Julio Gomez's question choked Leah, making it hard to breathe. "Yes, why?" she echoed. Someone had to have the key to life's jumbled puzzle. Why not this priest, this man of God, who seemed to be somehow more than human?
When Father Javier spoke, it wasn't with the authority of an oracle, but with conviction born of a faith passed through the ages, parent to child, generation upon generation. "You ask me why, Julio? I will share with you what I believe." The priest took a deep breath, as if to fill his being with divine wisdom. "The good God takes no pleasure in what has happened to your Alicia today. And yet, in some mysterious way, we can say that what happened was not a mere accident of fate. Some people must live a long time to do the work God sent them to do. Others complete their work in a brief stay on this earth. I believe that your Alicia was one of those. Her work was done. Out of this sorrow, many blessings will come to your family, because she will watch over you. And, I promise, you will see her again . . . in that life which, for us, is yet to come, but for her is now."
Father Javier made the sign of the cross over Julio and Esperanza's heads. Their tear-streamed faces became more peaceful. Esperanza took the priest's hands and kissed them.
"Gracias, padre," Julio Gomez whispered, only slightly consoled.
"May God help me to accept His will," Esperanza struggled to say through sobs that again racked her body.
Death was a mystery to Leah. With her own youth reaching full bloom, the death of one much younger than herself challenged her to make sense of the waste of a beautiful and precious life. It didn't seem fair that God, if He was indeed the loving Father that Javier preached to his flock, should put Alicia in the path of a runaway horse.
Her vigil having ended, Leah retreated to the office. She slid her limp body into the wooden chair behind Maggie's desk and wept. Julio and Esperanza Gomez's loss was her loss. Like Anne Frank, Alicia was Leah's sister, her child, Father Javier's too, and Ed Wright's . . . everyone's.
* * *
"Have you ever lost someone close to you?" Father Javier stood in the doorway, his head haloed by the unshaded hundred-watt bulb that lit the hallway behind him.
Leah forced herself to return from that inner refuge to which her soul had retreated in search of meaning and respite. "I didn't hear you come in. I guess I was off in my own world. What was it you said?" She both resented the intrusion and welcomed the human companionship.
"I apologize." The priest flushed, like a boy caught in an embarrassing act. "I asked if you've ever lost someone close to you."
"No," she replied softly. "Death and I were strangers until I came here. I've seen more of it in the last few weeks than in the first twenty-three years of my life. I hurt so much for those poor parents." Since their first conversation, the day after she arrived in the village, Leah had hardly spoken more than a sentence at a time to the parish curate. Tonight, it was a relief to talk about the turbulent feelings thrashing inside her. "How about you? Has anyone close to you died?"
"My father. Two years ago. He was killed in a fire fight with guerrillas along the Gabriela River."
"I'm so sorry," Leah whispered. "He was in the military?"
Father Javier slumped into the unpadded chair in the corner, a few feet from the edge of her desk. He seemed in no hurry to return to the parish house he shared with the ageless pastor, Father Alejandro. Leah still didn't know the older cleric's last name. Perhaps he had none, or it had faded into unimportance through the five-plus decades of his ministry. To Santa Teresitans, he was simply Padre Alejandro.
"Mind if I smoke?" Father Javier asked.
"Mind if I borrow one?"
"Forgive me. I didn't know."
His embarrassment pleased Leah for some reason. "I don't," she said. "Tonight, it's either smoke or get drunk. Which do you suggest?"
Father Javier reached across the desk and handed her the pack. Their fingers touched for the first time since the day he welcomed her to the clinic. A warm glow spread up Leah's right arm. Flustered by her physical reaction, her first instinct was flight--his, not hers. Maggie's warning set off alarm bells. She wanted to say, "You'd better go home to your old Father Alejandro . . . to your holy books or whatever it is you priests do in your private, all-male sanctuary." Too late. Father Javier had already launched into the story of how his father died.
