A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García

by Rick Collignon

  The night before going to Santa Madre, Pepe had spoken to Ambrosio, telling him that he would be leaving Felix in his care for the day. He had told Ambrosio he had to do no more than make sure his father’s glass of milk was full and to help him to the bathroom if need be. Ambrosio had nodded and looked at the floor. Before Felix’s stroke, Ambrosio had treated him only with respect. But since the onset of his illness, he had become increasingly uncomfortable in Felix’s presence. He did not like the way Felix stared blankly at nothing or the way his head and hands trembled as if frightened. Sometimes, when Ambrosio would glance at Felix, it would seem as if the old man’s eyes were following him. At those times, Ambrosio would cross himself and say a brief prayer to the virgin.

  Finally Ambrosio had raised his eyes to Pepe and smiled. He told him not to worry, that he would watch out for Felix like a brother and make sure no harm came to him. Then he had mopped the café floors and wiped the tables and switched off the lights. In his trailer, he opened a small bottle of whiskey and sat on his bed drinking until it was late.

  When he awoke the following morning, the sun had already risen. Ambrosio had hurried from his trailer and into the café. When he swung open the door between the kitchen and the restaurant, he found the room empty, only a glass of milk and a small plate of dry crackers on the table where Felix had sat. At first, Ambrosio stared in disbelief, but then, breathing a sigh of relief, he realized that Pepe must have taken his father with him to Santa Madre. He walked to the front door, opened it, and looked out on the day. Never would he have thought that Felix was wandering about the foothills alone.

  Felix wasn’t exactly sure just when it was he began to know that he was seeing. He had been gazing in the direction of the plateglass window in the café when he became aware of the dark shape of the mountains and how they were rimmed in light. He could see a thin jagged line of trees on one high ridge silhouetted by the oncoming dawn. He took in a sharp breath of air, and his hand reached absently for the cigarettes in his shirt pocket that were long gone. He had never seen anything so quiet or so beautiful, and he wondered how he hadn’t noticed it before. Then he heard the sound of the front door opening, the brush of wood on the mat just inside the room, and he saw the woman standing in the doorway.

  She wasn’t much more than a shadow, and she stood motionless, her arms at her sides. Her head was bent slightly and a shawl covered her hair and hung down her back. She was wearing a black dress that fell loosely away from her legs and down to her feet. It was too dark for Felix to see her face, but he thought that she may have nodded at him. As she walked toward him, he could hear the sound of her shoes hard on the tiled floor.

  She sat at a table not far from his, and for a while the two of them sat in silence. Outside, the top of the mountains had turned gray and a dull, heavy light was crawling down the slopes. A truck hauling cattle passed by on the highway, its brakes hissing, headlights sweeping the road. When the sound of its shifting gears was gone, the woman turned her head toward Felix. “I told you I would see you again, hijo,” she said.

  “THE NEXT THING I KNOW,” Felix said to Flavio, “I’m in the mountains and there’s a little fire of sticks at my feet. How was I to know that the cemetery was just below me?”

  Someone walked by the truck and slapped the hood, calling out Flavio’s name. Flavio raised a hand and didn’t even bother to look up. He realized that for all Felix had said, he hadn’t said anything at all. He had just made everything even more confusing. “So who was this woman?” Flavio asked. “Did she tell you her name?”

  “I think it was the virgin,” Felix said softly

  “The Mother of God came to your café?” Flavio said. “And then she made you start a fire in the hills?”

  “Well,” Felix said.

  “How did you get from the cemetery all the way to Ramona’s house?”

  “I don’t remember that part,” Felix said and leaned back on the seat. His head had stopped shaking, and he folded his hands in his lap. Flavio wondered if Felix was truly suffering from small seizures or if they just came and went when he wished. “It was good to see Delfino again,” Felix went on. “I was never too fond of him, though. He always thought he knew everything. Maybe because he never married, no one taught him when it was better to keep quiet. You know what I think, Flavio?”

