The four of them stood, with the boy at their feet, in the gray light that came through the church windows. Water ran on all the glass and made shadows that wavered on the floor. Though the doors were closed, Father Patricio could feel a cold breeze slice through his robes and touch his skin. He twisted his hands in the cloth to warm them, and a drop of moisture came from his nose and fell to the floor. “It is too cold here,” he said to no one.
“Winter is coming,” Pablo said. “Soon there will be snow. The village will be buried in cold, and you will need someone to bring wood for your stove and meat and beans and flour for tortillas.”
“I will need these things, yes,” the priest said absently as he looked back down at the boy. “Why is he hurt so?”
“Because he fought us,” Pablo said, and he and Manuel looked at each other. “Like a madman, he fought us.”
Father Patricio lifted his eyes and looked at Pablo. “Why have you brought him here? I can do nothing for him.”
“You are the priest of this village even if this church stands empty,” Pablo said. “We have come for your blessing.”
“Then I bless you,” Father Patricio said, waving his hand. “And I bless the boy. Now take him home to his family where he will be cared for,” and he turned to go back to his stove.
“Have you heard nothing?” Pablo said. His hand tightened on the priest’s arm and he drew him close. “Do you remember, Father, your life before this one? We found you in Las Sombras in the stench of that place, in a small room with three other priests like you. I took you from that place, and I brought you here, Father. I gave you this church and a warm stove to grow old by. You have a debt to pay me. And today we’ve come to ask for it.”
Father Patricio’s head was bent awkwardly toward Pablo, and he stared off as the man spoke. Though the priest’s eyes were open wide, he no longer saw the inside of his church or heard the boy moaning at his feet. He could feel his heart beating slow and faint and the thin layer of ice that lay around all of his bones. “I don’t remember that life,” he said.
“I do,” Pablo said and for the first time there was anger in his voice. “And it is not the life that anyone in my family will ever have.”
“Let me go to my stove,” Father Patricio whispered. “It is too cold in this room. If I sit for a little—”
For a few seconds Pablo stared at the priest without speaking. Then he let out a long breath of air and, nodding his head, he let go of Father Patricio’s arm. The priest shuffled slowly back to his room. He closed the door behind him and sat down beside his stove. For a little while, he stared out the window, and every so often a spasm of cold would shoot through his body. He could hear no noise from inside the church, and he prayed that the Medinas had left. Then the doors of the church were pushed open and Hipolito Trujillo, Francisco Ramírez, and Cristóbal García walked inside.
ACROSS THE ROOM FROM GUADALUPE, Flavio’s eyes were shut, and he lay still on the banco, his legs stretched out. On the bed beside her, Felix’s hand lay on her thigh, and sometimes he whimpered softly in his sleep. By now, the chimney to the lantern was stained black with soot and the only light it cast fell upon Guadalupe. Her voice had grown hoarse from the smoke in the room, and occasionally, when she paused, it was as if she could hear the echo of her grandmother’s voice coming from the walls of the house, as if both of them knew the same words.
“Hipolito and Francisco and my grandfather had not spoken a word to each other as they walked down the hill. The ground had turned to mud and everything about them was gray and damp and their breaths hung white in the air. Though they held each other so tightly that their hands ached, still Francisco’s feet slipped from under him and he fell, wrenching his knee badly. Hipolito and Cristóbal helped him to stand and with each step, Francisco would cry out in pain.”
When they came to the church, they paused to catch their breaths. Even then, Hipolito thought in his heart that everything could be made right. He looked at Cristóbal and Francisco beside him, and for a brief second, he remembered them as young men. The fifty years that had passed seemed like nothing.
“This place has always been ours,” he said, though he was out of breath. “Do you remember? We were the first ever to see this place.”
Francisco stood with his weight on one foot. He grunted and shook his head. It had grown colder, and mixed in with the rain now were large flakes of snow. He thought of his wife and his grandchildren and of the fire in his stove. He wondered how, at his age, he had come to be standing outside the church in such weather. On top of that, he had had dealings with the Medinas and he knew them to be hard men who only saw things one way. He knew that whatever was going to happen inside the church would not be easy.
