tire iron.”
Pencil Mustache tilted his head at me. “Just kids, Father. You actually saw them, though. Like, with your own eyes. Right, Father?”
“Yes, Officer. I saw them. I may have only one arm and one leg, but I still have vision in both eyes.”
Sirens sounded in the distance. The radios attached to their belts squawked. One of them answered the call, barked a clipped response into the microphone, and nodded at his partner. “We’ll write it up, Father,” Mr. Clean said.
“Yeah. And we’ll drive around and take a look for you,” Pencil Mustache added.
“Yeah, Father. We’ll take a look.”
They rushed back into their cruiser and peeled out of the driveway, lights flashing and siren wailing. They took off toward the center of town, away from the stadium. Understandably, once again, there was no time to drive around, no time to take a look.
The day the killers came for Maria, I was driving back home from the hospital when I spotted Manuel huddled with two older teens along the far side of the stadium. The teens were more than a foot taller than Manuel. They wore inscrutable expressions, knapsacks, and black bandannas wrapped around their foreheads like headbands. I had to swerve away from a telephone pole at the last second to avoid a head-on collision when I remembered I was driving a car.
When Manuel got home, I went to his room and asked him if he felt like a game of catch. He didn’t answer exactly. Instead, he shrugged, grabbed his glove, and shuffled out the door with his head hanging.
Since losing my right arm, I have become more proficient at throwing with my left, though my pitching wouldn’t remind pro scouts of Goose Gossage’s anymore. My prosthesis is a trans-humeral one, commonly known as an AE because it replaces the arm above the elbow. Both the hand and the arm are myoelectric, meaning a battery-powered device converts the electric signals of my muscles above the arm into movements of the prosthesis. It offers the strongest grip of any type of prosthetic; that’s the upside. The downside is the time lag between my muscles signaling a movement and my replacement parts reacting. Consequently, some of Manuel’s throws sailed past me even though they were within my reach. Although I saw the ball coming, I was a second slow when I tried to catch it.
After half an hour, we were both drenched and went back inside. There is no air-conditioning in the rectory and it doesn’t cool down until midnight, at which point the attic fan finally begins to help. The kitchen seemed hotter than the yard. I poured each of us a tall glass of lemonade from the pitcher that Maria had fixed that morning and asked Manuel to sit down for a moment.
A Catholic priest must be a teacher. He helps his parishioners understand the Church and deal with conflicts and adversity. I am less comfortable with my role as Manuel’s teacher because a great teacher should fully comprehend his student’s life. Maria’s mother told me that Manuel had been hiding in a closet and witnessed his father’s murder. Since I can’t truly comprehend what the boy has been through, I’m uncertain if I can establish an authentic bond with him.
He guzzled half the glass and gasped for air when he was done. Sweat trickled down his cheeks. His lungs heaved gently. I took a big swig of lemonade myself to celebrate seeing him diverted from his recent realities.
“When I was driving home, I saw you walking from school with those two boys,” I said.
He choked on air.
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” I said. “I just want you to understand two things. Those bandannas they were wearing around their heads? That’s the fashion accessory of choice for members of the Aztec Rulers. You know who the Aztec Rulers are?”
Manuel shook his head, but his eyes flickered in a way that told me he was lying.
“They’re an international gang that specializes in drugs and illegal-weapons distribution. You hear what I’m saying, right? Drugs and illegal weapons.”
He acknowledged me with a slight nod.
“Good. I’m telling you this just to make sure you understand that they may or may not be who they appear to be. But whether or not they’re Aztecs, they are welcome here. Everyone is welcome here. Especially friends of yours. Okay?”
He finished his lemonade. As he stood there with the glass tipped to his mouth, I thought there was something different about him, but I couldn’t tell if it was his physical appearance, his carriage, or just my imagination.
That evening I listened to confessions after Mass, as was customary on Friday nights during the summer. I heard seven in a row, and then I waited fifteen minutes to make sure there weren’t any stragglers, engrossing myself in a series of obscure prayers for wayward souls written by Saint Ignatius of Constantinople. I was drifting on a parallel plane of consciousness, meditating on missing and lost parishioners, when the kneeling bench creaked on the other side of the confessional screen.
At first, the person didn’t say anything. English and Spanish are spoken in equal measure in my parish, so I usually have to guess which language to use to break the silence in cases like this. Now, however, there was no guesswork involved. They say a priest’s chastity increases his sensory strength. I’m not sure that’s true, but I smelled Maria’s rose perfume as soon as she arrived. The hint of lily, vanilla, and white musk gave her away.
“In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I said in Spanish.
She repeated the Trinitarian formula. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.” Her voice cracked with emotion.
I let a few seconds pass. “Yes?”
She could barely get the words out. “It’s been four weeks since my last confession. But my last confession was a lie.”
I let a few more seconds go by. “Why was it a lie?’
“Because I was unfaithful to my husband. I was unfaithful to my husband … with one of the men that had him killed.”
As she sobbed, I dreamed of stepping out of the confessional, lifting her in my arms, and comforting her like a man. This pleasant vision flitted in and out of my mind in a nanosecond and was usurped by the reality that a priest must be a judge. He has jurisdiction over the penitent, and the power to forgive sins.
The role of judge is my least favorite. As a priest, I relish the opportunity to help the penitent heal, but as a man, I’ve never fully forgiven myself for one particular sin, so I am insecure about sitting in judgment of others.
After absolving Maria of her sins, I waited a few more minutes to let Maria say her penance before turning off the lights and locking the church. I saw her walking to the rectory ahead of me, and as she passed under the streetlamp at the corner of the church lot, the light illuminated her figure. I couldn’t help but notice her hips gently sashaying in the fabric of her capri pants. And once again I insisted to myself that I did not think of her in the way that other men did. I did not want to touch her. I did not want to possess her. I did not love her more for having the strength to confess to her transgression.
When I got to the rectory, I locked myself in my room and prayed for her and her son’s health and salvation, and for the strength to keep my vows. As I prayed, it occurred to me that if Maria knew who was responsible for her husband’s death, she and her son might be in constant mortal danger.
By 11:00 p.m., the lights were off in Maria’s and Manuel’s rooms. The prosthesis on my leg is a transfemoral one, commonly known as an AK, because the leg was replaced above the knee. It also uses a myoelectric, battery- powered device that works with a time lag. I have to put on additional socks intermittently because the fit fluctuates during the day. I was taking off the last pair in preparation for my nightly stretching routine when I heard a car door close.
My bedroom sits atop the living room at the front of the rectory. I peeked through the curtain and saw a Lincoln Town Car parked across the street. I assumed it was a livery car — no one actually
Instead, a man got out of the driver’s side. He was short and squat and dressed in a suit. He was looking toward the church when a second man appeared in my line of sight, coming from beneath my window, presumably from the steps to the rectory. He was tall and lean and also dressed in a suit, with a fedora on his head. The tall
