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When Jack McFarland was ten, he saw something of God. He was at his grandmother's farm in Kentucky. All the family was there--aunts, uncles, cousins, everybody. The sun was shining and the wind was blowing hard. It was the fall of the year. A gust of wind hit him. The leaves streamed from the trees, shining gold and green against the sky. He was lifted up into the wind, the sky, and the leaves. He cried out in ecstasy, his body bursting with joy. The moment imprinted itself upon his soul. Later that afternoon they ate homemade peach ice cream. His mom was talking and laughing, something she rarely did. Even his dad was smiling. When it got dark, he and the cousins played capture-the-flag in the front yard as the stars came out and hung like fire in the sky. The adults were sitting in wooden lawn chairs under the two maple trees in front of the house. He could hear the murmur of their voices and see the red glow of his uncle's cigarettes. His folks were happy and all his sorrow passed away. After he went back to Chicago with his parents, the memory of that day slowly faded. But even if he forgot the day, its light affected him forever. Something came between him and that light, and in its shadow, all other days turned to night. Little by little he felt as if he were dead. As a child he felt it all the time, but when he grew up, he covered up his death with his life. He got married, became an Episcopal priest, had kids, did what others did. But it didn't work. The darkness came back. It happened in Honduras. He knew what the Bible said. Jesus healed people. That's what Jack should do. At least be willing to try. He should pick up the baby, pray in the name of Jesus, be willing to let them stare at him when nothing happened. "The little one," he said, reaching for the child. Carefully, the mother handed the baby to him. He put his hand on her forehead. It was hot, burning up with fever. "What's her name?" he asked. "Maria Dolores," Doña Hilda replied. "Mary of Suffering," a common name. He gently lifted her toward the Lord. Then he prayed aloud. "Thank you, Father, for the life of Maria Dolores. Bless her always. Bless her mother, Doña Hilda, her family, and this place. In Jesus name, Amen." It felt different, a slight movement. The women were happy or relieved. The mother smiled. "Gracias, padre," she said. "You're welcome," he replied. A teenager came in from the kitchen area carrying a cup of coffee and a pastel, a piece of sweetbread on a saucer. She handed them to him. The coffee cup was small, porcelain, beautifully painted. "Gracias," he said, sitting down on one of the little chairs. It felt like it might collapse, so he shifted forward to put more weight on his legs. In front of him was a hammock, holding another baby, and to the right, the wall that formed the kitchen area. It was plastered with newspapers. Through the doorway he could see the rounded end of the adobe stove. It had a hollow groove in it where they put the firewood. A couple of pots and pans were hung on the far wall, a few ears of corn along the eves. The stove had no chimney. Parts of the wall and roof were black from the escaping smoke. "Another pastel, padre?" the mother asked. "Sí, gracias," he said, wishing he didn't have to take it. They were so poor, but it would be an insult not to. He wondered about the baby. She wasn't breathing very well. They'd given her lard, believing that helped respiratory diseases. He thought of the professor. They'd talked the week before, sitting on his front porch sipping tea. He was the head of the diocesan theological education program, the only native-born Anglican priest in the diocese. "Yes, Jack," the professor had said, "we in the country of Honduras believe these things." "What things?" Jack had replied. "That Jesus does miracles, heals people, casts out demons, gives eternal life. That's why we believe in him." He spoke English with an Island/British accent. His ancestors were African slaves, brought in by the British. "Then why doesn't he do miracles more often?" Jack asked. "He does, Jack, he does," the professor replied, his brown moon face alight. He took Jack by the arm, his roly-poly body twisting as he turned, his shirt wet with sweat. "But, first we must bind the strong man." "What strong man?" "Sin and the devil. Jesus didn't proclaim the Kingdom of God until he conquered the devil. Didn't they teach you that at seminary?" "Maybe." They both laughed. They knew the seminary professors didn't believe in the devil, or miracles for that matter. But that bothered Jack. A God without miracles was no God at all. "Padre," Doña Hilda asked, interrupting his thoughts, "will you be here for the patronal feast?" "When is it?" he asked. "Week after next." "Yes," he said, "I'll be here." The campesinos would like that, his being at the feast. No other village in the area had their own priest, and they wanted him there for everything. "Why is your patronal feast so close to Easter?" he asked. The previous Sunday had been Easter. "We don't know, padre," they replied. "Who is your patron saint?" They didn't know that either. "Don't other villages have patron saints?" "Yes, padre, but we came here only a few years ago. We don't have a saint." "Can't you make one up?" he asked, hoping to be humorous. They didn't respond. He wondered what to say next. He wasn't all that good with small talk. It usually ended up as questions and answers, with him asking the questions. He glanced at his watch. It was Tuesday, April 1, 1986, eleven in the morning. Deb and the boys were probably wondering what had happened to him. He'd been in Chasnigua two days, attending a Quinceañera, a party for girls who turned fifteen. He'd expected to be done by four on Sunday and to drive back to San Pedro Sula by nightfall. But the villagers never got to the Eucharist until nine that evening, and then it started raining and rained all day Monday. Even with a four-wheel drive, you couldn't navigate the mountains in the mud. And then, Tuesday morning, they'd told him about Doña Hilda and her sick baby. He'd walked forty-five minutes up the mountain to get to her house. By now, his family was probably worried sick. "Well," he said, standing up. "Back to San Pedro, my family awaits me." They stood up at once. He went from one to the other, shaking their cool leathery hands. Their faces were worn, wrinkled, brown, with brown eyes. "Thank you, padre," they said, one after another. To each he replied, "The pleasure is mine." "Padre," one of the women asked, "may we have a blessing?" "Yes." He paused in the doorway, the words pouring out of him in Spanish, his favorite blessing. The Lord bless you and keep you, The Lord make his face to shine upon you And be gracious unto you, The Lord lift up his countenance upon you And give you peace. This day, and forever. Amen Once outside he stopped, looking upward, blinking in the light. The sky was vast, shining with clouds, etched in green by the mountaintops against the blue. Along the mountain hillsides were the tall hardwoods that shaded the coffee bushes. Their trunks were white shafts. In their shadows the coffee leaves shone dark green, their berries yellow and red. It made him happy. Get back in there, he thought. Get back in there and pray, really pray for the baby, even if you look a fool. "Help me, Jesus," he whispered. He stood there, wondering if he should try again. He couldn't help himself. He stepped back through the doorway into the semi-darkness. "Let's pray again," he said. "Sí, padre," the mother said, her brown face lighting up. She handed him the baby as gently as before. For a second he hesitated. Then he knelt down, the hard dirt of the floor against his knees. The baby's face was flushed, a rosy brown. "Oh God," he whispered, and then louder, "Oh God, you've got to do something. You've got to do it now." He stopped. His forehead was inches from the dirt floor, the baby hot beneath him, cradled in his arms. He felt desperate. "God," he cried, "Oh God, this is it. You've got to do something now." He waited, his eyes shut. He could feel the sweat starting to slide down his body. Elijah had prayed three times for the widow's son. The boy had been healed, but it wasn't happening this time. Finally he got up, feeling sick at heart like he knew he would. The women smiled at him, their eyes glistened. He felt foolish, foolish and ashamed. They weren't embarrassed by the failure. They were thankful that he had cared enough to try. "Why don't we take her to the hospital?" he said. "Sí, padre," the mother said, relief in her voice. Even for a campesino it was there. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble." "It isn't too much trouble. Do you have family in San Pedro?" "Sí, padre." "You can stay with them?" "Sí, padre." "Good. You stay there and I'll get her to a doctor." "Gracias, padre." "I leave in forty-five minutes," he added, wondering if there would be another delay. "You be in front of José's house, okay?" "Sí, padre," she said, "may God repay you." Seconds later he was back outside, thinking of Deb, thinking he'd just made a big mistake. Two months earlier he'd brought a sick woman home and put her in their extra bedroom. She got delirious in the night, vomiting all over the place and screaming, scaring the boys. So they took her to Cemesa, the private hospital. The public one was a cesspool. They ended up paying three hundred and some dollars they didn't have. After that, Deb looked at him, her face livid, her gray eyes flashing dark. "Don't bring another one of those people in here, Jack," she said. He said nothing because he didn't know what to say. He starting walking, heading toward the overlook. Moments later he was there, looking down at the valley below. It was an oblong fold, the right end giving way where the creek broke through. It wasn't that big, about a half by quarter mile. On the far side the lower slopes were covered with fields, rough rectangles of green and brown. Down below was the church. The tin gray roof was nearly hidden beneath the trees. But he could see the porch, the iron fence and the two palm trees. In front of the church was a soccer field, and beyond that a rutted track that served for a road. It disappeared among scattered houses and trees to his left. To the right was the village of Chasnigua itself, two rows of houses for about a block. The road went straight through it. Then it turned left at the schoolhouse and plunged into the creek before winding up and over the mountain toward the plain and San Antonio. "Better get going," he said aloud, thinking of Deb and the boys, wishing he could take them up there some time. Show them all of this. It was so beautiful. Thirty minutes later he was in Chasnigua. He came in from the west, along the rutted track between the scattered houses of poles, boards, cane stalks and mud. The roofs were thatch, a few of tin. A couple of campesinos were there, leaning against their doorways. It was nearly lunchtime. "Buenos días, padre," they said, and he replied in kind. Among the houses were clumps of banana trees, a few avocados and mangos, and scattered here and there, some flowers and shrubs. He didn't recognize the flowers except for the hibiscus. A couple of kids were hanging around, half-naked, dressed only in shorts or t-shirts, bare-footed. "Buenos días," he said, waving at them. They didn't say anything, just stared. One of them had a stick with a spool attached to its end. He was rolling the spool along the ground while making a sound like a