The Condemned: Part Two
A Serialized Novella
V
Beyond the dried farmlands, several miles from San Juan Diego’s main street, stood an aged adobe home — a lone structure against the vast, empty country. No birds glided in the colorless sky. No lizards basked on the rocks scattered across the property. A few clothes hanging on a line were motionless, as no wind dared to sweep through. The only sound was from bits of the rock falling into a well located on the side of the house — a sound which intensified deeper and deeper into the abyss. The cracks in the structure’s façade, which formed years ago, were left unrepaired since none of the residents had the skills to fix them for no one had been taught.
It was here Francisco and José lived with their abuela.
Francisco carried José — still drunk and sleeping — to the front door. Even though his brother was scrawny, he was an unbearable weight as Francisco strained to lug him. While he struggled with the knob, he could still hear Roberto’s engine roaring, tearing the air into a thousand pieces. He hoped his cousin would be far enough down the road before he collapsed in bed. This day needs to end, he thought.
Yet, he feared his abuela — or at least her asking too many questions. He didn’t want her to discover what he and his brother were now involved in. She never trusted Roberto. He believed a revelation would devastate her already weakened constitution.
The interior had few furnishings — a couch covered in a floral pattern, a marked-up coffee table, and an arm chair, indented from a person long-since gone. On a corner dresser was a shrine to Our Lady of Guadalupe, while crucifixes and icons of Mexican saints hung on every wall. The only photograph in the room was Francisco’s parents, both who were dead. He felt the eyes of his parents — youthful, yet serious —watching him anytime he entered the room.
Heading toward the bedroom he shared with José, Francisco heard his abuela muttering from her room. Had she noticed we were out all night, he wondered. Even with heavy steps from carrying his brother — as well as the lack of finesse from his own drunkenness — she did not stir. She must be in deep prayer. Taking advantage, he plopped José on the bed, throwing a sheet over him. With a watchful eye toward the door, Francisco reached into his back pocket, pulling out a small stack of cash — payment from the night’s run. He opened up a dresser drawer, located in the bedroom, and hid the money underneath socks and underpants until he could find another secluded spot. Poking his head out of the room, Francisco noticed his grandmother still praying — unmoved.
For the first time in nearly twenty-four hours, Francisco felt he could relax. The night before was uneventful from what Roberto described, but, nevertheless, the sheer anxiety of the mission sat in his stomach like a stone. At least he shared in a cut of the profits — he knew that’s how the Perros were luring him and José to be loyal soldiers. He longed for sobriety, as that was the only thing clouding his judgement. He craved a coffee.
Francisco stumbled into the kitchen, prepared the stovetop coffee maker, lit a match, and then slumped in a chair waiting for the drink to boil. He watched the blue flames lick the bottom of the coffee maker. Several of the flames whipped out from underneath it. Leaning his head against his hand, he could feel himself drifting into sleep.
“Francisco? Where have you been?”
His eyes shot open. It was his grandmother. He wished he prepared for the moment.
“Out.”
“All night though?”
She shuffled into the kitchen. Francisco pitied his grandmother, unable to walk at full strength due to problems with her feet. He forced himself up to help her to the other kitchen chair, but she refused — she had no desire to be pitied.
“I’ve told you to not hang out with Roberto. And what, José is drunk? I only heard one set of footsteps.”
The guilt was unavoidable, cascading over every limb of his body. He stroked his brows in order to hide his eyes. All he could see were his abuela’s feet, struggling to move properly to the empty chair.
“We were just out. That’s it.”
“Look at me.”
He refused, instead continuously stroking his brows. I can’t, he shamefully internalized.
“Look at me boy.”
He knew he couldn’t deny her a third time, as she sat down across the table from him. After all, this was her house. Raising his head, he looked into his grandmother’s eyes. They were cloudy from cataracts, but they still retained the vigor of her feisty younger self. She placed her wrinkled, shaking hand on his cheek.
“Please, don’t lie to me.”
Francisco remained silent, shuttered by shame. Any word would only deepen the wound, he felt. He couldn’t insult the woman who took him in after his parents’ death. She kept her hand on his cheek, wiping dirt off his face.
“You’ve done enough from what it looks like. Go wash up. A cup will be here for you.”
“Anything I can do before that?” Francisco said as he stood up to head to the bathroom.
“Not now, but it’ll be Sunday in two days,” she replied. “I want you to come to Mass with me.”
