by Keri Lake
I look out over the decent-sized congregation who’ve come to listen to my first Sunday homily. Whatever reservations they may have about me as a person, there’s no denying their unwavering attention now, their devotion to God. I’d have probably made a much better impression, had I not stayed up to watch my half-brother’s fight the night before.
“Come down from that cross if you’re really the son of God! Because those who refused to believe and understand the Scriptures needed to witness the power of God through the spectacular deliverance of the Lord from that cross. And as Jesus suffered through humiliation, degradation and agonizing torment, it became easier for them to deny this immeasurable power. In the gospel of John, Jesus referred to his hour, and when it finally manifested itself, he didn’t fight, or flee, from it. Unless a grain of wheat falls into the ground and dies, it remains alone. But if it dies, it produces much grain.”
Sometimes, in the thick of a homily, a passage from the Bible can hit in the most unexpected ways, and right now, I’m thinking how stupid I’ve been. I didn’t set out to become a martyr. I’m far too selfish to offer up my life for the sake of my fellow man. I came for payment. A debt owed to me. An eye for an eye, and if that isn’t the way of Anthony Savio, then I don’t know what is. I’m the son of a once-feared man. I can’t even hide behind good intentions, because the truth is, I chose this life somewhere along the way. I’m not a savior. I never was.
“Do not pity Jesus, for he did not pity himself. He gave his life of his own free will, so that others would flourish and know the truth. So that we might better understand the love of our Father. So that we might take courage in our darkest moments. It’s not in the ease of a painless life that we find strength, but in our suffering.”
Once mass has finished, I greet the congregation in the narthex, noting a slight bit more warmth from the first time I stood here.
“Wonderful homily, Father,” an older woman says in her thick Spanish accent, as I take her hand and smile.
“Thank you.”
The pat on my back diverts my attention to Father Javier standing beside me. “I’d like to meet with you in my office afterward.” He speaks low like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear.
“Of course.”
Once the narthex has cleared, I divest my clergy garments and make my way to the offices in the back of the church. I find Javier sitting at his desk, and take a seat in the chair across from him.
“I trust you’re settling in to your new home.”
“Yes, albeit slowly.” Perhaps another priest would steal the opportunity to mention the tunnel, which may explain why he hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I walked in.
“Your homily was very well-received. A number of parishioners approached me to let me know.” He tips his head, drumming his fingertips against the desk. “I feel I should make you aware of something.”
My head tells me to stay in the game. To bluff, if necessary. This is where, I’m guessing, the other priests met their demise, after all, so if he asks about the tunnel, I never saw it. “Oh?”
His shoulders sag, and he clears his throat. “When I first learned you were going to join our parish, I have to admit, it wasn’t welcomed news. We’ve had so many priests come and go, leaving our congregation feeling a bit … adrift. My initial opinion of your being here wasn’t exactly favorable.”
Strange that this would be his big confession, when a gaping hole sits in my nightstand as we speak. “I suppose that’d be understandable.”
“Please forgive my unfounded prejudice against you. I’m fairly protective of my people.”
“I forgive you.”
With a sharp nod, he smiles. “Well, I’m sure you have a busy afternoon, as do I.”
Taking his cue, I push up from the chair and notice a name I recognize on a notepad set out beside his computer keyboard. “You’re a sports enthusiast?”
“What makes you say that?”
I point toward the notepad. “Was quite a match. You happen to catch it last night?”
“Of course. I’m a huge fan.”
“Machete Mac holds the same record as Kryptonite King, though I can’t recall it off the top of my head.” I’m lying. Their records are what made this one of the most watched fights in decades. Two champions dubbed foolish by fans for wanting to risk destroying their records by fighting each other. Fortunately, Mac won.
“I, um. Seem to have forgotten myself.”
Liar. Even a minor fan of the sport would know the answer to that.
“If I wasn’t a priest, I’d have had my money on Mac, and I’d be a rich man this morning.”