truck. He wheeled right, halted, squealing the brakes, threw it in reverse, revved up the engine, and backed up toward a tree. Then he shifted into forward, picking up speed, his voice rising in pitch. He never looked at Jack, but he knew the gringo was watching. He was getting near the church. The kids were probably there, playing soccer with a deflated ball. He kept walking, skirting the puddles and the mud. Then the kids saw him. "Padre, padre," they cried, running towards him, "vacalar, vacalar." They wanted to cram themselves in his Land Cruiser while he drove like a madman around the soccer field and they screamed with joy. He'd done it the first time he came to Chasnigua, and ever since they'd begged to do it again. They once crammed twenty-three kids in the Land Cruiser and all went nuts at once. For a moment they'd been lost in a crazy heaven. "Next time, next time," he kept saying, "when I come back." He got to the church, crossed the tiled porch, and turned left toward the little room at the side. It was the casa cural. That's where he slept when in Chasnigua. Two months after he got there, they'd added a bathroom for his convenience. Before that, he'd used the woods like everybody else. His first time out he'd come across an old woman squatting in the path. Her arms were across her knees, her dress up, smoking a cigarette. He'd hidden himself before she saw him, not feeling too good, ' realizing why the path was strewn with bits of paper and cloth among the leaves. After that, he'd tried to get the villagers to build some latrines but they never got around to it. Once inside, he gathered up his extra shirt and pants, his water bottle, toothbrush, and comb. He thought of his mom, not knowing why, just suddenly there. She was looking at him, her eyes scarcely seen behind her glasses, her hair dark with a touch of gray. She always seemed so serious, or sad, or long ago. He was her only child. "A brooder," she would say, referring to Jack's preoccupied gaze, his large dark eyes and oval face with a shock of dark blond hair hanging into his eyes. He was always having to shove it out of the way. But he didn't much care for short hair. He stepped outside, hoping José would get back soon. José was his right-hand man, the lay vicar in the village. He'd left to round up everybody who wanted a ride to San Pedro. He said he'd be back by noon. Maybe he should head over to José's to get things going. But if he did, they might think him pushy. Courtesy was a big thing in Honduras. "Padre," a voice called. José Antonio was running toward him, coming in from the road. "Buenos días, padre" he said, suddenly halting, out of breath, flustered, his shaven beard dark against his red face. He thrust out his hand, shaking hands almost violently. "Buenos días," Jack replied. "Padre," José Antonio said, his stubby body trembling, "Doña Yolanda is waiting for you." "Why?" Jack asked. He knew why. He hadn't eaten lunch, and they wanted to make sure he was fed before he left. José Antonio's face grew redder and he stuttered slightly. "They wait for you to eat, padre." "Where's José?" he asked. "He is coming, padre, but the people are eating now." "Sí, José Antonio," he said, thinking the delays would never end. "We have light," José Antonio said, just as they reached the dirt track and turned right toward the village. "What kind of light?" Jack replied. José Antonio blushed and stuttered. "For the altar, padre." "You mean candles?" "Sí, padre. José got them in Concepción. We used them for Easter." "I don't remember them." Easter morning had been dismal, a driving rain. Hardly anyone showed up for church. "Yes, padre, but now we use them. José put them in front of the cross on the altar." "Well, that's good," Jack replied. José Antonio was crazy, but that wasn't the Honduran term. The word was "nerves." "The voices," he once told Jack, "they tell me to do evil things." "Why do you like the church so much?" Jack once asked. "I feel peace, padre." "What kind of peace?" "I don't know, padre," he said, wiggling his body, trying to turn away. "They say demons can't go in the church." They passed Jorge's house, Felipe's, then Orlandito's. After that it was "main street," but still mud and standing water. The houses were side by side. The better ones were concrete block, with heavy wooden doors and tin roofs. Doña Yolanda's was at the far end and up the hill a bit. They turned right at the schoolhouse, and seconds later were knocking at the door. "Pase adelante, pase," Doña Yolanda called. She opened the door, waving him in, her heavy body nearly filling the doorframe. She treated him like another campesino, which wasn't the normal way. He liked her for it. José Antonio stayed outside while Doña Yolanda disappeared, coming back in a second with the food. The table was already set. It was small, square, covered by a square white cloth. The chair was small as well, about two feet off the ground, the seat a foot square. Campesino furniture. Once she served him, Doña Yolanda went back to the kitchen. They almost always left him alone when he ate. The food was good, always the same, more or less. There was usually broiled chicken or eggs, refried beans or rice, tortillas with butter, crumbly white cheese, black coffee with lots of sugar. He ate rapidly, loving the fresh taste, but he couldn't help thinking of the parasites and worms. He'd already gotten them once and gone to Cemesa for medicine. They were probably back in his gut again. He thought of the night before, a meeting of the patronato, the governing board of the village. José had come by the casa cural to pick him up. He was holding an umbrella and carrying an extra one for Jack. It was raining in waves, and José shone the flashlight ahead of them so they wouldn't fall in the mud. "Whose house is it?" Jack had asked. "Jesús," José replied. It was a nice house, the floor was concrete and there were benches along the wall. About eight people were at the meeting, six men and two women. They wore their better clothes, the men in ironed shirts and jeans, cowboy boots or brogans, the women in dresses. Most of them were older, except for Jorge. They sat on benches in one corner of the room, huddled together under a coal-oil lantern. They were talking about the cooperative, and Jack figured they'd brought him along for the money part. It was going to cost twenty thousand or so, and they'd written up a proposal. It made Jack feel sad sitting there. He thought of a trip he'd made once. He was eight at the time. He and his parents had gone to Kentucky to visit his dad's parents. His dad was a math professor in Chicago, and they'd left the city around noon, the dead of winter and bitter cold. They drove straight through, getting there around midnight. Toward the end Jack fell asleep in the back seat. Just before midnight he woke up. He could hear the hiss of the heater. The sky was utterly clear, cold and stark with a crescent moon. On either side of the narrow road the bushes were heavy with ice, shining white and clear in the car lights. They made a scraping, rattling sound as they brushed against the car. Once they got there, his grandmother had some food prepared, roast beef sandwiches. They sat in the front room, eating the sandwiches, huddled around the stove. The heat was against their faces, the cold at their backs, coming up through the cracks in the floor. It made him sad, intensely sad, sitting there with his family. That's what he'd felt with the patronato, intensely sad, as if he and the campesinos were lost and long ago. "Can you talk to the bishop?" Jesús had asked. Jack knew they'd ask that question. "How much do you need?" he replied. "Twenty-five thousand in dollars." "Okay," Jack said. "I'll ask him. They relaxed. You could feel it. One of them got up to go to the kitchen. They'd have something to drink, and a little something sweet. After that, Jack brought up the problem of hygiene, not just the lack of latrines, but the animal droppings lying around the village. The pigs were the worst. The kids played in their litter and just about everyone had parasites. They'd cleaned it up three months earlier to impress a medical team from Louisiana. But never before or after. It bothered him that they'd clean the village for the medical team but not for him. Then out of the blue, Jorge, the younger one, asked about the geologists. Nobody said anything. They sat there without a word. "There have been some geologists here?" Jack finally asked. "Sí, padre," said José, his voice bright, "they've come several times." "What for?" José shrugged. "They say the rock is good here. It's good for making cement." "Wouldn't that be good?" Jack asked. "You could get work." José said nothing. Then Jesús got on to another matter, the possibility of getting a schoolteacher. They had no funds for a salary. They'd exhausted their funds on the casa cural. Maybe their priest could help with that as well. Jack didn't say anything. "What about it?" Jack asked José the next day. "Can they produce cement here?" "We don't know, padre," José said, staring at the ground. He was thin with green eyes, handsome. It wasn't the full story. But that wasn't unusual. Campesinos only told you what they wanted you to hear. "Padre, would you like a juice?" The words startled him. It was Doña Yolanda. She'd come in from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice in her hand. "Sí, gracias," he said, carefully taking the glass. He drank it steadily, sip by sip, utterly delicious, thinking he sometimes lived more in the past than the present. For a moment he sat there, thinking. Then he got up, going to the kitchen door. "Gracias, Doña Yolanda," he said, suddenly happy that she seemed so steady and good. "Sí, padre," she said, her wrinkled face all smiles. She dried her hands on her apron, stepping toward him. She was strong, heavy, her hair jet black with streaks of gray. Her shoes were leather. Her thick feet were bursting through the seams. She wasn't the poorest of the poor. They shook hands. "Gracias," he said again. "Greetings to your family. They are all well?" he added, thinking he should have asked when he first arrived. "Sí, padre," she smiled. "And Don Emilio?" That was her husband who'd been ill. "He's fine now, padre, thanks be to God." "I'm happy," he said, shaking her hand once more. Once outside, José Antonio was still waiting for him. They headed for the church. "Padre," said José Antonio, half-way there, "we don't have a road into the village." "We're standing on it," Jack replied. "Yes, padre, but big trucks can't come in here." "Why do we need trucks?" "For the factory, padre." "What factory?" said Jack sharply. "I don't know, padre," José Antonio stuttered, his eyes widening in fear. "There will be a factory here?" Jack added, speaking gently. "Sí, padre." "What kind of a factory?" "It's a cement factory, padre," he replied, his face pinched up. "They say we have to move." That wasn't good, not good at all. You couldn't live near a cement factory. There was one on the road between San Pedro and Puerto Barrios. For a half-mile in every direction a heavy layer of dust covered the land. Maybe that's why they wanted a cooperative. They were going to lose the village and what little land they had. They turned left onto the soccer field. José was there, leaning against the Land Cruiser, along with three women, a man, and a boy. The older women were nearly shapeless in their dresses, their feet in plastic flip-flops. The younger one was well dressed, a nice skirt and blouse with leather shoes. A pole with live