Cristóbal stood breathing heavily. The muscles in his legs ached and cramped from so many years in bed. He was trembling from the cold, and whenever he turned his head, all he could see were the shadows of things moving away from him. Worse, his head was bare and he could feel snow beginning to fall. “There is snow falling,” he said.
“It is mostly rain, Cristóbal,” Hipolito said, glancing up at the sky. “It is still too early for snow.”
“It snowed for days when you left me,” Cristóbal said. “It snowed until it buried me.” He suddenly realized that he had left the santo in his room, and he saw her standing beside his bed lost and confused in his absence. He could not remember the last time he’d gone anywhere without her. To ease his own mind he said softly, “Don’t worry yourself. I will be home soon.” Then he took in a deep breath and turned his head toward Hipolito. “Where is my grandson?” he whispered harshly.
“Here,” Hipolito said. He took Cristóbal’s hand and placed it flat on the door. “Come, Cristóbal,” he said, and then he smiled. “I am so proud that you are with me.”
PABLO AND MANUEL WERE SITTING on the step before the altar. Both looked up when Hipolito and Francisco and Cristóbal pushed open the heavy doors and walked inside the church. Their brother, Andamo, was standing off to the side, and he did not even move his head at the creaking of the hinges. He was staring down at Emilio and every so often his foot would scrape the floor and touch the boy.
“Light the lamp, Manuel,” Pablo said as he watched the three old men slowly make their way between the rows of benches. He could see that Francisco was dragging one leg painfully and that Hipolito carried himself with the same arrogance that had once so offended his family. He did not recognize Cristóbal and had no idea who this man was until Manuel reached out and gripped his arm.
“It’s Cristóbal García,” Manuel hissed, and then he crossed himself.
“No,” Pablo said sharply. “It is just another old man. Cristóbal García is only a story people tell to keep us in our place.”
“I tell you, it’s him,” Manuel said, and his hand tightened on his brother’s arm. “You said no one in that house would dare come here. He sees the dead, Pablo. This is not what I bargained for.”
“I don’t care who he is,” Pablo said. He jerked his hand free and grabbed Manuel’s shoulder. “Look at him, Manuel. He cannot even walk without help. This man can only frighten children. Now light the lamp and go to the window and watch for the others.”
“We should leave,” Manuel said under his breath. “No good can come of this,” and then, after one last look at the three old men, he rose quickly. He lit the lantern on top of the altar and hurried over to the window on the side of the church. He cupped his hands and leaned his forehead against the glass, but outside all he could see was the village layered in darkness.
“ALL THIS TIME,” Guadalupe said, “Emilio García lay on the floor.”
A part of him thought that if he kept still and did not move, Pablo and his brothers might forget about him.
His nostrils were clogged and his breath was quick and ragged. Blood had dried on his face and neck, and his ear was swollen and burned with heat. Although there was little pain in his hand, the sight of his fingers bent backward and the
pale sheen of bone and tendon at the knuckles, twisted his stomach in nausea. He had no memory of what had happened to him in the fields. He could see himself standing beside his ditch with a shovel and watching the clouds fall low on the mountains. Before he had left the García house that morning, Percides had pulled him aside and told him in a whisper that she had found a small room where no one ever went. It was a room that had no windows. She had swept it clean and brought blankets to lay on the floor. If you like, she had said, her eyes wide and her mouth bent in a smile, this time I will let you undress me. Emilio had been thinking about that when he’d heard his name called. He had turned his head slowly and seen Pablo smiling and walking toward him with his brothers just behind.
What happened after that, Emilio didn’t know, until he found himself dragged into the church and thrown on the floor. Now, every so often, he could feel Andamo’s foot press against his body. For a reason he couldn’t grasp, that frightened him more than anything else. When he saw his grandfather walking toward him, he clenched his eyes shut and almost began to cry.