Only the corner of his lips lift slightly. “I tend to root for the underdog. As for who my money would’ve been on, well, I find gambling to be a dangerous venture. Particularly when the outcome is so … uncertain.”
“I suppose you’re right. To gain at someone’s loss is against God’s will to work hard and live an honest life.” I’m careful with my words, yet curious to see how he responds. “It’s like anything, I would imagine. Drugs. Prostitution. Vices that lead one down a path of temptation and greed.”
The smile on his face widens. “When you say, prior to the priesthood, you’d have put your money on Mac. Were you a man of many vices back then?”
“Some. But I follow a much bigger calling now. One that smothers those desires.”
“Of course. Though, we’re never truly free of the urge to sin. I admit I’m sometimes curious of things I’ve chosen to deny myself.”
“Perhaps you’ve not fully committed to this path?”
“If carnal curiosities measured the breadth of one’s faith, we’d have no priests. Whether you care to admit it, or not, we’ve all been invited to sin at one point. Whether it’s greater than our will to face God’s wrath is what ultimately decides our fate.”
I can’t help but feel a small bit paranoid at his words, and I wonder if the fact that I had my face buried between Ivy’s thighs the night before is written in my expression.
“This is neither here, nor there, where you and I are concerned. It’s as you spoke in your homily this morning, the seed which does not die, will never produce. We are men willing to die for our God. It doesn’t get any more committed than that.”
With a slight tilt of my chin, I stare back at him, trying not to think about how exactly he’ll die, when and if I find out he played any direct role in my family’s murder. “No. It doesn’t.”
It’s late by the time I’m back at the rectory, and I flip the TV on, catching tomorrow’s weather report as I unbutton my shirt. I stride toward the bathroom to flip on the shower, and when I come back into the bedroom for some boxers and shorts, a special news report flashes across the screen.
Only curiosity makes me pause long enough to see my half-brother’s face on the screen. The caption beneath reads: Machete Mac Badly Wounded in Shootout.
I turn up the volume, both my mind and stomach churning at the same time.
“Authorities say the MMA fighter was at a celebration of his recent win, when an unknown gunman entered the hotel banquet room and opened fire.”
My mind rewinds to the notepad on Javier’s desk, and his comments about gambling and uncertain outcomes.
“The champion fighter was recently spotted at the funeral of his estranged father, Queens local, Anthony Savio.”
It’s the first I’m hearing of my father’s death. I suspected it’d be soon, but I didn’t even realize he passed.
“He’s currently in critical condition, and doctors say his recovery is uncertain. This incident follows the suspected death of Savio’s eldest son, Anthony Savio, Jr., who went missing following the unsolved murder of his wife and daughter eight years ago.
A picture flashes across the screen of Val and Isabella, one police must’ve secured from my house after the murder. My chest goes cold and numb at the sight of them. I intentionally avoided the news reports back when it happened, for the same reason I’m wishing I had
n’t kept watching now. The frosty sensation in my chest tightens at the sight of my beautiful little girl, taken before her chemotherapy. And Val, with her forehead pressed to Bella’s, both of them laughing. Happy.
Running a hand over my jaw, I sink onto the bed.
Fuck.
I’m certain of one thing—whoever hired the hit on my brother saw him at the funeral for my father. And if anyone happens to be privy that I’m still alive, I’ll undoubtedly be next.
To my relief, the report doesn’t offer up any pictures of me, but instead bounces back to Mac just prior to the fight, during a press conference.
His interactions with King are competitive, as expected, perhaps even a little staged. I don’t believe someone from King’s camp put the hit on him. Knowing my father, it could be any one of his enemies, but once again, my thoughts revert to Javier’s conversation earlier today.
Peering through the window brings the church parking lot into view, where Javier’s car is missing for the night. Tomorrow, I’ll make a point of learning where he lives by following him home. Perhaps watching him closely will lend more insight into what role, if any, he could have played in Mac’s attack.
