Paper Moon (12 page)

The waiter called it the
voladores
.

“Who was that blond-haired guy who came to the Aztecs before the Spanish?” Annie's gaze took on a pensive glow, as though she searched an imaginary crystal ball. “I mean, if he didn't look like a snake with a plume.”

“It's pronounced
ket-sal-quate-al,”
Caroline read aloud.

“Historians have debated many identities for the man the Indians thought to be the incarnation of the plumed serpent god Quetzalcoatl—St. John, St. Thomas, St. Brendan. Some suggest even Jesus of Nazareth, after His resurrection. Whoever he was, he taught them the basics of Christianity centuries before Columbus and the Spanish conquerors.”

“The Irish theory would explain a lot of things.” All heads turned at Blaine's declaration.

“Like what?” Caroline asked.

“Why no one can say his name.” Humor tugged at the corner of his smirk. “The Celts couldn't spell any better than the Aztecs.

They just throw a bunch of letters together and every man helps himself to the pronunciation.”

Laughing, Caroline dug into her purse to pay for hers and Annie's meal, but Blaine snatched up the check.

“My treat,” he said in a tone that stalled her objection. “You get the next one.”

As they left the bistro, Annie linked her arm through Blaine's.

“Thanks, Mr. M. It's great to have a dad around once in a while.”

The girl—her little girl—looked at the man with nothing less than adoration. Caroline's heart took such a tumble, she didn't hear Blaine's reply.

Heavenly Father . . .
Caroline dared not pray further, for she had no idea what to ask for. Nor could she identify the emotions spinning around in her mind like the men now being flung away from the pole on long lines. There was nothing to do but emulate the
voladeros
, who now hung from the ring by their knees, spinning like a child's top, pantaloons and puffy sleeves billowing in the overhead breeze. She had to cling to what kept her from free-falling to her end—her faith that God was in control.

After a quick tour of the Museum of Antiquity, Hector herded Edenton High's finest onto a diesel-eating bus for the ride to the north of the city to see the Villa de Guadalupe. Guillermo, aka Bill the driver, eased the bus in, out, and around, darting past honking cars, motorbikes, and an occasional burro-powered cart with an amazing calm, while Hector pointed out sites and statues of interest along the way.

In front of Blaine, Dana and Caroline and the girls tried on the Indian trinkets they purchased in the museum shop.

“Ooh, I didn't see that one,” Caroline exclaimed, fingering the medallion Karen wore on a black cord around her neck.

“It's a sundial or something,” the girl said.

Kurt spoke up from across the aisle. “It's an Aztec calendar.”

“Thank you, Professor Doofus.” Karen wrinkled her nose, making a face at the boy. “So what did you get?”

“A little book on Aztec life. I want to show the guys how seriously the Indians took their sports. You know,” he added, seeing Karen had no clue what he was talking about. “Remember when Hector said how they killed the losing team?”

“Talk about taking sports too seriously,” Wally Peterman snorted.

“Though I kind of liked that big doughnut-looking stone where the Aztecs tied their enemies and let 'em fight to the death in honor.”

“Oh, yeah, there's real honor in being tied to a rock while a tribe of savages kills you.” Annie rolled her eyes toward the tin-paneled ceiling.

“At least you got to—” The bus rolled over a curb and dropped, cutting Kurt off. “To take some of them with you,” he finished.

“And when you're dead, that is going help
how?
” Karen's ponytail punctuated her challenge with a bounce.

Next to Blaine, the boy's father looked up from the brochure he'd been reading with a grin. “You might as well learn early, son, there's no arguing with female logic.”

“And just what is that supposed to mean, Randy Gearhardt?”

Dana peered over the seat at her husband.

“It means that God gave women a logic all their own, and we men are to love you for it, dear.”

Unable to find a quarrel with her husband's explanation, Dana slunk down in her seat, a smile of satisfaction on her lips.

“Nice recovery,” Blaine said under his breath.

“I'll take fresh over day-old crow any day.”

Blaine laughed out loud. He liked these people. For some reason he'd had this preconceived notion that as churchgoing Christians, they'd be a dull, holier-than-thou bunch, hemmed in by lists of dos and don'ts. Instead, they seemed to be ordinary Joes like him, doing the best they could in a not-so-perfect world.

Eventually the bus pulled out of the mainstream of honking traffic and up to the curb across the street from the two cathedrals— the old in classic Baroque architecture, the new one reminding Blaine of a collapsing circus tent.

After climbing the crosswalk bridging the street, the group was absorbed by a throng of humanity inching past carts and booths selling cold drinks, fresh fruit, and all manner of garish skeletons and religious relics as they made their way toward the holy shrines.

Scattered in between them were beggars, disfigured and gaunt, their hands outstretched for coins. Children in rags plied the same trade, working their way through the tour groups.

Giving a coin to one of the snaggle-toothed waifs with dark eyes large enough to lose oneself in was like tossing food to gulls at the beach. Hector said as much before they disembarked, but by the time the group assembled in the line to enter the cathedral, Caroline looked like the Pied Piper, surrounded by urchins.

“
No más.
” Not only her change, but every mint and stick of gum she carried in her sack purse had run out.

As Blaine moved forward to intervene, he felt someone nudge him.

