Purgatory

by K M Stross

  “When I finally did return, things grew worse. Morrissey saw my tardiness as something unforgivable. Everything had become unforgivable in his eyes. During his guest lectures, he resorted mainly to passages in the Old Testament, obsessed with the concept of there being only one God—as the Ten Commandments clearly indicated—and that our God was the vengeful God. He practiced the lectures in our room, ignoring me completely.”

  “The priests must have grown concerned that Morrissey wasn’t progressing on the right track. He was spending a lot of time studying alternative religions and one of our philosophy mentors—Father Nolan—was afraid Morrissey was trying to incorporate too much into his religious philosophy. Morrissey said he was searching for the Truth, which never sits well with authority figures. The Archdiocese suggested that Morrissey assists Father Tony for a semester as an assistant and didn’t give him the option to decline. I had already elected to spend my last semester back in town, spearheading Father Tony’s charity initiatives he had begun with the local Native American tribe.”

  “We rode home in an uncomfortable silence, although that may have been entirely one-sided. Morrissey was content to be silent, diving into whatever chemistry book he was reading for that particular week. The interest, he had told me once, stemmed from his experiences at the quarry in town, when he spent most of his free time studying the granite for loose formations where it could be extracted in large chunks to be exported. I let him read, content to drive with the radio as a company.”

  “When we arrived in town, I returned to my grandmother’s house to make repairs. Father Tony joined me for at least an hour every day, helping with as many outdoor chores as we could fit in while we heatedly discussed the playoff prospects of every football team. His hip had gotten worse—he could do chores for an hour, then had to sit down for an hour. Then he had to stand up again because the pain was always moving around.”

  “And according to Morrissey, that was all part of God’s plan.”

  “On June fifteenth, I took the covers off of the rose bushes. It was warm enough that I could work outside without a jacket, and I had even convinced Father Tony to crack a few of the chapel windows to get some of the crusty geriatric smell out of the pew cushions. I didn’t reach the south side of the chapel until the afternoon, so I don’t know exactly when Gabriel arrived at the church.”

  “I didn’t purposely eavesdrop. Sound always carried on the south end of the chapel because there were so many thin windows.”

  ‘I can’t confess my sins.’

  “Something stopped me at hearing those words. It was Morrissey’s voice; curiosity froze my feet.”

  ‘Then I can’t forgive you your sins.’

  “Father Tony spoke in a conversational tone, loud enough to carry outside even though I was standing three windows down from where the voices had been loudest. The wind was picking up, and I had to cross my arms to stave off the cool air. Still, I could not leave. I wanted to know Morrissey’s sins—I needed to know.

  “‘I can’t confess them,’ Gabriel said again. ‘Please, I paid a penance. I’ve done so much and I still...’

  “‘It’s guilt you feel.’

  “‘I don’t want to ever talk about it. I don’t even know if… it was at the quarry and one of the rocks…’

  Father Tony told him confession was necessary and that was when Morrissey screamed, “No!”

  “There was silence for a moment. I pictured Father Tony making some sort of gesture, a gentle hand-upon-hand maybe, to calm Gabriel and ease his fears.

  “‘If you’re worried about repercussions, you shouldn’t,’ Father Tony said in a soothing voice. ‘I’m under no obligation to report crimes to any authorities. That, in the end, is up to you.’

  “Gabriel was silent for a moment. I heard the creaking of one of the wooden chairs in Father Tony’s room. There was a sound, I can remember that. It was a whisper, not Father Tony’s voice. It was too low for me to make out, and in the silence, I was too afraid to take any steps closer. I waited instead for Father Tony’s response, perhaps a short homily that would give me some insight into what sins Gabriel might have committed.

  “‘No,’ Father Tony said. I was afraid they might have seen me outside. I glanced up, but there was no one standing near any of the windows, no shadows falling over the stained glass images except the ones my bum eye was creating. I thought something must be wrong and I started walking toward the front of the chapel.

  “Then I heard Father Tony scream, just as I opened the doors. I felt my legs go numb. I made it to the first pew then stumbled, hearing Father Tony scream again. I collapsed, crying, trying to do everything I could to force my body across the red carpet. He screamed again, louder this time and more panicked, high-pitched and I can still remember it even to this day because it was immediately cut off, gargled and choked and stuffed back down into his lungs.

  “I laid against the pew, crying and grabbing my legs, pulling them awkwardly toward the altar, listening to the struggle inside Father Tony’s office on the far end of the chapel. The shuffling of feet. The quiet groan of Father Tony’s metal chair when it leaned back. The sound of fingernails scraping against his skin.

  “Only Morrissey emerged from the room. I saw him once, through my blurry vision, walking down the aisle. I closed my eyes, still sobbing, trying to reach out to grab his leg. He stopped in front of me, and everything went black.

