by Betsy Ashton
“Oh shit,” said Emilie.
“Father Alvarado?” Stupid question. No one else’s voice could have painted such a look of terror on Marianna’s face.
The girls rose as one. Much as I wanted to lock them in the bedroom, I couldn’t. I opened the outside door when I heard a tap. Isabella stood alone.
“You must let me take her.” She had a fresh bruise on her chin.
“I can’t. He’ll hurt her,” I said.
“It will be worse if she doesn’t come with me.”
“Come inside. I’ll protect you.” I reached out to her. She jerked away.
“I can’t. Come over after he leaves.”
Isabella led Marianna down the steps and out the gate. She helped her into a dirty Cadillac.
“Do something,” Emilie pleaded. “He’ll hurt both of them.”
Charlie and Ducks walked over.
“Bloody hell.”
“What do we do now?” Charlie asked.
Emilie handed me my phone. “Call Joe the PI.”
I called my private investigator. “Tony, Maxine Davies. I have a job for you. Is Joe available?”
I gave Tony all the information I had about the priest. Joe the PI would pick up Father Alvarado’s trail at his next church.
By two o’clock I was ready to lose my mind, when Pete, the cook, knocked at the door.
“Abuelita, the padre left.” He’d driven past the manse around one o’clock as he had every day. He saw Father Alvarado drive off.
Emilie grabbed the car keys and camera case.
####
On the way to St. Anna’s, I looked for any sign Father Alvarado had doubled back. I turned into the parking lot and drove around behind the manse. Mrs. Sanchez’s old Toyota was parked in its usual spot.
“He’s gone. We can go in, but it’s not good.”
Emilie had beads of sweat on her upper lip, an outward sign she was experiencing someone else’s pain. I held her hand. It was ice cold. Another sure sign of how bad things were.
“Are you certain you want to do this?”
“Absolutely. Marianna needs me as much as Mrs. Sanchez needs you.” Emilie marched up the steps to the porch and knocked on the door. Loudly. Firmly. She waited a few moments then knocked again. I could tell by the set of her shoulders she was going to keep on knocking until someone answered—or until she wore a hole through the door.
When the door opened a crack, I pushed inside and confronted Marianna in the dusk of the main room. Her pale face was blotched with tears, and a purpling bruise was on her jaw. Emilie was as pale as Marianna. She ran to the girl and held her.
“Where’s your mother?”
Marianna trembled under the hand I put on her shoulder. She pointed down the hall toward the bedrooms. She never left the comfort of Emilie’s arms.
“You two stay here.”
I didn’t want Emilie with me until I knew how badly Isabella was hurt. I had no doubt she’d been struck. The twisting in my gut was too persistent to be ignored. I walked down the hall alone. The first bedroom was Marianna’s. I listened at the second door and heard weeping. I opened without knocking and walked in.
No matter how much I’d steeled myself, I wasn’t prepared for Isabella’s misshapen face. One eye was swollen to a slit; she had dark bruises on both cheeks; her nose was bloody. I was pretty certain I’d find other marks on her body.
I opened the door again.
“Marianna, where’s the bathroom? I need a washcloth.”
“Just beyond my room,” came a mumbled response.
“Em, bring me a bowl or pan with warm water, please.”
Back in Isabella’s bedroom, I turned on the bedside lamp to get a better look at the bruises and blood on her face and hands. She had defensive wounds on her arms. At least one finger looked broken, maybe two.
Emilie knocked. I was across the room to get the water before she could open the door. I didn’t want her inside. She handed me a large pan and my camera.
I turned on the camera. My granddaughter had taken several shots of Marianna. She had dark bruises on her face, chest and back. Once again, I wanted to choke the life out of Father Alvarado. Feelings from my childhood rushed back. When I faced such wanton disregard for personal safety, for human dignity, I wanted retribution, real Old Testament retribution.
I shot several pictures of Isabella’s face. She tried to turn away. “Isabella, I have to do this.”