“Dad, have you got any change? I want to give something to that old lady on the step.” Instead of waiting for his answer, Karen dug into his pocket.

“Hold it, whoa, whoa.” Blaine clamped a hand on his daughter's wrist. “Honey, this is their profession. Keep your purse closed and tight against you, just as Hector cautioned us.”

Shock grazed the teen's face. “You mean they aren't really handicapped and starving?”

“Some may be,” Blaine conceded. “But for others it's a sham.

There are some people who can't be helped.”

He should have just let her go with the pocket change. Now he felt as if he'd just told his little girl there was no Santa.

“Blaine, do you have change for a dollar, or whatever this is?”

Caroline held up a colorful piece of Mexican currency.

“Dad thinks these beggars are faking it,” Karen told her.

“Oh, no, that can't be.”

One disillusioned female was bad enough.

“All I was saying is that some people earn their living begging and will never move up as long as it works.”

Caroline pointed to an elderly woman with a disfigured face and hands. “I can't believe anyone would live like this, if she had a choice.”

“No, not the invalids,” he said, compelled to at least try to pull himself out of the cynical pothole he'd inadvertently stepped into.

“But a lot of them won't be helped. I know, because I was part of a project to build safe high-rise housing after the '85 quake for the commuting workforce. To this day, very few actually live in the city. Haven't you noticed the traffic jams in the morning and evening?”

Blaine felt compelled to explain himself—how the first time he was in Mexico working on the project estimate, he too had been moved toward pity. He could have gotten more for the contract than he'd bid, but all he could see were the families sleeping under street canopies and those brown-eyed, dark-haired waifs who'd begged him for coins.

“Then later, I saw the same kids with a CD player like the one I bought Karen for Christmas. It wasn't cheap.”

Caroline's gaze brewed with thought for a moment. “Then you've adopted the same mentality as the workers who won't move into your buildings.”

“Excuse me?”

“There are charlatans in every profession, yours included. The workers don't trust you as a legitimate engineer because a few unscrupulous ones cut corners at the expense of human lives. You don't trust that these people are in need because a few are shams.”

The simple illustration tripped a switch somewhere within, flooding Blaine's grudging mind with the light of conviction.

“In heaven's eye,” she said, “it's the heart of the giver, not of the receiver that earns God's favor. If the gift is misused, that is between the receiver and God.”

Stung pride demanded a defense, but Blaine could think of none. “Uncle.” He held up his hands in surrender. “I won't argue with a pretty woman, especially when she's right.”

Blaine entered the vestibule of the new cathedral with a humbler heart than the one with which he'd approached it.

Hector told the story of how the Virgin of Guadalupe chose the Indian peasant Juan Diego to implore the church on her behalf to build a shrine on this site five hundred years ago. When the church leaders would not believe that the peasant was telling the truth, the apparition gave him proof that the order was divine. She directed him to pick some white roses, which he wrapped in his cloak to present to the church fathers. The priests were dumbstruck by the sight of roses, for it was December, but it was the mantle itself that brought them to their knees in awe and reverence. There, etched on the humble cloth, was the image of the Virgin Mary. The shrine was built without further question.

“Will we see it?” Karen whispered, slipping her hand into his.

The face she turned up to him was that of the little girl Blaine remembered, filled with wonder and innocence. He nodded, letting her indulge in the legend of the miracle to her romantic heart's content. Like most religious relics, the cloth could neither be proved nor disproved. It was all a matter of faith.

A hush enveloped them as they stepped into the church.

Overhead, chandeliers—lighted clusters of glass tubes designed by Vázquez to represent the white rose blossoms—cast an ethereal glow, steadfast compared to the dancing shadows cast by the thousands of candles representing the prayers of the parishioners. Surrounded by fellow tourists, pilgrims, and local worshippers, Blaine pointed out the large, gilded-glass frame at the center of the modernistic, three-dimensional, gilded-metal backdrop of the sanctuary. Beneath the glass was the cloth with the image of the Virgin like a painted canvas, as fresh and bright as the day Juan Diego presented it.

Caroline's breathless whisper sounded at his elbow as she gathered her daughter in an embrace. “It's just like Hector said, not even faded.”

Others echoed her amazement at the phenomenon. Familiar with the research, Blaine knew exactly what they were thinking, even though he'd only heard partial statements.

Should have decayed in twenty years . . . the cactus cloth on which
the Virgin was painted . . . Her eyes contain the image of Juan Diego
presenting the roses to the bishop . . .

Scientists had done a microscopic study revealing the image reflected in the painting's eyes as it might have appeared nearly half a century before—something impossible for the human hand to replicate.

He'd read it all, but the most forceful argument for the framed relic was the faith it inspired. The air was thick with it . . . or was it incense? He inhaled deeply, as though to fill the painful void that opened to him in the wee hours of the night when there was no distraction to spare him. For some reason, Blaine couldn't draw his gaze from the legendary cloak long enough to seek out the source of the scent. Only the sudden release of his hand by his daughter managed to penetrate the spell.

Giving himself a mental shake, he turned to see where she'd gone.

With stinging eyes, he searched the crowd for Karen and caught a glimpse of Caroline looking frantically over the sea of heads between them. Suddenly she caught his eye, and relief flooded her face. With a dramatic gesture, she pointed toward the entrance.

What was going on?

CHAPTER
9