Face To Face

Face to Face

   
      This novel is fiction. The characters and plot are imaginary.
           The social, economic, and spiritual aspects are genuine.       
      
      
     &#160Dedicated to
      
      Ramona, Sara, and Elizabeth
      
     &#160and to the
      
      Glory of God
        
      
      Now we see through a glass darkly,
      then we shall see face to face.
      I Cor. 13:12
   
      
Prologue

       When Jack McFarland was ten, he saw something of God. He was at his grandmother's farm in Kentucky. All the family was there--aunts, uncles, cousins, everybody. The sun was shining and the wind was blowing hard. It was the fall of the year. A gust of wind hit him. The leaves streamed from the trees, shining gold and green against the sky. He was lifted up into the wind, the sky, and the leaves. He cried out in ecstasy, his body bursting with joy. The moment imprinted itself upon his soul.
       Later that afternoon they ate homemade peach ice cream. His mom was talking and laughing, something she rarely did. Even his dad was smiling. When it got dark, he and the cousins played capture-the-flag in the front yard as the stars came out and hung like fire in the sky. The adults were sitting in wooden lawn chairs under the two maple trees in front of the house. He could hear the murmur of their voices and see the red glow of his uncle's cigarettes. His folks were happy and all his sorrow passed away.
       After he went back to Chicago with his parents, the memory of that day slowly faded. But even if he forgot the day, its light affected him forever. Something came between him and that light, and in its shadow, all other days turned to night. Little by little he felt as if he were dead. As a child he felt it all the time, but when he grew up, he covered up his death with his life. He got married, became an Episcopal priest, had kids, did what others did. But it didn't work. The darkness came back. It happened in Honduras.

Chapter 1-Chasnigua

       He knew what the Bible said. Jesus healed people. That's what Jack should do. At least be willing to try. He should pick up the baby, pray in the name of Jesus, be willing to let them stare at him when nothing happened.
       "The little one," he said, reaching for the child.
       Carefully, the mother handed the baby to him. He put his hand on her forehead. It was hot, burning up with fever.
       "What's her name?" he asked.
       "Maria Dolores," Doña Hilda replied.
       "Mary of Suffering," a common name. He gently lifted her toward the Lord. Then he prayed aloud.
       "Thank you, Father, for the life of Maria Dolores. Bless her always. Bless her mother, Doña Hilda, her family, and this place. In Jesus name, Amen."
       It felt different, a slight movement. The women were happy or relieved. The mother smiled.
       "Gracias, padre," she said.
       "You're welcome," he replied.
       A teenager came in from the kitchen area carrying a cup of coffee and a pastel, a piece of sweetbread on a saucer.
       She handed them to him. The coffee cup was small, porcelain, beautifully painted.
       "Gracias," he said, sitting down on one of the little chairs. It felt like it might collapse, so he shifted forward to put more weight on his legs. In front of him was a hammock, holding another baby, and to the right, the wall that formed the kitchen area. It was plastered with newspapers. Through the doorway he could see the rounded end of the adobe stove. It had a hollow groove in it where they put the firewood. A couple of pots and pans were hung on the far wall, a few ears of corn along the eves. The stove had no chimney. Parts of the wall and roof were black from the escaping smoke.
       "Another pastel, padre?" the mother asked.
       "Sí, gracias," he said, wishing he didn't have to take it. They were so poor, but it would be an insult not to.
       He wondered about the baby. She wasn't breathing very well. They'd given her lard, believing that helped respiratory diseases.
       He thought of the professor. They'd talked the week before, sitting on his front porch sipping tea. He was the head of the diocesan theological education program, the only native-born Anglican priest in the diocese.
       "Yes, Jack," the professor had said, "we in the country of Honduras believe these things."
       "What things?" Jack had replied.
       "That Jesus does miracles, heals people, casts out demons, gives eternal life. That's why we believe in him." He spoke English with an Island/British accent. His ancestors were African slaves, brought in by the British.
       "Then why doesn't he do miracles more often?" Jack asked.
       "He does, Jack, he does," the professor replied, his brown moon face alight. He took Jack by the arm, his roly-poly body twisting as he turned, his shirt wet with sweat. "But, first we must bind the strong man."
       "What strong man?"
       "Sin and the devil. Jesus didn't proclaim the Kingdom of God until he conquered the devil. Didn't they teach you that at seminary?"
       "Maybe."
       They both laughed. They knew the seminary professors didn't believe in the devil, or miracles for that matter. But that bothered Jack. A God without miracles was no God at all.
       "Padre," Doña Hilda asked, interrupting his thoughts, "will you be here for the patronal feast?"
       "When is it?" he asked.
       "Week after next."
       "Yes," he said, "I'll be here."
       The campesinos would like that, his being at the feast. No other village in the area had their own priest, and they wanted him there for everything.
       "Why is your patronal feast so close to Easter?" he asked. The previous Sunday had been Easter.
       "We don't know, padre," they replied.
       "Who is your patron saint?"
       They didn't know that either.
       "Don't other villages have patron saints?"
       "Yes, padre, but we came here only a few years ago. We don't have a saint."
       "Can't you make one up?" he asked, hoping to be humorous.
       They didn't respond. He wondered what to say next. He wasn't all that good with small talk. It usually ended up as questions and answers, with him asking the questions.
       He glanced at his watch. It was Tuesday, April 1, 1986, eleven in the morning. Deb and the boys were probably wondering what had happened to him. He'd been in Chasnigua two days, attending a Quinceañera, a party for girls who turned fifteen. He'd expected to be done by four on Sunday and to drive back to San Pedro Sula by nightfall. But the villagers never got to the Eucharist until nine that evening, and then it started raining and rained all day Monday. Even with a four-wheel drive, you couldn't navigate the mountains in the mud. And then, Tuesday morning, they'd told him about Doña Hilda and her sick baby. He'd walked forty-five minutes up the mountain to get to her house. By now, his family was probably worried sick.
       "Well," he said, standing up. "Back to San Pedro, my family awaits me."
       They stood up at once. He went from one to the other, shaking their cool leathery hands. Their faces were worn, wrinkled, brown, with brown eyes.
       "Thank you, padre," they said, one after another. To each he replied, "The pleasure is mine."
       "Padre," one of the women asked, "may we have a blessing?"
       "Yes." He paused in the doorway, the words pouring out of him in Spanish, his favorite blessing.
      
The Lord bless you and keep you,
      The Lord make his face to shine upon you
     &#160And be gracious unto you,
      The Lord lift up his countenance upon you
     &#160And give you peace.
      This day, and forever. Amen