Francisco rubbed his temples in frustration. He would do anything for his grandmother, but why waste his time groveling before an absent God, he thought.
“Why would you want to go? What good has the Church done here?”
“I won’t take no for an answer. Francisco, it’s hard for the Church to do anything when we haven’t had Mass for years after Padre Jorge was chased out by those cartel dogs. I won’t have this argument. I can’t get there on my own, and you live in my house, and I want to go.”
The angst nearly boiled over, only receding once he looked into his grandmother’s eyes again. He saw a longing lurking underneath the cloudy cataracts. But what has the Church done in San Juan Diego, he thought. No jobs. Immense poverty. Dry, arid land. Hope left when the rains did — and he only stayed to care for his abuela. Denying her would be selfish, yet he couldn’t stand an institution that abandoned its people.
“Ok, I’ll bring you.”
A spark of joy sprang in his grandmother’s eyes.
“That’s all I ask.”
The coffee boiling interrupted the moment, as the grandmother lifted herself up using the table and back of the kitchen chair. Francisco rushed over, nearly knocking the chair over, but his abuela stuck out her arm.
After pouring him a cup of coffee and placing it on the table, she paced back to her bedroom — her steps appearing slightly more fluid. Francisco sat back in the kitchen chair, unsure of what he agreed to. With the money, he hoped to bring her to a doctor — he couldn’t watch he suffer. His mind drifted to the Priest, thinking he would surely see him again at Mass. He marveled that Roberto conceded to the stranger at the cantina. The same won’t happen to me, he thought.
Within a moment, his eyes collapsed as his body went limp in the chair. There, he finally slept.
VI
After fully cleaning the rectory, the Priest walked Maria home to her apartment at the end of the main road. On the way, he noticed the bartender taping a tarp to the cantina’s empty window. Maria had been quiet since the three young men peeled out of San Juan Diego. She barely spoke, instead losing herself in mopping the rectory floors. Her hands were reddened and on the cusp of blistering.
“I can’t thank you enough for your help. It’s nice to have a friend.”
“We’ve been waiting patiently for years now. I knew I needed to help. We can’t lose another.”
Despite the short distance between the church and Maria’s apartment, the Priest did not see another soul — apart from the older woman who avoided the Jeep. She stood there underneath the tent, dusting off the fruits from any flies. The fruits were the only colors he saw, even though they were muted. As they approached the end of the road, Maria stopped outside of an old tool shop, which had been ransacked by bandits.
“My apartment is above here. My uncle use to run this shop.”
The Priest peered into the abandoned store, which also had smashed windows. A counter was tipped over and the light creeping into the ghostly darkness revealed cobwebs in every corner. Dirt covered the entire floor.
“What happened to him?”
Maria was walking up the stairs on the outside of the building.
“He left, and never came back,” she coldly stated without pausing her climb. “My aunt believes he may be in Arizona. He sent money from time to time, but even that has dried up.”
“I’m sorry.”
“What do you have to be sorry for?” she replied while turning the key to the apartment. As the Priest stepped passed the threshold, he immediately could see the living area was compact. How could three people live here comfortably, he wondered. A worn, pink couch — which doubled as a bed, possibly for Maria — was nearly on top of a side table and two arm chairs. The ends of the kitchen counter loomed over the couch as well. Apart from the family photographs and a crucifix on the wall by the bathroom, there were a stack of medical books in the corner by the entrance. Maria noticed the Priest’s interest in the collection.
“I want to be a nurse, but there’s not much for schooling around here. And I don’t have any scholarships to attend college,” Maria said while washing her hands in the kitchen sink.
The Priest thumbed through the top book, not registering any of the words on the pages. All he could tell was that they were old because of the yellowed, worn pages.
“Why nursing?”
“Why did you want to be a priest?” she replied, returning to the Priest with a glass of water.
“To help people.”
“I want to do the same,” she said while handing him the glass.
The grandmother stepped out of the bedroom, silently closing the door, for Maria’s aunt slept — exhausted from grieving. She embraced the Priest, kissing him on the left cheek. Her hard disposition from the burial receded as she clasped his hands. She examined the Priest’s eyes, as if she had already seen them before — a glimpse into a past long since forgotten.
“Thank you Father. We’ve been waiting for a priest for years.”
“I’m sorry for your family.”
“You’ve already given us more than we’ve had in years. Whatever trouble Antonio got into, at least we know we’ve done all we can here for him.”