chickens tied to it lay resting on the ground. The man was standing by it, short, wiry, jeans, brogans, and a straw hat. The boy was barefooted. "Buenas tardes," Jack said to all of them. "Buenas, padre," the man replied. The others were silent. He went from person to person, shaking hands, repeating, "Padre McFarland, much pleasure," to each of them. They answered, "At your service, padre." "Padre," said José, "this is Doña Margarita, the mother of Alicia." He indicated one of the women. Jack had heard of Alicia. Jack smiled at her. "A pleasure," he repeated and she murmured, "The pleasure is mine." "Have you seen Doña Hilda and the baby?" Jack asked. "Sí, padre," José replied, "she's in the church. I will get them." No more delays, all there. Jack opened the door and they crawled in, all seven of them. He put Doña Hilda and the baby in front, the chickens in back. They'd probably mess the floor up before they reached San Pedro. But Emma, the maid, would hose out the car. She'd done it before. "Gracias, padre," they said, as they climbed in. It was tight, but not that tight. They once took fifteen people to a soccer match in Las Brisis, some inside the car and some hanging on outside. "Padre," said José softly, "may I speak with you for a moment?" "Sí, José," he said, thinking he should ask about the factory, but not wanting another delay and doubting José would tell him anything anyway. "The mother of Alicia, she must talk to you." "Sí, José," his interest piqued. "It is a matter of great importance for our people." "Okay." "Please give her all the assistance she needs." "Don't worry," Jack replied. "At your service," he added, smiling, giving the typical Honduran phrase for one who attends another. He got in the car and they headed out, crossing the soccer field, turning right and passing through the village. After the left at the school he slowed down, easing his way down the steep embankment to the creek. Once there he gunned it, gathering speed for the muddy slope ahead. The water sprayed white and shining in the sun. He was thinking of José, one of the times they'd crossed the creek and José had spoken of Alicia. "A formidable woman," he'd said. He pointed to the trees above. "Right there," he added. Jack glanced to his left. José was pointing to some trees whose limbs came together at a great height. "Alicia climbed up there, padre, and crawled out on the limb until it bent down to the other tree. Then she crossed over. She was only a child." It reminded him of Deb, some of the things she did as a kid. No one in their right mind would climb one of those trees and cross to another. "Where does she live?" he asked. "She's in the capital." "What does she do there?" "I don't know, padre, José had finally replied. He had to know. In Chasnigua, everyone knew everything about everybody. Minutes later they were over the ridge and on the way to San Antonio, the end of the bus line. "You have family in San Pedro?" Jack asked, looking in the mirror at the man with the chickens. "Sí, padre," the man said. "My brother is there." "And you?" he asked, turning so the women could see he was looking at them. "We work there, padre," one of the them said. "Who do you work for?" "We are domestics." "All of you?" "Sí, padre." He was silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to proceed. He knew they liked to talk, they'd talk to anyone who took an interest in them. "Do you like domestic work?" he asked. "Bueno, padre," one of the women said, leaning forward, "we in the mountains of Honduras find better possibilities for work in the city." He nodded, enjoying the way Hondurans expressed themselves. It had a formal quality, at least for now. "The pay is better?" "Sí, padre, in the rural areas there is little work and poor pay." "What work is there in the mountains?" The women were silent. "There is no work," the man suddenly said, dropping the formal pose, "some work for the landowners, but they pay almost nothing, and only when they need us." "What do they pay." "Five lempiras a day without food, sometimes four if there is food for lunch." "What's the average income in Chasnigua?" he asked. They were silent. He wondered if he had the word for "average" right, or if they understood it. "The majority make twenty to forty dollars a month for a family of six or eight," the mother of Alicia suddenly said. Jack didn't quite know what to say. "Bueno," he said, and they laughed. They knew he thought it awful from a gringo point of view. "Padre," the young woman asked, "is there domestic work in the States?" "Oh yes, we have domestics." He glanced back at her. She was young, pretty, her life before her. "You want to go to the States?" he asked. "Sí, padre." "Is that difficult?" "Oh yes," one of the women said, "the American Embassy will not give a visa to go to the States." "Padre," the man suddenly said, "they say the people of the States have no sexual passions. How can this be?" "Not really," said Jack, "they have sexual passions, just like people here." He looked at them in the mirror. Their faces were serious, thinking. He got the feeling they were wondering if it was true. "Are the men faithful to the women?" Doña Hilda suddenly asked. "Some are, some aren't," Jack replied. "Are the men faithful here?" "They run around all over the place," one of the women replied. "And you," Jack asked, turning to look at the man, "what do you say?" "Bueno, padre," the man said, smiling, squirming in his seat. "A man can't be a burro for a woman." Everyone laughed, and then one of the women said something about men so fast that Jack couldn't catch it. Then they really laughed, the man above all. Only the young woman remained expressionless. "We better close the windows," Jack said. They were coming down out of the mountain and into the heat. He turned the AC on high. It made a roaring sound. It would be hard to talk with that kind of noise. The man couldn't figure out how to close the window. It had a latch that pulled inward, then folded forward. The young woman closed it for him. He picked up speed. Except for a few potholes, the road was smooth. Twenty minutes later they reached San Antonio. He swung left, then right, passing the church and then down the main street. The women were standing in their doorways, watching him pass. The kids were waving, "Gringo, gringo," they cried. The men just stared. He kept going, driving fast and thinking of Deb. "What's a Quinceañera?" she'd asked. She was standing by the door of the car just before he'd left three days ago. "It's a party for a girl when she turns fifteen." "Fifteen?" Her eyebrows lifted slightly. It seemed absurd, making a special trip for a teen-age party. "It's a big deal in the mountains." She said nothing. "She's the daughter of Jesús." "Who's Jesús?" Deb asked. "The head of the patronato." "Of course, Jack," Deb said softly while he stared at her. Her face was flat, lightly tanned, her eyes dark gray. They could change shade in an instant, depending on her mood. She turned and walked away without kissing him goodbye. "Help me, God," he whispered, slowing down a bit because he was driving too fast. An hour later, they crossed the plancha, the concrete slab through the river Chamelecón, the dividing line between country and city. On the San Pedro side, wealthy families were swimming, their Broncos parked along the banks. On the rural side, campesino women were washing clothes. From there it was a short mile under the trees and onto the blacktop. After that, Chamelecón. There the road forked, the right fork heading toward Tegucigalpa, the capital, and the left toward San Pedro. They were there in five minutes, turning left and heading for the bridge over the River Sula. It had guards on either end, soldiers with automatic rifles in their hands. They were everywhere, at the banks, at checkpoints along the roads, out at the airport. "I'll take you to El Centro," he said, turning to look at his passengers. El Centro was the bus terminal. From there, they could catch buses to wherever they needed to go. "Gracias, padre," was their reply. El Centro was a mess, a mass of buses, taxis, cars, dirt streets, vendors, shacks, with mobs of people milling around. It was located south of the city, just off the circunbulación, the road that encircled San Pedro. He pulled up and the campesinos got out, thanking him for the ride. "How much is it?" they asked. "Nothing, nothing," he said, as they knew he would. "May God repay you," they said. Doña Hilda had gotten out first. He figured she'd get back in, but she didn't. She just stood there, not looking at him. "We'll take the baby to a doctor now," Jack said. He took her by the arm, thinking she was being polite. She didn't say anything, just averted her eyes, as did the others. "Padre," one of the women said, "this thing did not turn out so well." He looked at Doña Hilda. Her face was expressionless. He glanced at the baby. The child was wrapped in a cloth, her face hidden in its folds. "She's dead," he said, suddenly wishing he hadn't said it, thinking it was too blunt. But Doña Hilda nodded yes. He stood there, thinking, wondering why it happened. The campesinos said nothing, just standing there, making a little circle around him and Doña Hilda. He was taller than they were, but not that tall. About five ten, more or less, and almost as lean as they were. "When did this happen?" he asked. "About an hour ago." "Why didn't you tell me?" "We didn't want to bother you, padre," the man said. He said nothing, thinking about his prayer, the baby under him, his face just inches from the floor. He'd been willing to risk another hassle, take the baby to the hospital, probably pay for it, have another fight with Deb. It was almost like God had let the baby die to avoid the hassle. And not just with Deb, with the doctors, the hospital, everything. "Where do you want to go?" he finally said. Doña Hilda shrugged. "To my aunt's," she said, "if it's not too much trouble." "The baby, where will you bury her?" "Here in San Pedro." "You don't want to bury her in Chasnigua?" "No, padre, it's just as well." He wondered if she just didn't want to bother him for the ride back. He was too tired to fight it. "Would you like a funeral?" "Sí, padre," her voice brightened. "If it is not an inconvenience." "No, Doña Hilda, it's not an inconvenience." He held out his arms. She gave him the baby. For a second he saw the child's face, utterly peaceful, beautiful in a delicate way. The others huddled even closer. There was noise everywhere, buses, cars, people. He could feel the sun, so hot, and the air, so dusty, and the stench of the place, smoke, garbage, and open sewers. He thought of the Good Friday service only six days earlier. The villagers had reenacted the crucifixion. Later, when it was night, they'd dragged the cross into the church and put a candle at the foot of it. The place was packed, and dark, except for the candle. They'd sung a dirge, over and over again. Venid pecadores, venid a la cruz. Adorar la sangre, de mi buen Jesús. Come sinners, come to the cross. Adore the blood, of my good Jesus. After that, they went up to the cross, knelt down, and kissed it one by one. He'd done the same, feeling utterly desolate as if the world was nothing but suffering. "Into your hands we commend Maria Dolores," he said, holding up the baby while they huddled there. "Bless her, keep her, fill her with your light, console her mother, and give us your peace, Amen." "Thank you, padre," they said, shaking hands with him. Then they left, except for Doña Hilda, Margarita, and the