  “When I woke up, I was still lying next to the pew, my face still wet. I couldn’t go into Father Tony’s office, so I ran outside, looking frantically for any sign of Morrissey, but he was long gone.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Luone began walking. Maria took Cross’s hand, and they followed close behind.

  “You left, then?” she asked.

  Cross nodded. “The police investigated the scene and ruled it suspicious, but they had no evidence of Morrissey ever being there, not even a hair. He’d covered his tracks perfectly. I tried to explain what I heard, and they put him on some sort of list of interest, but I knew he was gone. I sold my house, took a sabbatical from the Diocese and went west, trying to pick up on Morrissey’s trail, living off my savings. Sometimes I took the bus from town to town, staying for a night with whatever local priest might give me a place to sleep without ever asking too many questions. I lied when I had to. I took advantage of people.” He waited for her to respond. When she didn’t, he asked, “Do you think less of me now?”

  “I do not know,” she said. “It’s hard not to, I suppose.”

  Cross shrugged, squinting in the darkness when he felt the salty tears begin to burn his eyes. “The moment I heard about the miracles here, all I could think about was what Morrissey had told me about saints.”

  “Does the sheriff know any of this?”

  “No,” Cross said. He followed her around a large clump of rocks that his left eye would have completely missed. He felt something deep inside his stomach, a longing to see clearly again, even if just for a few moments.

  The lights in the distance were getting closer now, moving away from the horizon.

  “Will you tell the sheriff?” Maria asked.

  “No,” Cross said.

  She stopped him. Ahead, Luone continued her fast pace. “What if this man kills someone else before you can find him?”

  “Then I know where he is,” Cross said.

  “And you are willing to sacrifice another person’s life in order to find this man?”

  “Yes,” he said immediately. “This is all I have.” Before the words even escaped his lips, he regretted saying them.

  Maria squeezed his hand, and they continued walking. She squeezed it tightly, their sweat merging together before cooling under the dry night air. “What will you do if you find him?”

  “I’ll try to kill him.”

  “And then what?” she asked.

  “I don’t know.” He reached up quickly to wipe at the tear that had formed in his left eye, hoping he would miss it in the darkness. �
��He killed the only person in my life that I cared about, all because he was so afraid Father Tony might reveal his sins.”

  “What do you think he did?”

  Cross shrugged. “A person from the quarry went missing around the same time. No one thought much of it because of his drug history. The guy didn’t have any family, except a dad who’d thrown him out. Maybe Morrissey murdered him. Maybe he had a conscience that got the best of him and finally confessed to Father Tony. Then... I don’t know. He panicked. Maybe he poisoned Father Tony.”

  Maria sighed. “I came to the United States to prove to my family that I could make it on my own. I cut off communication with them in hopes that they would somehow see it as a punishment. It has brought me no happiness, knowing that they are so far away and suffering so much. Negativity breeds only more negativity.”

  Cross could now see the dark buildings standing out in the backdrop of starlight. Each one was only the size of a small mobile home, with rounded roofs and wooden fences circling livestock on small patches of land. The nearest home had a light shining through one of the small circular windows.

  Luone pointed at the lighted window. “”

  Maria turned to Cross. “We will wait here while Luone gets directions to Yolanda’s home. It may not be near—are you okay to walk more?”

  “I’ll survive,” Cross said.

  Maria kept her gaze on him, watching his eyes dart from left to right in the darkness. He could feel her scrutinizing him. “Do you think Yolanda will be able to help you?” she asked.

  “I think Yolanda’s sister was poisoned,” Cross said. “I think Morrissey, however, did it. He managed to poison everyone involved in the miracles.”

  She nodded, taking a deep breath of dry air. “So you think Father Aaron was a fraud.”

  “There is no Father Aaron,” Cross said. He immediately regretted it. He didn’t want to be blunt with her. He valued her company. She made him feel a little like he’d been before the murder when he felt comfortable being happy. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think he’s been alive for some time. I think Morrissey came to this town and saw an opportunity.”

  They waited in the darkness for Luone to return. When she did, she was out of breath, walking quickly. “”

  Maria smiled and turned to Cross. “Yolanda is not far, and she lives with an old friend of our family. We should be able to stay with them for the night if we need to.”

  Cross let Maria lead him into the village, into the small town square where a simple metal well pump sat next to a wooden picnic table. They walked farther south, passing another much larger oval-shaped home before stopping in front of a large disheveled shack composed of little more than four walls and a dirty aluminum roof.

  Luone knocked gently on the door. After a moment, a small man wearing only a bathrobe answered, squinting through two wrinkled slits of skin; he immediately smiled.

  “” he exclaimed, holding out his arms and hugging Luone tight. “”

  “” Maria said, immediately finding herself embraced in a bear hug.

  George’s eyes glanced over her shoulder. “”

  Maria gently pushed him away and gestured toward Cross. “”

  “Father,” George said, extending a hand. “You are always welcome in my home. Come in, come in.”

  “Thank you,” Cross said.