       Once outside he stopped, looking upward, blinking in the light. The sky was vast, shining with clouds, etched in green by the mountaintops against the blue. Along the mountain hillsides were the tall hardwoods that shaded the coffee bushes. Their trunks were white shafts. In their shadows the coffee leaves shone dark green, their berries yellow and red. It made him happy.
       Get back in there, he thought. Get back in there and pray, really pray for the baby, even if you look a fool.
       "Help me, Jesus," he whispered. He stood there, wondering if he should try again. He couldn't help himself. He stepped back through the doorway into the semi-darkness.
       "Let's pray again," he said.
       "Sí, padre," the mother said, her brown face lighting up. She handed him the baby as gently as before.
       For a second he hesitated. Then he knelt down, the hard dirt of the floor against his knees. The baby's face was flushed, a rosy brown.
       "Oh God," he whispered, and then louder, "Oh God, you've got to do something. You've got to do it now."
       He stopped. His forehead was inches from the dirt floor, the baby hot beneath him, cradled in his arms. He felt desperate. "God," he cried, "Oh God, this is it. You've got to do something now."
       He waited, his eyes shut. He could feel the sweat starting to slide down his body. Elijah had prayed three times for the widow's son. The boy had been healed, but it wasn't happening this time. Finally he got up, feeling sick at heart like he knew he would. The women smiled at him, their eyes glistened. He felt foolish, foolish and ashamed. They weren't embarrassed by the failure. They were thankful that he had cared enough to try.
       "Why don't we take her to the hospital?" he said.
       "Sí, padre," the mother said, relief in her voice. Even for a campesino it was there. "If it wouldn't be too much trouble."
       "It isn't too much trouble. Do you have family in San Pedro?"
       "Sí, padre."
       "You can stay with them?"
       "Sí, padre."
       "Good. You stay there and I'll get her to a doctor."
       "Gracias, padre."
       "I leave in forty-five minutes," he added, wondering if there would be another delay. "You be in front of José's house, okay?"
       "Sí, padre," she said, "may God repay you."
       Seconds later he was back outside, thinking of Deb, thinking he'd just made a big mistake. Two months earlier he'd brought a sick woman home and put her in their extra bedroom. She got delirious in the night, vomiting all over the place and screaming, scaring the boys. So they took her to Cemesa, the private hospital. The public one was a cesspool. They ended up paying three hundred and some dollars they didn't have. After that, Deb looked at him, her face livid, her gray eyes flashing dark. "Don't bring another one of those people in here, Jack," she said. He said nothing because he didn't know what to say.
       He starting walking, heading toward the overlook. Moments later he was there, looking down at the valley below. It was an oblong fold, the right end giving way where the creek broke through. It wasn't that big, about a half by quarter mile. On the far side the lower slopes were covered with fields, rough rectangles of green and brown. Down below was the church. The tin gray roof was nearly hidden beneath the trees. But he could see the porch, the iron fence and the two palm trees. In front of the church was a soccer field, and beyond that a rutted track that served for a road. It disappeared among scattered houses and trees to his left. To the right was the village of Chasnigua itself, two rows of houses for about a block. The road went straight through it. Then it turned left at the schoolhouse and plunged into the creek before winding up and over the mountain toward the plain and San Antonio.
       "Better get going," he said aloud, thinking of Deb and the boys, wishing he could take them up there some time. Show them all of this. It was so beautiful.
       Thirty minutes later he was in Chasnigua. He came in from the west, along the rutted track between the scattered houses of poles, boards, cane stalks and mud. The roofs were thatch, a few of tin. A couple of campesinos were there, leaning against their doorways. It was nearly lunchtime. "Buenos días, padre," they said, and he replied in kind. Among the houses were clumps of banana trees, a few avocados and mangos, and scattered here and there, some flowers and shrubs. He didn't recognize the flowers except for the hibiscus. A couple of kids were hanging around, half-naked, dressed only in shorts or t-shirts, bare-footed.
       "Buenos días," he said, waving at them.
       They didn't say anything, just stared. One of them had a stick with a spool attached to its end. He was rolling the spool along the ground while making a sound like a truck. He wheeled right, halted, squealing the brakes, threw it in reverse, revved up the engine, and backed up toward a tree. Then he shifted into forward, picking up speed, his voice rising in pitch. He never looked at Jack, but he knew the gringo was watching.
       He was getting near the church. The kids were probably there, playing soccer with a deflated ball. He kept walking, skirting the puddles and the mud. Then the kids saw him. "Padre, padre," they cried, running towards him, "vacalar, vacalar." They wanted to cram themselves in his Land Cruiser while he drove like a madman around the soccer field and they screamed with joy. He'd done it the first time he came to Chasnigua, and ever since they'd begged to do it again. They once crammed twenty-three kids in the Land Cruiser and all went nuts at once. For a moment they'd been lost in a crazy heaven.
       "Next time, next time," he kept saying, "when I come back."
       He got to the church, crossed the tiled porch, and turned left toward the little room at the side. It was the casa cural. That's where he slept when in Chasnigua. Two months after he got there, they'd added a bathroom for his convenience. Before that, he'd used the woods like everybody else. His first time out he'd come across an old woman squatting in the path. Her arms were across her knees, her dress up, smoking a cigarette. He'd hidden himself before she saw him, not feeling too good, ' realizing why the path was strewn with bits of paper and cloth among the leaves. After that, he'd tried to get the villagers to build some latrines but they never got around to it.
       Once inside, he gathered up his extra shirt and pants, his water bottle, toothbrush, and comb. He thought of his mom, not knowing why, just suddenly there. She was looking at him, her eyes scarcely seen behind her glasses, her hair dark with a touch of gray. She always seemed so serious, or sad, or long ago. He was her only child. "A brooder," she would say, referring to Jack's preoccupied gaze, his large dark eyes and oval face with a shock of dark blond hair hanging into his eyes. He was always having to shove it out of the way. But he didn't much care for short hair.
       He stepped outside, hoping José would get back soon. José was his right-hand man, the lay vicar in the village. He'd left to round up everybody who wanted a ride to San Pedro. He said he'd be back by noon. Maybe he should head over to José's to get things going. But if he did, they might think him pushy. Courtesy was a big thing in Honduras.
       "Padre," a voice called. José Antonio was running toward him, coming in from the road.
       "Buenos días, padre" he said, suddenly halting, out of breath, flustered, his shaven beard dark against his red face. He thrust out his hand, shaking hands almost violently.
       "Buenos días," Jack replied.
       "Padre," José Antonio said, his stubby body trembling, "Doña Yolanda is waiting for you."
       "Why?" Jack asked. He knew why. He hadn't eaten lunch, and they wanted to make sure he was fed before he left.
       José Antonio's face grew redder and he stuttered slightly.
       "They wait for you to eat, padre."
       "Where's José?" he asked.
       "He is coming, padre, but the people are eating now."
       "Sí, José Antonio," he said, thinking the delays would never end.
       "We have light," José Antonio said, just as they reached the dirt track and turned right toward the village.
       "What kind of light?" Jack replied.
       José Antonio blushed and stuttered.
       "For the altar, padre."
       "You mean candles?"
       "Sí, padre. José got them in Concepción. We used them for Easter."
       "I don't remember them." Easter morning had been dismal, a driving rain. Hardly anyone showed up for church.
       "Yes, padre, but now we use them. José put them in front of the cross on the altar."
       "Well, that's good," Jack replied.
       José Antonio was crazy, but that wasn't the Honduran term. The word was "nerves." "The voices," he once told Jack, "they tell me to do evil things."
       "Why do you like the church so much?" Jack once asked.
       "I feel peace, padre."
       "What kind of peace?"
       "I don't know, padre," he said, wiggling his body, trying to turn away. "They say demons can't go in the church."
       They passed Jorge's house, Felipe's, then Orlandito's. After that it was "main street," but still mud and standing water. The houses were side by side. The better ones were concrete block, with heavy wooden doors and tin roofs. Doña Yolanda's was at the far end and up the hill a bit.
       They turned right at the schoolhouse, and seconds later were knocking at the door.