“I hope he’s found peace,” he responded.
The grandmother kissed his hands before walking to the kitchen sink to wet a towel. She creaked the bedroom door and sat on the edge of the bed, lightly dabbing the towel on her daughter’s forehead. The Priest was moved, but couldn’t comprehend why this family — which had seen its share of devastation — stayed in San Juan Diego.
“The cartel swipe up men when they’re young. Like sheep,” Maria said, breaking the Priest’s concentration.
“Did Antonio join the cartel?”
“Antonio was good at heart. They all are at the start, aren’t they? But Lobo promised him money.”
“Lobo?”
“He’s the head of the cartel in this area — the Perros. This is their last stop before the border. They pillage this place as they make their drug runs.”
The name Lobo tolled in the Priest’s mind. Is this the man who he was searching for, he thought. Regardless, he knew his work in San Juan Diego would be challenging. And something in his soul whispered he would come face-to-face with this cartel leader. His attention instead turned toward Maria, and into the bedroom. The grandmother continued dabbing her daughter’s forehead in persistent silence.
“Why would you and your family stay?”
The question took Maria aback momentarily. She understood where the Priest was coming from. It’s a question she had been struggling with herself for a long time, ever since her uncle left. She looked around the apartment — the couch she slept on, the chair where her aunt and grandmother would sit, perhaps knitting or sharing family stories from long ago. Despite the close quarters and the despair plaguing the town, her gaze wandered to the crucifix overhanging the bedroom door. The answer was quite simple when she realized it.
“This is home, and it always has been. If no one is here to defend it, then they win.”
The Priest found the answer profound, noticing the early evening sun radiate off of the young woman. He couldn’t argue with her, nodding at the response. He finished his glass of water and gave it to Maria.
“Thank you. God willing, I hope we can help this place.”
As the Priest stepped past the threshold to leave, Maria felt compelled to ask him something — but feared it was a question she wasn’t allowed to find out the answer to. The presence of a priest in San Juan Diego remained unfathomable to her, even though he stood in the apartment’s threshold.
“Father? Why are you here?”
The question stopped the Priest in his tracks. She cannot know, not yet, he said. But as he turned toward his new friend, he couldn’t lie. His head sunk into his chest — he didn’t want to give the wrong impression, but his mission to San Juan Diego wasn’t necessarily out of charity.
“It’s complicated. I’ll tell you more in a few days time. Take care of your aunt. I’ll see you soon.”
The answer left Maria unsatisfied, but she didn’t want to press the issue further. Since discovering he was a priest, nothing gave her pause about his character. But now a veil of mystery lurked over San Juan Diego’s new resident. She watched him descend the stairway and out into the street. The wind covered his cassock in dirt.
VII
A bird fluttered through a smashed window as the Priest opened the door of the church. Although disheveled, the parish wasn’t as pillaged as the rectory — the pews were present, albeit knocked over by ruffians. The few windows were broken by rocks, of which the Priest noticed many scattered over the stone floor. He believed the destruction was done years ago, as dirt and cobwebs covered every crevice of the vacated holy ground. The hoodlums found other locations to appease their raucous appetites.
Remarkably, the crucifix, mounted behind the broken altar, was left undisturbed. The evening sun stretched its light over the wooden carving of Jesus, revealing the intricate details of the Lord’s violent end. The red drippings underneath his eyes — were they from the crown of thorns or the anguish he suffered on that Good Friday, the Priest wondered. The artwork compelled him to linger with his eyes affixed on the carving. The mess drifted from his priorities. A stillness slowly crept into the church.
The Priest propped up a fallen pew and sat there, still reflecting on the Passion. Was this the moment where the Lord cried out forsakenly? Was it his last breath? In the silence, his mind wandered to the old photograph of the older man and two young boys — now on the bookshelf in the rectory. The image was of his father, the Priest, and his brother, Lucas. A mirage of memories flashed by, such as his father lifting the Priest up after stumbling in the front yard. The Priest could still feel his father’s strength and calloused hands more than the scraped knee. He couldn’t even remember why he fell. He saw a moment of his father and brother in church, lighting a candle. How young his brother looked then. Then he relived another memory. He saw his father sitting on an outdoor patio chair. He couldn’t see his father’s face, but the Priest felt a dreadful barrier blocking the space between them. The Priest did not want to dwell on the scene. It was too painful.