She was in no position to argue. She lay back and let me photograph her face and hands. I asked her about other injuries. She removed her stained, bloody nightgown. She had fist marks on her torso and stomach.
“Why did he beat you?” I covered Isabella with a light blanket to protect her modesty, set aside the camera and began sponging the blood from her face.
“I tried to keep him away from Marianna. I told him she had her period, but he didn’t believe me. When he tried to drag her into his bedroom, I struck him on the arm and chest until he let her go.”
“Is that when he turned on you?” I wrung out the cloth and held it to Isabella’s still-seeping nose. Rinse. Wring. Dab. Repeat.
“Yes. He locked me in his bedroom.”
“Did she have her period?” Had Isabella lied to protect her daughter?
“No. She’d just finished it.”
I held Isabella’s unhurt hand.
“We have to get you to the emergency room.”
“I can’t. I don’t want anyone to see me.”
“I’m not a doctor, but you may have a couple of broken fingers. You may have injuries that don’t show.” I helped Isabella sit on the side of the bed and found some loose-fitting clothes. “Pull these on. I’ll be right back.”
In the living room, Marianna was sobbing in Emilie’s arms.
“How bad is she hurt?”
“He hit her.”
I knelt next to both girls and peeled Emilie’s arms away. Dark bruises on Marianna’s arms. A bad one on her face. Some fading bruises on her body.
“Did Father Alvarado do anything else to you?” Please don’t say he raped her.
Marianna shook her head. “He didn’t touch me down there. He threatened to come back after he took care of Momma, but he didn’t. He got a phone call and left suddenly. Before he did, though, he said it was my turn next time.”
Junie’s image floated at the edge of my peripheral vision. She nodded and gave me a thumbs-up before shifting back into the gloom.
I patted the child and went to fetch Isabella. She was dressed, so I helped her to her feet.
“We’ll drop Em and Marianna off at my place. They’ll be safe. I don’t think Marianna’s seriously injured.”
“I agree. You can’t take them both to the emergency room. People will ask too many questions. We don’t want that,” Emilie said.
“I don’t want anyone jumping to conclusions, even though they’d be right. I’ll get Isabella checked out. You find some Tylenol to take the pain out of Marianna’s bruises. A couple should do the trick.”
Isabella was no match for me when I was in my most take charge mood. I explained what we were going to do.
“I called Mr. Ducks, and Charlie’s on her way back from the work site. Mr. Ducks is waiting. It’s okay to take us right to the bus. He’ll make us some soup.” Emilie picked up a light jacket and helped Marianna put her sore arms through the sleeves.
“Mr. Ducks will take good care of you.” I reassured the terrified child. “Will you stay with Em in the school bus until we get back?”
Marianna shot a frightened glance at Emilie.
“You’ll be safe. You can trust Mr. Ducks.”
When my granddaughter smiled, Marianna nodded.
I opened the door and hustled Isabella to the Rover, where she settled into the front seat. She pulled the door shut. It locked behind her.
My mind ran faster than my mouth could keep up. I gave disjointed instructions, but I didn’t give a damn. Emilie would figure out what was missing
and do it. Or Ducks would. Or Charlie.
####
Four hours later we were back in the compound. Isabella had done well at the hospital, although she’d refused to say how she got her injuries. An attendant took photos, but he could do little if she wouldn’t name her assailant. He put the photos in her file in case we needed them later.
Isabella’s injuries were superficial, even the blows to the stomach. The doctor found no indication of internal bleeding. The two fingers turned out to be dislocated and were popped back in place. Antiseptic salve on her cuts, a splint on her hand, a prescription for painkillers, and we left.
I called Ducks to see if Isabella could stay in the school bus. No way was she going back to the manse. He assured me Emilie and Charlie had already made up a bed on the couch. Isabella was more than welcome.
Word spread through the compound that the Sanchezes were with us. Pete walked over to say everyone was relieved, but they would stay on guard until we were positive the family would never be in danger again.
