El Paso Way (4 page)

Now that they were dead, Enrique wondered if his
papá
wasn't right, or if there was even a God at all.

“Are you not hungry, Enrique?” the priest said.

The boy hadn't realized he was merely twirling his spoon in his soup bowl, daydreaming. He brought the spoon to his mouth and sipped. Though he had never had soup made with peas, corn, and yellow squash, and slivers of chicken meat, he liked the taste. But the broth was more appealing and easier for him to swallow.

Father Gaeta broke off a piece of bread, dipped it in the soup, and bit off the soggy end. The boy still did not have the stomach for such a filling meal and only drank the broth. The tragedy kept rolling around in his mind, from the point where it began, seeing the bandits amid their craziness, to the point where he woke from sleep at the mission. He wondered how such a horrible situation could take place if a priest were nearby.

He studied the priest while he ate, as if to look for something magical, or maybe fake. “Why were you coming to see us, Father?”

The priest swallowed his food and smiled at the boy. “It's foresummer, my son. Time for the saguaro fruit harvest. I thought your father would like some help.”

The boy thought for a moment. “So you weren't bringing God to us?”

The priest laughed. His healthy white teeth were an ivory glow amid his long brown beard. “Oh, my dear boy. God is everywhere. Why would you ask such a question?”

Enrique twirled his spoon again, half his thoughts in sadness, the other half in disgust.

Father Gaeta adopted a solemn gaze, took the last bite of his bread, brushed his hands together, and nodded to the boy. “I understand,” he said as he chewed.

“I don't.”

“Well, son, my heart sank when I found you there, exhausted after dutifully digging the graves for your parents. Never have I seen so much heart in a young lad.” He watched the boy sip at his soup. “Your
mamá
and
papá
would have been proud of you, Enrique.”

“But I didn't get to bury them, you did.”

“That does not matter. You gave it your all, and God sent me there to help you fulfill your honor.”

Enrique dropped the spoon in the bowl and tried to hold back his emotion. This made no sense. It felt wrong. Why couldn't the father have come earlier and saved his family?

“If there is a God, how could he do these things to my family?” the boy asked.

“Those bandits made their own choices, Enrique. God didn't.”

“But you always told us he was all-powerful, and that we were good people, and that God would protect us.”

The priest sighed. “I know I did, son.”

“Then why did this happen? You lied to us!”

The priest rose from the table, reached for the boy's hand, and squatted beside him. “No, Enrique, listen. It is sometimes very difficult to understand God's motives. The meek, and those who suffer by the hands of the wicked, will find paradise in His kingdom. But we must not ever doubt Him. And, my son, I do believe that God has a special plan for you. That is why you survived all this.”

The boy could only stare at the priest, wondering how any of his ideas could be trusted.

The father rose again to his feet. “Why don't you come with me?”

Enrique stood slowly, took Father Gaeta's hand, and followed. They walked together out of the mission, into the bright sunny day and toward the bank of the Santa Cruz River. The river was experiencing a dry time and was very shallow. The priest let go of Enrique's hand and stepped out into the dull current in his sandaled feet. He stood there, looking back, the tail of his brown robe absorbing the water.

“Enrique, do you know what it means to be baptized?”

The boy only stared nervously and did not understand.

The priest gazed down at the water. “I've baptized many in this river. Whites, Indians, Mexicans,
Criollos
.
Vitae spiritualis ianua.
Baptism . . . it is the beginning of life with God and Christ. Through baptism we are freed from sin and reborn as children of God.”

Enrique looked down at the water. “If I would have been baptized, would those bad things have happened to my family?”

“Oh, my son, this life will always bring hard times. It's the life after this one that brings us peace. But we have to accept Christ first, and be baptized. Maybe someday you would like to give it a try?”

The boy looked hard at the priest. “No, I don't think I want to.”

“Enrique, I want to protect your soul, and for you to give it to God. That way, if anything ever happens to you, like what happened to your family, you will not die, but find a better life in heaven. And there, you will meet all your family again.”

The boy liked the idea of being able to see his family again, but his desire for justice churned his blood more. “Nothing is going to happen to me. I am going to kill those men who killed my family.”

The priest came back to the bank and put his hand gently on top of Enrique's head. “My dear boy, you must always understand that vengeance belongs to God.”

“Then why doesn't he kill them?”

“You should not worry so much about the death of others, but about your own life.”

“I can't think of anything else.”

“I know this is hard for you, but for the sake of your own soul you must try to make things right for yourself.”

Enrique could not feel what the priest wanted him to feel. He wanted to see the men dead, screaming and bloody, like they had left his parents. It was the only way he could see his justice.

Father Gaeta looked out to the water, then turned back to the boy. “You're right. You should not be pressured to God. Let's take a walk.”

Enrique moped behind, and eventually they stood side by side and the priest squinted as he looked up at the mission tower.

Unlike the simple adobes and other
rancherio
shelters found throughout the Sonora, it was a structure with thick walls and an arched façade and molded columns lining the entrance. The bell tower stood to the side of the nave, two stories taller.

“You know,” the priest said, “this mission has never had a bell in its tower.”

“Why not?”

“They ran out of money. Sun-fired brick and Indian labor were not as hard to obtain. But when Friar Ramon ran out of funds, just the building had to be enough.”

“Was Friar Ramon your friend?”

“No, he was before my time. A Franciscan. They left here a few years after Mexico won its independence from Spain. The missions were no longer supported by the government.”

Enrique thought for a moment. “If God is so great, why does He need the government?”

Father Gaeta looked down at Enrique and smiled. “You are a bright young man. No, the main purpose of these missions was not to convert the Indians to Christianity, as many have thought, but more so to make taxpaying citizens out of them. Regardless of what they tried to make people believe, it wasn't so much about saving souls.”