The Priest opened his eyes. He was still in the church pew. His surroundings remained disorganized and rough. Meanwhile, the sunset had fallen below the horizon, as the light pouring into the open windows crept back toward the mountain range. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead. His eyes peered up at the wooden carving. He attempted to comprehend what the Lord experienced in those final hours. Nothing could compare to his suffering, the Priest reflected, but the full weight of his cross pummeled him into the stone floor. Was the blood from the thorns or anguish?
“Lord, help me find him.”
VIII
After his prayers, the Priest spent the night aligning the pews and sweeping the glass shards from the broken windows. While the interior was prepared to the best of his abilities, he turned his attention to the exterior the next morning. The broken fence pieces were collected and reassembled. He tilled the patches in the hopes of planting a garden. And with a bucket of white paint he asked from the bartender, he tried to brighten the façade.
While on the ladder painting, the older woman who ran the market tent walked over with a bowl with bananas, oranges and other fruits to the Priest. She was petite, and her clothes nearly hid every limb — so much that she appeared as a block. Her grin missed a few teeth, but nonetheless radiated sincerity. She presented the bowl to him.
“Take and eat,” she said with her arms elevated toward him.
The sweat burned as beads trickled into the Priest’s eyes as he stepped down the ladder rungs.
“I can’t possibly.”
“Take at least a one, Father. As a welcome gift.”
The Priest could not be rude, but he wished to avoid any sense of superiority. He could tell she was a poor woman. Taking one fruit, even as a gift, was indispensable to her livelihood. Humility is the ultimate trait Christians must pursue, and too few clerics do, he thought. He could not be like Father Jorge — guzzling the resident’s generosity.
“Gracias.”
As he peeled a banana and bit into it, the older woman’s eyes lit with gratitude. She bowed her head and returned to her booth. Even though he couldn’t see her feet, the woman looked lighter. Suddenly, his concentration was disturbed by a phone call in the rectory. After the other day’s events, he couldn’t believe the phone actually worked. He stepped off the final rung and raced inside to pick up the receiver. Who would call here?
“Hola?”
“Hola muchacho, how are you doing in the desert?”
The cheery voice on the other line filled the Priest with joy, and belonged to a friend from seminary.
“Father Miguel?”
Father Miguel was the Priest’s roommate for several years. As a seminarian, the Priest’s understanding of the faith was limited, raw, yet sincere in pursuing the faith. He was a soul devoid of polished form, he once joked to his fellow seminarian. However, Miguel shaped the Priest’s formation, showing him kindness and patience despite all of the philosophical questions. During a break, the pair hiked the El Camino Real. Despite the brutal weather conditions and the length of the pilgrimage, the Priest noticed a strong fortitude in Father Miguel — even though blisters covered the man’s feet. “Every step deepens our connection to the Lord’s journey to his crucifixion,” he remembered Miguel saying. The moment compelled the Priest to live a missionary lifestyle — of praying with his feet — after ordination. Father Miguel, meanwhile, was quickly tapped to helm managerial duties in the bishop’s office. The Priest always knew his friend was smarter and capable of leading a diocese — something he never believed he was his own calling.
“I wanted to make sure I didn’t have to call any troops to see if you made it alright. How is everything?”
“I made it here fine. The rectory was in rough shape.”
“San Juan Diego has shamefully been a neglected region. I’m honestly surprised the bishop didn’t permanently close it. The area is dangerous.”
“I already had a run in with some local cartel members.”
“Really?” Father Miguel said after a brief pause.
“Yes, but they were young. One of them in particular was trying to act big. But it comes with the territory.”
“I understand the missionary spirit, but why did you request going out to San Juan Diego?”
Can I confess to my friend, he debated.
“It was a calling.”
The Priest could feel his friend at the other end of the receiver wasn’t fooled, but he knew Father Miguel wouldn’t pry the truth out of him.
“Well just be careful. I don’t want you to have any more rough run ins.”
“Don’t worry, if something happens, I’ll call.”
“Good. It’ll be a tough week though because of the Pope’s visit, but I will be around the office.”
“Thank you, Father.”
“I’m praying for your success and health.”
“I’m doing the same for you during this visit.”
“Adios.”
The Priest put the receiver on the hook. Why couldn’t he tell Father Miguel the full truth? He confessed to his superior about the rationale for his assignment in San Juan Diego, but hid from his friend. He finished the banana, went back up the ladder and continued painting. The church had to be presentable before Mass the next day. The people — even though they were few — need it. He continued this work for the rest of the day.