       "Pase adelante, pase," Doña Yolanda called. She opened the door, waving him in, her heavy body nearly filling the doorframe. She treated him like another campesino, which wasn't the normal way. He liked her for it. José Antonio stayed outside while Doña Yolanda disappeared, coming back in a second with the food. The table was already set. It was small, square, covered by a square white cloth. The chair was small as well, about two feet off the ground, the seat a foot square. Campesino furniture. Once she served him, Doña Yolanda went back to the kitchen. They almost always left him alone when he ate.
       The food was good, always the same, more or less. There was usually broiled chicken or eggs, refried beans or rice, tortillas with butter, crumbly white cheese, black coffee with lots of sugar. He ate rapidly, loving the fresh taste, but he couldn't help thinking of the parasites and worms. He'd already gotten them once and gone to Cemesa for medicine. They were probably back in his gut again.
       He thought of the night before, a meeting of the patronato, the governing board of the village. José had come by the casa cural to pick him up. He was holding an umbrella and carrying an extra one for Jack. It was raining in waves, and José shone the flashlight ahead of them so they wouldn't fall in the mud.
       "Whose house is it?" Jack had asked.
       "Jesús," José replied.
       It was a nice house, the floor was concrete and there were benches along the wall. About eight people were at the meeting, six men and two women. They wore their better clothes, the men in ironed shirts and jeans, cowboy boots or brogans, the women in dresses. Most of them were older, except for Jorge. They sat on benches in one corner of the room, huddled together under a coal-oil lantern. They were talking about the cooperative, and Jack figured they'd brought him along for the money part. It was going to cost twenty thousand or so, and they'd written up a proposal. It made Jack feel sad sitting there.
       He thought of a trip he'd made once. He was eight at the time. He and his parents had gone to Kentucky to visit his dad's parents. His dad was a math professor in Chicago, and they'd left the city around noon, the dead of winter and bitter cold. They drove straight through, getting there around midnight. Toward the end Jack fell asleep in the back seat. Just before midnight he woke up. He could hear the hiss of the heater. The sky was utterly clear, cold and stark with a crescent moon. On either side of the narrow road the bushes were heavy with ice, shining white and clear in the car lights. They made a scraping, rattling sound as they brushed against the car. Once they got there, his grandmother had some food prepared, roast beef sandwiches. They sat in the front room, eating the sandwiches, huddled around the stove. The heat was against their faces, the cold at their backs, coming up through the cracks in the floor. It made him sad, intensely sad, sitting there with his family. That's what he'd felt with the patronato, intensely sad, as if he and the campesinos were lost and long ago.
       "Can you talk to the bishop?" Jesús had asked. Jack knew they'd ask that question.
       "How much do you need?" he replied.
       "Twenty-five thousand in dollars."
       "Okay," Jack said. "I'll ask him.
       They relaxed. You could feel it. One of them got up to go to the kitchen. They'd have something to drink, and a little something sweet.
       After that, Jack brought up the problem of hygiene, not just the lack of latrines, but the animal droppings lying around the village. The pigs were the worst. The kids played in their litter and just about everyone had parasites. They'd cleaned it up three months earlier to impress a medical team from Louisiana. But never before or after. It bothered him that they'd clean the village for the medical team but not for him. Then out of the blue, Jorge, the younger one, asked about the geologists. Nobody said anything. They sat there without a word.
       "There have been some geologists here?" Jack finally asked.
       "Sí, padre," said José, his voice bright, "they've come several times."
       "What for?"
       José shrugged. "They say the rock is good here. It's good for making cement."
       "Wouldn't that be good?" Jack asked. "You could get work."
       José said nothing. Then Jesús got on to another matter, the possibility of getting a schoolteacher. They had no funds for a salary. They'd exhausted their funds on the casa cural. Maybe their priest could help with that as well. Jack didn't say anything.
       "What about it?" Jack asked José the next day. "Can they produce cement here?"
       "We don't know, padre," José said, staring at the ground. He was thin with green eyes, handsome. It wasn't the full story. But that wasn't unusual. Campesinos only told you what they wanted you to hear.
       "Padre, would you like a juice?" The words startled him. It was Doña Yolanda. She'd come in from the kitchen with a glass of orange juice in her hand.
       "Sí, gracias," he said, carefully taking the glass. He drank it steadily, sip by sip, utterly delicious, thinking he sometimes lived more in the past than the present. For a moment he sat there, thinking. Then he got up, going to the kitchen door.
       "Gracias, Doña Yolanda," he said, suddenly happy that she seemed so steady and good.
       "Sí, padre," she said, her wrinkled face all smiles. She dried her hands on her apron, stepping toward him. She was strong, heavy, her hair jet black with streaks of gray. Her shoes were leather. Her thick feet were bursting through the seams. She wasn't the poorest of the poor. They shook hands.
       "Gracias," he said again. "Greetings to your family. They are all well?" he added, thinking he should have asked when he first arrived.
       "Sí, padre," she smiled.
       "And Don Emilio?" That was her husband who'd been ill.
       "He's fine now, padre, thanks be to God."
       "I'm happy," he said, shaking her hand once more.
       Once outside, José Antonio was still waiting for him. They headed for the church.
       "Padre," said José Antonio, half-way there, "we don't have a road into the village."
       "We're standing on it," Jack replied.
       "Yes, padre, but big trucks can't come in here."
       "Why do we need trucks?"
       "For the factory, padre."
       "What factory?" said Jack sharply.
       "I don't know, padre," José Antonio stuttered, his eyes widening in fear.
       "There will be a factory here?" Jack added, speaking gently.
       "Sí, padre."
       "What kind of a factory?"
       "It's a cement factory, padre," he replied, his face pinched up. "They say we have to move."
       That wasn't good, not good at all. You couldn't live near a cement factory. There was one on the road between San Pedro and Puerto Barrios. For a half-mile in every direction a heavy layer of dust covered the land. Maybe that's why they wanted a cooperative. They were going to lose the village and what little land they had.
       They turned left onto the soccer field. José was there, leaning against the Land Cruiser, along with three women, a man, and a boy. The older women were nearly shapeless in their dresses, their feet in plastic flip-flops. The younger one was well dressed, a nice skirt and blouse with leather shoes. A pole with live chickens tied to it lay resting on the ground. The man was standing by it, short, wiry, jeans, brogans, and a straw hat. The boy was barefooted.
       "Buenas tardes," Jack said to all of them. "Buenas, padre," the man replied. The others were silent. He went from person to person, shaking hands, repeating, "Padre McFarland, much pleasure," to each of them. They answered, "At your service, padre."
       "Padre," said José, "this is Doña Margarita, the mother of Alicia." He indicated one of the women. Jack had heard of Alicia.
       Jack smiled at her. "A pleasure," he repeated and she murmured, "The pleasure is mine."
       "Have you seen Doña Hilda and the baby?" Jack asked.
       "Sí, padre," José replied, "she's in the church. I will get them." No more delays, all there.
       Jack opened the door and they crawled in, all seven of them. He put Doña Hilda and the baby in front, the chickens in back. They'd probably mess the floor up before they reached San Pedro. But Emma, the maid, would hose out the car. She'd done it before.
       "Gracias, padre," they said, as they climbed in. It was tight, but not that tight. They once took fifteen people to a soccer match in Las Brisis, some inside the car and some hanging on outside.
       "Padre," said José softly, "may I speak with you for a moment?"
       "Sí, José," he said, thinking he should ask about the factory, but not wanting another delay and doubting José would tell him anything anyway.
       "The mother of Alicia, she must talk to you."
       "Sí, José," his interest piqued.
       "It is a matter of great importance for our people."
       "Okay."
       "Please give her all the assistance she needs."
       "Don't worry," Jack replied. "At your service," he added, smiling, giving the typical Honduran phrase for one who attends another.
       He got in the car and they headed out, crossing the soccer field, turning right and passing through the village. After the left at the school he slowed down, easing his way down the steep embankment to the creek. Once there he gunned it, gathering speed for the muddy slope ahead. The water sprayed white and shining in the sun. He was thinking of José, one of the times they'd crossed the creek and José had spoken of Alicia.