Close to midnight, I sat outside, numbed by the magnitude of Father Alvarado’s inhumane treatment. Emilie and Marianna were fast asleep, worn out by emotion. I needed a few minutes of quiet and solitude. Even Johnny was tucked into his trailer.
The school bus door squeaked. A whiff of vanilla-scented pipe tobacco preceded Ducks’s arrival under the mosquito netting.
“Isabella’s resting. What’s the word from the PI?” Ducks settled into a folding chair, legs stretched out. “Alex told me what he did to save Em. He called him an absolute wizard. What’s he going to do?”
“Follow Father Alvarado. He’s the best early warning system outside of you and Em.”
“That’s good. It’s not over, but for right now they’re safe.”
CHAPTER SIXTY-FIVE
Mississippi, week of February 13
While the drama with the Sanchezes played out in the dorm, life and the park went on. We arrived early the next Saturday to find the food court set up. Hope Village had hot coffee and iced tea, both sweet and “un.” Pastor Taylor’s wife, who had returned a couple of days earlier, had made sandwiches, and Pastor Washington’s congregation had cookies and other sweets waiting.
“Did you think we couldn’t work together?” Pastor Washington walked over to shake my hand. I seemed to be off his bad-girl list. For one day at least.
“Not at all. If nothing more, neither you nor Pastor Taylor will give the other the upper hand.”
“That’s not very Christian of you, Miz Davies.” Pastor Washington’s eyes twinkled. Then he winked. “Right, but not very Christian.”
I laughed.
“I have to leave. One of my parishioners is near death. I promised I’d help her over the divide.” Pastor Washington returned to his truck. “I’ll work next week.”
We shoved dirt around, graded the site once more, compacted the soil to support the playground equipment and assembled the various forts, swings and climbing bars. A borrowed industrial-strength chipper snarled and snapped its way through piles of debris. Part of the shovel crew, I moved dirt under the ancient oak where the picnic tables would sit.
Emilie and Marianna went off almost before dawn with Charlie and Johnny to bring back plants from outside of Mobile. Isabella had moved back to the manse, but was under loose guard by the men. Johnny drove a huge dump truck for the mulch, because we couldn’t chip up enough debris to cover the entire area. I expected them back by dinner.
As project boss, Alex was in his element.
“Hey, Alex. You know where you want the swings?” One of the workers from Olivia’s crew walked over. “We don’t have enough room. Kids will hit the oak tree if they go too high.”
Alex poured over the plans with Whip and Ducks. He pointed at another area.
The worker leaned in, dusty sweat dripping on the paper.
“How about here?”
“Still too close. We’ll have to put the fencing in, you know.”
Ducks pulled off his glove and tapped a place a few feet away from the original spot. “We have space here. It won’t spoil your original layout. What do you say, Alex?”
Alex nodded. The worker called to his crew to dig the holes for the footings twelve feet out from the oak tree.
I looked across the park to the area where someone had marked off the basketball court. With the public park, a new basketball court, and the metal building serving as a recreation hall, Pastor Taylor could turn this section of devastation into a welcoming place for returning families. Whip and I walked over to the man who ran the roller.
“I’ve built basketball courts before. We can pour concrete, if someone wants to donate the materials,” the roller operator said.
Whip waved at Pastor Taylor who joined us.
“If you’re game, we’ll put in the basketball court next weekend.” Whip beat dust off his hat before resettling it on his head.
“Okay, if you’re up for it.” Pastor Taylor grinned at the empty area. “We are.”
I didn’t say anything. Neither did Whip. Alex was out of earshot, but a glance at Whip told me we’d pass the hat again to build the court.
I pulled off my gloves and fingered the blisters that swelled on both hands. I didn’t care. The volunteers, blacks and whites and Hispanics, locals and outsiders, worked side by side, laughing and kidding each other. I smiled at Pastor Taylor, who raised both eyebrows. A different, more united community was taking shape around us. Maybe the basketball hat should be in the food court.