  They followed George into the small single room, lit by only one lamp hanging on the opposite wall. It smelled like roasted beans. The wooden floors, covered in shag carpeting, creaked under Cross’s boots. The room itself was decorated with three very simple old-fashioned couches, the kind with designs that used every color under the rainbow and a rough fabric that irritated dry skin. Yolanda was sitting on the couch under the light, listening to the radio on the end table as it played a soft melodic guitar tune underneath haunting Spanish vocals. Her eyes were closed, her head swaying gently from left to right. She was still wearing the same long dress.

  “” George asked, walking over to the small kitchen through the open doorway to their left.

  “Would you like something to drink?” Maria asked Cross.

  “No thank you,” Cross said. He walked over to the couch opposite Yolanda, relieved to take the pressure off of his feet and legs. George and Luone returned from the small kitchen, each holding a tall glass of red wine. They sat down together on the third couch, quietly sipping at their drinks and watching Cross with a mix of curiosity and interest while he drank from his water bottle.

  Luone continued staring at him, sipping very slowly at her drink. George, his tongue having received a thorough taste of the wine, lost interest in Cross and focused instead on consuming the contents of his glass as quickly as possible.

  Yolanda looked up finally, blinking hard when she recognized Cross sitting across from her. “” she asked.

  Maria took a seat next to Cross and smiled. “”

  The lines on Yolanda’s face deepened. “”

  “What did she say?” Cross asked.

  “She knows you’re here to talk about her sister,” Maria said, surprised by the change in Yolanda’s demeanor. Any spell the music had placed on Yolanda was broken now.

  Cross leaned forward. “Yolanda, I’m worried that your sister was poisoned. I need to know the name of the doctors who tried to help her.”

  Maria translated into Spanish. Yolanda responded, “”

  “There were no doctors,” Maria said.

  Cross frowned. “Did you take her to a hospital at all?”

  Maria translated again. Yolanda shook her head. “”

  “No hospital,” Maria said. “Yolanda said she buried her sister.”

  Cross leaned back, exhaling a nervous batch of air. “Where did you bury your sister?”

  Yolanda listened patiently to Maria’s translation. “”

  “Behind her house,” Maria said. “In front of the hill. I think she is talking about Cain’s Hill, the one that divides the counties.”

  “Can she be any more specific?” Cross asked.

  “” Maria asked Yolanda.

  “” Yolanda said, wiping with one finger at the tears squeezing out of the corners of her eyes. Her skin ebbed from the cheekbone like a loose blanket. “”

  “Three small rocks,” Maria said, frowning. “She says she was afraid to mark the grave. She talks as if her sister is still alive.”

  Cross rubbed the itch in his left eye, thinking. “If her sister wasn’t cremated, it might be possible to get a doctor to examine the corpse. Even the bones might say something.” If he could expose Father Aaron, Morrissey would have to show himself.

  “Who told you she was cremated?” Maria asked.

  Cross cocked his head, feeling the joints in his body stiffen. His knees were sore, and his lungs felt lined with dust. “Sheriff Taylor.”

  George set down his empty glass hard on the coffee table. “That man!” he said, gesturing wildly with his hands. “The sheriff! He was the one who called me and told me Yolanda was being sent home. She told me he came to visit her the night before but did not come inside her house. He drove away without getting out of his car. The next morning the border patrol came and took her away.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Maria said. “Why would Sheriff Taylor turn in Yolanda?”

  “Sheriff Tay
lor does whatever he thinks is in the best interest of his town,” Cross said. “If he thinks Yolanda is a threat to Purgatory, then he wouldn’t hesitate to force her out.”

  “He has done worse,” George said. He scratched at the thin gray whiskers lining his chin. “Before the miracles of your local priest, the sheriff was known for harming those who crossed the border. There are water stations in the desert. An organization from your country set them up so people crossing the border wouldn’t die of thirst. Back then, the sheriff, he would keep watch at one of the watering stations, and then he would wait. People would always come, and he would take them away and turn them over to the Border Patrol and then appear in the newspapers to brag.”

  Maria flicked away the old Mexican man’s words with her hand. “An old man recounting rumors means nothing. The sheriff is just a man, that is all. He has protected me from those people in the hills before.”

  Cross could feel his left eye beginning to burn with irritation. He fought the urge to itch it again, forcing his hands to remain neatly folded in his lap. He felt as if someone was watching them; he looked out through one of the small windows behind the couch, watching clouds roll in front of the moon.

  “Word has spread about Yolanda’s deportation,” George said. “Some will avoid Purgatory. Some will go to give thanks to Father Aaron.”

  “They should avoid it,” Luone said. “The sheriff does not stop the vigilantes in town anymore. They harass even the legal workers and cause too much trouble for everyone. I keep telling my sisters we should leave but they are afraid to go somewhere else.”

  “We have no money!” Maria shouted. She sighed, deflating and sinking deeper into the couch cushions. “We will not be safer anywhere else.”