dead baby. By the time he dropped off Doña Hilda and got to Doña Margarita's house it was nearly two and dead hot. Doña Margarita got out, and he did as well, walking around to her side of the car. She was about fifty, gaunt, with large clear eyes, thin lips, a strong forehead, with clearly defined features. "Padre," she said, speaking distinctly, directly. "Padre, I must speak to you of something of the highest importance for my life." "Sí, Doña Margarita," he said, thinking he couldn't take another disaster. "It's my daughter," she said. "She's in prison in the capital." For a second he just stood there, staring at her, wondering why she said it. She pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. He read it. "San Romain Prison, the other side of the Suyapa, Teguc." The handwriting appeared masculine. He handed the paper back to her. "Sí, Doña Margarita," he said, "how did this happen?" "They betrayed her." "Who betrayed her?" "They say Don Humberto." "Why would he do that?" "She led an invasion." "What invasion?" "The invasion of Don Humberto's lands." He'd heard of Don Humberto. He was the patrón, the owner of most of the land around Chasnigua. But Jack knew nothing of an invasion. "When did this happen?" "Nearly a year ago." Good grief, he wondered, why didn't they tell him these things? That was only four months before he'd arrived. Things like that were dangerous. Decree number 33 it was called, making it a terrorist act to occupy land that belonged to other people. They killed people for that sort of thing. "What happened when you invaded?" he asked. "We planted crops. They said we didn't need to plant the crops, that we could have the land later if we would leave and obey the law. It was a lie, padre, everything they told us was a lie." "Who told you these lies?" he asked. "INRA." "Who's INRA?" "National Institute of Agrarian Reform." He'd heard of them. Presumably they were in charge of finding land for landless peasants. "She's a prisoner?" he asked. "Sí, padre." "When did you find this out?" "Yesterday." She was virtually expressionless, asking him but not begging. "She is the leader of our people, padre." He looked away from her, controlling himself. Finally, he spoke. "Very well, how can I help you?" "Go with me to the prison, padre. They will not listen to an old woman. Perhaps they will listen to a priest." "Sí, Doña Margarita, I will accompany you." He paused, wondering when they should leave. Better check with Deb first and make sure nothing was planned. "I'll come by tomorrow," he said, "after the funeral, and then we can decide when to go." "I thank you, padre," she said. He nodded. "De nada," he said. "It is nothing." She held out her hand. He took it. It was thin, cool, callused. They shook hands. She walked away, heading toward a shack on the corner of the vacant lot. Her back was straight and he couldn't help but admire her. Suddenly he got the feeling that getting Alicia out of prison had something to do with the cement factory. That's why José had wanted him to talk to Doña Margarita. It was "a matter of great importance for our people." He got back on the circunbulación, driving fast. He passed Pop's, the ice cream place. He swung back around and parked, inches off the road. A little surprise for the family would be nice, especially since he was two days late. He opened the door and was hit by the kids. They were always there. "Watch your car, padre?" they cried, their eyes piercing. There were three of them, skinny and dressed in rags. He figured he'd better pay or they would vandalize the car. The raw extortion bothered him, but he felt sorry for them. He gave them each a lempira, which was far too much. Instantly, they disappeared. Minutes later, he was back with the ice cream. Someone had left something under the front seat. It was a woman's handbag, cheap black leather. Probably Doña Margarita's. If she had money in it, she would need it. Like many in San Pedro, she had no refrigerator and bought her food daily from little one-room stores called pulperias. For a second he hesitated. He couldn't keep running around for these people. Get on home. Take it by after dinner. "Daddy, Daddy," the boy cried, rushing out to meet him the second Jack arrived at the gate. Paul swung the gate open and burst through, his red hair glinting in the sun. Jack put the car in neutral, his foot on the brake, opening the door. In an instant Paul was climbing into his lap, hugging his neck and grabbing the steering wheel. He was ready to drive. Robert, the older one, appeared at the gate, swinging it even wider, holding it open. Jack eased off the brake, driving the car up and into the driveway while Robert stood aside as the car passed. For a second Jack saw his pale face, his clear eyes, his thin body held against the gate. He felt a surge of happiness and love, and a pang of sorrow as well. They were so beautiful and so innocent. It could not last. Robert was seven, Paul was four. He squeezed out the car door, holding Paul while Robert closed the gate behind them. Deb was standing there, waiting. He looked at her. She smiled. He smiled back, noticing her gray eyes, willowy body, thinking of the day he showed up at her doorstep fourteen years ago. They'd been in the same Shakespeare class. He was a grad student in English, she was a senior. One day he got up enough nerve to ask her if she'd like to have some coffee or something. She didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at him. He wondered why he found her so compelling. She wasn't that beautiful, but there was something haunting about her, depth on depth. "Why don't you come by," she had said. "Come by where?" he asked, not knowing what she meant. "My place," she said. "Where is it?" he asked. She told him. When he got there she was waiting for him, just like now, almost expressionless. But he could tell she wondered why he'd been so long in the mountains. "Come in," she'd said, the day at the apartment. So he went in. After that, he could never let her go. "It rained," he said, referring to the rain in the mountains. "The Land Cruiser, it couldn't make it out until today." She nodded. He bent down, kissing her on the mouth. He felt strange, that she could so affect him. "Poppy, Poppy," cried Paul, the younger one, "we found a creek. It's close, Poppy, close. Can we go there, can we?" His face was utterly clear, his freckles faintly brown. "Yes, heart," he said. "Whenever you want." "Now, Poppy, now." "Let your dad have some rest," Deb said. Jack laughed, picking Paul up and grabbing Robert as well. The four of them lurched toward the door and for a second he was happy. They headed for the creek around four, the air smoking from the heat and wet. Deb came along as well. She was wearing a light green dress, down to her knees. Halfway there she took Jack's hand, held it loosely, rubbing her fingers gently against his palm. He didn't say anything, thinking of when they first met, how they'd walk downtown, holding hands and looking in the windows. That was after they'd started living together, and Jack was happy for the first time in his life. By the time they got to the creek, they were wet with sweat. Paul started throwing rocks, trying to skip the flat ones across the water. "Look, Mom, Dad," he'd cry, and they would look. Deb smiled at Jack, her face shining with sweat, her light brown hair hanging down in wisps. "He's happy," Jack said. "Yes," she said, "he's very happy." Robert found a line of ants moving relentlessly along a tiny trail, carrying slices of leaves in their mandibles. He followed them until they disappeared into a hole. "What kind are they, Dad?" Robert asked, always wanting to know things. "Zanpopo ants," Jack replied, keeping an eye on Paul who was poking around in a pile of brush. "They use the leaves to grow a fungus. They don't eat the leaves, just the fungus." "These are the guards," Robert said, pointing to some of the larger ones. They marched along their giant mandibles held erect. "Yes, probably so," said Jack. "What are they guarding against?" Robert asked, picking up a grass stem, twirling it in front of the guards who ignored it. "Mommy, Daddy," Paul shouted, "it's a ship, a big ship, the biggest ship of all." Paul had hold of a log and was pushing against it, his sturdy body straining with all his might. "We got to get it in the water," he cried, "we got to get it there." Deb and Jack were there in an instant. The kid could hurt himself, fall in before you knew it. "We can do it, Dad, we can do it," Paul exclaimed, standing up, dirt and sand all over him. Jack could see the freckles just under his eyes. He had Deb's eyes, just a little lighter and slightly greener. The sun was about to pass the crest of the mountain. He thought of a blues song he used to sing, "Every evening when the sun goes down." They started pushing on it, first one end and then the other. Deb straightened up for a second, calling Robert so he wouldn't be left out. Then they went at it. Deb was getting mud all over herself. She pushed the hair out of her face, leaving a dark streak on her forehead, like the day he first took her to his grandmother's. They'd gone for a walk, crossing the creek on some logs left by a flood. He'd gone first, holding her hand, but he'd slipped and fallen in. For a second he was down in the cold and green. When he came up, they were both laughing. So he waded across in the water, holding her hand while she balanced on the logs. At the last instant she pretended to slip and fell into his arms, sinking the two of them. After she climbed the bank she turned to look at him. Her face had a mud streak on it, her dress clung to her body. They got the log going, swinging each end around, working it closer until it was right on the edge. Then they pushed it over the bank and it splashed into the stream. Paul cheered, jumping up and down, but then it snagged against the bank. So they climbed down, getting wetter by the second. Jack was holding Paul while Deb held Robert. One final push and it was gone, really gone this time, floating downstream and picking up steam. Paul was crying, "Whoopee," and dancing around and crying, "Whoopee, we're the greatest," over and over. Robert said nothing, only smiled. Jack put his arm around Deb. She leaned against him, her hip against his own, her shoulder against his side. The log got smaller in the distance, momentarily stopping but getting free, until at last it disappeared beyond the bridge. Emma had supper waiting--refried beans, avocados, a boiled squash-like vegetable, beets, tortillas, and chicken. Once she got it on the table she and Reina, her cousin, served themselves and disappeared into the maid's quarters behind the house. Normally a Honduran maid would wait table, but Jack and Deb had never quite figured out how to work with a maid. Plus, Emma talked all the time. Jack just couldn't bring himself to tell her to be quiet. So once Emma cooked the meal they let her go. He always thought that had he been a Honduran, he'd have known how to keep Emma in check. "Get some bowls, Robert," Deb said, when dinner was nearly done. Without a word Robert got up to get the bowls while Deb got the ice cream out of the freezer. A moment later they were back. Robert's face was slightly pale, his eyes opaque. He was thinking, or feeling things, something he did a lot. Jack was once that way, when he was a kid, hiding out in his secret place in the hall closet. "Goody," Paul said, grabbing a bowl, sliding it next to the carton. "Wait your turn," Deb said. She dug out the ice cream, putting