  “No,” Flavio said, raising a hand. “I don’t want to know what you think, anymore.” He pulled up the handle on the door and swung it open. “I’m going to see what’s going on. If anyone asks you how you’ve been, maybe you should follow your own advice.” Flavio climbed out of the truck and slammed the door behind him.

  The fire had jumped the fence at the west edge of the cemetery, and the graves of the Cordova and the Trujillo and the Valdéz families were beneath flames. The white crosses near the heat were blistering and turning black, and the plastic flowers were melting. At the bottom of the road leading up to the cemetery, Sippy and a group of his friends and relatives were standing about the hearse that still carried his Tío Petrolino. A state police car was parked just beyond them, and the officer was in the midst of them. His hat was off and he was shaking his head.

  Flavio walked slowly down the highway, keeping an eye out for Delfino and trying to stay out of the way of children who were darting about everywhere. He nodded to people as he passed by. Some said his name back in greeting, but others stared, and when he met their eyes, they looked away as if they hadn’t seen him. He stopped beside a large group of men, most of whom were the eight brothers who ran the lumberyard. All were drinking beer, and they quieted as he neared. Flavio asked if anyone had seen Delfino.

  “He came by here a little while ago, Flavio,” Joe said. He was the oldest of the brothers and had taken over managing the place when their father had retired. “He was dragging a shovel and looking for someone to go up there with him.”

  “I think he was going to talk to Sippy,” Lawrence said, and he brought his beer to his mouth. “Maybe you could ask Sippy.” A few of the men laughed, and then they turned away, talking in low voices among themselves.

  Joe walked over beside Flavio and put his hand on his shoulder. “Don’t worry about Delfino,” he said. “They’re not letting anyone go up there. They got a plane that drops water coming from Santa Madre, and two crews of firefighters are being bused up from Las Sombras. That should handle it pretty easy, unless this wind keeps up.”

  The cemetery was half in flames now, and the rest of it was covered with a shroud of smoke. The Montoyas were all buried close to the east fence line, and for a second Flavio could see Martha lying in her white dress. He shook his head. “My whole family’s up there,” he said.

  “And mine, también,” Joe said. “Petrolino is the only one who got away. Who knows where he’ll end up now.”

  “I better go,” Flavio said, and he began to turn away.

  “Wait a second, Flavio.” Joe reached out and touched Flavio’s arm. “What’s this I hear about you starting this fire?”

  “What?” Flavio said. “What did you say?”

  “Sippy’s been telling everyone that you knew there was a fire even before it started. Then I heard that a state cop was looking to talk to you. I’m not saying anything, Flavio. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  Flavio felt light-headed and he took a step to balance himself. He opened his mouth and took in some air. “You think I could do something like this?” he asked, and even to himself his voice sounded shrill and weak.

  “No,” Joe said. “But I don’t know why Sippy does. You should stay away from him right now. Maybe go home and let things quiet down.”

  As Flavio walked back to his pickup, he looked only at the pavement and tried to shut out the voices around him. When he reached his truck, he took one more look at the foothills, and at the base of the hill he saw Delfino. He was all by himself and using his shovel to help him make it up the slope. The fire was a few hundred yards south of him and so large that it made Delfino look like nothi
ng.

  Flavio opened his mouth to yell Delfino’s name, but then he closed it. A wave of exhaustion passed through him, and he knew that no matter how loud he yelled, Delfino would not hear him over the noise of the fire. Besides, he thought, I have enough trouble as it is.

  He pulled open the driver’s door and climbed into the cab beside Felix. “They think I started this fire,” he said.

  “You think I could do such a thing without you?” Felix answered.

  Six

  WHEN GUADALUPE GARCÍA WAS A YOUNG GIRL,” Rosa Montoya said to her grandson, “she saw this village on fire.