After a quick shower, I head down to the first floor and open the cupboard to the tunnel. All is quiet there.
No movement. No sound. I try to imagine what purpose this elaborate tunnel might serve, to be used so infrequently, or at all, since I’ve been here.
A text from Ivy pops up on my phone, which draws my attention to a news update that Machete Mac was just pronounced dead in the hospital.
Blowing out a breath, I sit on the edge of the bed, staring down at his name. Even if I only just met him, he was my blood. The man who gave me some small fraction of peace with my father before his death.
Ivy’s text remains unread, and I click on it to see she’s sent me a picture of the full moon behind her glass of wine. The caption to it reads: Wish you were here.
With some reluctance, I type back, Not a good night. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow.
Okay, she sends back with a sad face emoji.
Until I know for certain who was behind my brother’s murder, it’s best to remain cautious where Ivy’s concerned.
I make my way to the kitchen, where the cupboards are packed full with food, thanks to a few kind women from the congregation, but I haven’t yet stocked the place with the liquor that’s calling to me right now.
I nab my keys off the counter, head out to my car, and drive toward the liquor store just a couple blocks away.
Chuparosa liquor store lights up a quiet corner of a strip mall, and I pull the car alongside the curb in front. Once inside, I’m greeted by the scent of food and disinfectant—an unappealing combination. While perusing the various brands of potato chips, I catch movement toward the front of the store and pause, eyeing two figures, one of whom wears the same balaclava mask as that of the kid who attacked me my first night.
From across the store, I can’t make out what’s being said over the hum of the slush machine behind me, but when the cashier puts his hands in the air, my stomach sinks.
What are the odds?
I have no weapon, nothing to fight off the gun I can see pointed at the clerk, so I wait and watch.
After the clerk empties the cash register, the kid with the gun swipes up the money, stuffing it into his pocket, and nabs some jerky on his way out. The second kid snatches some candy from below the counter and races after his friend.
With careful steps, I come around the aisle, catching the clerk, whose hands tremble as he dials his phone.
“¡Ayúdame! I been robbed!”
Slinking past his panic, while he yells into his phone, I chase after the two, anchoring my eyes on them as I get in my car and hit the main street.
Keeping a few car lengths behind, I trail a silver Tacoma down back roads, getting farther away from the busy city area and into a more residential part of town.
Under the cover of darkness, I let my car idle, cutting the headlights, and watch the truck pull into a driveway before disappearing around the back of the house. Even with my windows rolled up, I can hear the music blaring from inside, and through the naked front window, I can see bodies packed tightly together.
I don’t dare go inside, knowing there could very well be members of the cartel here. Instead, I wait, passing the time by watching the interactions. Girls grinding on laps, undoubtedly having sex in plain sight, other girls dancing, making out with each other. Red Solo cups are the evidence of alcohol.
An hour passes before one of the girls stumbles out of the house, a boy on her heels. Clutching her head, she wavers on her feet, and it’s not hard to see she’s drunk. I roll down my window, watching them from the shadows cast by a row of tall bushes.
“Thanksfer drivin m’home,” the girl says, wandering aimlessly toward a car. “Had t’much.”
From my angle, I can’t quite make out her face, but she’s tall and slender, and in what little light from the streetlight shines down on her, I can see she has bronze skin.
“El carro equivocado, baby. Vamos.”
She stumbles behind him toward a black Maxima parked on the front lawn of the house. A minute later, the car shakes and a muffled scream steels my muscles. The scream turns high pitched, then muffles again, and I sink back into my seat.
Christ.
I rub a hand down my face and groan at what I have to do. With a quick glance around, I fetch the gun from my glovebox and check for bullets. The plan isn’t to shoot the kid, just scare the everloving shit out of him, is all.