her body into it. She was a little fuller than when they first met, but still slender. She served Robert and then Paul. Paul pretended to pout. As she served Robert she hugged him. It made Jack sad, sad for Robert, and filled with tenderness for Deb, that she could feel for Robert. Robert's life wasn't easy, especially coming to Honduras. He'd been afraid to go to school, so they took him to class the first day. He sat there silently with an odd look on his face, the same look he got when he couldn't get potty-trained, a mixture of dread and embarrassment. The teacher introduced him to the other children and he tried to smile. But he couldn't do it, not natural anyway. He would suffer, and Jack couldn't stop it in the end. Schluzzz, schluzzz, Paul was loudly sucking through his straw, peering upward at his mom. She gave him the eye so he stopped. "Has your mom called?" Jack asked. "Yesterday," Deb replied. "She's looking forward to the visit." "How's she doing?" "Fine." "How's Jessie?" "She's got a job. Maybe she'll keep it this time." Jessie was Deb's kid sister. She was a troublemaker, or at least she'd been that way in high school and junior college. But now, after a short marriage and one kid, she'd changed. "How long till we see Grandma?" Robert suddenly said, staring at his mom. "Eight days, sweetie," Deb said. "It won't be long." She and the kids were going to the States for Spring Break. "I'm going to ride the Roller Coaster," Paul said. "Are you coming, Dad?" Robert asked. "I'll be there," he said, smiling. "I'll get there a week after you do." "Why don't you come with us?" "I have to go to the patronal feast in Chasnigua. After that, I'll be there." "What's a patronal feast?" the boy asked. "Well, hard to say. We celebrate the patron saint of the village. You want to go to New York?" "Is that where the ballet is?" Robert asked, his eyes suddenly widening. "It's there," Jack replied happily. "You want to go?" Just before leaving for Honduras they'd taken the kids to Nutcracker. Robert sat entranced, but Paul had been a handful. Deb had to take him out before it was over. "We can go again, Dad?" Robert asked breathlessly. "We sure can. You, me, your mom and old Paul. We'll go anytime you want." Robert smiled, and suddenly Jack was happy, hugging him. After dinner Jack went outside and sat on the curb. He liked it out there in the evening, when the sun went behind the mountain and the heat of the day would turn toward the cool of the night. After a bit the boys came out. They wanted something, no doubt. "Can you play Monopoly with us?" Paul asked. "I didn't know you boys played Monopoly," Jack replied. "We don't really play," said Robert, "we just use the money to buy and sell the properties." "In a little bit, I'll play," Jack replied. "Oh Dad," said Paul, "play now." "I will, in just a little bit. I've got some thinking to do." "What are you thinking about?" asked Robert. "Oh, I don't know," he said, thinking of the little girl who died, of Alicia, her mom, the trip to the capital. "I'll be in there in a little bit." They headed back inside. He wondered where Deb was. Sometimes she would come out and sit with him and they would talk. To his left was the mountain, dominating the northern skyline of San Pedro. Halfway up was a large Coca-Cola sign that blinked on and off after dark. Other than that, the mountain was like it had always been, covered with trees, deciduous and palm. To the right, abajo, down below toward the plain, was the city of San Pedro. The poor zones were there, the colonias, where it was hot and crowded. The sun was behind the mountain, the air had cooled. A wind blew in from the coast, feeling warm but not hot against his skin. All around were the sounds of San Pedro, people talking, dogs barking, the faint sound of televisions, the hiss and far away drone of traffic, the rustle of the wind in the palms. He could hear his boys inside, talking, and more faintly, Emma and Reina as they washed dishes and cleaned up. "This reminds me of Florida," Deb had said, one evening when they sat on the curb. "Where?" he asked. "Right here, the palm trees, the wind blowing at you, the heat and the sky." "There's no mountain in Florida." "I know," she said, smiling at him, taking his arm, leaning against him, "and they speak English there." They didn't say anything for a moment. He was thinking of Deb's dad, her mom's first husband. During the summer he lived in Florida, next to the ocean. He divorced Deb's mom when Deb was eight. Every summer after that he would invite Deb and Jessie down for a month. "I'd stand on the wall," Deb said, "the sea wall behind the house. It was only about this wide," holding her hands apart the width of a concrete block, "and eight feet off the ground. I would dance on the wall like a gymnast on the balance beam. And as I danced, I put each foot in place, exactly in place, and I promised myself that I would never, never, make a mistake like my mom. She loved a man that never loved her. That's what I said, and that's what I'll do." She'd told him that about a year after they were married. Suddenly he thought of Doña Margarita, her purse, thinking she'd probably need it. He'd better get it over there, and then come back and tell the boys a story if they wanted one. But first, tell Deb that it would only take a second. Five minutes later he was at Doña Margarita's, walking rapidly through the weeds and trash, lost in thought, scarcely seeing the heavy green leaves of the mango trees nor the plywood and tin of the house. There was no door, only a cloth across a narrow entrance. Someone was inside. It wasn't Doña Margarita. "Buenas tardes," he said. A woman looked up, staring at him, scarcely visible through the doorway. "Buenas," she said abruptly and then no more. He hesitated, disconcerted that she didn't ask him in. So what. It didn't matter. He stepped into the room, dropping the handbag on a bench by the door. The woman was sitting at a little table, under a single bulb of electric light. They'd apparently tapped into the electric lines. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Her face was wide, strong, with full lips and wide eyes, her nose, slightly bent as if Mayan. She was sizing him up, wondering what a gringo would be doing there. Then she appeared slightly amused. "Buenas," she said, pausing, then with what seemed to be a slight touch of sarcasm, "how may I serve you?" "Is Señora Margarita Gonzalez here?" "May I ask who calls?" "I'm Padre McFarland, her priest from the village of Chasnigua." "She left a moment ago. I'll give her a message if you wish." "A message?" "A message," she repeated. She smiled ever so slightly as if she found him boring, or amusing, or a waste of time. "When will she be back?" "Not long." "May I wait?" he asked, not knowing why he said it. All he needed was to leave the purse. "If you wish." She indicated a chair just inside the door. He sat down. She was reading and she kept reading. He couldn't help but look at her. She wasn't looking back. She was imposing, her face definite, her body strong, her concentration steady. Behind her there was a crude bookcase crammed with books. Among them, a Bible, Dios Habla Hoy, one of the popular versions. It looked used, as if she'd been reading it. Without thinking, he reacted. "What are you reading?" She looked up, thinking, as if deciding whether the question was worth answering or not. "Contemporary History of Latin America by Tulio Halperin Donghi." "What's that?" "A history of Latin America from the point of view of political economy." "What's 'political economy'?" he asked. "Political economy is the idea that history and politics can best be understood as a struggle to gain economic advantage." "You understand history that way?" "Yes." She went back to her reading. He sat there, saying nothing. A couple of minutes went by. She was making notes in a notebook, a cheap heavy one with a gray and white mottled cardboard cover. He'd never seen anything like this since his arrival in Honduras. Nor had he ever met a poor Honduran woman who ignored a gringo. He looked at his watch. If Doña Margarita didn't get there in two minutes he was gone. Suddenly she looked up and smiled at him. "You like to read?" she asked. "Yes," he nodded. "What do you read?" "All sorts of things." "Literature?" "Yes." "What kind of literature?" "Hardy, Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Shakespeare, Tolstoi," he said, irritated by her question, figuring she hadn't read them herself. He went on, "Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche, Dostoevski, among others." She smiled. "You like Dostoevski?" "Yes, I like Dostoevski." "Have you read The Possessed?" "Yes." "Do you remember Kirilov?" "No." "Well, according to Kirilov, if there is no God, there is no law. What do you think?" "I think it's a great statement and I think anybody who doesn't believe in God should do whatever they want." "Well, so do I." Suddenly she laughed, and he laughed as well. He couldn't help himself. It was as if they were above the law and they both knew it. "Do you know what happened to Kirilov?" she asked. "No." "He put a gun in his mouth and killed himself." "Okay." She said nothing, just stared at him. So he stared back. She was tilted back on the two legs of the chair. Her thick brown curls were smashed against the bookcase, her leather-sandaled feet just off the ground, her legs light brown. He wasn't going to be the first to look away. "I have a book for you," she said. "What's it called?" "Accumulation on a World Scale by Samir Amin." "Who's he?" "He's Algerian." "You want me to read it?" "Yes." Again they said nothing. There was a scraping sound on the tin roof. Probably the mango branches blowing in the wind. "What's it about?" he asked. "It's about revolutionary class warfare on a world scale." He smiled. He couldn't help himself. "Are you a Marxist?" "Of course," she replied. "Why?" "Because I believe in God." "You believe in God?" "Yes, I believe in God." "What's God got to do with it?" "You haven't noticed?" she asked. "Noticed what?" "That God rewards the strong and punishes the weak." "You believe that?" "Of course, do you believe otherwise?" "Yes." "Then tell me," she asked, "was Jesus right when he said the meek would inherit the earth?" He hesitated. It was obvious. The meek hadn't inherited the earth. "I don't know," he admitted, "maybe he meant in the long term." She laughed happily. "Yes, padre," she said, "maybe he did. Now tell me, do you want the truth?" "You believe in truth?" "Yes, do you?" "Yes." "But do you want the truth?" she asked. "Yes." "Well then," she said, handing him the book, "let us measure truth, one against the other. You read Amin, I will read the Bible. Then we talk. Then we see. Then we decide who or what controls history." Suddenly she stopped, staring at him, her eyes mischievous. "But, padre," she said, "perhaps you already know who controls history?" "I think God does." "God?" "Yes, God." "Well, if that is so, perhaps you can explain something to me." He nodded, waiting. "You have also read The Brothers Karamazov, no?" "Yes, I've read it." "And you remember how Ivan told Alyosha that God could not be just if only one innocent child suffered. You remember that?" "Yes." "Then Ivan said that millions suffer hideously without end, did he not?" "Yes." "And what did Alyosha say?" "He said nothing. He only cried out that Ivan would go crazy from despair." She smiled. "Yes, padre, that's exactly what happened. Alyosha had no answer. But you are a man of the church like