  “No one had any idea how long she had watched Guadalupe burning until her father, Moises was his name, finally went to the priest for help. For all people knew, she had seen smoke and flames forever as the Garcías kept to themselves and what went on in that house was anyone’s guess. She was a small girl then, hijo, no more than four or five years old, and I can remember her so well at that time. Her hair was long and black, and I would see her every Sunday on my way to mass playing between the sagebrush in the grass. When I would wave at her, she would raise her own hand shyly and then turn away and look at the ground. There was something sad about her in her faded dresses and dolls made of old cloth, but even so, no one ever went near that house, and Guadalupe was always alone.

  “This is a small village, hijo, and once the priest found out what Guadalupe was seeing, it was not long before everyone else knew, también. Horacio Medina tried to start trouble one day in church. At the end of mass, he stood and said loudly that if this girl could see such things in her mind, how long would it be before it actually happened? He shook his head and said that he had no wish to see his alfalfa burned or his neighbor’s field and that it would be better for everyone if Guadalupe were sent away. He said that it was the duty of the priest to take her from her house and send her to a parish where she would do no harm. There was no place here, Horacio went on, for someone who saw the things she did.

  “No one said anything for a little while after Horacio spoke, and I watched the priest standing on the altar. His name was Father Joseph. He was a large man of German descent and was priest here for so long that few could remember when he wasn’t. Through the years, he had kept the village records and did his best to keep peace between families. I knew that he was troubled by what Guadalupe was seeing, but I also knew that he was not a man who could easily do what Horacio had asked.

  “Finally, Toribio Vigil, who always sat in the back row and who came to church only to sleep, rose to his feet. He was dressed in the same clothes he had worn the day before and carried the odor of whiskey and stale tobacco. He said that he had seven granddaughters, many the same age as Guadalupe García, and if anyone tried to send them away, he would, himself, burn down Horacio’s alfalfa fields and Horacio’s house and all of his corrals. Besides, he went on in a voice like gravel, if anyone should be sent to a parish far away, it should be Horacio, who had not only cheated his brother out of four cows years before, but was always happy to take a great deal from the people of this village and give little in return. No one else spoke after that, and when everyone had left the church, Father Joseph stood outside alone looking up the hill at the García house.

  “For seven days, hijo, all Guadalupe García saw was fire. Each morning when she woke, she would see smoke pouring from the church windows. The roof would begin to smolder, and then the old wood shingles would burst into flames. The fire would spread from there like water and sweep through the valley, burning alfalfa and cattle and all of the houses. She would hear the sound of cows screaming and children choking on smoke. Late in the day, when the fire was finally approaching her own house, Guadalupe’s skin would flush, her eyes would roll back in her head, and she would fall into a faint that would last until the following morning, when it would begin all over again.

  “I think that Father Joseph grew old in that week. Each morning at dawn, he would walk up the hill, his shoulders bent, his feet moving as if he carried too heavy a weight. He would sit alone beside Guadalupe somewhere deep in that house, cooling her face with water and telling her stories of rain and great snowfalls. Although it was true that Toribio Vigil’s words that day in church put a stop to sending Guadalupe away, it was also true that the village seemed to fall under the spell of what Guadalupe was seeing. People began to believe that they could smell the odor of smoke in the air. The cows stopped grazing and stood close together along the creek. The dogs in the village began to run wild, howling all night at nothing, and for all that Father Joseph did, not one thing changed.

  “On the seventh day, Guadalupe woke whimpering. She was such a little girl, hijo, so small for her age, and she lay on the bed in just her nightgown. Her arms and legs had grown thin. Her dark face was as pale as ashes. For all the time Father Joseph had been in that house, he had seen no one but Guadalupe. Moises would let the priest into the house each morning. Then he would step outside and not return until nightfall. Guadalupe’s mother, a hard and bitter woman who seemed to live only in that, would remain in her room until Father Joseph was gone. The only other person in the house was Percides García, Guadalupe’s great-grandmother, but she, too, was nowhere to be seen.

