Night at the Fiestas: Stories (24 page)

“Father Paul?” she called. He wasn’t in his study. She started down the dim carpeted hall, lightening her step out of habit as she passed Father Leon’s closed study door. No matter the hour, the rectory, with its small windows and sheer drapes, always felt muted with late-afternoon light.

“Father Paul?” she called again, as much to announce herself as to find him. She hoped he wasn’t still asleep. What if she had to step into his bedroom, shake him awake? She recoiled at the thought of touching his bony shoulder through his pajamas.

But, thank God, the bedroom was empty, the bed with its incongruous floral spread made in Father Paul’s usual hasty way. It was a weird room, she often thought. Maybe it was a result of the vow of poverty, or the sign of a sparse personality, but there were few personal effects: a kachina, a bottle of Jergens lotion, some change, and a couple of bent collars. No boxes of letters or journals or bedside drawers to snoop through—though she’d looked, once, a little. The only trace of the individual who’d slept here for decades was a photograph: Father Paul as a happy young priest standing beside a beaming woman who must be his mother, a woman who, with her high cheekbones and heavy black eyebrows, might have been a distant relative of Crystal herself.

Maybe Father Paul had dropped dead, Crystal thought with a thrill of fear. At the end of the shadowy hall, the bathroom door was open, the pink tile glowing, and she approached with reluctance. “Father Paul?” Empty.

For a long moment she stood outside Father Leon’s study. For the first time Crystal wondered how it was for Father Paul, having to mediate between Father Leon and everyone else, how it was for each of them, living here so intimately with a complete stranger.

Finally, she tapped and opened the door. Father Leon looked up from his desk and frowned at her from behind his giant, smoky plastic-rimmed glasses. Barely thirty and already so stern. You wouldn’t catch Father Leon admitting mistakes to the congregation. She couldn’t begin to guess what went on in his mind.

“Is this important, miss? I am in the midst of doing my work.”

“Sorry to bother you,” Crystal said. “But have you seen Father Paul? His appointment is waiting.”

“I have not seen Father Lujan this morning.”

Father Leon would have made a much more sinister dream villain, with his thick accent and his formal English. Though this was probably racist. Crystal shifted in the doorway. “You have no idea where he is? Would you meet with the couple, then?”

Father Leon closed his eyes with forbearance.

“Sorry. Collette told me to ask.”

Father Leon regarded her coldly. He paused with his palms on his book, then stood. “I will go.”

“Thank you
so
much, Father Leon,” she said, her voice bright and emphatic and teetering just this side of sarcasm.

He walked past without looking at her.

In the kitchen, Crystal rinsed the dishes and loaded them into the dishwasher. She didn’t care if she was racist or not, Father Leon was a jerk. Crystal couldn’t help smiling at the thought of him baffling the couple with his accent, advising them with nervous grimness about natural family planning.

Crystal wiped the counters and rinsed the sponge, which was already slick and smelly, even though she’d just put out a new one. When she shut off the faucet, she heard Father Paul calling from somewhere in the house.

“Crystal?”

She looked in the living room—there was the couch from her dream—and down the hall. Father Paul poked his head out his bedroom door, then withdrew it.

Crystal dried her hands on a dish towel as she retraced her steps.

“Jeez, Father Paul. Where’ve you been hiding? I looked everywhere for you.”

He was in his usual black pants and shirt and collar, but barefoot, standing in the middle of his room.

Crystal hesitated in the doorway; she’d never been in the bedroom when he was there. “Are you okay, Father Paul?”

“He’s gone, right?”

“Father Leon? He’s down at the office. Meeting with your eight o’clock. Did you forget about them?”

“Come in, please.”

“Okay,” Crystal said warily. The card. Had he found the card? She scanned the room again—top of the bureau, bedside table—but it wasn’t there. Could he tell that she didn’t want to go near him?

She stepped unwillingly across the threshold, but Father Paul drew her by the wrist to the closet door. “I need you to throw something away for me.” His voice was low. He pointed to a perfectly good rolling carry-on suitcase standing upright under the neat row of black shirts and pants.

“Throw that away? But why?” She hoped it wasn’t infested with bedbugs or fleas.

He cleared his throat, seeming to reach for some authority. “Just put it in the dumpster, Crystal.” He extended the handle and pushed the suitcase at her. Inside, something clinked softly.