“Then why are you here, Father?”

“Ah, that is the difference in our purpose. I
am
here to save souls. If anything, to keep peace among the people. Keep them neighborly and from mutilating one another.”

Enrique thought about how his own family had been ruthlessly murdered. “How can you do that? You didn't save my family.”

The priest knelt before Enrique. “My dear boy. I am just a mortal man, like you. Like your father. I do not have the power, as God would have, to prevent such horrible things from happening. I am merely a representative of God, and operate from my own free will, with His spirit working through me.”

He stood and put his arm around Enrique, and they walked behind the mission and into the garden. “That is what my visits to the villages are all about. I like to bring smiles and fellowship to my neighbors, no matter what their beliefs may be. No, I am not a true Catholic. I'd have been banned from the church years ago. I follow my own beliefs, and that is mostly to free a man's soul from hate and greed. They are the most deadly elements a man can carry.”

“You are not a Christian?”

“On the contrary! I believe entirely in Christ. It's just the religions created by man I question.”

The priest looked to the garden and pointed down at a row of plants. “Maize
.
See it?”

“Yes,” Enrique said, drooping his head. “My mother grew it, too.”

The priest continued pointing. “And there are melons . . . squash there, and dragon's claw. As you can see, I irrigate from the Santa Cruz. One of the things I liked about this mission. One could survive here
and
serve God.”

A rustling noise came from a creosote bush behind them. They both turned and looked, Enrique a bit startled.

“Is that you, Sereno?” the priest said.

A small boy, with long black hair and a red headband, and eyes darker than Enrique's, peered around the bush.

“Who is he?” Enrique said.

“He's an orphan of a Tohono O'odham family, who I feed, and then he leaves. He must be hungry. I call him Sereno because he is always watching.”

“Will he come and talk to us?”

“I'm not sure he can, even if he wanted to. He's been coming around here for over a year. His family was killed in an Apache raid and his throat was cut. But it wasn't a lethal wound. I'm certain it affected his voice.”

“How do you know all this?” Enrique asked.

I found him in the desert shortly after the attack. I could see the blood on his neck. He wouldn't let me get close to him. So I left him some bread. I tended to the dead, and then took food to him each day. One day I decided to quit spoiling him and see if I could lure him here. It wasn't long before he started coming here for the food.”

“Where does he eat now?”

The priest pointed to the other side of the garden.

“I leave the food in the stable behind the mission, but only after the stable has been cleaned.”

“Who cleans it?”

The priest grinned. “Sereno, of course.”

Enrique thought for a moment. “But how did he know?”

“He may not speak, but he hears, and he understands. He came one day and expected food but found a pitchfork instead. That's when he realized that he must earn his keep. I came back later and the stable was clean, and I left him bread, a plate of stew, and a cup of milk. Ever since then he has come in and cleans the stable, then I leave his supper.”

Enrique looked back and forth, at the dark-eyed boy peeking out at them and at the stable.

“I could offer you the same, you know,” the priest said.

Enrique looked up at him.

“You could stay here,” said the priest, “help out in the garden, with the goats, and tend to the burros and chickens. Does that interest you?”

Enrique shrugged, thinking of his home, now in shambles. “I don't know.”

“In return I will give you a place to sleep, feed you, and teach you to read, write, and do arithmetic. What do you say?”

“I don't want those things. I have to go to El Paso.”

“What is in El Paso?”

“My grandfather. He went there two years ago. Said his brother was sick and needed him. Well I need him now. With his help I will find Amelia, and together we can find and kill those men.”

“Do you not know who those men are, Enrique?”

“Two Apache and one a mixed gringo. I thought I killed one, but I am not sure now.”

“I see. Well, my son, I'm certain the men that raided your home are the gang of Antonio Valdar. They will not go down easy. So you must be stronger and wiser, which means nutrition, and an education.”

“That will help?”

The priest sighed. “It would be a beginning.”

“Then you will help me?”

“I will help you be a better man, Enrique.”

Enrique's yearning to leave for El Paso was paramount, but for some reason the boy felt the need to stick around the mission for a while. Maybe it was the priest's promises of helping him become a better man. The boy liked being called a man.

“Okay. I will stay awhile.”

Father Gaeta put his arm around Enrique's neck. “All right then! For now, why don't we go fix Sereno's supper?”

* * *

Enrique's daily life along the Santa Cruz River had become routine, which frightened him, and he tried not to think about it. Though he enjoyed his duties—caring for the twenty goats, milking the does, feeding the chickens, gathering the eggs, getting water from the river, or hunting wild game for food—whenever he began to feel content, it was like a prompt to put up a front against his happiness. He was too afraid that if he loved what was around him too much, it would all disappear.

When these feelings came about him, he had learned to exercise his brain, to go on to something else. Such as during the saguaro fruit harvest, which reminded him so much of his family, but the priest told him that the memories of his family, good and bad, would never fade, so he might as well learn to live with them. It was good though, he also said, not to dwell on things and to move on. Enrique would think about his schooling, which he looked forward to each day. His lessons in biology, of the plants and animals in the Sonora, were quite enjoyable. The priest was impressed with how much Enrique already knew, and the boy assured him it was because of his grandfather.

“He must be a great man,” the priest said, with a consoling hand to Enrique's shoulder. It was another moment when the boy preferred to go on to something else.

Not only did the priest teach Enrique to read and write, but he taught him English as well as Spanish. The boy liked learning English, as he had always wanted to know what those drummers on the trail were saying. He remembered how frustrated they were trying to communicate with his parents, who didn't know English. It wouldn't have mattered anyway. Regardless of how much his mother liked the things the men were trying to sell, they didn't have the money for them. Even if they had, his father would not have let her buy them.