Night at the Fiestas: Stories

by Kirstin Valdez Quade

  When Father Leon’s arrival was announced, Crystal had expected someone energetic and progressive and possibly tiresome, setting up basketball games and youth activities and regular soup kitchens in the hall. She’d thought that the new priest might joke with her, might offer real comfort that came from his contemporary understanding of how the world actually worked.

  Instead of invigorating the parish, though, Father Leon’s arrival had strained its atmosphere. “Would you believe he told me to type up his homily?” Collette had hissed, thrusting a legal pad into Father Paul’s chest. “Who does he think he is?”

  “I’ll talk to him,” Father Paul had promised, but the same day he’d drawn Crystal aside and asked her to type it. “Please. As a favor to me.” So, ever since, it had fallen to her to decipher Father Leon’s slanted, feminine cursive. Each time Crystal handed Father Leon the printed pages, dense with abstractions and biblical quotations, he murmured a wooden thank-you without looking at her, already scanning his words.

  Rather than sticking to love and brotherhood and the primacy of conscience, Father Leon went right for the hot-button issues, criticizing the permissiveness of American society. “Tolerance of sin is not a Christian virtue, and homosexuality is a sin, full stop,” Father Leon had told the congregation during an early weekday Mass. “Even in this house of God, I can smell the stink of Satan. He has found purchase in the hearts of some gathered here today.” Crystal pictured him scowling down from the pulpit in his cassock, looking like an unpleasant child forced to play dress-up.

  There had been very few people present, but one of them was the president of the Altar Society, whose fourteen-year-old grandson was gay. She’d stormed into the office in a rage. “The stink of Satan? Shame on him,” she told Father Paul. “God forgive me, but that man doesn’t belong here.”

  “He’s young, he’s full of ideas. He’s getting his sea legs,” Father Paul had said, looking fretful. “We’re lucky to have him, with so few young men entering the priesthood.”

  Father Paul had begun to show signs of tension: the oversleeping, for one. He also seemed to have amped up his benevolence, as if to compensate for Father Leon’s coldness. While Father Leon stayed shut away in his study, Father Paul always seemed to be lying in wait for Crystal when she came to clean, ready with a smile or a kind word. He was lonely, maybe, Crystal thought, or maybe, with Father Leon chipping in, he just had less to do. Over and over he offered her help, over and over he brought up Reconciliation, as if he had an urgent personal stake in her salvation.

  So, after months of putting it off, she’d gone to confession. But there, in the dark confessional, something had happened: Crystal had actually felt bad about not having been a virgin since she was sixteen, had almost believed that sex wasn’t completely ordinary. The sudden sense of her own remorse had made her words waver, and she was overcome by the vastness of her insult to God. She had believed truly, as she never had before, that Father Paul—this man whose dishes she washed and laundry she folded, who left drops of urine on the toilet seat—could deliver her apology to God. She’d caught her breath and felt tears burn her eyes, until, from the other side of the screen, Father Paul had dropped into his most soothing voice. “We can hate the sin but love the sinner.”

  Crystal must have been seeking punishment, humiliation, shame. She must have been trying to hold tight to her guilt or to shock him out of his infuriating tenderness, because what else could explain what came out of her mouth next? “But Father, it wasn’t just regular sex. He went in behind, too.”

  There was a long, terrible silence. Beyond the confessional, the empty church breathed and creaked. Outside, a motorcycle roared past. Crystal gripped one hand with the other. Finally, she heard the unsticking of lips and Father Paul said, “Consider this a new chance, and ask God to help you be the mother your babies deserve.”

  Confession was confidential, of course, and Father Paul gave no sign that he knew who had been on the other side of the screen—and who knows, maybe he didn’t, though he’d have to be a fool not to—but Crystal couldn’t stand to be around him for weeks afterward. She felt ambushed and stupid. In the office, she kept her head behind the computer monitor when he passed through. Most afternoons Father Paul had appointments, so she cleaned the rectory when he was out.

  Really it was a miracle that she’d managed to avoid him for as long as she had. But on Friday, as Crystal was putting the rags and detergents under the sink, Father Paul had come into the freshly mopped kitchen. He’d leaned against the counter and watched her. “You must miss the father,” he’d said, and Crystal had had to sink back on her heels and nod politely.