IX
For the first time in years, the church bell rang. The chimes reverberated throughout the main road in San Juan Diego, all the way to the mountains.
Residents of the village filed into the church — Maria, her aunt and grandmother, as well as the older woman and even the bartender, who sheepishly teetered on the threshold before finding a spot to sit. The bell’s sound annoyed Francisco as he drove up in front of the church with his grandmother. He kept his promise. His abuela, once more, refused any gestures of assistance to the entrance, even though every step pained her. Regardless, Francisco followed close behind, stopping at the door. He surveyed the pews, which were now propped upright, with few parishioners seated. This won’t survive, he believed.
In an instant, all of the attendees stood as the Priest, in full garb, stepped out of the sacristy and moved toward the altar. Like Francisco, the Priest noticed the small congregation — but even the few lifted his spirits. The anxieties he held whether or not anyone would attend, melted away. He composed himself, and his eyes caught Francisco’s, who refused to budge from the threshold, one way or the other.
“I know this has been long awaited for the faithful gathered here today. It has been a long time for me as well. I’m grateful to be here, even with the challenges, and be a servant to all of you.”
His eyes scanned the faithful. Maria had her hands together, clutching a rosary, as she appeared to dam overwhelming feelings of gratitude. To be with God, and his Son again, is a gift, she prayed. The Priest’s gaze bounced to Francisco who conversely appeared uninterested. To reach him would be a miracle, he thought.
“But I can assure you, like what God tells us, for where two or three gather in my name, there I am with them. Our Lord told us this nearly two thousand years ago, and so it remains true. He is here with us. And his vicar — our Holy Father will be with us soon for his papal trip — preaching peace and brotherhood. Despite what the fallacies the world presents us, we are not orphans. Remember that.”
Francisco felt the last words were aimed in his direction, as if shot at his own heart. In an attempt to ignore the Mass, he left the entrance step, walking toward San Juan Diego’s main street — which seemed calmer and brighter than previous days. He noticed the rich blue sky and a bird gliding overhead. As he kicked the dirt to pass the time, he saw a single flower growing near the remodeled fence. Something compelled him to see the petals scatter into the wind. However, he squashed the desire and went back to kicking the dirt.
The chants and prayers called his attention from time to time. He peered into the church, watching his grandmother kneeling on her weak knees. What kind of God would subjugate my abuela to go through this pain, he thought. As he turned his attention back toward the road, he saw José running toward him.
“José, what are you doing here?” Francisco said after meeting him in the middle of the road. His brother panted, resting his hands on his knees. He was covered in dust and sweat. He finally stood upright to catch his breath.
“I’ve been looking for you. Where did you and abuela go?”
“She asked me to bring her to Mass. So here I am.”
“Ok, well Roberto came by and he was looking for you. There’s talk of another run tonight. You, me, and him.”
The news shocked Francisco since Roberto told him runs were few and far between. He wanted to avoid runs as much as possible, even though the pay from their first venture was good.
“Why tonight? We just did one the other day? We should be set for another few weeks. Did Roberto say why?”
“Not yet. He wanted to speak to us together. But it’s something big. Might be something to do with Lobo.”
“Lobo?”
A wave of fear rushed over Francisco. This was something serious.
“What should I tell Roberto? You’ll be there, right?”
There was no purpose, no future in San Juan Diego. Only poverty if he didn’t acquiesce to Roberto’s call. He thought of his grandmother on her weakened knees.
“Yeah, I’ll be there,” Francisco reluctantly said. “I’ll meet him after Mass at the garage.”
“Okay.”
José peered inside the church over Francisco’s shoulder. The elder brother turned around, witnessing the Priest raising the Eucharist. What a waste of bread, he languished.
“How long do you think until he’s gone?” José remarked.
“I’m not sure yet.”
“Perhaps I should pay him a visit, right?”
The words — uttered with an implied malice — disgusted Francisco, who whipped his ire toward his younger brother, scolding him for even thinking such thoughts.
“No!”
The reproach nearly knocked José over as he dumbfoundedly looked at his brother. Francisco recognized that his temper and mentoring might only drive his younger brother further to Roberto. His cousin was only a means to an end. Yet, he also didn’t want to give José the impression he was defending the Priest. He didn’t desire that position out of fear of retribution from Roberto or a worse power. He collected himself.
“At least not yet. Now go. I’ll see you at Roberto’s.”
