Wild Penance

the banshee voices of Las Dolientes rose in an insufferable wail.

As the hermano mayor sang the final stanza, I tried to translate in my mind from the rich, beautiful Spanish: something about being made from the earth, then about being the earth at last again. Members of the family, Los Hermanos, and Las Carmelitas came forward one at a time and sprinkled a handful of red dirt onto the coffin, the sound like rain splattering on a big drum.

The elderly woman I had identified as Father Ignacio’s mother stayed near the grave to receive condolences, along with the rest of the family. I stood well off to the side, out of the flow of traffic, as the mourners left the campo santo. I watched the river of black coats, capes, and woolen shawls, called tapalos, until it slowed; then I looked back at the grave. The rest of the family had moved on to follow the procession, but the bereaved mother remained before the burial pit, alone but for one companion. A bent old woman was speaking to her, gesturing animatedly. Father Ignacio’s mother made a measurement with her hands, holding them shoulder-width apart. Then she put one hand five or six inches above the other, palms facing, presumably describing the size of an object. They focused intently on one another, talking back and forth, apparently working something out between them. They turned in concert and looked at me, and I saw the bent one gesture, pointing a bony finger at me. Esperanza! She saw the recognition in my face and shook her head, raising a finger to her lips, signaling me not to call out. Then she made like she was pushing me away. She repeated the motion several times, indicating I should stay back. She reached for the shoulder of the other woman and turned her away from me, directing attention back to their conversation, still gesturing with her other arm as she talked. I watched them. Were they talking about me? Why did Esperanza point at me?

They talked for several minutes, each one taking turns listening, then talking. Every once in a while, the bruja would look up at me and make another pushing-away gesture, reminding me to stay back.

Father Rivera’s voice interrupted my confused speculations. “Miss Wild, I see you’ve managed to brave the cold.” He tugged his long wool coat together at the collar, his breath like smoke in the chill.

I was about to answer when the two mujeres approached.

Father Rivera seized the opportunity. “Dona Medina, I’d like you to meet Miss Wild. She was something of an asociada of your son’s. Miss Wild is also writing about Los Hermanos, senora.” He was acting the perfect diplomat, as if we had not had the terse discussion at the end of our last meeting. I noticed that he had chosen to ignore the bruja.

“Con mucho gusto, Senora Medina.” I extended my hand. “Lo siento for your loss. Even though I did not know your son well, I considered him a friend.”

She was a tiny woman, as her son had been small. She was very thin and her brown skin hung from her cheekbones, her scant white hair barely visible under her black mantilla. She looked up at me and clutched my hand. “Do you know why he was killed?” Her face was full of pain.

Startled, I opened my mouth but couldn’t speak for a moment. Then I said, “No. But I, too, want to find out. And if I do, Dona Medina, I will tell you what I learn.”

She looked at Tecolote, then at me again. “Senorita, por favor, venga a la casa,” she said, pressing my hand with hers.

“Oh, I couldn’t come to your house now, Dona Medina. It wouldn’t be right. I only met your son once, and we talked on the phone a few times. This is a time for you to be with your family and close friends.” I looked at Father Rivera.

He nodded approval.

Mrs. Medina also looked at Father Rivera. “Do you think we could have a moment together, we three women?”

Father Rivera looked at me with consternation, then menacingly at the curandera. He gave an exasperated exhale. “Certainly. I’ll go see about the car.”

After the father had left us, Esperanza spoke up, her eyes telegraphing in quick, black strobes. “Mirasol, you must do as the senora says. She has something for you.”

I looked from the bruja to Mrs. Medina. “For me? But…”

“Si, it is something important,” Mrs. Medina said, making a loose fist and waving it between us to emphasize her point. “It is something he told me to keep safe for him. He told me…” She looked at the priest, who was only a few yards away, and stopped. She turned back to me and whispered, “Maybe you can help. At any rate, it is meant for someone else now… now that Ignacio is in heaven.” Her eyes filled with water. “Maybe it will help you find out why he was killed.” She released my hand and fumbled in the sleeve of her coat for the lace-edged handkerchief she had stuffed there.

Father Rivera approached. “We had better go now, Senora Medina. I think they’re ready.” He led her away. As he was helping Mrs. Medina into a black car at the road, he looked back at me across the cemetery. His blue eyes transmitted either concern or disapproval, I couldn’t tell which. And his lips were pressed together so hard they looked blue, too.

I turned around to see what Tecolote thought of this, but she was gone.

29

La Arca

A large man stood like a sentry in front of the door of the Medina home. I recognized him as the driver who had come for Father Ignacio at the end of our meeting at the coffeehouse. “Senorita, you are expected,” he said as he reached for the door.

“Wait,” I said. “You were the one who came for Father Ignacio-”

“Si, senorita. I have been close to you several times. You see, when Father Medina did not arrive at the school to teach his classes last week, I knew something was wrong. I tried to call you at your work, but I could not get in touch with you there, and the woman who answered said you did not have a phone. My friend Ignacio told me that he had given you some things to look for in your research, so I notified one of our Hermanas at the library to watch for anyone asking for them.”

“So you were the one following me that day in the Lexus.”

“Si, senorita. I was the one. Because you had questioned Ignacio about Los Penitentes, we arranged for a group of Hermanos to examine your book-”

“You arranged to steal my book?”

“I am sorry. I-”

“One of your thugs hit me hard with something and…”

“We are so sorry for that unfortunate incident. I assure you, we did not-”

“Why didn’t you just approach me? You knew Father Ignacio had come to trust me.”

“When Ignacio did not come to the school to teach his classes, and no one could find him, we could not trust you or anyone else until we knew what had happened to our beloved hermano. We had to know what you were writing in that book, if you were involved-”

“Involved! You thought I-”

“Senorita, once we saw the book, we were satisfied that you meant the brotherhood no harm, and so we arranged to have your book returned. But we still do not know who has done this terrible thing.”

“So, did you call the BLM a second time, pretending to be my brother?”

“No. But we are concerned for your safety now, too. We have provided you with an angel for your protection. He has been near you much of the time.”

“Was the angel the one pretending to be my brother?”

“No, senorita.”

Just then, the door opened. An immaculately dressed, darkly beautiful woman in her late forties or early fifties stood in the doorway of the Medina home. “Miss Wild?” she asked, before I could say why I had come. “I am Theresa Mendoza. I understand you knew my brother, Ignacio. My mother has something for you. Please come in.”

People packed the main room and both of the passages leading away from it, most of them eating from foam