Chapter Thirty-Six

The sun had risen and was gleaming off the stained glass windows of the little adobe church. Donovan was surprised at the number of people arriving, some on horseback, some in carts or improvised traps like their own. A few were even on foot. "I had no idea there would be so many people."

"The valley isn't as deserted as it looks, is it?" Carina smiled. "Some of them come a long way for holiday Mass. This church serves a large area."

There were no places to tie their jennet, all sign posts, fence posts and other improvised hitching spots having been taken away over the years by people seeking scrap or building materials, so Carina put the hobbles on Goneril. "I don't like having to do that to her," she said. "I know how she hates it."

"It's not like we'll be here long."

"It's Catholic Mass," Carina reminded him. "We could be here all day." She took Donovan's arm. "Or at least it will feel that way. But let's go inside and see who's here."

The church was neat and freshly whitewashed, lit with oil lamps and candles. People milled about the entryway in their best winter clothes, some of which were indeed very fine, while others were merely clean, well-mended and neatly pressed. Donovan could hardly follow the thread of any one conversation for the way everyone drifted back and forth between English and Spanish. Before he could become exasperated, he and Gonzales recognized each other in the crowd. Gonzales waved and pushed his way through, leading a frail woman with a dowager's hump and a hopeful look in her milky eyes. He greeted Carina first and pulled his mother forward. "Mamá, you remember Carina Cunningham, the veterinarian."

The woman reached out, straining to see through the clouds of her cataracts. "Of course I do."

Carina grabbed her outstretched hands. "Nice to see you, Señora. Te miras bien."

The old woman smiled at the compliment. "You know better than to lie." She coughed into a handkerchief. "Maybe in the spring I'll shake this thing."

"Ask your son to look for some horehound next time he's in Macrina."

"My boy looks for whores in Macrina, not horehound."

Donovan was so startled by this feisty remark that he was unprepared when Gonzales changed the subject by introducing him. "Donovan lives with Carina and Amalia, and helps out on their farm.”

"Oh, good," the woman said, clutching at Donovan's hands. "We need more good men in this valley. The war has carried them all off and when they come back, they’re like my worthless son. You be good to those girls, and the Lord will bless you."

"I'll do my best. And I'm sure your son is better than you think."

"I'll be the judge of that." She reached for Gonzales' arm again. "Take me to a pew. I need a little time with my thoughts before the service starts."

Carina took Donovan around the room, making introductions. He met the Mallory family, a young couple with a brood of active children, impossible to count because they were constantly in motion. He met the Bustos girls, all five of them in pants and fancy boots, made hard-eyed and bitter by their life alone on their deceased father's sheep ranch. He met a weathered man who spoke in a flat tone and refused to meet his eyes. Carina whispered that he was autistic and had held the position of church groundskeeper ever since he was found abandoned on the steps as a boy.

"Are the Petersons here?" Donovan asked, looking around.

"I doubt it. They're so Lutheran that it hurts." She tugged his sleeve. "Let's go find a place to sit. There'll be more time to visit later."

Donovan followed her lead, dabbing his fingers in the holy water and crossing himself as she did as they went into the nave. They hadn't been seated long when a woman in a red wool dress with gold buttons sat down next to Carina. "How are you, dear? It seems I hardly ever see you any more."

"Things are going well, Emma. And you?"

She gave a tight little smile. "About as well as can be expected."

While Emma and Carina got caught up, Donovan looked around. In a pew on the other side of the aisle he noticed a crowd of children and their elderly relatives gazing toward the altar, entranced by the bisque santa in her crèche, dressed in white robes and lace. A few women in the front pew seemed equally captivated, gazing at her lovingly as they murmured over their rosaries, but most of the people filing into the pews were intent only on each other, shaking hands, greeting old friends and exchanging news. With so much work to be done and so much distance between the larger ranches, the times when people could get together were too precious to be wasted in piety.

As the sun began to light the rose window, a few weather-beaten men in black suits walked up the aisle, guiding the stragglers to their seats. A woman in a green velvet shift began playing the piano, and this appeared to be the signal the congregation had been waiting for because everyone fell silent as the young priest came up the aisle in his flowing robes, preceded by an altar boy in a yellowing cassock trimmed in lace.

Carina whispered in Donovan's ear. "The priest is Joaquin Estrada. His parents are pretty important in the valley. He was able to dodge the draft."

Donovan nodded in understanding. It had been a big joke in the streets of his youth that if you wanted to be sure of never having to fight, become religious. Some of the more manipulative boys in his gang had tried it, going to churches, temples, and even mosques, willing to preach anyone's faith if it would keep them out of the war or allow them to spend their army days blessing wounded and dying soldiers behind the lines. So many new religions had sprung up to accommodate these men that the Feds had put a stop to it by drafting any religious who didn't have an established church of his own, and not just any church would do. Its congregation had to prove a history going back to at least 2012, otherwise, a priest, rabbi, or imam was just as draftable as the next guy.

"He's lucky to have gotten a church so young," Donovan whispered to Carina. "I hear some of the old-timers won't step down. They think the young ones don't take it seriously."

Emma leaned toward them with the air of a curious bird. "He wouldn't have got this one, except Father Waltrip died a couple years ago. They say it was a hunting accident. It was a little suspicious, if you ask me."

"Yes,” Carina agreed. “It did look odd. The timing, the circumstances. . ."

The music stopped and the three sat back in their seats with the air of guilty schoolchildren. Joaquin, who didn't look old enough to be styled "Father," was waving to a pretty young woman on the front pew. She held a baby in her lap and was moving the baby's arm so that she could wave, too. A sudden crash made the young priest spin around. The altar boy had managed to knock over the goblet of sacrificial wine.

"Estúpido!" Joaquin hissed, loud enough for everyone on the first few rows to hear. "Get some more, pendejo!" He turned back to the congregation and smiled sheepishly. His large gray eyes scanned the room before falling on the young woman and baby again. He waved. They waved back. He held up his right hand and made the sign of the cross over the congregation. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, Amen."

Next>>
<<Previous