       "A formidable woman," he'd said. He pointed to the trees above. "Right there," he added. Jack glanced to his left. José was pointing to some trees whose limbs came together at a great height.
       "Alicia climbed up there, padre, and crawled out on the limb until it bent down to the other tree. Then she crossed over. She was only a child."
       It reminded him of Deb, some of the things she did as a kid. No one in their right mind would climb one of those trees and cross to another.
       "Where does she live?" he asked.
       "She's in the capital."
       "What does she do there?"
       "I don't know, padre, José had finally replied.
       He had to know. In Chasnigua, everyone knew everything about everybody.
       Minutes later they were over the ridge and on the way to San Antonio, the end of the bus line.
       "You have family in San Pedro?" Jack asked, looking in the mirror at the man with the chickens.
       "Sí, padre," the man said. "My brother is there."
       "And you?" he asked, turning so the women could see he was looking at them.
       "We work there, padre," one of the them said.
       "Who do you work for?"
       "We are domestics."
       "All of you?"
       "Sí, padre."
       He was silent for a moment, trying to figure out how to proceed. He knew they liked to talk, they'd talk to anyone who took an interest in them.
       "Do you like domestic work?" he asked.
       "Bueno, padre," one of the women said, leaning forward, "we in the mountains of Honduras find better possibilities for work in the city."
       He nodded, enjoying the way Hondurans expressed themselves. It had a formal quality, at least for now.
       "The pay is better?"
       "Sí, padre, in the rural areas there is little work and poor pay."
       "What work is there in the mountains?"
       The women were silent.
       "There is no work," the man suddenly said, dropping the formal pose, "some work for the landowners, but they pay almost nothing, and only when they need us."
       "What do they pay."
       "Five lempiras a day without food, sometimes four if there is food for lunch."
       "What's the average income in Chasnigua?" he asked.
       They were silent. He wondered if he had the word for "average" right, or if they understood it.
       "The majority make twenty to forty dollars a month for a family of six or eight," the mother of Alicia suddenly said.
       Jack didn't quite know what to say. "Bueno," he said, and they laughed. They knew he thought it awful from a gringo point of view.
       "Padre," the young woman asked, "is there domestic work in the States?"
       "Oh yes, we have domestics." He glanced back at her. She was young, pretty, her life before her. "You want to go to the States?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre."
       "Is that difficult?"
       "Oh yes," one of the women said, "the American Embassy will not give a visa to go to the States."
       "Padre," the man suddenly said, "they say the people of the States have no sexual passions. How can this be?"
       "Not really," said Jack, "they have sexual passions, just like people here."
       He looked at them in the mirror. Their faces were serious, thinking. He got the feeling they were wondering if it was true.
       "Are the men faithful to the women?" Doña Hilda suddenly asked.
       "Some are, some aren't," Jack replied. "Are the men faithful here?"
       "They run around all over the place," one of the women replied.
       "And you," Jack asked, turning to look at the man, "what do you say?"
       "Bueno, padre," the man said, smiling, squirming in his seat. "A man can't be a burro for a woman."
       Everyone laughed, and then one of the women said something about men so fast that Jack couldn't catch it. Then they really laughed, the man above all. Only the young woman remained expressionless.
       "We better close the windows," Jack said. They were coming down out of the mountain and into the heat. He turned the AC on high. It made a roaring sound. It would be hard to talk with that kind of noise. The man couldn't figure out how to close the window. It had a latch that pulled inward, then folded forward. The young woman closed it for him.
       He picked up speed. Except for a few potholes, the road was smooth. Twenty minutes later they reached San Antonio. He swung left, then right, passing the church and then down the main street. The women were standing in their doorways, watching him pass. The kids were waving, "Gringo, gringo," they cried. The men just stared. He kept going, driving fast and thinking of Deb.
       "What's a Quinceañera?" she'd asked. She was standing by the door of the car just before he'd left three days ago.
       "It's a party for a girl when she turns fifteen."
       "Fifteen?" Her eyebrows lifted slightly. It seemed absurd, making a special trip for a teen-age party.
       "It's a big deal in the mountains."
       She said nothing.
       "She's the daughter of Jesús."
       "Who's Jesús?" Deb asked.
       "The head of the patronato."
       "Of course, Jack," Deb said softly while he stared at her. Her face was flat, lightly tanned, her eyes dark gray. They could change shade in an instant, depending on her mood. She turned and walked away without kissing him goodbye.
       "Help me, God," he whispered, slowing down a bit because he was driving too fast.
       An hour later, they crossed the plancha, the concrete slab through the river Chamelecón, the dividing line between country and city. On the San Pedro side, wealthy families were swimming, their Broncos parked along the banks. On the rural side, campesino women were washing clothes. From there it was a short mile under the trees and onto the blacktop. After that, Chamelecón. There the road forked, the right fork heading toward Tegucigalpa, the capital, and the left toward San Pedro. They were there in five minutes, turning left and heading for the bridge over the River Sula. It had guards on either end, soldiers with automatic rifles in their hands. They were everywhere, at the banks, at checkpoints along the roads, out at the airport.
       "I'll take you to El Centro," he said, turning to look at his passengers. El Centro was the bus terminal. From there, they could catch buses to wherever they needed to go.
       "Gracias, padre," was their reply.
       El Centro was a mess, a mass of buses, taxis, cars, dirt streets, vendors, shacks, with mobs of people milling around. It was located south of the city, just off the circunbulación, the road that encircled San Pedro.
       He pulled up and the campesinos got out, thanking him for the ride. "How much is it?" they asked. "Nothing, nothing," he said, as they knew he would. "May God repay you," they said.
       Doña Hilda had gotten out first. He figured she'd get back in, but she didn't. She just stood there, not looking at him.
       "We'll take the baby to a doctor now," Jack said. He took her by the arm, thinking she was being polite.
       She didn't say anything, just averted her eyes, as did the others.
       "Padre," one of the women said, "this thing did not turn out so well."
       He looked at Doña Hilda. Her face was expressionless. He glanced at the baby. The child was wrapped in a cloth, her face hidden in its folds.
       "She's dead," he said, suddenly wishing he hadn't said it, thinking it was too blunt. But Doña Hilda nodded yes. He stood there, thinking, wondering why it happened. The campesinos said nothing, just standing there, making a little circle around him and Doña Hilda. He was taller than they were, but not that tall. About five ten, more or less, and almost as lean as they were.
       "When did this happen?" he asked.
       "About an hour ago."
       "Why didn't you tell me?"
       "We didn't want to bother you, padre," the man said.
       He said nothing, thinking about his prayer, the baby under him, his face just inches from the floor. He'd been willing to risk another hassle, take the baby to the hospital, probably pay for it, have another fight with Deb. It was almost like God had let the baby die to avoid the hassle. And not just with Deb, with the doctors, the hospital, everything.
       "Where do you want to go?" he finally said.
       Doña Hilda shrugged. "To my aunt's," she said, "if it's not too much trouble."
       "The baby, where will you bury her?"
       "Here in San Pedro."
       "You don't want to bury her in Chasnigua?"
       "No, padre, it's just as well."
       He wondered if she just didn't want to bother him for the ride back. He was too tired to fight it.
       "Would you like a funeral?"
       "Sí, padre," her voice brightened. "If it is not an inconvenience."
       "No, Doña Hilda, it's not an inconvenience."
       He held out his arms. She gave him the baby. For a second he saw the child's face, utterly peaceful, beautiful in a delicate way. The others huddled even closer. There was noise everywhere, buses, cars, people. He could feel the sun, so hot, and the air, so dusty, and the stench of the place, smoke, garbage, and open sewers. He thought of the Good Friday service only six days earlier. The villagers had reenacted the crucifixion. Later, when it was night, they'd dragged the cross into the church and put a candle at the foot of it. The place was packed, and dark, except for the candle. They'd sung a dirge, over and over again.
      
