Blasphemy

Wardlaw shrugged. “Who knows? The man’s a little unstable.”

Ford watched Wardlaw strolling off, meaty paws thrust in his pockets—a man like the rest of them, close to the breaking point, only far better at hiding it.

11

EDDY STOOD OUTSIDE HIS TRAILER, A glass of cold water in his hand, watching the sun sink toward the distant horizon. Lorenzo was nowhere to be seen—he had disappeared sometime around noon, vanished as silently as he had come, without having finished his chores. A heap of unsorted clothing lay on a table and the sand around the church hadn’t yet been raked. Eddy stared at the distant horizon, burning with resentment. He never should have agreed to take in Lorenzo. The young man had been in prison for involuntary manslaughter, plea-bargained down from second-degree murder—knifed someone in a drunken brawl in Gallup. Served only eighteen months. Eddy had agreed to hire him, at the request of a local family, to help him satisfy his conditions of parole.

Big mistake.

Eddy took a sip of the cool water, trying to suppress the hot resentment and anger that boiled inside him. He hadn’t heard yet from the trader in Blue Gap, but he had no doubt he would soon. And when that happened, he would have the proof he needed and could get rid of Lorenzo for good—send him back to prison, where he belonged. Eighteen months for murder—no wonder the crime rate on the Rez was sky high.

He took another sip and was surprised to see the faint outline of a man, walking down the road toward the mission, silhouetted against the setting sun. He stared, squinting.

Lorenzo.

Even as he approached he could see, from Lorenzo’s uncertain gait, that the man was drunk. Eddy crossed his arms and waited, his heart accelerating at the thought of the coming confrontation. He would not let it pass— not this time.

Lorenzo came to the gate, leaned for a moment on the post, then came in.

“Lorenzo?”

The Navajo slowly turned his head. His eyes were bloodshot, his silly braids half undone, the bandanna around his head askew. He looked terrible, his whole frame stooped, as if the weight of the world were on his shoulders.

“Come here, please. I’d like to have a word with you.”

Lorenzo merely looked at him.

“Lorenzo, didn’t you hear me?”

The Indian turned and shambled on toward the clothes pile.

Eddy quickly moved and stood in Lorenzo’s path, blocking him. The Indian stopped and raised his head, looking at him. The sour smell of bourbon washed over him.

“Lorenzo, you know very well that drinking alcoholic beverages is a violation of your parole.”

Lorenzo just stared.

“You also left without finishing your work. I’m supposed to certify to your parole officer that you’re doing an adequate job here, and I won’t lie to him. I won’t lie. I’m letting you go.”

Lorenzo dropped his head. For a moment Eddy thought it was a gesture of contrition, but then he heard a hawking sound, as Lorenzo scoured up a gob of phlegm and slipped it from his lips, depositing it into the sand at Eddy’s feet like a raw oyster.

Eddy felt his heart pounding. He was furiously angry. “Don’t you spit when I’m talking to you, mister,” he said, his voice high.

Lorenzo tried to take a step to the side to go around Eddy, but the pastor quickly stepped in his way again. “Are you listening to me, or are you too drunk?”

The Indian just stood there.

“Where’d you get the money for liquor?”

Lorenzo lifted his hand, let it drop heavily.

“I asked you a question.”

“A guy owed me.” His voice was hoarse.

“Is that so? Which guy?”

“Don’t know his name.”

“You don’t know his name,” repeated Eddy.

Lorenzo made another halfhearted attempt to go around, which Eddy blocked. He felt his hands trembling. “I happen to know where you got that money. You stole it. From the collection plate.”

“No way.”

“Yes way. You stole it. Over fifty dollars.”

“Bullshit.”

“Don’t swear at me, Lorenzo. I saw you take it.” The lie was out before he even realized he was telling it. But it didn’t matter; he might as well have seen him—guilt was written all over his face.

Lorenzo said nothing.

“That was fifty dollars of money that this mission desperately needs. But you didn’t just steal from the mission. You didn’t just steal from me. You stole from the Lord.”

No response.

“How do you think the Lord will react to that? Did you think about that when you took the money, Lorenzo? And if thy right hand offend thee, cut it off, and cast it from thee: for it is profitable for thee that one of thy members should perish, and not that thy whole body should be cast into hell.”

Lorenzo turned brusquely and began walking the other way, back toward town. Eddy lunged forward and grabbed his shirt at the shoulder. Lorenzo jerked his shoulder away and kept going. Suddenly he veered and went off toward the trailer.

“Where are you going?” Eddy cried. “Don’t go in there!”

Lorenzo disappeared inside. Eddy ran after him, pausing at the door. “Get out of there!” He hesitated to follow him inside, fearful of being jumped. “You’re a thief!” he shouted in. “That’s what you are. A common thief. Get out of my house now! I’m calling the police!”

A crash came from the kitchen, a silverware drawer flung across the room.

“You’ll pay for the damage! Every cent!”

Another crash, more scattered flatware. Eddy desperately wanted to go in, but he was afraid. At least the drunk Indian was in the kitchen and not in the back bedroom where his computer was.

“Get out of there, you drunkard! Human garbage! You’re dirt in the eyes of Jesus! I’m reporting this to your parole officer and you’ll go back to prison! I guarantee it!”

Suddenly Lorenzo appeared in the entryway, a long bread knife in his hand.

Eddy backed up and off the stoop. “Lorenzo. No.”

Lorenzo stood on the stoop, uncertainly, waving the knife and blinking in the setting sunlight. He did not advance.

“Drop the knife, Lorenzo. Drop it.”

His hand lowered.

“Drop it, now.” Eddy could see his whitened grip on the handle relaxing. “Drop it or Jesus will punish you.”

A gargle of rage suddenly came from Lorenzo’s throat. “I screw your Jesus up the ass, like this!” He jabbed the knife into the air so violently that it almost threw him off balance.

Eddy staggered back, the words landing on him like a kick to the gut. “How—dare—you— blaspheme our Savior? You sick—you evil man! You’ll burn in hell, Satan! You—!” Eddy’s high-pitched voice was choked off by hysteria.

A raucous, phlegmy laugh erupted from Lorenzo’s throat. He waved the knife around, grinning, as if enjoying Eddy’s horror. “That’s right,up the ass.”

“You’ll burn in hell!” Eddy cried, with a rush of courage. “You’ll call on Jesus to moisten your parched lips, but He won’t be listening. Because you’re scum. Human garbage scum!”

Lorenzo spat again. “Right on.”

“God will strike you down, mark my words. He will smite you and curse you, blasphemer! You stole from Him, you dirty Indian thief!”