Climbing out of my car, I keep scanning the quiet neighborhood, as well as that front window for any sign the group inside has caught sight of me. As I approach the car, the screams are louder, with bouts of sobbing in between, and a flat palm slams against the glass.
Gun leading my charge, I throw back the car door, and the two inside startle, the kid’s lip peeling back to a snarl.
“’The fuck? You’re that priest.”
“Get out. And if you make a sound, I’ll blow your brains all over those nice leather seats.”
With the girl whimpering beside him, shaking as she scrambles to pull her panties up, he clambers out of the vehicle, face smug enough to make me want to punch him.
“You’re dead, gabacho.”
“Keep talking, and you’ll be dead first.”
The girl leans forward, into the light, and I recognize her face. Ariceli, the mayor’s daughter. Flicking my fingers, I gesture for her to get out of the car, gun set on her rapist. As I reach to help her out, a sharp stab of pain hits my side where the kid has moved in closer.
The hilt of his blade sticks out of my side, and he lunges toward me.
Flipping the gun around, instincts kick in before I can stop them, and I pistol whip his face once, twice, and on the third crack, he falls. The horrific sound of mutilation echoes inside my head when I finally snap out of my trance. Freezing mid-snap, I hold the gun drawn back, the butt of it ready to strike again. My body moved on it’s own, a natural reflex for survival, while I stood in shock, allowing it to happen.
On the ground, the kid lies bloodied and passed out, his nose swollen and purple, already showing signs of broken cartilage and bone. The kid groans and shifts, telling me he’s still alive, thankfully.
“Father?” Ariceli’s voice is distant, but effective in yanking me out of my trance.
Breaths saw in and out of my lungs, while the pain of the blade settles into my flesh. “Let’s get out of here.” My voice is a raspy mix of distress and agony, and I don’t bother to remove the blade. Not here.
Hobbling back to my car, I set my fingers at either side of the lodged knife in a poor attempt to stave off the bite of the metal. Voices erupt from behind, as one of the partygoers exits the house, tripping down one of the stairs. “Hey, Miguel! Ando bien pedo.” His hiccups tell me he’s as trashed as he looks.
Ariceli scrambles into the passenger seat, as I fall ungr
acefully into the driver’s. The shouts of the drunkard get louder, more intense, and it’s clear he’s made the sobering discovery of his friend lying beaten to a pulp. The shot of a gun popping off is my cue to hit the gas, while the other partygoers are alerted to their fallen friend.
Tires squeal against the pavement, and two shots ping the exterior of my car, but fail to hit either one of us. The house shrinks in my rearview, and I breathe easy once back on the main road.
“I’m sorry for what happened. With the knife.” Tears color Ariceli’s voice, her eyes directed toward the knife half stuck out of my body. “Are you going to be okay?”
“Yeah, I’ll be fine. Don’t stress about it.” I glance over to her, noticing her hands trembling in her equally trembling lap. “Where am I headed?”
“You know where Holdridge Street is?” At my nod, she continues, “I live on the corner of Sapphire and Holdridge.”
Fancy area, from what I’ve gathered. Not that I’d expect different with her being the daughter of the city’s mayor.
“Thank you for what you did back there.” The shaky fragility still lingers in her voice, like a thread waiting to snap when she’s finally alone.
“You know that kid?”
“Miguel? Barely. He went to my school for a while, but dropped out.”
“How did you end up at the party?”
“My friend hangs out with those guys. She left me there to go home with one of them.”
“I’d hardly call that a friend.”
“No. I know. I don’t know why I trusted her, at all.” A quick glance shows her lip quivering and a shine in her eyes, before she flattens her mouth in a poor effort to hold back tears. “He’s going to be so mad at me.”
“Your father?”
“Miguel.”
“You said you barely knew him, though. He’s not your boyfriend. What do you care?”
“You don’t understand. And it’s hard to explain.” Her long and slender, perfectly manicured fingers fidget as she talks. “Exilio is associated with Sinaloa. They run this town.”