Alyosha, perhaps you have an answer." She was starting to irritate him, trying to corner him like that. "Well," he said, "do you think I have the answer to these questions? Must I justify God to justify myself? I work for the church, we have social projects, schools, clinics." "You have projects?" she said, her voice incredulous, gesturing with her arm toward the city below. For an instant he could see San Pedro, the dirt, the heat, the trash, the kids so poor their hair turned yellow from malnutrition. No wonder people wanted to kill. There was a sudden scraping, banging sound. She'd leaned forward, the front legs of her chair hitting the floor. "A program?" she said, staring at him. "Crumbs for the poor, that is justice?" "Very well then," he said, "so it isn't justice. So we do no justice, what do you do?" "Why should I do anything? Did I say I believed in justice?" "No, you didn't." "But you," she said, "you believe in justice?" "Yes, I believe in justice." "Well then, you know my cousin Alicia, that she is in the prison in Teguc. You know that?" "Yes, I know that," he said, scarcely wondering how she knew it. "You think that is just?" "No, that isn't just, but there may be justice." "What would justice be?" she asked. "She could escape. Those who kidnapped her could be punished for their crimes." "Do you know what is happening in Chasnigua?" she suddenly asked, her face opaque. "No." "I'll tell you what is happening there. The village will be torn down. They will drive the people away to make room for a cement factory. It will happen. It always happens. There will be no justice." He sat there, feeling strange. He'd known it all along. But how could she know that? Things like that happened. It was in the papers all the time--disappearances, dispossessions, killings. "When?" he asked. "Very soon." "Certain?" "Certain." Suddenly, he felt tired, very tired, as if he wanted to go lie down somewhere and sleep for a long time. "Qué barbaridad," he said, softly, bitterly, using the common Honduran term, "What an outrage." She said nothing. He sat there, staring at the floor. It could be chisme, the normal haze of lies and gossip that everyone passed around. Or, she might know. If she were right, he'd have to do something. He was their priest and it was his duty to defend the villagers regardless. "Would you like some coffee?" she asked. "Yes, thank you," he said, as she got up to get it. She came back with the coffee. "Gracias." "You live here?" He nodded. "You are a Roman priest?" "No, I'm Episcopalian. It's from the Church of England that was formed during the Reformation." "Henry the Eighth?" "Yes." She probably knew about Henry the Eighth, how he broke off from Rome over a divorce and how he had four or five wives after that. "You have a wife, I presume?" "Yes, and two kids." "The English community here," she asked, "you know them?" He nodded. "A lot of them," he said. "Who do you know and what do they do?" "You mean names?" "Why not?" He shrugged. "Well, there are the Helstroms, Sandy and Linda. They're teachers and missionaries. Tammy and Charles Midzalkowski are with AID. Kenny Morrison, he's in cotton and owns a private plane company. Carl Pesci works with the Chamber of Commerce. John and Stacy Palmer, he's with the Banana Company. Franz Norman owns an aircraft company. . . . You want more?" "No, that is enough." Her question seemed a little odd. Later he would remember she'd asked it. "I'm Jack McFarland," he said simply. "A pleasure," she said. "My name is Sonia, Sonia Rivera Rodriguez. My mother is the sister of Doña Margarita." "Enchanted," he replied. She looked less forceful now, more human. He noticed how beautiful and feminine she was, delicate in a sturdy way. "Do you really want to read the Bible and talk?" he asked. "Sí, padre," she said simply. "Very well," he said, suddenly getting the feeling that he shouldn't be saying that. A moment later, Doña Margarita arrived. She appeared suddenly, silently, entering on bare feet. "Buenas," she said. He jumped up, relieved to see her. "Buenas," he replied. He took her hand and leaned forward to kiss her. He could feel the warmth of her cheek, almost hot. He wondered if she had a fever, but her callused hand was cool. "Buenas, mi amor," she said to Sonia, and they hugged each other with affection. "The padre, have you met the padre?" she asked Sonia. "Sí," said Sonia, smiling, mischievously it seemed, "we know each other." "He's a good priest," Doña Margarita said. "Sí, madre, I think so." It made him happy she said it. "He will go with me to Teguc to get Alicia," Doña Margarita added. "When will that happen?" Sonia asked. "Tomorrow morning if you wish," Jack replied, smiling at Doña Margarita. "Gracias, padre," Doña Margarita replied softly, obviously relieved. It was silent for a moment. "We are very proud of her," Doña Margarita said, gesturing toward Sonia. "She is the only one of our family to attend the university." "It must be an honor," he murmured. "Yes, she is very intelligent and has almost completed her studies." He showed her the handbag. It was hers and she thanked him. He wanted to stay, but he had to get back. Besides, it would be embarrassing to act as if he wished to stay too long. "Doña Margarita, we must leave early, around seven." "Thank you, padre," she said. "Only God can thank you." He got up, extending his hand to Doña Margarita and then to Sonia. Her hand was firm, strong, life itself. "Adiós, padre," she said, as if saluting him. "Don't forget my book." "Adiós." He drove in a trance, barely noticing the palm trees, narrow sidewalks, and beyond them, walls covered with broken glass or spikes to keep out thieves. Bougainvillea spilled over the walls, covering them with bunches of yellow, red, purple, and orange flowers amidst the green of their leaves. They shone in the light of the streetlights. Emma was at the gate, talking to the maid next door. They were dressed the same, blue dresses with white aprons. She swung the gate open and he pulled in, cutting the engine as the car came to a halt. Once inside, he stopped at the refrigerator, thinking he'd get some cold water. He could hear the boys, probably in their bedroom. It sounded like they were arguing. Paul was crying, his voice accusatory. He wondered where Deb was, why she didn't settle it. He hesitated for a second, but they kept at it. "What's going on, boys?" he asked, opening their bedroom door. "He took all my money," Paul cried, his poor unhappy face covered with tears. He looked at Robert. He appeared concerned but unrelenting. "What happened?" Jack asked. "We were buying and selling the property, Dad," said Robert evenly, "and he likes the property. I sold him all my property, and now he doesn't have any money. He's upset because he has no money." "But he's got the property," said Jack. "Yes, Dad, but he doesn't have all of it. I have the blue ones." "But they're the best," wailed Paul. Jack stood there, mystified, not having the least idea what to do. Paul could go on and on sometimes. "What are you going to do?" he asked Robert. Robert didn't respond. "Can you buy back some of the property?" "Dad," said Robert, his voice perplexed, grieved, "why is it that I always have to give in?" "I don't know," he said. His heart went out to him. "You shouldn't have to." They sat there for a moment while Paul sulked. Gravely Robert pulled out one of the gold-colored five hundreds and put it on the floor in front of Paul. Slowly Paul turned his body away from the money so he couldn't see it. Jack found himself getting irritated. "Take the money, Paul," he said, "and give him a property." Paul just sat there. "Okay, boys," he said, "that'll do her. Game's over." He held out his hand to Robert who handed him the wad of cash. He began to put it back in the box, each denomination in its separate section. Paul sat there, doing nothing. "The property," Jack said. Paul wouldn't budge. Jack got up, grabbed the kid, pried open his fist, and took the properties. Paul struggled loose and ran wailing out of the room toward the back bedroom. Robert smiled. Seconds later Deb came down the hall, her hair all wet. She'd been in the shower. "What's going on?" she asked, exasperated and bemused at the same time. Jack shrugged. "He doesn't want to play the game," he said. "So I ended it." "Oh," she replied. It was silent for a moment. No sound of Paul crying. He was probably sulking in the back bedroom, waiting for them to make the next move. "Can we have strawberries?" Robert asked. "Of course," Deb replied. They headed for the kitchen. Deb dumped the strawberries in a bowl of water and added a small amount of Clorox. She stirred them a second, letting the solution kill off the germs. Fresh fruits and vegetables were the worst, the main fear being intestinal diseases and hepatitis. Then she rinsed them with fresh water from the water bottle. It held about ten gallons. They bought it from a truck that came by daily. They each filled a bowl, sprinkling in the sugar. They ate in silence. "Can you fix one for Paul?" Robert asked. Deb filled a bowl and Robert headed down the hallway, bowl in hand. They waited. He didn't come back. The peace offering had done the job. Ten minutes later, the phone rang, just at the moment Jack heard someone clanging on the front gate. He went out to get it while Deb answered the phone. It was Rúben, one of the students in the theological education program. He was standing by the gate, short, heavy, his jet-black hair slicked back, wearing glasses. "Buenas noches, padre," he said, his gold inlays glinting behind his broad smile. "Buenas," Jack replied, reaching for the key to the gate. "Only passing by, padre," Rúben said. "I have a letter for you. " He handed Jack the letter through the bars. "Gracias, Rúben," he said, wondering who it was. Rúben had picked the letter up downtown at the post office, sent to the diocesan address. Nobody had their own address, and even at the main post office the mail wasn't that reliable. So most people phoned. Even that could be a hassle, especially in the daytime. "Your family, how are they?" asked Jack. "Fine," Rúben replied, "and yours?" "Fine," said Jack. Rúben had two teenage girls but no wife. He and his wife had left each other years ago, back when they were young and spent their time drinking and sleeping around. Since then, Rúben had given his life to Christ and now he worked as an assistant at Christ the King, the charismatic Episcopal Church in San Pedro. "Padre," said Rúben, "the bishop goes to the coast tomorrow. Before he leaves he wants to talk to you." "When?" he asked. "At eight in the morning. He'll meet you at church." "Which church?" "Buen Pastor." "Very well." By then Jack had the gate unlocked, "Come in and have some ice cream," he said. Rúben hesitated. He glanced toward the house. "Thank you, padre," he said, "but I must be going." Jack smiled, as did Rúben. They both knew he was being polite. "Thanks for the letter," Jack said, shaking his hand again. "You will be at the seminary this week?" "Sí, padre, all week long." "I'll see you there." "Sí, padre, until then." Jack headed toward the door, stopping to open the letter in the light from the kitchen window. It was getting pretty dark outside. It was from his stateside bishop, the bishop of Atlanta. He was the one who made it possible for Jack to take a year's leave of absence to work in Honduras. "Don't worry," the bishop had said. "When the year is up, I'll have a parish for you. One of the best." "What will I do in Honduras?" Jack had asked. "Bueno," the bishop