Venid pecadores,
      venid a la cruz.
     &#160Adorar la sangre,
     &#160de mi buen Jesús.
      
     &#160Come sinners,
     &#160come to the cross.
     &#160Adore the blood,
      of my good Jesus.

       After that, they went up to the cross, knelt down, and kissed it one by one. He'd done the same, feeling utterly desolate as if the world was nothing but suffering.
       "Into your hands we commend Maria Dolores," he said, holding up the baby while they huddled there. "Bless her, keep her, fill her with your light, console her mother, and give us your peace, Amen."
       "Thank you, padre," they said, shaking hands with him. Then they left, except for Doña Hilda, Margarita, and the dead baby.
       By the time he dropped off Doña Hilda and got to Doña Margarita's house it was nearly two and dead hot. Doña Margarita got out, and he did as well, walking around to her side of the car. She was about fifty, gaunt, with large clear eyes, thin lips, a strong forehead, with clearly defined features.
       "Padre," she said, speaking distinctly, directly. "Padre, I must speak to you of something of the highest importance for my life."
       "Sí, Doña Margarita," he said, thinking he couldn't take another disaster.
       "It's my daughter," she said. "She's in prison in the capital."
       For a second he just stood there, staring at her, wondering why she said it. She pulled a scrap of paper out of her pocket and handed it to him. He read it. "San Romain Prison, the other side of the Suyapa, Teguc." The handwriting appeared masculine.
       He handed the paper back to her.
       "Sí, Doña Margarita," he said, "how did this happen?"
       "They betrayed her."
       "Who betrayed her?"
       "They say Don Humberto."
       "Why would he do that?"
       "She led an invasion."
       "What invasion?"
       "The invasion of Don Humberto's lands."
       He'd heard of Don Humberto. He was the patrón, the owner of most of the land around Chasnigua. But Jack knew nothing of an invasion.
       "When did this happen?"
       "Nearly a year ago."
       Good grief, he wondered, why didn't they tell him these things? That was only four months before he'd arrived. Things like that were dangerous. Decree number 33 it was called, making it a terrorist act to occupy land that belonged to other people. They killed people for that sort of thing.
       "What happened when you invaded?" he asked.
       "We planted crops. They said we didn't need to plant the crops, that we could have the land later if we would leave and obey the law. It was a lie, padre, everything they told us was a lie."
       "Who told you these lies?" he asked.
       "INRA."
       "Who's INRA?"
       "National Institute of Agrarian Reform."
       He'd heard of them. Presumably they were in charge of finding land for landless peasants.
       "She's a prisoner?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre."
       "When did you find this out?"
       "Yesterday."
       She was virtually expressionless, asking him but not begging.
       "She is the leader of our people, padre."
       He looked away from her, controlling himself. Finally, he spoke.
       "Very well, how can I help you?"
       "Go with me to the prison, padre. They will not listen to an old woman. Perhaps they will listen to a priest."
       "Sí, Doña Margarita, I will accompany you."
       He paused, wondering when they should leave. Better check with Deb first and make sure nothing was planned.
       "I'll come by tomorrow," he said, "after the funeral, and then we can decide when to go."
       "I thank you, padre," she said.
       He nodded. "De nada," he said. "It is nothing."
       She held out her hand. He took it. It was thin, cool, callused. They shook hands.
       She walked away, heading toward a shack on the corner of the vacant lot. Her back was straight and he couldn't help but admire her. Suddenly he got the feeling that getting Alicia out of prison had something to do with the cement factory. That's why José had wanted him to talk to Doña Margarita. It was "a matter of great importance for our people."
       He got back on the circunbulación, driving fast. He passed Pop's, the ice cream place. He swung back around and parked, inches off the road. A little surprise for the family would be nice, especially since he was two days late. He opened the door and was hit by the kids. They were always there.
       "Watch your car, padre?" they cried, their eyes piercing. There were three of them, skinny and dressed in rags. He figured he'd better pay or they would vandalize the car. The raw extortion bothered him, but he felt sorry for them. He gave them each a lempira, which was far too much. Instantly, they disappeared.
       Minutes later, he was back with the ice cream. Someone had left something under the front seat. It was a woman's handbag, cheap black leather. Probably Doña Margarita's. If she had money in it, she would need it. Like many in San Pedro, she had no refrigerator and bought her food daily from little one-room stores called pulperias. For a second he hesitated. He couldn't keep running around for these people. Get on home. Take it by after dinner.
      
      
      