"Papa was one of three colonels who led the coup that overthrew the government of President Vicente Ochoa y Chavez." He paused and chuckled to himself. "I don't suppose the rich and voluminous history of Santo Sangre gets taught at the University of California at Berkeley, does it?"
"No. I studied some of it on my own at the P/SHARE training center at Boston U. I read about how Colonel Montenegro came to sole power, when the other two junta members died. I never associated you with Colonel Ernesto de Córdova. Then, you must know President Montenegro personally."
"Quite well," Father Javier acknowledged, without a hint of special privilege. "He and Papa were lifelong friends and classmates at South Florida Military Institute. After World War II, they returned here to serve together in our army. My father had no political ambitions. He believed the military existed to be a peace-keeping servant of the people."
"The world needs more leaders like your dad," Leah said. Father Javier nodded assent. "How did your father get involved in the revolt?" Moments ago, alarm bells had sounded a call to send her night visitor packing. Now, she heard herself asking questions guaranteed to prolong his stay. Her greater need for company silenced Maggie's voice.
"Ochoa y Chavez was an unprincipled, undisciplined man." Father Javier's face darkened with the memory of life under the former president. "He got fat and rich, while the people's standard of living deteriorated. When Montenegro asked Papá and Col. Arriaga to join him in a coup, they agreed on one condition, that it be bloodless."
"Was it?" Leah asked. Her inflection reflected incredulity.
"Sort of. My dad carried out his part of the plan. He arrested Ochoa y Chavez and escorted him to a government airplane, as planned. He saw the president safely off to exile in Spain." The priest drew a deep breath. "The plane never got there. A few days later, searchers found pieces of its wings and tail floating in the ocean off the coast of Portugal. Father suspected Montenegro of sabotaging the plane. You see, our current president's morals never were as scrupulous as my father's."
"But your father died in battle, didn't he?" Leah was hooked. Tired to the bone, she'd have stayed up all night to hear the details of Father Javier's story. This was the living history of the country that was, at least for the present, her home. Everything interested her that might make her time and service among the people more effective.
"He did. What angers me is he should never have been in the field at all, but behind a desk in Santa Catalina. He told my mother before he left that Montenegro received a communiqué from Comandante Fuego, the rebel leader, saying he was ready to negotiate a settlement of his dispute with the new government. But the meeting had to take place at a sight near the Río Gabriela where the rebels were encamped and felt protected. Col. Montenegro asked Papá to represent the junta."
"Why was there a battle at all, if Fuego was determined to negotiate a settlement?"
"I wish I had the answer to that one." Father Javier's pained expression reflected the hours he had spent, struggling to fit that piece of the puzzle into place. "Apparently, Fuego set a trap, hoping to get Montenegro himself."
"Instead, they got your father." The black cloud hovering over Leah's new friend now rained a share of his grief on her spirit. My friend? It was the first time she had thought of this priest, this man, as being in any way personally related to her.
Father Javier took a deep drag on his cigarette and breathed a thoughtful, smoky, "Yes. They got my father. Montenegro's government got help from your CIA in finding Comandante Fuego and killing him. Now, no one will ever know whether the rebels were sincere, or whether an ambush actually occurred."
Leah was pensive, t
rying to solve the mystery herself. Unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion, she asked, "What about you, Father? What do you think?" She studied his blue eyes, turbulent and distant in the dim light of the small office. The priest seemed to read from some internal manuscript, mental notes written after his father's death and studied over and over for clues to the actual cause and reason. The prolonged silence made Leah uncomfortable. She slid some papers into a file folder labeled GOMEZ, Alicia.
Father Javier shrugged. "I don't know, but one good thing came of it." He sat up straight, as if testifying before a tribunal. "I made a commitment to non-violence. I swore I'd never resort to violence to solve any personal problem. Nor will I support those who use physical force to achieve their goals."
"Never?" Leah asked, unconvinced. She searched his eyes and found them resolute. It was hard to look into those eyes, and impossible not to.
"Never."
"Not even if someone you loved were threatened?"
"No."