José gathered himself, still taken aback by his older brother’s lashing, and ran down the road. Instead of kicking the dirt, Francisco wished he could kick himself — he wasn’t his brother’s father, but he was his protector. The sense of impending failure swept over him as he watched the dust — which wafted into the air from José running — obscure his brother from view.
The bell tolled. The Mass had ended. Francisco turned back to the church, expecting his grandmother. Instead, he was greeted by the Priest, who stood tall over the young man, covering him in shadow. Francisco rolled his shoulders and took a step back, as if ready for fisticuffs.
“Good morning, my brother,” the Priest calmly said.
“I’m not your brother, padre. Just here to pick up my abuela.”
The Priest decided to drop the formalities, adapting his strategy to talk with the young man.
“I saw you outside for the entire Mass. Why didn’t you come in?”
Francisco ignored the question, watching José’s figure trail off in the distance. He could see two glimmers, as if the sun reflected off of his brother’s eyes. Was he watching him talk to the Priest? What would he tell Roberto? The Priest sensed the young man was distressed. He needed to crack the young man. He needed to find out what happened to Antonio. The Priest felt in his heart that this young man is the link.
“Who is that?” he asked.
Francisco remained silent, looking at anything but the Priest. Suddenly, his grandmother emerged from the church, shuffling her feet. As he raced over to her, outstretching his hand, she grabbed the Priest’s hands instead — shaking them with respect. Francisco felt disrespected, but internalized it.
“God bless you. It really has been so long,” the grandmother said to the Priest.
“I know.”
“The pews will be full again like they were when I was a child.”
“I certainly hope so.”
The Priest could feel the strong grip of Francisco’s grandmother, as if all the worries from the past years were being released. She continued to hold his hands tightly as she turned her attention to her grandson.
“I see you’ve met my grandson, Francisco.”
“Yes, we were just exchanging small talk, right, Francisco?”
Why is this man insistent on talking to me, Francisco thought. He rolled back his shoulders, tightened his fists, clenched his teeth and twisted his feet into the dirt as an animalistic fever coursed through his veins. He braced himself for a fight. He couldn’t let anyone see he was friendly with his man — nor did he seek friendship. The Priest stood still. He could see the misguided pain in the young man. Like a caged wild creature forced to survive by any means. The Priest would certainly not fight Francisco, but he could not let the boy believe his intimidation would work. After all, the Priest knew Francisco’s stance was only an act.
“I knew a man named Francisco while I was in seminary. He was a good man. Poor man. He lived in a land fill with a community of other people in Mexico City. My friend, Miguel and I, would go there to bring food, water and clothing. And the little he had received, he gave to others. We would hear stories of how he would search hours and hours in the piles of garbage. He’d find a trinket here and there. Small things of value. Enough to buy bread if you found enough. He became a local legend because of the luck he had in finding valuable items others discarded. However, he gave all of it to the community.”
“One day, thieves came into the land fill, and they heard about Francisco. They demanded his findings or they’d kill him. Francisco willingly gave them everything he had from a recent expedition, except for one item: a rosary. He prayed the rosary daily, but the thieves wanted that too. Francisco refused.”
“The thieves killed him for it, for something they didn’t even necessarily want. Something utterly worthless to most. But not to Francisco.”
Francisco relaxed his shoulders as he became lost in the story. He wondered why would the thieves do such a thing? However, he wasn’t sure why the Priest shared this story. Then the questions pecked his mind, swarming him like a hive — was the tale apocryphal? Did it matter whether or not it was true? Regardless, he pitied the man.
“But I pray to have Francisco’s spirit every day because, I believe, he is a martyr — and someone to emulate in such situations in our daily lives,” the Priest continued staring directly into Francisco’s soul.
“The poor man,” Francisco’s abuela said on the verge of tears.
Francisco loosened his grip and stance. As he contemplated the point of the story, he understood one thing: the Priest was not to be intimidated lightly. If he longs for a martyr’s spirit, the man must have a death wish. He cautiously stepped toward the Priest and grabbed his grandmother’s hands.
“C’mon abuela. I have to go,” Francisco said while leading his grandmother to the car.
“Maybe next time you’ll come inside,” the Priest said with a smile.