Chapter 2--At Home

       "Daddy, Daddy," the boy cried, rushing out to meet him the second Jack arrived at the gate. Paul swung the gate open and burst through, his red hair glinting in the sun. Jack put the car in neutral, his foot on the brake, opening the door. In an instant Paul was climbing into his lap, hugging his neck and grabbing the steering wheel. He was ready to drive. Robert, the older one, appeared at the gate, swinging it even wider, holding it open. Jack eased off the brake, driving the car up and into the driveway while Robert stood aside as the car passed. For a second Jack saw his pale face, his clear eyes, his thin body held against the gate. He felt a surge of happiness and love, and a pang of sorrow as well. They were so beautiful and so innocent. It could not last. Robert was seven, Paul was four.
       He squeezed out the car door, holding Paul while Robert closed the gate behind them. Deb was standing there, waiting. He looked at her. She smiled. He smiled back, noticing her gray eyes, willowy body, thinking of the day he showed up at her doorstep fourteen years ago. They'd been in the same Shakespeare class. He was a grad student in English, she was a senior. One day he got up enough nerve to ask her if she'd like to have some coffee or something. She didn't say anything for a moment, just stared at him. He wondered why he found her so compelling. She wasn't that beautiful, but there was something haunting about her, depth on depth.
       "Why don't you come by," she had said.
       "Come by where?" he asked, not knowing what she meant.
       "My place," she said.
       "Where is it?" he asked. She told him.
       When he got there she was waiting for him, just like now, almost expressionless. But he could tell she wondered why he'd been so long in the mountains.
       "Come in," she'd said, the day at the apartment. So he went in. After that, he could never let her go.
       "It rained," he said, referring to the rain in the mountains. "The Land Cruiser, it couldn't make it out until today."
       She nodded. He bent down, kissing her on the mouth. He felt strange, that she could so affect him.
       "Poppy, Poppy," cried Paul, the younger one, "we found a creek. It's close, Poppy, close. Can we go there, can we?"
       His face was utterly clear, his freckles faintly brown.
       "Yes, heart," he said. "Whenever you want."
       "Now, Poppy, now."
       "Let your dad have some rest," Deb said.
       Jack laughed, picking Paul up and grabbing Robert as well. The four of them lurched toward the door and for a second he was happy.
       They headed for the creek around four, the air smoking from the heat and wet. Deb came along as well. She was wearing a light green dress, down to her knees. Halfway there she took Jack's hand, held it loosely, rubbing her fingers gently against his palm. He didn't say anything, thinking of when they first met, how they'd walk downtown, holding hands and looking in the windows. That was after they'd started living together, and Jack was happy for the first time in his life.
       By the time they got to the creek, they were wet with sweat. Paul started throwing rocks, trying to skip the flat ones across the water.
       "Look, Mom, Dad," he'd cry, and they would look. Deb smiled at Jack, her face shining with sweat, her light brown hair hanging down in wisps.
       "He's happy," Jack said.
       "Yes," she said, "he's very happy."
       Robert found a line of ants moving relentlessly along a tiny trail, carrying slices of leaves in their mandibles. He followed them until they disappeared into a hole.
       "What kind are they, Dad?" Robert asked, always wanting to know things.
       "Zanpopo ants," Jack replied, keeping an eye on Paul who was poking around in a pile of brush. "They use the leaves to grow a fungus. They don't eat the leaves, just the fungus."
       "These are the guards," Robert said, pointing to some of the larger ones. They marched along their giant mandibles held erect.
       "Yes, probably so," said Jack.
       "What are they guarding against?" Robert asked, picking up a grass stem, twirling it in front of the guards who ignored it.
       "Mommy, Daddy," Paul shouted, "it's a ship, a big ship, the biggest ship of all."
       Paul had hold of a log and was pushing against it, his sturdy body straining with all his might.
       "We got to get it in the water," he cried, "we got to get it there."
       Deb and Jack were there in an instant. The kid could hurt himself, fall in before you knew it.
       "We can do it, Dad, we can do it," Paul exclaimed, standing up, dirt and sand all over him. Jack could see the freckles just under his eyes. He had Deb's eyes, just a little lighter and slightly greener. The sun was about to pass the crest of the mountain. He thought of a blues song he used to sing, "Every evening when the sun goes down."
       They started pushing on it, first one end and then the other. Deb straightened up for a second, calling Robert so he wouldn't be left out. Then they went at it. Deb was getting mud all over herself. She pushed the hair out of her face, leaving a dark streak on her forehead, like the day he first took her to his grandmother's. They'd gone for a walk, crossing the creek on some logs left by a flood. He'd gone first, holding her hand, but he'd slipped and fallen in. For a second he was down in the cold and green. When he came up, they were both laughing. So he waded across in the water, holding her hand while she balanced on the logs. At the last instant she pretended to slip and fell into his arms, sinking the two of them. After she climbed the bank she turned to look at him. Her face had a mud streak on it, her dress clung to her body.
       They got the log going, swinging each end around, working it closer until it was right on the edge. Then they pushed it over the bank and it splashed into the stream. Paul cheered, jumping up and down, but then it snagged against the bank. So they climbed down, getting wetter by the second. Jack was holding Paul while Deb held Robert. One final push and it was gone, really gone this time, floating downstream and picking up steam. Paul was crying, "Whoopee," and dancing around and crying, "Whoopee, we're the greatest," over and over. Robert said nothing, only smiled. Jack put his arm around Deb. She leaned against him, her hip against his own, her shoulder against his side. The log got smaller in the distance, momentarily stopping but getting free, until at last it disappeared beyond the bridge.
       Emma had supper waiting--refried beans, avocados, a boiled squash-like vegetable, beets, tortillas, and chicken. Once she got it on the table she and Reina, her cousin, served themselves and disappeared into the maid's quarters behind the house. Normally a Honduran maid would wait table, but Jack and Deb had never quite figured out how to work with a maid. Plus, Emma talked all the time. Jack just couldn't bring himself to tell her to be quiet. So once Emma cooked the meal they let her go. He always thought that had he been a Honduran, he'd have known how to keep Emma in check.
       "Get some bowls, Robert," Deb said, when dinner was nearly done. Without a word Robert got up to get the bowls while Deb got the ice cream out of the freezer. A moment later they were back. Robert's face was slightly pale, his eyes opaque. He was thinking, or feeling things, something he did a lot. Jack was once that way, when he was a kid, hiding out in his secret place in the hall closet.
       "Goody," Paul said, grabbing a bowl, sliding it next to the carton.
       "Wait your turn," Deb said. She dug out the ice cream, putting her body into it. She was a little fuller than when they first met, but still slender.
       She served Robert and then Paul. Paul pretended to pout. As she served Robert she hugged him. It made Jack sad, sad for Robert, and filled with tenderness for Deb, that she could feel for Robert. Robert's life wasn't easy, especially coming to Honduras. He'd been afraid to go to school, so they took him to class the first day. He sat there silently with an odd look on his face, the same look he got when he couldn't get potty-trained, a mixture of dread and embarrassment. The teacher introduced him to the other children and he tried to smile. But he couldn't do it, not natural anyway. He would suffer, and Jack couldn't stop it in the end.
       Schluzzz, schluzzz, Paul was loudly sucking through his straw, peering upward at his mom. She gave him the eye so he stopped.
       "Has your mom called?" Jack asked.
       "Yesterday," Deb replied. "She's looking forward to the visit."
       "How's she doing?"
       "Fine."
       "How's Jessie?"
       "She's got a job. Maybe she'll keep it this time."
       Jessie was Deb's kid sister. She was a troublemaker, or at least she'd been that way in high school and junior college. But now, after a short marriage and one kid, she'd changed.
       "How long till we see Grandma?" Robert suddenly said, staring at his mom.
       "Eight days, sweetie," Deb said. "It won't be long." She and the kids were going to the States for Spring Break.
       "I'm going to ride the Roller Coaster," Paul said.
       "Are you coming, Dad?" Robert asked.
       "I'll be there," he said, smiling. "I'll get there a week after you do."
       "Why don't you come with us?"
       "I have to go to the patronal feast in Chasnigua. After that, I'll be there."
       "What's a patronal feast?" the boy asked.
       "Well, hard to say. We celebrate the patron saint of the village. You want to go to New York?"
       "Is that where the ballet is?" Robert asked, his eyes suddenly widening.
       "It's there," Jack replied happily. "You want to go?" Just before leaving for Honduras they'd taken the kids to Nutcracker. Robert sat entranced, but Paul had been a handful. Deb had to take him out before it was over.
       "We can go again, Dad?" Robert asked breathlessly.
       "We sure can. You, me, your mom and old Paul. We'll go anytime you want."
       Robert smiled, and suddenly Jack was happy, hugging him.
       After dinner Jack went outside and sat on the curb. He liked it out there in the evening, when the sun went behind the mountain and the heat of the day would turn toward the cool of the night.
       After a bit the boys came out. They wanted something, no doubt.
       "Can you play Monopoly with us?" Paul asked.
       "I didn't know you boys played Monopoly," Jack replied.
       "We don't really play," said Robert, "we just use the money to buy and sell the properties."
       "In a little bit, I'll play," Jack replied.
       "Oh Dad," said Paul, "play now."
       "I will, in just a little bit. I've got some thinking to do."
       "What are you thinking about?" asked Robert.
       "Oh, I don't know," he said, thinking of the little girl who died, of Alicia, her mom, the trip to the capital. "I'll be in there in a little bit."
       They headed back inside. He wondered where Deb was. Sometimes she would come out and sit with him and they would talk.
       To his left was the mountain, dominating the northern skyline of San Pedro. Halfway up was a large Coca-Cola sign that blinked on and off after dark. Other than that, the mountain was like it had always been, covered with trees, deciduous and palm. To the right, abajo, down below toward the plain, was the city of San Pedro. The poor zones were there, the colonias, where it was hot and crowded.
       The sun was behind the mountain, the air had cooled. A wind blew in from the coast, feeling warm but not hot against his skin. All around were the sounds of San Pedro, people talking, dogs barking, the faint sound of televisions, the hiss and far away drone of traffic, the rustle of the wind in the palms. He could hear his boys inside, talking, and more faintly, Emma and Reina as they washed dishes and cleaned up.
       "This reminds me of Florida," Deb had said, one evening when they sat on the curb.
       "Where?" he asked.
       "Right here, the palm trees, the wind blowing at you, the heat and the sky."
       "There's no mountain in Florida."
       "I know," she said, smiling at him, taking his arm, leaning against him, "and they speak English there."
       They didn't say anything for a moment. He was thinking of Deb's dad, her mom's first husband. During the summer he lived in Florida, next to the ocean. He divorced Deb's mom when Deb was eight. Every summer after that he would invite Deb and Jessie down for a month.
       "I'd stand on the wall," Deb said, "the sea wall behind the house. It was only about this wide," holding her hands apart the width of a concrete block, "and eight feet off the ground. I would dance on the wall like a gymnast on the balance beam. And as I danced, I put each foot in place, exactly in place, and I promised myself that I would never, never, make a mistake like my mom. She loved a man that never loved her. That's what I said, and that's what I'll do."
       She'd told him that about a year after they were married.
       Suddenly he thought of Doña Margarita, her purse, thinking she'd probably need it. He'd better get it over there, and then come back and tell the boys a story if they wanted one. But first, tell Deb that it would only take a second.

