More priests were invited by the family. They looked embarrassed at the sight of Fernanda while completely ignoring me in my bikini top and denim cutoffs. The older ones scarcely glanced in her direction, their eyes showing no compassion or real concern.
I couldn’t tell if either Fernanda or the inhabitant had any awareness of these visitors. They evoked no response from her. Only when her speeches came to nothing did she react. This is when she would scrape her hands down the stems of her mother’s dead roses. The petals were long gone, but the thorns remained sharp. Her palms were shredded, bloody rags she offered to me with black tears running down her face. I clasped her hands to cry with her. With her blood, she crudely wrote in the dirt, “Send them away.” I tried to show Mrs. Garcia, but she dismissed it as more devil talk. “Of course a demon doesn’t want priests!” she screamed in desperate frustration.
I’m surprised my body wasn’t turning into a pillar of salt from all my sweat and tears. But I wasn’t the only one at the end of her patience. Mrs. Garcia had begun to look for spiritual guidance elsewhere. The priests’ judgments were not just reserved for Fernanda and me, but also fell upon her. What had she done to bring about this calamity? Yolanda suggested a curandera she knew. Maybe a cleansing from whatever was cursing them. Reluctantly, Mrs. Garcia made a list of potential enemies and prayed for forgiveness for whatever ways she might have wronged them. The home was cleansed, filling it with the scent of herbs and smoke. The curandera came and left with the same results as the priests, except one hundred dollars richer. Fernanda planted herself in the dirt, chanting louder than before to remind us the inhabitant was still there and not going anywhere until it got what it wanted, which was a mystery to us all.
The smell of wood in the quiet room made it all come together. There would not be another Martha to steal his peace. No, if you build your house in Sodom and Gomorrah, expect fire and salt. Unlike the days of old, there would be actual proof. All would see the toll of worshipping Satan, and he would be exalted. All the years he’d given to Christ would finally be for something because as of late his faith had been waning in the isolating modern world.
Perhaps he would even have enough power to have a say about this new pope, so quick to give in to the liberal nature of society. Instead of enforcing the natural laws set by God, he accepted all sorts. Tears and fire, Father Moreno would have both. He prayed to God for a plan to show the world that the wages of sin is death, even if it meant this young woman would lose her life.
With that thought, he ached to speak to Martha.
He left the confessional for the back office of the church. The small space had an old brown metal desk with a wide, out-of-date desktop computer taking up most of the surface. There was also a landline phone, metal filing cabinets, and a closet for cassocks and robes. The rest of the room was filled with various statues of La Virgen that Father Moreno had been collecting ever since he was given one as a boy after having incurable night terrors. His childhood room was filled with them. In adulthood, he increased the collection. There were some as small as coins, as well as some life-sized statues. All of them unique and sacred in different ways that made him feel protected and loved.
In the corner, another door. This room was half the size of the office and used for storage. Against the wall lay a humming rectangular freezer used to store ice cream and bags of ice for social events. Father Moreno had padlocked it, the only key around his neck. He cited kids stealing the frozen treats. He unlocked the freezer and lifted the lid.
There she was, his immortalized Virgin. Her body lay in the fetal position like the sacrifices of old, arms crossed and legs drawn towards her chest. Both ankles and wrists were bound with a rosary. A lace mantilla pinned to her head glittered with ice as did the robe she wore. Ice crystals crusted her eyelashes. He brushed them away so as to see her face clearly. Her eyes were always the one thing to make him melt and wish away the cruelty of fate, that test God placed before him to prove his faith. She looked like she did when they were younger, a virgin. His La Virgencita always and forever.
“Hola, my dear Martha. I’ve missed you. You wouldn’t know how lonely it can be without you. Your children are fine. Their fathers bring them to Sunday school every week. They should make you feel proud. I know it must be lonely for you, too, but not for much longer. There will be another angel joining you soon.”
Eddies of cold air caressed his bare skin as he looked upon Martha with a deep yearning. Even in this state, she aroused him. He leaned over and kissed her forehead. Pangs of guilt sometimes gripped him when he saw Martha’s children with their fathers, but mostly because of the thoughts of what their children would have been like, had their love not been deemed a test.
“Soon I will have a collection of angels for myself and for the glory of God.”
Father Moreno closed the freezer and made sure it was securely locked, placing the key back around his neck beside a small vial of Martha’s blood and tears. He’d collected them as a relic as she lay dying.