Francisco turned his head with a half-hearted grin accompanied by a sarcastic head-nod. At that moment, Maria walked out of the church after finishing additional prayers. As she made her way to the Priest, she stopped in her tracks, locking eyes with Francisco. His soft features reflected an angelic, alluring quality. Yet she knew his soul was adrift for he was friends with Antonio. She was suspicious of him; however, she could not turn away because of an innocence quality emanating from him. Or was he simply projecting innocence? Likewise, Francisco gazed into her dark, spirited complexion. A fire swelled inside him. He could hear an internal voice whisper something, although it was unintelligible. But like staring at the sun, he couldn’t look long — for he remembered the urgent business with Roberto and José. He immediately felt cold.
“Adios padre, señorita.”
Francisco accompanied his grandmother back to the car, catching glances at Maria, feeling a sense of remorse and disappointment. Why bother, he told himself. Meanwhile, Maria watched him leave — attempting to repress any thoughts about him. The Priest stepped in and broke her trance, as Francisco’s car drove off down the road.
“Do you know my new friend, Francisco?”
“I know he hung around Antonio.”
“So the two knew each other? Perhaps he might know what happened to your cousin?”
Maria’s attention focused on the car as it disappeared. Why couldn’t she snap away from Francisco? He was like Lucifer, she tried to rationalize — tempting, yet deceptive. But those eyes spoke of pain, desperation, and loss. She shifted her mind back to the Priest’s question in an attempt to be pragmatic — but a force incessantly tugged at her. She didn’t know whether it was good or evil.
“Maybe.”
X
The sun peaked in the colorless sky as it lingered over Roberto’s garage. The heat waved off the pavement, coating the littered lot in an aura of volatility, as if magma would spew from any cracks in the driveway. The starved dog wandered aimlessly nearby, still in pursuit of a quality meal.
As Francisco and José approached their cousin’s garage, Roberto worked on the underbelly of his Jeep, laying on a car creeper. Music blasted over a radio jiggling on his workbench, blocking any other sound from reaching Roberto’s ears. He was focused on preparing his vehicle — as if nothing else mattered.
José eagerly leapt out from his brother’s car to greet his cousin. Francisco, meanwhile, moved slowly. The prospect of another run still made him nervous. He didn’t feel prepared, yet he felt trapped. He tried to suppress any anxiety. He knew his cousin could sniff the cowardice in him.
“Hey, Roberto!”
José tapped the creeper with his shoe. A tool clanked on the pavement as Roberto slid out from underneath the car. Grease covered his hands and face. However, the grease made his white grin even brighter.
“Hola my brothers.”
Roberto sat upright, wiping the oil from his hands with a rag in a purposeful way as if trying to raise the anticipation from his cousins. The extra seconds made Francisco’s stomach twist. The blasting music also contributed to his anxiety — so much so he had to release the tension.
“What’s this about?” Francisco said.
Roberto stood up and prowled over to the workbench to turn off the radio. Each step was taken with care.
“Don’t sound too excited. This is big news.”
He glided over to his cousins and wrapped his arms around them, pulling them close to his chest. The grip constricted Francisco’s free motion as Roberto led him and José further into the garage. Roberto perked his head, swiveling it around to make sure no one else was in earshot.
“Lobo is coming.”
The news struck terror in Francisco’s heart. If he had any reservations before about ingratiating himself into the cartel, tonight’s run would be a major step. His knees weakened. Somehow the tear underneath his cousin’s eye grew darker in the garage’s shadows. He shot a glance at José who appeared ecstatic.
“He’s coming here? To San Juan Diego? When?”
Roberto’s grin widened, showing all of his teeth.
“Tonight.”
“Great! This is our chance Francisco!” José exclaimed.
The news, followed by José’s enthusiasm, struck Francisco. He wiggled, breaking free from his cousin’s stranglehold. To distance himself, he walked over to the Jeep pretending to inspect it since the hood was opened. All of the components looked mangled in his estimation — he had no knowledge of how cars ran. The distraction couldn’t silence the dread encroaching on his mind.
“So where is this meeting happening?” he finally stated, as if he did so unconsciously.
“Out by the mountains. I’ve heard a big job is being planned. The biggest yet.”
“Why now?”
Hidden under tools on the work bench was a newspaper. Roberto shoved the tools aside, picked it up, and brandished the headline in front of his cousins, which read: “Mexico Prepares for Papal Visit This Week.” Francisco wasn’t sure how the proposed run and papal visit were connected. All he saw was the fire lit in Roberto’s eyes.
“I don’t understand.”
“Do you think any law enforcement will touch us when this man comes? This is the time to strike against the Caballeros and wipe them away forever.”
