I'll Never Get Out of This World Alive (25 page)

"I'm not sure I understand ..."

"Take your predecessor."

"Father Cantu."

"Yes, darlin' Father Cantu. A good priest. A good man. A leader in his community. But there's the rub. His community. His people, Father. Tell me, have you had the opportunity to become acquainted with many of your peers? The other pastors of the diocese, I mean?"

"A few. Father Murray from St. Ann. And I see Monsignor White out at the San Jose mission from time to time ..."

"And of the parish priests you've met, any Spanish surnames among them?"

"Well, I never gave it much thought."

"Nor should you. Yours is a higher calling, Father. Unfortunately, for we lowly bureaucrats, it is our lot to delve into the worldly, if not the downright unseemly, from time to time in the course of our duty to God and Church. Our function is often more political, for lack of a more savory term, than spiritual. We leave it to our betters to answer the larger questions of doctrine and theology while we dot the i's and cross the t's. Even wash the dishes and take out the trash from time to time ... figuratively speaking, that is. What's important for the purposes of our discussion here today is that Father Cantu's tenure as pastor of the mission church was an experiment. He was the first Mexican to be elevated to a parish of any size in the modern history of the diocese. Certainly there are a handful of exceptions in small churches along the border. Spanish-speaking congregations, don't you know. But even they are mostly curates rather than full pastors."

The word
experiment
had caught Killen's attention. His mind was beginning to wander, his awareness divided into two platoons: the first was half listening to Father Monaghan; the second, sensing an imminent setback, was formulating an alternative course of action. "Experiment?" he queried.

"Yes," allowed Monaghan and then he paused before elaborating. "A failed experiment." Killen looked no less confused. "Perhaps a more detailed explanation of the political ramifications of the situation is in order."

"Perhaps," Killen agreed, wondering if his response sounded sarcastic. What was this popinjay, this functionary on about? Responding to news of a blessed event, a
miracle,
with politics and protocol!

"Are you aware, Father Killen, of the great events transpiring in Rome?"

"The Second Ecumenical Council."

"Yes. Vatican Two, they're calling it. Sounds very modern when they say it like that. And perhaps that's appropriate when one considers the intended purpose of the council."

"Well!" Father Killen snorted. "Forgive me, Father, but I'm less than certain that I fully understand its purpose myself."

"Oh, I see. A traditionalist. Well, fair play to you. I don't entirely disagree. Tradition is part and parcel of faith. Though I suspect that were we to debate the case in depth, you and I, we would encounter certain ... differences. Then again, we are fortunate, still in the prime and vigor of our lives and therefore given to flights of fancy and passion; it is the dominion of older and wiser priests to deliberate such weighty matters. But we have our part to play as well, and make no mistake, modernity is precisely what the council is all about. The modernization, where necessary and theologically feasible, of the Holy Roman Church in order to insure its survival in the modern age. The Church is under attack on all fronts, Father! All over the world congregations are shrinking."

"On the contrary, I'm seeing new faces every day."

"An anomaly, Father. You said yourself that most of these new converts disappear after attending Mass a few times. They're only responding to all these stories that they hear—"

"They are not stories ..." Killen was increasingly preoccupied and had begun to half mumble, staring sullenly at the floor.

"Yes, Father, stories! Rumors. Gossip. These are poor people. Uneducated. Their days are difficult and long. It is only natural that they should welcome any distraction from the tedium of their everyday lives. The world is changing so rapidly that they simply haven't the knowledge or the subtlety to make sense of it all. That is precisely why it is the duty of the Church, of the clergy,
our
duty, Father, to offer them a semblance of stability in the midst of chaos. Some shelter from the storm. What will happen if we, their spiritual leaders, indulge them in every parochial cult and superstition that catches their fancy in an era when the Church is struggling—yes, struggling, Father—to maintain its relevance? When satellites, miniature moons, Father, made by the hands of men, not God, are circling the globe as we speak? If when all is said and done we are not prepared to guide our flock into the modern world, then what kind of shepherds are we?" Father Monaghan opened a drawer and produced a pack of cigarettes, lit one, and then, strictly as an afterthought, offered one to Father Killen. The younger priest never looked up.

