kind of sisterly rapport they shared as children.
Julieta knows she doesn’t have to worry about Agustín, either: “I’ll stay inside with las niñas and Abuela,” he’d told her. “Go on, mi canción.”
“Guess they’ll have t-t—make it up,” Bruno murmurs, trying not to let a yawn overtake his sentence.
Pepa prods him in the tummy. “Aw, bedtime for Brunito.”
“Shh, shh.” Julieta tugs them into an embrace before they can start squabbling. “Happy Sukkot.”
The moonlight flits across Bruno’s upturned face where he’s smooshed between his sisters. Home in a different form.
“Happy Sukkot,” he and Pepa reply together.