“A chance for a real fight?” José asked while slashing the air with a wrench as if he were bludgeoning someone. The move sent chills down Francisco’s spine. What are we getting ourselves into, he questioned.
“More than that. Not just more money for your grandmother. This is our opportunity my brothers. We can show Lobo our muscle, who we are. Maybe get some more respect as loyal soldiers.”
“We can make enough to set abuela up for life Francisco,” José said, still slashing the air.
The conversation’s mood dramatically morphed into an inquisition with Roberto — who still brandished the paper in front of Francisco. His fiery eyes turned into a cold demeanor. Every feature intensified. Even the pores on his face darkened.
“But I hear you were talking to the new priest muchacho.”
The question felt like acid poured over Francisco’s soul. He could feel a tug on his legs, though no one was there. The statement was a veiled threat.
“Where’d you hear that?”
Unbeknownst to José, Roberto’s eyes darted toward his younger cousin, who practiced his aim with a broom in the corner of the garage. Francisco tried to roll his shoulders back but froze. How could he defend himself? How could his brother depict the interaction so incorrectly?
“He was talking at me. I had no words for him. He told me some parable. Something about a man with the same name as me who died.”
“Is that so?”
Roberto stuck out his chest. He crumpled the newspaper and dropped it in the garbage can next to the work bench. His cold gaze shifted from Francisco to the tools. He picked the largest wrench — darkened by grease and time — and began tapping the head into the palm of his hand.
“I’d hate our chance to be ruined.”
Francisco’s whole being felt ablaze with goosebumps rising across every limb. Remain poised, he told himself repeatedly. Don’t blink. Don’t leave. Stand this ground. As Roberto inched closer, Francisco felt the hot blaze emit from his cousin’s nostrils. Tap. Tap. Tap. The sounds seemed to be amplified as Roberto cupped his hand.
Suddenly, the dog barked — which came from the garage’s back exterior. The distressed call broke Roberto’s concentration. His attention veered to the back door. Every step now thundered as he pounced at and kicked open the door. He scanned the area. There was nothing, except for an older, beaten car he wanted to fix up. The machine barely ran — but he envisioned transforming it into a racing car one day.
He heard no other sound except for the dog’s incessant barking. The horizon was calm. The mountain range in the distance was distorted by the heat, and looked as though it were floating. In frustration, Roberto — seeing nothing — threw the wrench toward the dog, which barely missed, landing with a thud in the dirt. The dog whined and scampered back to town.
“Stupid dog.”
As Roberto returned to the garage, Francisco realized the dog bought him time to recompose himself. He stood straight and felt determined to persuade his cousin to the truth.
“I promised my grandmother I’d take her to Mass after coming back late from the other border run. I didn’t want her to ask more questions, so I agreed. I didn’t even go into the building. And why would I? Why would I have any respect for that religion?”
Roberto glided to the workbench. He tapped his fingers on the metal. Francisco could hear every gear moving in his cousin’s mind — eventually relinquishing to his explanation. Meanwhile, José inched from the corner with sorrowful disposition toward his brother. Francisco ignored him.
“I’m sorry Francisco.”
“You have a big mouth José,” Roberto snarled. The rebuke whipped José, who slunk back into the corner. Roberto stopped tapping the workbench, believing his cousin’s story, and turned to him with a smile. Francisco still felt Roberto could snap in an instant, but began to ease his stance.
Roberto leaned to Francisco. The breath felt warm on his neck.
“Better keep quiet about this. We don’t want any word, even any implication we might be talking to that man. We meet back here at 8.”
Francisco motioned to José, pointing him to head back to their car. He couldn’t wait to get out of the garage. And the thought of returning that evening shackled his mind. As Francisco approached the car, Roberto sat back down on the creeper to continue work on the Jeep.
“Will you be here, right,” Francisco heard from over his left shoulder. “Think of your abuela.”
The question made him pause. He couldn’t imagine ingratiating himself further into this life. He surveyed the landscape — the dead farmland, the desert, the floating mountain range. The whole land was filled with an empty air that pounded Francisco’s soul on the brink of despair. He thought of his grandmother’s pained steps. This money could help her. He could bring her to a doctor. Maybe, after this job, he would have enough and move to Mexico City. But he couldn’t condemn his brother and abuela to life in San Juan Diego. In spite of the danger, he had to relent.
“Who’s driving?” he asked.