Hipolito and Francisco and Cristóbal stopped a few feet before Pablo. Their clothes were wet and the cold inside the church sat upon all of them. Francisco looked down at the boy, and when he saw how badly the boy had been beaten, his breath caught in his chest. He closed his eyes to steady himself and realized that what was happening was far worse than he had imagined. Hipolito stood beside Cristóbal gazing only at Pablo. His eyes did not waver.
“Why have we stopped?” Cristóbal asked, and he stretched out his arm and moved it about blindly.
“We are here, Cristóbal,” Hipolito said. “We are inside our church.”
“Then where is this priest?” Cristóbal said loudly. “Where is this priest who has my grandson?”
At the window, Manuel groaned and shook his head. Through the glass, he could suddenly see lights. They were far down the valley and in all directions and they hung in the air as if not moving. “They are coming, Pablo,” he said softly, and then, his voice shaking, he looked at his brother and spoke the words again.
Pablo stood slowly and said, “There is no priest, old man. There is only me.”
“We have come to take the boy home, Pablo,” Hipolito said. “You and your brothers had no right to do this.”
“Where is my grandson?” Cristóbal yelled. “I have not come here to talk.”
Emilio stretched out his arm and brushed the side of his grandfather’s leg. “Grandfather,” he said. Cristóbal pulled his hand free from Hipolito’s and knelt down. His hands fell upon Emilio’s shoulder and moved up to his face. He could feel the heat coming from his skin and the blood crusted on his face. “What have they done to you?” he said harshly.
“I don’t know, Grandfather,” Emilio said and his eyes filled with tears. “My hand is broken and I can’t remember so well.”
“Come, Emilio,” Cristóbal said, pulling at Emilio’s shirt. “Percides is waiting for us. Come, hijo, let us go home.”
“Your grandson is a thief,” Pablo suddenly screamed. “He has slaughtered my neighbor’s livestock and he’s gotten only what he deserves.”
Cristóbal’s hand stroked the side of Emilio’s face and he looked up at where he had heard Pablo’s voice. “I don’t even know who you are,” he said softly, “but if I hear you speak again I will send all of my family to your house and everything you have I will take and burn. I curse you and all of your children and even the walls of this church for allowing a thing like this to happen.” Then he turned his face back to his grandson and touched the boy’s hair. “Hipolito,” he said, “help me. I cannot do this alone.”
“There is nothing here for you now, Pablo,” Hipolito said. “Take your brothers and leave.” He put his hand on Cristóbal’s shoulder and lowered himself to his knees. “Vamos, Emilio,” he said. “The three of us have come to take you home.”
And then, for a reason no one ever knew, Andamo clenched his hands together in a fist and raised them high over his head. He took one step forward and then brought them down with all of his strength across Francisco’s shoulders. Something broke in Francisco’s back, and he fell as if shot on top of Hipolito and Cristóbal.
For a moment, no one moved. Andamo stood with his arms loose at his sides as if he had done nothing. Manuel, his mouth gaped open, stared from the window. He could not believe what he had just seen, and a cold emptiness suddenly flooded his heart. Pablo could see that the blow had broken Francisco’s back and that the old man was struggling to draw a breath.
“Help me, Manuel,” Pablo said harshly. Then he kicked out his foot and struck Hipolito on the side of the head and he did not stop kicking until there was not a sound that came from the three men on the floor.
“NOT LONG AFTER THAT,” said Guadalupe García, “the church filled with men from this village. They came from every house, and among them were the sons of Hipolito and Francisco, though none of them knew that their fathers had been there. I don’t know what Pablo said to them through that night. I can hear his voice raging in my head, but I can’t hear his words. I only know that in the morning, Emilio was carried from the church and a rope was placed around his neck.