  “One afternoon, Guadalupe’s skin began to blister. Father Joseph, who had been dozing, heard her moan. When he saw what was happening, he rose to his feet in shock. He called out for more water, but the thick walls of that house seemed to drown his voice. He stood beside her bed, staring down at her. Her skin was too hot to touch, and he could smell the odor of burning hair.

  “Although Father Joseph stayed in the house all that night, I think a part of him had left. He prayed for Guadalupe and her family and the whole village, but in his heart he had given up. He had no belief in himself or anything else in that house. When Guadalupe finally awoke the next morning, her eyes were clear and her skin was cool and she remembered nothing of that week. And then the village, too, forgot, as if we had all been lost somewhere for a little while.”

  FLAVIO AND FELIX WERE SITTING on the ground listening while Rosa spoke. She was bent over pulling weeds from among her hollyhocks outside her kitchen window. It was late in the afternoon, when the sun was not so hot. Rosa’s hair was tied back and covered by a black scarf. Her fingers dug in the dirt, loosing the roots from the earth. Epolito had left earlier that day for Las Sombras to buy seed and flour and beans, and baby José was asleep inside the house on Rosa and Epolito’s bed.

  When she was done, Rosa stood up slowly. She put her hands on her hips and arched backward. “This is work for strong young boys,” she said, “not old women like me.” Beside her, though, was a large pile of weeds, and the ground between the hollyhocks was clean and smooth. She looked at the two boys. Then she squatted back down.

  Felix’s eyes were open a little too wide, and there was a smear of moisture just below his nostrils. Flavio was idly pulling out strands of grass from the ground. Rosa picked up a small stone and tossed it awkwardly into his lap.

  “Where did Delfino go?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Flavio said, without looking up.

  The three boys, Flavio and Felix and Delfino, had spent the day together at Delfino’s house pulling rotted, warped boards off an outbuilding and then nailing them onto a cottonwood tree. They had spiked steps thirty feet off the ground when Delfino’s father had limped from out of the house, his bad leg trailing as if it belonged to someone else, and yelled at them to quit wasting nails and to get out of the tree before they fell and broke something.

  They had left, wandering the irrigation ditches for a while, until they ended up at Rosa’s house. They had watched her pulling weeds and then, without thinking, Flavio had asked his grandmother why Guadalupe García was the way she was.

  “She’s lived all her life in that house, hijo,” Rosa had said, yanking out a weed that was nearly as tall as she. “And for most of it, she’s been alone. Even when she wasn’t, she might as well have been. Her mother was named
Maria Velásquez, and she came from a large family that had a poor ranch a few miles north of here. Her own mother was a beaten, tired woman. Her father had such a fondness for whiskey that he passed it on to all of his sons. What he gave to his daughters no one knew and no one asked. They have all moved from here now, drifting away as if they had no roots. Maria was the only one who remained, and what she needed from her husband or the García house or even Guadalupe for that matter, she never received. So she, too, became lost in that house. How she and Moises came to have children at all is a mystery to me.

  “Guadalupe’s father did what he could with her to keep peace in that house, but after a while a deadness came to his heart and he became like a man who had drowned in himself. He began leaving the house each day long before dawn and not returning until late at night. He never spoke of where he went or what he was doing, but by then there was no one in that house who cared.

  “It was rumored that years before Guadalupe was born, Maria gave birth to another daughter. The baby was a sad, weak creature and when Maria saw it, she told her husband to take it away from her, that she had no wish to be a mother to anything. The midwife, Magdalena Varela, an old woman with a humped back and twisted hands, went to the priest, Father Joseph. She told him that a baby had been born in the García house. And she told him that for three days the infant had not eaten and was held only by her father. Magdalena Varela said that if something was not done, the baby would die.

  “That afternoon, the priest walked up the hill, and Moises met him at the door. His face was haggard from no sleep and his eyes were red as if they had bled. For a while, the two men only stared at each other. Then Moises told Father Joseph that his help was not needed, that the Garcías had always taken care of their own. From inside the house, all the priest could hear was silence.