Monaghan shrugged and continued. "Father Cantu was a good priest. He served his congregation well for a generation, but during his tenure the world changed profoundly. The diocese would never have considered replacing him, but when he went on to his reward, much care was taken in choosing his successor. You were his assistant, so you knew the parish. You were energetic and intelligent. And, not to put too fine a point on it, Father Killen, your name didn't end in a vowel."

Killen was certain that he must have missed something. "So I got the parish because ... I'm Irish?"

Monaghan laughed. "You grossly overestimate my influence, Father. But suffice it to say, you weren't Mexican and therefore not culturally predisposed to a soft spot for any of the local folklore. The Church in Latin America has, from time to time, found it necessary to draw rather liberal parallels between Catholic tradition and certain indigenous rites, but this is the United States, Father, not Mexico. It is in the interest of the American Church that at least a veneer of modernity be maintained. Imagine, then, our disappointment when we received your letter, fraught with tales of miraculous transformations and healings by the laying on of hands, not to mention the suggestion of a cause for the sainthood, no less, of a young girl from central Mexico. And to think that dear old Father Cantu drew the attention of the diocese for nothing more than devoting himself to the cult of Our Lady of Guadalupe a little too zealously!"

Father Monaghan rattled on but Killen wasn't listening anymore. He was certain now that no help was forthcoming from the Church; not from this diocese, in any case. It would be up to him and him alone to rescue Graciela from the agents of Satan who held her hostage. He nodded and half smiled and congratulated himself on his mastery of his violent temper. He no longer found it necessary to employ Father Walsh's breathing technique, even though he could clearly visualize his fist crashing down and stanching the incessant verbiage hemorrhaging from the cleric's mouth. Once he had successfully affected defeat, he had to withstand the balance of the lecture while maintaining the appearance of acquiescence for only another quarter of an hour before he found himself shaking hands with Father Monaghan at the front door.

"I knew," the older priest assured him, "that you and I would be able to sort this out, one Irishman to another."

"No doubt," the younger affirmed, and then turned and walked out. He had reached his car and opened the door when Father Monaghan called after him. "What now," he muttered, but he turned and met him on the steps.

"I'm sorry to keep you," Monaghan apologized. "But I nearly forgot! I made a note at some point during our little talk. Perhaps I heard wrong, but I believe that you mentioned something about"—he lowered his voice to the faintest of whispers and leaned close to Killen's ear—"an abortionist?"

Congratulating himself on his ability to remain so calm in the face of such ignorance, Father Killen nodded solemnly and replied, "Yes, Father. In the Yellow Rose boarding house. On South Presa Street. They call him Doc."

The priest didn't go straight home. He needed to think. To pray. He drove downtown to San Fernando Cathedral, parked across the street, and went inside. He had been there once before, when he was newly arrived from Ireland and taking in the local historical landmarks, including, of course, the Alamo. His guide had been dear old Father Cantu, who had pointed out the marble vault just inside the cathedral's front door in which all that remained of the defenders were interred, Crockett's, Bowie's, and Travis's ashes commingled with those of the forgotten. But today he walked past the shrine without a glance and made straight for an alcove in a dark corner of the nave.

The figure of Our Lady of Guadalupe that dominated the tiny shrine was resplendent in its contrast to the limestone wall covered in candle-smoke soot and handwritten prayers for intercession on tiny slips of yellowing paper. The priest took a candle and kindled it from one of the dozens of others, knelt, and began to utter the first words of an unfamiliar prayer, unsure whether he had heard it somewhere before or if he was just making it up as he went along.

"Our Lady of Guadalupe, Mystical Rose, make intercession for the Holy Church, and help all those who invoke thee in their necessities. You are the Woman clothed with the sun who labors to give birth to Christ, while Satan, the Red Dragon, waits to voraciously devour your child. So too did Herod seek to destroy your Son, Our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ, and massacred many innocent children in the process. O clement, O loving, O sweet Virgin Mary, hear our pleas and accept this cry from our hearts. Our Lady of Guadalupe, Protectress of the Unborn, pray for us! Amen."