"I hate violence, too," Leah affirmed, "but when it comes to defending my life or someone I love, I leave all my options open." Her blood rose at the very thought. "What if a madman walked into church and threatened to kill you or members of your congregation?"
"I'd use my brains. I'd talk. I'd even beg." The priest's eyes flashed with determination. "If all else failed, I'd trade my life for the others'."
He had convinced Leah that his moral position was reasoned and unshakable. She admired his stand. It also worried her. "I hope you're never put in that position."
"Me too," he replied with a weak smile. "I'm a coward at heart."
"I find that hard to believe." Leah glanced at her watch and got up. By now, Ed Wright would have seen to the removal of Alicia's lifeless body to the bare room down the hall reserved for such occasions. "Look, Father, you can stay as long as you want, but it's time for me to check the ward again."
"When I get on the subject of my father's death I--"
"Don't apologize. Go home. Get some sleep. It's after three. We start this all over again in a few hours."
"The funeral Mass is at ten. I know you aren't Catholic, but will you come?" Javier asked. "It would mean a lot to . . . to Julio and Esperanza."
"Of course." Leah walked Father Javier to the clinic porch. Outside, frogs performed an all-bass choir. The humid air served as a sound shell, magnifying the nocturnal chorus. It had the same effect on the human voice.
"I enjoyed talking with you," he whispered, to keep the announcement from broadcasting into every room in the compound.
"Me, too." Leah gazed at the glittering topping of stars sprinkled across the moonless sky. Clearly, Father Javier had something more to say but was editing his words. He took a few steps toward the parish house, then returned to where she stood. Taking her hand, he looked into her eyes. "I had to talk to someone after the day we've had. I'm glad it was you."
Leah watched the back of his black cassock, as he crossed the courtyard and disappeared into the rectory. Somehow, he was less divine, more human than before. Slowly, she rubbed her hand where he had touched her. Maggie's warning sounded full force, and Leah felt guilty without knowing why. "Maybe there are different rules for priests," she breathed with a sigh that blended confusion and exhaustion.
As she headed back to complete her watch, the floor felt like wet cement beneath her sore and tired feet.
10
The next morning, Leah overslept. Worse, the Muni trolley wires fell down on Market Street, creating gridlock in the downtown maze. By the time she reached the offices of POCI/USA, the coordinators of the fifteen San Francisco Bay Area "cells" had already gathered in clusters around the coffee pot. Nathaniel Roundtree chose the name given to local affiliates to remind members of the plight of the prisoners on whose behalf they lobbied.
"Sorry I'm late," Leah apologized. "You wouldn't believe the mess out there." No need to mention that she had slept through her alarm, or that she had gotten Teddy and Monica to school late for the first time this year. She nudged her "cellmates" into the conference room. "Give me a couple of minutes to pull myself together."
In her private office, she rolled her head in a slow counterclockwise motion, then repeated the exercise in the opposite direction. Within minutes, as promised, she was ready. Ahead of her lay an all-day training session on the most recent directives from world headquarters and the never-ending challenge of recruiting new members. She had no time to think about Jay and his visit to San Francisco, until she closed her bedroom door late that night.
* * *
Jay's letter lay open on the night stand, where she had left it. She reread the sentence: "Montenegro may not be as clean and innocent as he claims, but he may not be as bad as POCI claims, either." Had Jay lied to her? Did he think she was too stupid to see through it? Or did he really believe his family friend was a misunderstood, benevolent dictator. POCI's files bulged with documented human rights violations in Santo Sangre, a catalog of horrors perpetrated against anyone--men, women, even children--who caused temblors in the solid rock of the national status quo.
Leah didn't know what influences had affected Jay's thinking and political judgment during the intervening years. I'd love to interrogate him now, she thought, imagining a one-on-one confrontation in which she asked tough questions and demanded straight answers.