Chapter 3-Sonia

       Five minutes later he was at Doña Margarita's, walking rapidly through the weeds and trash, lost in thought, scarcely seeing the heavy green leaves of the mango trees nor the plywood and tin of the house. There was no door, only a cloth across a narrow entrance. Someone was inside. It wasn't Doña Margarita.
       "Buenas tardes," he said.
       A woman looked up, staring at him, scarcely visible through the doorway.
       "Buenas," she said abruptly and then no more.
       He hesitated, disconcerted that she didn't ask him in. So what. It didn't matter. He stepped into the room, dropping the handbag on a bench by the door.
       The woman was sitting at a little table, under a single bulb of electric light. They'd apparently tapped into the electric lines. Her eyes narrowed as she looked at him. Her face was wide, strong, with full lips and wide eyes, her nose, slightly bent as if Mayan. She was sizing him up, wondering what a gringo would be doing there. Then she appeared slightly amused.
       "Buenas," she said, pausing, then with what seemed to be a slight touch of sarcasm, "how may I serve you?"
       "Is Señora Margarita Gonzalez here?"
       "May I ask who calls?"
       "I'm Padre McFarland, her priest from the village of Chasnigua."
       "She left a moment ago. I'll give her a message if you wish."
       "A message?"
       "A message," she repeated. She smiled ever so slightly as if she found him boring, or amusing, or a waste of time.
       "When will she be back?"
       "Not long."
       "May I wait?" he asked, not knowing why he said it. All he needed was to leave the purse.
       "If you wish." She indicated a chair just inside the door. He sat down.
       She was reading and she kept reading. He couldn't help but look at her. She wasn't looking back. She was imposing, her face definite, her body strong, her concentration steady. Behind her there was a crude bookcase crammed with books. Among them, a Bible, Dios Habla Hoy, one of the popular versions. It looked used, as if she'd been reading it. Without thinking, he reacted.
       "What are you reading?"
       She looked up, thinking, as if deciding whether the question was worth answering or not.
       "Contemporary History of Latin America by Tulio Halperin Donghi."
       "What's that?"
       "A history of Latin America from the point of view of political economy."
       "What's 'political economy'?" he asked.
       "Political economy is the idea that history and politics can best be understood as a struggle to gain economic advantage."
       "You understand history that way?"
       "Yes."
       She went back to her reading. He sat there, saying nothing. A couple of minutes went by. She was making notes in a notebook, a cheap heavy one with a gray and white mottled cardboard cover. He'd never seen anything like this since his arrival in Honduras. Nor had he ever met a poor Honduran woman who ignored a gringo. He looked at his watch. If Doña Margarita didn't get there in two minutes he was gone.
       Suddenly she looked up and smiled at him. "You like to read?" she asked.
       "Yes," he nodded.
       "What do you read?"
       "All sorts of things."
       "Literature?"
       "Yes."
       "What kind of literature?"
       "Hardy, Hemingway, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Shakespeare, Tolstoi," he said, irritated by her question, figuring she hadn't read them herself. He went on, "Camus, Kafka, Nietzsche, Dostoevski, among others."
       She smiled. "You like Dostoevski?"
       "Yes, I like Dostoevski."
       "Have you read The Possessed?"
       "Yes."
       "Do you remember Kirilov?"
       "No."
       "Well, according to Kirilov, if there is no God, there is no law. What do you think?"
       "I think it's a great statement and I think anybody who doesn't believe in God should do whatever they want."
       "Well, so do I."
       Suddenly she laughed, and he laughed as well. He couldn't help himself. It was as if they were above the law and they both knew it.
       "Do you know what happened to Kirilov?" she asked.
       "No."
       "He put a gun in his mouth and killed himself."
       "Okay."
       She said nothing, just stared at him. So he stared back. She was tilted back on the two legs of the chair. Her thick brown curls were smashed against the bookcase, her leather-sandaled feet just off the ground, her legs light brown. He wasn't going to be the first to look away.
       "I have a book for you," she said.
       "What's it called?"
       "Accumulation on a World Scale by Samir Amin."
       "Who's he?"
       "He's Algerian."
       "You want me to read it?"
       "Yes."
       Again they said nothing. There was a scraping sound on the tin roof. Probably the mango branches blowing in the wind.
       "What's it about?" he asked.
       "It's about revolutionary class warfare on a world scale."
       He smiled. He couldn't help himself. "Are you a Marxist?"
       "Of course," she replied.
       "Why?"
       "Because I believe in God."
       "You believe in God?"
       "Yes, I believe in God."
       "What's God got to do with it?"
       "You haven't noticed?" she asked.
       "Noticed what?"
       "That God rewards the strong and punishes the weak."
       "You believe that?"
       "Of course, do you believe otherwise?"
       "Yes."
       "Then tell me," she asked, "was Jesus right when he said the meek would inherit the earth?"
       He hesitated. It was obvious. The meek hadn't inherited the earth.
       "I don't know," he admitted, "maybe he meant in the long term."
       She laughed happily. "Yes, padre," she said, "maybe he did. Now tell me, do you want the truth?"
       "You believe in truth?"
       "Yes, do you?"
       "Yes."
       "But do you want the truth?" she asked.
       "Yes."
       "Well then," she said, handing him the book, "let us measure truth, one against the other. You read Amin, I will read the Bible. Then we talk. Then we see. Then we decide who or what controls history."
       Suddenly she stopped, staring at him, her eyes mischievous. "But, padre," she said, "perhaps you already know who controls history?"
       "I think God does."
       "God?"
       "Yes, God."
       "Well, if that is so, perhaps you can explain something to me."
       He nodded, waiting.
       "You have also read The Brothers Karamazov, no?"
       "Yes, I've read it."
       "And you remember how Ivan told Alyosha that God could not be just if only one innocent child suffered. You remember that?"
       "Yes."
       "Then Ivan said that millions suffer hideously without end, did he not?"
       "Yes."
       "And what did Alyosha say?"
       "He said nothing. He only cried out that Ivan would go crazy from despair."
       She smiled. "Yes, padre, that's exactly what happened. Alyosha had no answer. But you are a man of the church like Alyosha, perhaps you have an answer."
       She was starting to irritate him, trying to corner him like that.
       "Well," he said, "do you think I have the answer to these questions? Must I justify God to justify myself? I work for the church, we have social projects, schools, clinics."
       "You have projects?" she said, her voice incredulous, gesturing with her arm toward the city below. For an instant he could see San Pedro, the dirt, the heat, the trash, the kids so poor their hair turned yellow from malnutrition. No wonder people wanted to kill.
       There was a sudden scraping, banging sound. She'd leaned forward, the front legs of her chair hitting the floor. "A program?" she said, staring at him. "Crumbs for the poor, that is justice?"
       "Very well then," he said, "so it isn't justice. So we do no justice, what do you do?"
       "Why should I do anything? Did I say I believed in justice?"
       "No, you didn't."
       "But you," she said, "you believe in justice?"
       "Yes, I believe in justice."
       "Well then, you know my cousin Alicia, that she is in the prison in Teguc. You know that?"
       "Yes, I know that," he said, scarcely wondering how she knew it.
       "You think that is just?"
       "No, that isn't just, but there may be justice."
       "What would justice be?" she asked.
       "She could escape. Those who kidnapped her could be punished for their crimes."
       "Do you know what is happening in Chasnigua?" she suddenly asked, her face opaque.
       "No."
       "I'll tell you what is happening there. The village will be torn down. They will drive the people away to make room for a cement factory. It will happen. It always happens. There will be no justice."
       He sat there, feeling strange. He'd known it all along. But how could she know that? Things like that happened. It was in the papers all the time--disappearances, dispossessions, killings.
       "When?" he asked.
       "Very soon."
       "Certain?"
       "Certain."
       Suddenly, he felt tired, very tired, as if he wanted to go lie down somewhere and sleep for a long time.
       "Qué barbaridad," he said, softly, bitterly, using the common Honduran term, "What an outrage."
       She said nothing. He sat there, staring at the floor. It could be chisme, the normal haze of lies and gossip that everyone passed around. Or, she might know. If she were right, he'd have to do something. He was their priest and it was his duty to defend the villagers regardless.
       "Would you like some coffee?" she asked.
       "Yes, thank you," he said, as she got up to get it.
       She came back with the coffee.
       "Gracias."
       "You live here?"
       He nodded.
       "You are a Roman priest?"
       "No, I'm Episcopalian. It's from the Church of England that was formed during the Reformation."
       "Henry the Eighth?"
       "Yes." She probably knew about Henry the Eighth, how he broke off from Rome over a divorce and how he had four or five wives after that.
       "You have a wife, I presume?"
       "Yes, and two kids."
       "The English community here," she asked, "you know them?"
       He nodded. "A lot of them," he said.
       "Who do you know and what do they do?"
       "You mean names?"
       "Why not?"
       He shrugged. "Well, there are the Helstroms, Sandy and Linda. They're teachers and missionaries. Tammy and Charles Midzalkowski are with AID. Kenny Morrison, he's in cotton and owns a private plane company. Carl Pesci works with the Chamber of Commerce. John and Stacy Palmer, he's with the Banana Company. Franz Norman owns an aircraft company. . . . You want more?"
       "No, that is enough."
       Her question seemed a little odd. Later he would remember she'd asked it.
       "I'm Jack McFarland," he said simply.
       "A pleasure," she said. "My name is Sonia, Sonia Rivera Rodriguez. My mother is the sister of Doña Margarita."
       "Enchanted," he replied.
       She looked less forceful now, more human. He noticed how beautiful and feminine she was, delicate in a sturdy way.
       "Do you really want to read the Bible and talk?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre," she said simply.
       "Very well," he said, suddenly getting the feeling that he shouldn't be saying that.
       A moment later, Doña Margarita arrived. She appeared suddenly, silently, entering on bare feet.
       "Buenas," she said.
       He jumped up, relieved to see her.
       "Buenas," he replied. He took her hand and leaned forward to kiss her. He could feel the warmth of her cheek, almost hot. He wondered if she had a fever, but her callused hand was cool.
       "Buenas, mi amor," she said to Sonia, and they hugged each other with affection.
       "The padre, have you met the padre?" she asked Sonia.
       "Sí," said Sonia, smiling, mischievously it seemed, "we know each other."
       "He's a good priest," Doña Margarita said.
       "Sí, madre, I think so."
       It made him happy she said it.
       "He will go with me to Teguc to get Alicia," Doña Margarita added.
       "When will that happen?" Sonia asked.
       "Tomorrow morning if you wish," Jack replied, smiling at Doña Margarita.
       "Gracias, padre," Doña Margarita replied softly, obviously relieved.
       It was silent for a moment.
       "We are very proud of her," Doña Margarita said, gesturing toward Sonia. "She is the only one of our family to attend the university."
       "It must be an honor," he murmured.
       "Yes, she is very intelligent and has almost completed her studies."
       He showed her the handbag. It was hers and she thanked him. He wanted to stay, but he had to get back. Besides, it would be embarrassing to act as if he wished to stay too long.
       "Doña Margarita, we must leave early, around seven."
       "Thank you, padre," she said. "Only God can thank you."
       He got up, extending his hand to Doña Margarita and then to Sonia. Her hand was firm, strong, life itself.
       "Adiós, padre," she said, as if saluting him. "Don't forget my book."
       "Adiós."