Father Paddy Killen strode out of San Fernando Cathedral and crossed West Commerce Street with the confident gait of a man who knew exactly what he had to do.

"
You
must
tell him!" the cat spirit spits.

Graciela flinches but gives no ground. "I tell him every day! For weeks now, but he doesn't listen! You know that. You've been begging him for years.
"

"
Ha! He's had years to practice the art of ignoring me. But you had his ear from the day that you walked through the door.
"

Graciela pads down the stairs, and the cat orbits her in tight semicircular arcs as she moves through the house, sweeping and dusting and tending her altars. Practice and the knowledge that the spirit has no substance in the material world allows her to complete her daily rounds without tripping over her cat-shaped shadow. "Well, he's not listening now," she mutters as she sweeps the last puffs of dust off the porch and props the broom prominently next to the door. Her grandfather taught her that a broom by the door acted as a talisman, a warning to all that the home was clean, purged of any unwholesome medium that might offer comfort and aid to threats from without, spiritual or material. The daily exorcism complete, the sorceress and the great black cat pace the porch like sentries. They begin at opposite ends and cross in the middle, watching, listening, breathing in the air and tasting it. Sifting through for any tang of ill will. The vigil is observed for the hour before sunset and the hour that follows and then repeated around dawn. This was her grandfather's teaching again, that all Powers enter and leave the world through the gap between darkness and light. Nothing can be done to impede their traffic, and only the very arrogant ever try. "It is enough," Grandfather said, "to mark their comings and goings and that they mark ours.
"

Besides, flesh and bone are what frightens Graciela. She's not afraid of ghosts.

"
It's quiet," observes the passing cat.

"
It always is," Graciela whispers. "Before it's not.
"

The screen door creaks
...
Graciela glances back, and Doc is standing there, frozen halfway through the door, as if deciding whether to proceed.

"
You two make me nervous!" Doc grumbles. "Looks like the waiting room in a maternity ward out here. Why don't you light somewhere!
"

Graciela shrugs. "It will be dark soon.
"

It's a man-shaped thing that Doc sees, pacing up and down the porch with Graciela, back and forth, back and forth. "What about you, Hank? You a man or a cat?
"

"
Fuck you, Doc!" the ghost of Hank Williams snaps. "We're just watchin' out for you so maybe you got time to climb out the back window when they kick the door down.
"

Graciela leans over the rail around the porch to scrutinize the western sky for any remaining blush of color before ducking under Doc's arm and disappearing inside. Doc's still grumbling at Hank.

"
When who kicks the door down, Hank? He was a priest, for fuck sake. Not a cop. And it's been damn near a month now and nothing's happened and nothing's going to happen." The ghost rockets across the porch and alights in the rocking chair just as Doc sits down, and the physician very nearly levitates, shivering from the chilling effects of an ectoplasm enema. "Goddamn it, Hank!
"

Hank crosses his legs, making himself comfortable in Doc's rocking chair and exposing the intricately tooled top of one cowboy boot. Doc is left to slouch against the opposite rail. "I ain't studyin' on that priest one way or the other, Doc. I'm just sayin' that there ain't no way a feller can keep doin' what you been doin' in one place for as long as you been doin' it without you attract the attention of the law. It was one thing when it was a couple or three girls a month, Doc, but now you're seein' that many in a week. And it ain't just the workin' girls off of the strip anymore, Doc. They're comin' from all over now. Some of 'em bound to have families.
"

Doc shrugs. "Everybody's got family, Hank.
"

"
I mean family as in
good
family. Somebody that gives a damn! What if somethin' was to go wrong? One of 'em up and dies on you, like that poor gal Donna.
"

Doc leans over to wag his finger in the phantom's face. "She was allergic to penicillin, Hank. She had a reaction. Besides, that was before Graciela came along.
"