In the weeks we’d been there, I’d seen slow signs of recovery. People who’d argued with insurance companies and won had started repairing their houses. The highways expanded daily, as did the traffic on them. More big rigs growled along, carrying goods from manufacturers in the west to retailers in the east. A few stores reopened, including a small local restaurant out on the Gulfport Pike. I hadn’t tried it yet. Seemed to be open for breakfast and lunch. Maybe I’d go Monday. Spend a little money locally.
“It’ll be different, but we’ll recover. We always do.” Pastor Taylor wiped his hands on his jeans. In the food court we poured ourselves glasses of cold tea.
“I’m always amazed at our ability to rise again like a Phoenix.” I sipped and removed my sun hat. My blue and blonde hair was plastered to my skull, but I didn’t care. I remembered how New York and the entire country came together after 9/11.
“Does that surprise you, Miz Davies? The human being is a resilient creature.”
“Whack us down, and we’ll get right back up, particularly when we help ourselves.”
By the end of the afternoon, we had rolled the basketball court, assembled the main playground equipment and begun digging the post holes for the fence. We’d be ready to set the playground equipment in cement the following weekend.
At the end of the day, Johnny and Charlie pulled up and honked. Johnny’s dump truck was piled to the top with mulch. Charlie’s truck was full of bushes, bags of grass seed, and hundreds of pounds of fertilizer. We dumped the mulch in several piles to spread another day.
We bid Pastor Taylor farewell and returned to camp, Charlie’s truck leading the way, plants and bushes bobbing in the breeze and leading us homeward.
“In two weeks we make the park official.” Alex’s dream had come to fruition.
We sat around the dinner table mid-week to plan the inauguration party. The two pastors and the Habitat leader had joined us.
Gayle Hollins had conferred with the Hope Villagers. “Leave the food to us.”
“I’ll load up on soft drinks.” Pastor Taylor turned to Pastor Washington. “Want to bring some ice?”
“I surely do. And whatever else is missin’.”
“What about beer? We can get the crews to kick in twenty-five dollars each,” Whip added.
“I’ll throw in twenty-five dollars.” Johnny reached into his pocket.
“Not each crew member. Each of the road crews themselves.” Charlie appointed herself drinks chairman. “
Everyone’s invited, even if they didn’t work on the park or don’t live here.”
“You might want to up the amount of money then. These men can drink.” Whip pulled out some money and threw it on the table.
“I don’t want a lot of money. I’m going to make it clear we’re having a family party.” Charlie walked over and invaded Whip’s personal space, going nose to nose with him in a rare display of mock anger. “They should hold the beer consumption to two each.”
“Good luck with that.” Johnny laughed.
Whip and I joined in.
“If anyone can enforce such a draconian rule, Charlie can.” I imagined our little redheaded firebrand guarding the beer supply and counting how many cans each drinker took. She could change someone’s mind about overdrinking with a single glare.
“What’s dragons got to do with this?” Johnny tried to look blank.
“Draconian, funny man, not dragonian.”
Ducks went into the school bus and returned with a dictionary. Without a word, he thumped it on the table in front of Johnny. Charlie and I erupted. It wasn’t as funny as we thought, but giggles washed away tension from the events of the past several months.
“It’s interesting how we’ve helped create a community,” Charlie said. “None of us knew the people here a few months ago.”
Johnny and Ducks looked at each other. “We were just talking about this the other night after most of you went to the dorms. This little group has become a family.”
“I wouldn’t trade any of you for my blood relatives—and I love them all,” Ducks said.
“We all want to belong to something. Families stay in the same place for generations, because the sense of belonging wipes out isolation and loneliness.” Charlie said.
“You know, when the Sanchezes are uprooted, they’re going to need heaps of help to find a new community, a new family.” Johnny had apparently been thinking about what the change would mean for them. “You have it under control?”
Johnny gave me more credit than I deserved.
“Almost.” I gave my extended family a thumbnail sketch of what I hoped would happen.
“We’re here to help. Don’t try to do it yourself.” Charlie reached across the table and poured the last of the wine. She sounded like Eleanor.