  Father Paul furrowed his brow, and the creases went all the way up his bald red head. “Even if it wasn’t the right partnership, it must pain you to be embarking on this alone. But we’re here for you.” His voice was insistent. “The parish will stand by you and your children.”

  Father Paul paused. He seemed to be thinking something over, and, with a sense of vertigo, Crystal imagined him imagining her in the throes of all sorts of mortifying, sweaty exertions.

  Then he crossed the damp linoleum—leaving dull footprints—and dug in his pocket. He presented her with a laminated prayer card of the Santo Niño de Atocha. “I’ve been wanting to give you this.”

  Crystal turned the card in her hand, flushing. The Santo Niño: Christ Child with long dress and pilgrim’s staff, dark curls tucked under wide-brimmed hat, walking under the stars across mesas and winding among piñon. He walked so far and so long, searching for miracles to perform, that he wore the soles of his shoes to nothing. In the chapel in Chimayo devoted to him, along with prayers and petitions and milagros, people left him children’s shoes—knit booties and beaded moccasins and sneakers and patent-leather Mary Janes scuffed at the toe.

  “Thanks,” she mumbled.

  Father Paul smiled with relief. He waved her away, pleased with himself. “You should pray with your babies. They can hear you, you know.” He stood smiling at her for another torturously long moment, then left.

  Crystal gripped the card, enraged. Who was Father Paul to tell her that her life might be saved by a child? What could he possibly know about being trapped forever by your own stupid biology? Or about the defeat of moving home, where every night your mother was on the living room couch, suit skirt unzipped, watching a game show and eating microwaved hash browns slathered in red chile, her smelly panty-hosed feet on the coffee table?

  Heartsick, Crystal thought of her old apartment, quiet and hers alone. Maybe she’d never wanted escape, college, a future, she thought bitterly. Maybe some part of her had been seeking a comforting narrowing of possibilities, an excuse to give up on her life. If this was all life was—working in the office of a small Santa Fe parish, living at home with her mother and twin babies—then it was at least manageable.

  She had thrown the prayer card out, right there in the kitchen trash. She had slammed the back door, leaving the little Santo Niño with his girlish misty eyes gazing up, daring Father Paul to find him.

  NOW, AS CRYSTAL CROSSED the parking lot toward the rectory, she hoped that he hadn’t. She’d been bratty, throwing out his gift. Because what would she have preferred? To be scolded? To be made to sit facing the congregation each Sunday during Mass, the way pregnant girls were punished in the old days?

  The wind was blowing, and leaves and dust skittered across the blacktop. It was late fall now, chilly, but Crystal was sweating through her shirt. Pregnancy had made her clammy and zitty and fat.

  She flapped her arms, willing the dark spots to dry, and pushed open the back door of the rectory. She was greeted by the familiar hush and the smell of old cooking. On the stove were the gray remains of a pan-fried steak; on the counter, a sticky ice cream carton. The sink was full of dishes—couldn’t they just put them in the dishwasher?

  “Father Paul?” she called. He wasn’t in his study. She started down the dim carpeted hall, lightening her step out of habit as she p
assed Father Leon’s closed study door. No matter the hour, the rectory, with its small windows and sheer drapes, always felt muted with late-afternoon light.

  “Father Paul?” she called again, as much to announce herself as to find him. She hoped he wasn’t still asleep. What if she had to step into his bedroom, shake him awake? She recoiled at the thought of touching his bony shoulder through his pajamas.

  But, thank God, the bedroom was empty, the bed with its incongruous floral spread made in Father Paul’s usual hasty way. It was a weird room, she often thought. Maybe it was a result of the vow of poverty, or the sign of a sparse personality, but there were few personal effects: a kachina, a bottle of Jergens lotion, some change, and a couple of bent collars. No boxes of letters or journals or bedside drawers to snoop through—though she’d looked, once, a little. The only trace of the individual who’d slept here for decades was a photograph: Father Paul as a happy young priest standing beside a beaming woman who must be his mother, a woman who, with her high cheekbones and heavy black eyebrows, might have been a distant relative of Crystal herself.