“What’s in there, Father Paul? I can’t just—” What crime was she being asked to cover up?

“Don’t look inside,” he said, but he made no move to stop her when she lowered herself with difficulty and drew the zipper.

The suitcase was filled with empty vodka bottles. Nearly all were glass minis, but there were also several cheap plastic fifths. Taaka, Empire, Neva.

“Father Paul,” Crystal said carefully, standing. “You’ve been clean twenty-eight years.”

He inclined his head with exaggerated patience. “Yes, Crystal. That is why I need you to get rid of this.”

She sniffed. She’d never smelled liquor on him, but you never really got that close to a priest, did you? “Have you been drinking this morning?” she asked, but Father Paul just gave her a withering look.

“Do you need me to get Collette? Let me get Collette.” Collette would know what to do. She’d snort and scoff and put Father Paul right.

“No! Listen to me. I can’t trust anyone else. You know why he’s here, don’t you? To force me out.”

“Father Leon? That’s silly. Father Leon could never replace you.” She tried to envision the young priest plotting in his study and laughed a little. “Father Paul, honestly, no one even likes him. You
are
the parish.”

Father Paul took off his glasses and rubbed first one lens then the other on his shirt. Without the glasses, his eyes looked small and red, the skin around them wrinkled, shiny, thin. He pinched a lens between his thumb and forefinger. “Let me explain something to you, Crystal. When the bishop makes these assignments, he makes them for a reason. That man”—he jutted his chin toward the door—“the Church in Nigeria, in Africa in general, it’s very . . . traditional. The fact is, they think I’m weak, and they’ve sent him to ruin me.”

“That can’t be.” Crystal supposed what he said was plausible.
The Da Vinci Code
, the sex-abuse scandals: everyone knew the Church could be ruthless. “No one wants to hurt you, Father Paul,” she said without conviction.

He replaced the glasses over his closed eyes and seemed to come to a decision. “The fact is, I don’t even know that
I’m
the one drinking. I’m telling you, that man is like a cat, playing his mind games.”

“What?”

“I’ve tried locking the door, but he gets in. I wake up and the bottles are there, and I can feel it in my system. I know he’s been here.”

“Come on, Father Paul,” Crystal said sharply. What was he saying—that Father Leon was creeping into his bedroom at night, plying him with liquor? Or that Father Leon was deploying some dark sorcery?

“You don’t believe me. Fine.”

Could he possibly believe himself? No one could sleep through that. And however odd and standoffish Father Leon might be, she didn’t think he was malicious. Or stupid enough to force liquor down his superior’s throat after a few weeks on the job. Which meant that Father Paul was either lying or out of his mind. But she could think of no reason for him to lie; he could easily throw the bottles away in the dead of night. Why seek her out and show her the bottles unless he truly believed he was in danger? This was crazy—and cruel, too, Crystal thought with a rush of outrage, scapegoating a friendless, homesick man. Moments ago, sitting behind his big desk, Father Leon had just looked young and alone. No wonder he hid out in his study.

She thought of Collette’s grim warning that alcoholics never recovered. Had Father Paul spent the past twenty-eight years craving self-destruction, pulling back at the last minute each time? Maybe with Father Leon here to share duties, he’d let himself go—just an occasional sip at first, and then everything slid out from under him, leaving him to retreat into this insane story, paranoid and ashamed with his stash of empties.

Crystal flushed with irritation. Why couldn’t Father Paul just admit that he’d fallen off the wagon? Why this elaborate ruse? All that hoopla over being late, as if his minor sins needed so much more forgiveness than Crystal’s major ones, as if Crystal were expected to screw up, whereas it was a big fucking deal when he did. He couldn’t help proving to her just how bad she was, lording it over her, shoving it in her face. It wasn’t enough that she’d had to humiliate herself in confession? She had to humor him, too? “I’m going to get Collette,” she said.

“No! You can’t leave.” His voice dropped again. Father Paul reached for her arm, but she dodged his touch. “You have to help me. I’ve helped you.”

Crystal stepped back, looked around the room. “Okay. Fine. I’ll throw away your suitcase.”