replied, mildly amused at himself. They both knew the bishop hardly knew any Spanish, so Jack smiled as well. "Robles says he could use someone in the mountains for a year. They have a village up there without a priest." Robles was the bishop of Honduras. Jack had met him a couple of times at Companion Diocese Committee meetings. He seemed like a good guy. The bishop leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself. He was making things happen, that was his mission in life. His desk was large, wooden, and behind him on the dark wooden walls hung paintings of past bishops. Jack felt strange. But he always felt strange around important people. "And after the year is up," the bishop continued, "I'm thinking you might be interested in St. Pete's. It's one of the best. By the time you come back, they should be ready to hire." Jack tore open the letter, reading the relevant phrases. "I hear you will be in Connecticut after Easter," the bishop wrote. "I want you to take a look at St. Pete's. We'll fly you down. They're ready to go." He stuffed the letter in his pocket. Deb liked St. Pete's. Many of its rectors went on to become bishops, and they had an outstanding day school for the kids. Once inside, Deb was still on the phone. "When will he be back?" she asked. It had to be Deb's mom, talking about Deb's father. They'd divorced years ago but it never seemed to end. "Okay," Deb said. She'd changed into shorts with some kind of a see-through blouse. She had several outfits like that, but she wore them only in the house. Once they arrived in Honduras, they discovered that shorts and flimsy blouses weren't worn in public. "Tell him you can't do it, Mom. Tell him it's his responsibility." Deb was silent for a moment. Doubtless Deb's dad was trying to get her mom to do something for him. "So what if you don't have the number?" He could dimly hear Deb's mother, going on about something. "Mom, did he say he'd call back?" Apparently he had. "Well then, when he calls you back, tell him you won't do it." "How's Jessie?" Deb asked. She was changing the subject, and moments later it ended. She sat down, looking right at Jack, her face blank. "What'd he want?" Jack said, referring to Deb's dad. "He called from London, and he wants her to drive over to Jersey and pay the utility bill. They're going to cut everything off." "Is she going to do it?" "I don't know." "Did she say she would?" "Sort of." Jack waited. She'd said something. She could get real definite at times. "Some women don't know when to quit," she finally said. After that, it was time to get the boys down. Robert was usually easy, but Paul could be pretty difficult. Once in bed, it started. "Dad," Paul said, "those shadows are scary, they scare me, Dad." "What shadows?" Jack asked. "Those, Dad, those." He pointed to the wall where you could see the moving shadows from the banana trees outside the window. "Those aren't scary," Jack said, "they're just banana leaves." "They're scary, they really are." "What's scary about them?" "They're moving, Dad, moving without touching anything." "What can I do about it?" he asked, suddenly realizing that was the wrong question. "You stay here," Paul said, pulling on his dad's arm. His face had a sly, happy look. "I'll sit here for five minutes," Jack said, sitting beside him. Paul nodded. He pulled his dad down close to his face. "Mom said I should forgive you," he whispered happily. "I forgive you, too," he said, kissing his soft cheek. It was quiet for a moment, only the rattle of the wind in the banana trees, the occasional muffled sound of a passing car, and the faint noise of their landlord's TV. He lived behind them, and his driveway ran right past the boys' windows. He was an Arab, and like a number of Arabs in Honduras, he'd come over from Palestine in the fifties and gone into merchandizing. The guy was fascist, at least it seemed that way. "Heil Hitler," he and his friends would sometimes say as they said goodbye to each other in the driveway. "Which way do they go?" Robert asked. "Which way does what go?" Jack replied. "The shadows on the wall when a car goes by." Jack shrugged. He didn't quite get the question. "Do they go the same direction as the car or the opposite direction?" Robert asked. Jack looked at him. He was handsome in a delicate way, with a full mouth and large dark eyes. "What do you think?" he asked. "They go the opposite," Robert said. "That's right," Jack replied. Paul turned over. He was getting sleepy. A miracle in the making. Jack figured he'd better wait a little longer, just to make sure. Five minutes later, Jack gently got up. Paul didn't move, but Robert was looking at him steadily. "Good night," Jack whispered. "Good night, Dad," Robert whispered as well. "I love you, Dad," he said. "I love you too," Jack replied, his heart swelling with tenderness. Deb was in bed when he got there. She was sitting there, her knees pulled up, clasped in her arms. The light fell across her shoulder, shining on her brown hair, her green nightgown of gauze. Her eyes appeared a little wide without her contacts. Jack sat down on the couch by the bed. He felt tired, happy, but then he gradually began to realize something, something he should have thought of a little earlier. He needed to tell her he was planning to leave the next day for Teguc, and that could be a problem. She was tired of his being gone all the time, and even worse, if he left without warning. If he told her, she'd get mad, or hurt, or something, and that would be the end of the evening. But if he said nothing and they made love as they often did when he got back from the mountains, she'd be doubly mad when he left at dawn. "Did you have a good time?" she asked. "All I did was read," he said, "and sit in the church." "What are you reading?" "The Vision of God by Vladimir Lossky." She nodded, saying nothing. When they first met, she'd read all the time. She'd been a fanatic that way. In fact, that's how she got inside of him, talking about literature. Once he arrived on her doorstep, they spent the day together, and then the night. In the morning she sat up in the bed, looking down on him. "Are there any Anthony's left in the world," she said, "or are all of us Caesar's?" She was talking of Shakespeare, his Anthony and Cleopatra. "I don't know," Jack replied. "Do you remember what Anthony said at the end?" she asked. He didn't remember. She leaned over him, smiling, kissing him on the mouth. "My kingdom for a kiss, that's what he said." She looked at him intently, smiling, laughing for a second, her eyes on fire. He remembered. Just before he died, Anthony asked Cleopatra for what he wanted most, another kiss. She kissed him, and after his death, she gave herself to Caesar who cared nothing for love. His aim was power. "He drank the stale of the gilded puddle, and ate the rude bark of trees," Deb said. It was a description of Mark Anthony the great warrior. "What do you think?" he asked her. "Are there any Anthony's left in the world?" "I think," she said slowly, "I think Cleopatra loved him when he was strong. Once he loved her, really loved her, he became weak. If you love someone, you become weak. Then she threw him away for Caesar. That's the sad part. People only want you if you're beautiful and strong." She was scrawny and pale. Her hair was dark brown, her face flattened, her eyes, green gray. "I'm not strong," she said slowly, intensely, staring right at him, "and I'm not beautiful." He was transfixed, enveloped, horrified, that she could be so intense, so real, so raw. That's when she got inside him, right there, staring down at him, talking of Anthony and Cleopatra. And they'd been together ever since. But that part about not being strong wasn't the truth, or at least only a half-truth. When she wanted something, nothing could stop her. Or maybe she only got that way after she met him. "José came and got me for meals," Jack said, referring to his time in the mountains. "But that was about it until today when the weather cleared up." She nodded. "Anything happen while I was gone?" he asked. "Robert was in the play." "Oh that's nice, how was it?" "There were soldiers there." "Where?" "At the school." "What were they doing there?" "To guard the students and their parents, I suppose." Jack didn't say anything. He wondered if she was blaming him for the danger. The school catered to business and government people, but he'd never heard of any of them being killed. The military or the DIN, the secret police, did most of the killings. They killed labor leaders, campesinos who got out of line, civil rights leaders. "I'm thinking we should take him out after our visit to the States." She was referring to Robert. They'd almost taken him out of school when they first arrived. The other kids were calling him "gringo feo," "ugly gringo." But Jack had been against it, and for once, it went his way. "Why? He's doing okay." "They're still making fun of him." "How do you know this?" "He told me," Deb replied. "He hasn't said anything to me. In fact, he told me he wanted to stay on." "Maybe," she said. "How's Liz?" Jack asked. Liz was Deb's best friend in Honduras. "She's fine. She came by Sunday and took us to the Copantyl for lunch." The Copantyl was San Pedro's only luxury hotel, with a restaurant, tennis courts, and a large swimming pool. "That's nice. Did the kids go swimming?" She nodded. "What's going on?" he asked. Liz had been threatening to divorce her husband. "She won't leave him," Deb replied, shaking her head. "He's been fooling around ever since he got here, but she says she still loves him." "What do you think?" "If she had money she'd leave him tomorrow." "Well, maybe she'll figure out something," he added. "Perhaps," she replied. He nodded. It was silent for a moment. He was stuck, dead stuck with no way out. "I've got to go to Teguc," he said, suddenly, knowing he'd just botched it, wondering why he had to be so blunt. "But it won't take but a day at the most." "When is that?" she asked. "Tomorrow, after I meet with the bishop." She didn't say anything. He thought she blushed, but he wasn't sure. If so, it was very faint as if she were ashamed. "What's that about?" she said quietly. "I've got to help a woman in Chasnigua. Her daughter's in jail. I've got to get her out." "Why didn't you go earlier?" "I just found out today." "Have you told the bishop about it?" "No, but he's leaving for the coast tomorrow, right after we meet. Plus, I can't bother him with things like this." "How long has she been there?" "About a year, I think." She didn't say anything. The conclusion was obvious. Bishop Robles knew far more about getting people out of jails than Jack ever would, and after a year, a few more days wouldn't make any difference. "Do you care if I leave?" he asked. She didn't answer. No telling what she was thinking. Maybe she'd figured out that he liked Honduras, that he was thinking about staying beyond their one-year appointment. And if she figured that, she wouldn't like it. It would mean Robert would have to stay in school, and that was just for starters. When it came to the kids, she could get ferocious. "Deb," he said, "let me tell you something. The woman only found out about her daughter yesterday. She asked me for help. She's desperate. Nobody does anything for anybody around here. This afternoon I saw a child die. I'm not going to sit here and let this wretchedness go on and on. I just won't. I told her I would help, and I will. It's that simple." "Why don't you turn off the light, Jack," she said. He didn't say anything, just stared at