  Maybe Father Paul had dropped dead, Crystal thought with a thrill of fear. At the end of the shadowy hall, the bathroom door was open, the pink tile glowing, and she approached with reluctance. “Father Paul?” Empty.

  For a long moment she stood outside Father Leon’s study. For the first time Crystal wondered how it was for Father Paul, having to mediate between Father Leon and everyone else, how it was for each of them, living here so intimately with a complete stranger.

  Finally, she tapped and opened the door. Father Leon looked up from his desk and frowned at her from behind his giant, smoky plastic-rimmed glasses. Barely thirty and already so stern. You wouldn’t catch Father Leon admitting mistakes to the congregation. She couldn’t begin to guess what went on in his mind.

  “Is this important, miss? I am in the midst of doing my work.”

  “Sorry to bother you,” Crystal said. “But have you seen Father Paul? His appointment is waiting.”

  “I have not seen Father Lujan this morning.”

  Father Leon would have made a much more sinister dream villain, with his thick accent and his formal English. Though this was probably racist. Crystal shifted in the doorway. “You have no idea where he is? Would you meet with the couple, then?”

  Father Leon closed his eyes with forbearance.

  “Sorry. Collette told me to ask.”

  Father Leon regarded her coldly. He paused with his palms on his book, then stood. “I will go.”

  “Thank you so much, Father Leon,” she said, her voice bright and emphatic and teetering just this side of sarcasm.

  He walked past without looking at her.

  In the kitchen, Crystal rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. She didn’t care if she was racist or not, Father Leon was a jerk. Crystal couldn’t help smiling at the thought of him baffling the couple with his accent, advising them with nervous grimness about natural family planning.

  Crystal wiped the counters and rinsed the sponge, which was already slick and smelly, even though she’d just put out a new one. When she shut off the faucet, she heard Father Paul calling from somewhere in the house.

  “Crystal?”

  She looked in the living room—there was the couch from her dream—and down the hall. Father Paul poked his head out his bedroom door, then withdrew it.

  Crystal dried her hands on a dish towel as she retraced her steps.

  “Jeez, Father Paul. Where’ve you been hiding? I looked everywhere for you.”

  He was in his usual black pants and shirt and collar, but barefoot, standing in the middle of his room.

  Crystal hesitated in the doorway; she’d never been in the bedroom when he was there. “Are you okay, Father Paul?”

  “He’s gone, right?”

  “Father Leon? He’s down at the office. Meeting with your eight o’clock. Did you forget about them?”

  “Come in, please.”

  “Okay,” Crystal said warily. The card. Had he found the card? She scanned the room again—top of the bureau, bedside table—but it wasn’t there. Could he tell that she didn’t want to go near him?

  She stepped unwillingly across the threshold, but Father Paul drew her by the wrist to the closet door. “I need you to throw something away for me.” His voice was low. He pointed to a perfectly good rolling carry-on suitcase standing upright under the neat row of black shirts and pants.

  “Throw that away? But why?” She hoped it wasn’t infested with bedbugs or fleas.

  He cleared his throat, seeming to reach for some authority. “Just put it in the dumpster, Crystal.” He extended the handle and pushed the suitcase at her. Inside, something clinked softly.

  “What’s in there, Father Paul? I can’t just—” What crime was she being asked to cover up?

  “Don’t look inside,” he said, but he made no move to stop her when she lowered herself with difficulty and drew the zipper.

  The suitcase was filled with empty vodka bottles. Nearly all were glass minis, but there were also several cheap plastic fifths. Taaka, Empire, Neva.

  “Father Paul,” Crystal said carefully, standing. “You’ve been clean twenty-eight years.”

  He inclined his head with exaggerated patience. “Yes, Crystal. That is why I need you to get rid of this.”

  She sniffed. She’d never smelled liquor on him, but you never really got that close to a priest, did you? “Have you been drinking this morning?” she asked, but Father Paul just gave her a withering look.

  “Do you need me to get Collette? Let me get Collette.” Collette would know what to do. She’d snort and scoff and put Father Paul right.