“It had rained all that night while Pablo spoke. Water lay over the mud, and the cottonwood tree was black from moisture and its limbs sagged. The mountains were lost in clouds, and mist hung in the air just above the valley. In this house, Percides had fallen asleep in a chair and her two uncles at the table. She woke slowly. Outside she could see that dawn had come to the village. For a second, she thought that while she had slept Emilio and her grandfather had returned and that they had gone to rest before waking her. She could feel the heat from the cookstove and when she stretched out her legs a soft sound came from her mouth. She stood slowly and walked to the door. Then she let out such a wail of anguish that her two uncles awoke and then froze beside the table.
“I think that the last thing Emilio ever saw as the horse was led out from under him was Percides running down the hill to him. Her hair was flying and a few times her feet slipped out from under her and she fell. Then she would scramble to her feet and Emilio would hear her calling his name. By the time she came to the cottonwood tree, the men from the village were walking away, their faces hidden, their shoulders slumped from the weather. Inside the church, Father Patricio sat sleeping by his stove. And somewhere together were Hipolito and Francisco and Cristóbal García.”
Thirteen
I MISS MY SON, FLAVIO,” Felix said, and then he belched softly. He was sitting in the front seat of the pickup. His hands were shaking in his lap and his head was trembling. His back was so hunched now that the top of his head came no higher than Flavio’s shoulder. A breeze was blowing through the cab, and mixed in now with the smell of smoke was the sour odor of hot dogs.
“I don’t miss my son when he was big,” Felix went on. “I miss him when he was just a little boy. Did you know that sometimes he used to help me in my kitchen? I can remember this like it was yesterday.”
Every so often, as Felix would quietly leave his bedroom, he would be startled to find Pepe standing in the hallway outside his door. In a hushed voice, Felix would bend low and tell his son to be quiet. Then, he would dress him in his small overalls and, leaving Belinda asleep in bed, they would walk together to the café. The inside of the restaurant would be dark and still, and through the windows Felix and his son would see the stars hanging above the mountains. A small bulb hung outside over the door. If it wasn’t burned out, it would throw a yellow light onto the highway, and the road would look old and empty and abandoned. Felix would hold Pepe’s hand so that he wouldn’t bump his head on the tables, and every morning the boy would talk incessantly in his high, lilting voice, telling his father things he was still too tired to hear.
Inside the cab of the pickup, Felix turned his head and peered up at Flavio. “I miss those mornings with my little boy,” he said. “I don’t know why I woke up after so long just to be sad. I thi
nk it was better being asleep. At least then if you feel bad, you don’t know it.” When Flavio said nothing to that, Felix stretched out his hand and touched his friend’s leg. “Are you listening, Flavio?” he asked.
Flavio was staring blankly out the windshield, and though he could feel the hand trembling lightly on his leg, he hadn’t heard a word Felix had said. The fire was not far from Ramona’s house, now, and the alfalfa field was waist high in flames. He had left the front door wide open, and smoke was pouring out the doorway. Inside, all he could see was a dark haze, but he could picture the santos huddled closely together on the sofa, looking out the doorway at his truck. A steady wind had begun to blow, and ash and small embers were landing on the hood of his pickup and swirling through the leaves of the cottonwood trees. Although he knew it couldn’t be much past mid-afternoon, already the day seemed to be growing dark. Beside him on the seat was the small santo Little José had carved. She stood staring straight ahead, and there was a lopsided grin on her face as if she were looking forward to taking a little ride after being cooped up inside the house for so long.
“Flavio,” Felix said again. “Why are we just sitting here? Little pieces of fire are falling on your truck.”
Flavio shook his head and pushed himself up on the seat. He looked down at his ignition and saw the same thing he’d seen when he had first tried to start the pickup. “My keys are gone, Felix,” he said, and then he wondered at how little this surprised him.
“Look in your pockets, Flavio,” Felix breathed out. “Maybe you put them in there by accident.”
“I looked in my pockets,” Flavio said. “Besides, I never take my keys out of my truck. My keys live in my truck.” He bent over awkwardly and looked down at the floor again. All he could see were dried clumps of mud and the rusted handle to his jack sticking out from under the seat. He sat back up and then, after a few seconds, looked over at Felix.
A Santo in the Image of Cristóbal García Page 22