Interrogate? That's pretty strong, Leah. Well, so what? There was a great deal she wanted to learn about the situation in Santo Sangre. She expected Jay, as Montenegro's personal representative, to fill in the blanks. If he doesn't have convincing answers, I'll send him packing in one big hurry. Her facial muscles tensed with anger and disappointment at the thought that her former friend could have switched over to the enemy's camp. Still, when Leah recalled the luminous clarity of his gaze, the integrity--sometimes bullheaded and maddening--of that inner spirit, she doubted he had knowingly entangled himself in Montenegro's web.
Part of her, the professional, looked forward to Jay's arrival. Perhaps she could rescue him from his involvement with the old de Córdova patron. Leah the woman dreaded his coming. Her life had a nice, gentle rhythm to it. Between her children and her work, she had plenty to occupy and challenge every waking moment. When she needed an occasional break from parenting and "saving the world," as Teddy called her work, and wanted male companionship, a handful of good friends delighted in taking her to dinner and a night at the theater.
With Walt now dead, Jay was the only man she knew, with the ability to shake the foundations of her neatly ordered world. He had done it once before, with disastrous results narrowly averted. She acknowledged the possibility it might happen again. Unless he's sold out to Montenegro. Then, there's no way we'll ever find a common ground of friendship again.
Friendship. The word didn't seem adequate to encompass what she and Jay had experienced. Her search for a better word sped her thoughts racing back in time. We started out as coworkers. Then, we became friends. She recalled how she had struggled to hold their relationship on that safe plateau . . . .
* * *
The months of what Santo Sangríans called autumn (the temperature rarely dipped below eighty) that year of 1973 found Leah immersed in the life of the villagers of Santa Teresita. She shopped in the open marketplace at the center of town and visited people's homes, where she felt the sincerity of their "Bienvenidos."
What Leah enjoyed most was working alongside and getting to know the curate of Santa Teresita Parish. One afternoon, she took a shortcut through the church yard and heard Father Javier call her name. For a moment, his voice defied location.
"Up here!" He was high on a ladder in jeans and a T-shirt, caulking a window in the side wall of the church.
"Oh, hi!" Leah waved back and continued on her way to the staff residence.
"Wait! I'm coming down." He descended the ladder, two rungs at a time. In seconds, he stood at her side, wiping the sweat from his forehead with a red bandanna pulled from his back pocke
t. "I need a break. Join me for a soft drink?"
Leah followed him through the back door of the rectory and into the kitchen. Having never visited the priests' residence, she felt uneasy. To her, it was an extension of the church sanctuary. Both were unfamiliar territory.
"Regular Coke or Tab?" he called from the pantry.
"Tab, please."
He nodded toward the table by the window. Leah sat, her back rigid against the chair's wooden slats. Father Javier dropped ice cubes into two glasses and poured. Only the few wealthier families in Santa Teresita could afford refrigerators. Although her own residence had one, it surprised her to find a fridge in this house.
Reading her thoughts, Father Javier said, "One of the little luxuries of the priesthood." He sat opposite Leah and slid a frosty glass across the table. "The people say we deserve it, because we've given up so much. What do you think?"
It was hard to tell whether he believed it himself or found the notion as ludicrous as she did. She engaged his Anglo-Latin eyes. "It's your life. How you feel about it?"
The priest turned away to stare out the window. In that fleeting instant, with the window of his soul flung open, Leah discovered a shocking truth. Shock soon melted into sadness. In addition to the obvious appeal of his dark good looks and shy charm, she found in him a kindred spirit that transcended differences of upbringing, religion, and culture. For all his devotion to his people and dedication to his ministry, she recognized in this man the villagers called "Father" a displaced person, like herself.
This revealed truth had nothing to do with refrigerators or priestly privilege. Father Javier himself seemed unaware he had left the vault of his secret inner self unlocked. Both she and this good and honorable man, this spiritual leader of his people, this thoughtful pacifist and preacher of nonviolence were waifs. Separately, they wandered the earth in search of a permanent home--a place where they belonged. This recognition more than anything else drew Leah into the mystery that was Javier de Córdova. She reached across the table and laid her hand on his bare forearm. "I know," she whispered.