  “No! Listen to me. I can’t trust anyone else. You know why he’s here, don’t you? To force me out.”

  “Father Leon? That’s silly. Father Leon could never replace you.” She tried to envision the young priest plotting in his study and laughed a little. “Father Paul, honestly, no one even likes him. You are the parish.”

  Father Paul took off his glasses and rubbed first one lens then the other on his shirt. Without the glasses, his eyes looked small and red, the skin around them wrinkled, shiny, thin. He pinched a lens between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me explain something to you, Crystal. When the bishop makes these assignments, he makes them for a reason. That man”—he jutted his chin toward the door—“the Church in Nigeria, in Africa in general, it’s very . . . traditional. The fact is, they think I’m weak, and they’ve sent him to ruin me.”

  “That can’t be.” Crystal supposed what he said was plausible. The Da Vinci Code, the sex-abuse scandals: everyone knew the Church could be ruthless. “No one wants to hurt you, Father Paul,” she said without conviction.

  He replaced the glasses over his closed eyes and seemed to come to a decision. “The fact is, I don’t even know that I’m the one drinking. I’m telling you, that man is like a cat, playing his mind games.”

  “What?”

  “I’ve tried locking the door, but he gets in. I wake up and the bottles are there, and I can feel it in my system. I know he’s been here.”

  “Come on, Father Paul,” Crystal said sharply. What was he saying—that Father Leon was creeping into his bedroom at night, plying him with liquor? Or that Father Leon was deploying some dark sorcery?

  “You don’t believe me. Fine.”

  Could he possibly believe himself? No one could sleep through that. And however odd and standoffish Father Leon might be, she didn’t think he was malicious. Or stupid enough to force liquor down his superior’s throat after a few weeks on the job. Which meant that Father Paul was either lying or out of his mind. But she could think of no reason for him to lie; he could easily throw the bottles away in the dead of night. Why seek her out and show her the bottles unless he truly believed he was in danger? This was crazy—and cruel, too, Crystal thought with a rush of outrage, scapegoating a friendless, homesick man. Moments ago, sitting behind his big
desk, Father Leon had just looked young and alone. No wonder he hid out in his study.

  She thought of Collette’s grim warning that alcoholics never recovered. Had Father Paul spent the past twenty-eight years craving self-destruction, pulling back at the last minute each time? Maybe with Father Leon here to share duties, he’d let himself go—just an occasional sip at first, and then everything slid out from under him, leaving him to retreat into this insane story, paranoid and ashamed with his stash of empties.

  Crystal flushed with irritation. Why couldn’t Father Paul just admit that he’d fallen off the wagon? Why this elaborate ruse? All that hoopla over being late, as if his minor sins needed so much more forgiveness than Crystal’s major ones, as if Crystal were expected to screw up, whereas it was a big fucking deal when he did. He couldn’t help proving to her just how bad she was, lording it over her, shoving it in her face. It wasn’t enough that she’d had to humiliate herself in confession? She had to humor him, too? “I’m going to get Collette,” she said.

  “No! You can’t leave.” His voice dropped again. Father Paul reached for her arm, but she dodged his touch. “You have to help me. I’ve helped you.”

  Crystal stepped back, looked around the room. “Okay. Fine. I’ll throw away your suitcase.”

  Gladness lit through her at the prospect of escape. She’d walk briskly across the carpet, rolling the suitcase behind her, like a businesswoman at the airport. Down the back steps, and then she’d be outside in the cool day, free from the oppressive hush of the rectory, free from Father Paul and whatever demons had caught hold of him. “It’ll be okay,” she promised. The cheer in her voice was genuine. “Maybe get a bite to eat, splash some water on your face.”

  He looked her up and down, his mouth tense. Some new emotion had shifted his expression—dissatisfaction that he hadn’t convinced her of Father Leon’s treachery, perhaps, or disappointment at her eagerness to leave.

  “Why do you keep avoiding me, after all I’ve done?” Now he was looking not at her but at the sun-faded framed poster above her shoulder: the Pietà, a souvenir from someone’s long-ago trip to St. Peter’s Basilica. “You know,” he said calmly, “Father Leon doesn’t like you.”