her, thinking he should say something to make it all right. Or, if he had any guts, he'd show her the letter from the bishop of Atlanta, then tell her that he wanted to stay in Honduras. Have an honest conversation for once. But he couldn't do it. It wouldn't work. He knew it. She wanted out of there and he wanted in. And if he told her he'd change things with Doña Margarita, go to Teguc later in the week, the reason for that would be obvious. It would be to placate her, not because he thought she was right. Deb got up and turned off the light. He kept hoping she'd say something, but she didn't. She just went to bed, her face toward the wall. He sat there, waiting, hating himself for what he'd done, trying to look good in front of Sonia, saying he'd go to Teguc the next day. If he loved Deb, he'd do it her way in a heartbeat. But then, even if he did love her, why should he? Wasn't the inconvenience of his being gone another day peanuts compared to Doña Margarita's agony over her daughter? But Deb would never give in, never. "Deb," he said softly, wondering if she was asleep, wondering why he did what he did. "Deb." "Yes," she said. "I'm sorry," he said, "sometimes I just can't take it anymore." She didn't say anything. "Why don't we go to the beach tomorrow," he said, "take the kids. The bishop says he has a house for us. They'll love it." "Come to bed with me," she said, almost begging him it seemed. He got in the bed and lay there facing her. He could barely see her gray eyes in the dim light, the swell of her breasts at the edge of her nightgown. She took his head in her hands and kissed him. He put his arms around her. Moments later she had slipped off her nightgown and they were making love, lost in a world of utter joy. By eight the next day Jack was sitting in Buen Pastor, his head on the pew ahead of him, praying, thinking about Deb, Chasnigua, Doña Margarita and her imprisoned daughter. He'd run by her house to say that they would leave on Friday. She hadn't reacted, but he knew she was disappointed. Before that, at six, he'd done the funeral for the baby. Now he was waiting for the bishop. In his pocket he had the proposal for the cooperative in Chasnigua, thinking maybe the bishop could sign it, buy some land to head off the disaster about the cement factory. As usual, the bishop was late. The secretaries said he was meeting with the rector of Buen Pastor. Probably some kind of a problem. Suddenly, he saw the bishop. He was rushing across the courtyard heading for the gate, visible in segments through the partitions that formed the walls of the church. He looked harried, pale and sweaty in the sun. His shirt was half out at the waist. "Señor obispo," Jack called, "over here." The bishop stopped, turning in the light, not sure where the sound came from. "Over here, bishop," called Jack, getting up from his pew and heading for the door. "Ah yes, Jack," the bishop cried, spotting Jack as he came out the door. His expression changed instantly, his face alight, smiling happily. In an instant they had met. He could feel the bishop's soft hand squeezing his own, their faces side by side, same height, the bishop pulling them together in the abrazo. "I had the meeting there," the bishop said, his pudgy face suddenly clouded. "They have these troubles here, Jack, always the same troubles for the bishop." He spoke English with a heavy accent. It had to be the vestry of Buen Pastor. They were always fighting with their rector. He was a Chilean priest of English descent who looked down on Hondurans. "What's going on?" Jack asked. "Oh, I can do no more," he said wearily, "no more. Those people, they do not love each other. That is the problem with this world, Jack, there is not much love here. But now, Jack," he said, suddenly happy, "you would like to eat, no?" "Yes, bishop, if you wish." "Do I wish?" he said, "do I wish?" He twirled his hand in the air, "Of course I wish, we all wish." Suddenly, he stopped, his face alarmed, his green eyes squinting at the light. "Oh my," he said, turning to rush back toward the office. "Be right back," he cried, "I forgot this thing." Moments later he was back, smiling happily, a key in his hand. "You will need this," he said. "I show you this thing and you will be happy. But now, do not think of this. We eat first, no?" "Yes, bishop," Jack said as they headed toward the car. The bishop's car was a battered green Mercedes with tinted windows. The engine was running and the air conditioner was going full blast. Jack wondered how long it had been left running. It was cold in there. Seconds later, they were on the road. "You like the Sula?" the bishop asked. "Yes." The Sula was the main hotel downtown, located on the square diagonal to the cathedral. Jack often took the family there for lunch. The boys liked the parrots, the swimming pool, and the hamburgers. They were like the ones in the States. "Watch out," the bishop suddenly cried, swerving to miss an open manhole. "Why do we have these things, Jack, why do we? Someday they kill someone. A little child will die. We should protest this, Jack, protest it." "Do they care?" Jack asked. The open manhole had been in the road ever since he arrived in Honduras eight months ago. "Yes, that is the problem," the bishop sighed. They turned right, heading downhill, passing the International School that Robert attended. Its walls were cement blocks, painted yellow with flowering hibiscus along its sides. "What must I do?" the bishop asked, sounding almost desperate. "I try to love that man, to help him. I offer him all those things but he takes nothing. He will not help his bishop." He was talking of the professor. The bishop wanted him to live in a nice house so he could entertain the gringos when they came to visit. Without gringo money, they couldn't keep the theological program alive. But the professor refused to live in a nice house and he wouldn't entertain the gringos. "Should I stop now? Should I stop trying to be good to that man? I got him the visa at the embassy two years ago. I sent him to the States to learn the new theology. I help his father when he gets sick. He knows these things, but he will not help his bishop." They'd reached the circunbulación. The Chamber of Commerce building was on their right. According to Jack's maid, the Chamber controlled the town. She also thought Jimmy Swaggart was God's gift to humanity. The bishop edged his way into the traffic. It was heavy and moving past. Hondurans didn't wait for openings. They pushed their way into the flow. The bishop looked at Jack, his face earnest, clear, his thin dark hair slicked back. "Someday, he will see. Someday that man will know what I do for him. Then he will know that we must love the gringo, that we are not too proud to take their money." "Yes, bishop," Jack said, remembering how the bishop once said that he raised more money in the States than any other Latin American bishop. He was proud of the fact. Ten blocks later they turned off the circunbulación, heading downhill toward the center of town. The street was only two lanes and packed. It looked hotter outside, a crowded mix of people, noise, and trash. A bus nosed in from a right-hand side street. Just above its front window was a placard with the words, "Yo tambien era joven," "I also was once young." The bus halted, its path blocked by an on-coming truck that refused to give way. Finally, they got going only to be stopped half a block later by a red light. A man with a parrot on his arm was walking from car to car. Everyone ignored him. The bishop rolled down the window. "How much is it, señor?" he asked. "Must you sell the parrot today?" "Twenty-five lempiras," replied the man. The price was exorbitant. "Yes, yes," the bishop replied, thrusting his fleshy arm through the window, stroking the bird. "These things are good. And what is the parrot's name?" The man hesitated, his face uncertain. "We allow our customers to choose the name," he suddenly said, apparently relieved. The bishop laughed. He pulled a lempira out of his pocket and handed it to the vendor. "Gracias, señor," the man replied. The bishop waved. "We are all friends here, no?" he said. "Sí, señor," the man replied happily. The bishop pulled away, the light had changed. "The Lord Jesus was right," he said pensively a moment later. "The poor are always with us. I do this thing because no one talks to them." The stadium was on the left. All you could see was the back of it, a large concrete structure tilting upward. He'd gone there once with the students and the professor. The students called him "Profe," a term of affection. They pronounced it "Pro-fay," and Jack had started calling him that as well. The students said he could heal people and cast out demons, but Jack had never seen it happen. They were always joking about the professor, making fun of him, especially Marcos, the class clown. "The New Jerusalem," Marcos would say, mimicking the professor, walking dreamily into the room. He'd be dressed in baggy trousers, sandals, wire-rimmed glasses. He would look upward toward the ceiling, straight at the overhead light. "Ah yes," he would say, "the New Jerusalem, come down out of heaven adorned like a bride for her husband." The others would follow his gaze as if they too saw the vision. "Yes," Marcos would say, "there shall be no more crying, or sorrow, or pain anymore, for the former things have passed away." The students loved it. They would stumble around the room as if they were having visions themselves. Then Marcos would sit at the front table to begin class. The students would take their seats at once. "Estamos?" Marcos would suddenly exclaim, his face radiant, as if he'd entered the very heavens. "Estamos," the students would reply. It was the professor's favorite word. He got it from Ríos Montt, the crazy evangelical president of Guatemala who thought he could reform Guatemalan society in one mad burst of evangelistic fervor. Literally, the word meant "We are here." In context it could also mean, "Ready to begin class?" or when the vision was real, "We are in the Kingdom now." The bishop was still talking, and this time he seemed so serious that he could almost cry. "I must talk to someone," he said. "I tried hard but that woman will not live with me. Now she says she does not like Honduras. She wants her mother. I feel sad. I tried to say I love her, but she don't listen to me. Now she is gone. I know that, but I cannot accept that, Jack, I cannot." It was his wife. Jack wasn't surprised. He'd hardly been in Honduras a week before the bishop started telling him his problems. At first he'd been flattered, but later he got the impression the bishop confided in everybody. A week after he arrived, Jack met the bishop's wife. She didn't belong in Honduras. She was a small town gringa from South Florida. The bishop was from Cuba. He'd come to the States after the revolution. "When did she leave?" he asked. "She never came back," the bishop replied. "She went to visit her mother three months ago. When I call her on the phone she says she cannot come back to Honduras." "What will happen with your children?" he asked. "That is the worst of all," he practically wailed, "the worst of all. She has them, she keeps them. A man cannot live without his children." Jack felt sad. "And there is more, there is more. These things never end. But we are strong, no? I tell you this because you are my friend. That man Guerrero is a bad man, a very bad man. Now he says that I cheat him, that I cheat all the priests. He tells that to all those priests, he tell |