Gladness lit through her at the prospect of escape. She’d walk briskly across the carpet, rolling the suitcase behind her, like a businesswoman at the airport. Down the back steps, and then she’d be outside in the cool day, free from the oppressive hush of the rectory, free from Father Paul and whatever demons had caught hold of him. “It’ll be okay,” she promised. The cheer in her voice was genuine. “Maybe get a bite to eat, splash some water on your face.”

He looked her up and down, his mouth tense. Some new emotion had shifted his expression—dissatisfaction that he hadn’t convinced her of Father Leon’s treachery, perhaps, or disappointment at her eagerness to leave.

“Why do you keep avoiding me, after all I’ve done?” Now he was looking not at her but at the sun-faded framed poster above her shoulder: the Pietà, a souvenir from someone’s long-ago trip to St. Peter’s Basilica. “You know,” he said calmly, “Father Leon doesn’t like you.”

“I know,” she said, though she hadn’t known, not exactly.

“He said we should let you go. He didn’t want you sitting in the front office.” Father Paul straightened now, oddly pleased.

Earlier, then, when Father Leon had glared at her from behind his desk, he hadn’t been merely irritated at the interruption; she saw now that he’d been horrified by her messy fecundity. No real surprise, but, still, Crystal had let herself believe that her body didn’t matter. She’d let herself believe that it was irrelevant to her work, that she was safe here and forgiven.

The real surprise, though, was that Father Paul wanted to hurt her. Courteous, heedful, absurd Father Paul. Father Paul, who saw pain in every face and gesture, whether it was there or not, wanted to hurt her, and that was what stung. She’d thought she could disdain Father Paul’s kindness, and that it would somehow remain intact: unconditional, holy, and inhuman. Astonishing that she had been capable of such faith.

“Well, who does that man think he is, telling us how to do things? I defended you. I put myself on the line for you.” His tone was wheedling. “I gave you the Santo Niño, too. Did you know the Santo Niño was my mother’s favorite?” He stuck out his chin, defiant. “Once a week she went to the Santuario in Chimayo. Used to walk there every Good Friday.”

“It was nice of you to give me the card,” Crystal said, regarding him with loathing. “I appreciated that.”

They stood facing each other, and time held steady. All her speculation, and Crystal didn’t know the first thing about this man. Then Father Paul bent suddenly at the waist, gasping like a sprinter.

When he rose, his face was purple. He backed against the wall, pushing against it with his palms as if it might relent and absorb him. “Forgive me. I never should have said any of that.” He slid to the floor. His black pants tugged up, and his head drooped to his knees.

“I forgive you.” Her voice was cold.

“Forgiveness,” Father Paul said, as though the word disgusted him. “Forgiveness is a drug, too. Believe me. You can forgive and forgive until you’re high on it and you can’t stop. It’ll numb you as much as any of that stuff.” He extended his foot and kicked the suitcase, which tipped, spilling bottles onto the carpet.

Crystal had the drowning sense that she’d lost track of what they were talking about.

“I know you don’t like me,” Father Paul said, looking up at her.

And what could Crystal say?
Don’t be silly.
Of course I do.
And then there she’d be, lying to a priest.

She should leave, go back to the office and pretend that none of this had happened. Instead, she crossed the room and sat beside him.

“Please just hold me?” He looked at her as if asking permission, and when she neither gave nor withheld it, he leaned into her and rested his head on her shoulder.

She might have expected to be filled with a deep, sexual revulsion, but she wasn’t. She didn’t touch him, but she didn’t push him away, either. Instead, Crystal placed her head against the wall and waited.

Inside her, the babies stirred. She remembered the weekend and the icy horror that had swamped her when she realized how she’d put them at risk. She remembered the ultrasound stills, how she’d studied them, straining to connect the images to children, to her children, children who would come to shape her life. “Have you picked names?” the guy had asked Saturday night. She’d pretended to be asleep so that she wouldn’t have to lie. Where were her instincts? Where was the biological imperative to keep them safe? There must be some blockage, some deep damage that left her so cold.

Crystal saw herself standing on that ratty street at dawn, waiting for the cab to take her away from her mistake. But instead of the cab it was the Santo Niño who would find her. The soles of his shoes would be worn away, his little toes poking through the leather. He would take Crystal’s hand in his pudgy one and lead her home. It was a lovely notion, and Crystal almost allowed herself to sink into it.