Chapter 4-Evening

       He drove in a trance, barely noticing the palm trees, narrow sidewalks, and beyond them, walls covered with broken glass or spikes to keep out thieves. Bougainvillea spilled over the walls, covering them with bunches of yellow, red, purple, and orange flowers amidst the green of their leaves. They shone in the light of the streetlights.
       Emma was at the gate, talking to the maid next door. They were dressed the same, blue dresses with white aprons. She swung the gate open and he pulled in, cutting the engine as the car came to a halt.
       Once inside, he stopped at the refrigerator, thinking he'd get some cold water. He could hear the boys, probably in their bedroom. It sounded like they were arguing. Paul was crying, his voice accusatory. He wondered where Deb was, why she didn't settle it. He hesitated for a second, but they kept at it.
       "What's going on, boys?" he asked, opening their bedroom door.
       "He took all my money," Paul cried, his poor unhappy face covered with tears.
       He looked at Robert. He appeared concerned but unrelenting.
       "What happened?" Jack asked.
       "We were buying and selling the property, Dad," said Robert evenly, "and he likes the property. I sold him all my property, and now he doesn't have any money. He's upset because he has no money."
       "But he's got the property," said Jack.
       "Yes, Dad, but he doesn't have all of it. I have the blue ones."
       "But they're the best," wailed Paul.
       Jack stood there, mystified, not having the least idea what to do. Paul could go on and on sometimes.
       "What are you going to do?" he asked Robert.
       Robert didn't respond.
       "Can you buy back some of the property?"
       "Dad," said Robert, his voice perplexed, grieved, "why is it that I always have to give in?"
       "I don't know," he said. His heart went out to him. "You shouldn't have to."
       They sat there for a moment while Paul sulked.
       Gravely Robert pulled out one of the gold-colored five hundreds and put it on the floor in front of Paul. Slowly Paul turned his body away from the money so he couldn't see it. Jack found himself getting irritated.
       "Take the money, Paul," he said, "and give him a property."
       Paul just sat there.
       "Okay, boys," he said, "that'll do her. Game's over."
       He held out his hand to Robert who handed him the wad of cash. He began to put it back in the box, each denomination in its separate section. Paul sat there, doing nothing.
       "The property," Jack said.
       Paul wouldn't budge. Jack got up, grabbed the kid, pried open his fist, and took the properties. Paul struggled loose and ran wailing out of the room toward the back bedroom. Robert smiled.
       Seconds later Deb came down the hall, her hair all wet. She'd been in the shower.
       "What's going on?" she asked, exasperated and bemused at the same time.
       Jack shrugged. "He doesn't want to play the game," he said. "So I ended it."
       "Oh," she replied.
       It was silent for a moment. No sound of Paul crying. He was probably sulking in the back bedroom, waiting for them to make the next move.
       "Can we have strawberries?" Robert asked.
       "Of course," Deb replied. They headed for the kitchen.
       Deb dumped the strawberries in a bowl of water and added a small amount of Clorox. She stirred them a second, letting the solution kill off the germs. Fresh fruits and vegetables were the worst, the main fear being intestinal diseases and hepatitis. Then she rinsed them with fresh water from the water bottle. It held about ten gallons. They bought it from a truck that came by daily. They each filled a bowl, sprinkling in the sugar. They ate in silence.
       "Can you fix one for Paul?" Robert asked.
       Deb filled a bowl and Robert headed down the hallway, bowl in hand. They waited. He didn't come back. The peace offering had done the job.
       Ten minutes later, the phone rang, just at the moment Jack heard someone clanging on the front gate. He went out to get it while Deb answered the phone.
       It was Rúben, one of the students in the theological education program. He was standing by the gate, short, heavy, his jet-black hair slicked back, wearing glasses.
       "Buenas noches, padre," he said, his gold inlays glinting behind his broad smile.
       "Buenas," Jack replied, reaching for the key to the gate.
       "Only passing by, padre," Rúben said. "I have a letter for you. " He handed Jack the letter through the bars.
       "Gracias, Rúben," he said, wondering who it was. Rúben had picked the letter up downtown at the post office, sent to the diocesan address. Nobody had their own address, and even at the main post office the mail wasn't that reliable. So most people phoned. Even that could be a hassle, especially in the daytime.
       "Your family, how are they?" asked Jack.
       "Fine," Rúben replied, "and yours?"
       "Fine," said Jack.
       Rúben had two teenage girls but no wife. He and his wife had left each other years ago, back when they were young and spent their time drinking and sleeping around. Since then, Rúben had given his life to Christ and now he worked as an assistant at Christ the King, the charismatic Episcopal Church in San Pedro.
       "Padre," said Rúben, "the bishop goes to the coast tomorrow. Before he leaves he wants to talk to you."
       "When?" he asked.
       "At eight in the morning. He'll meet you at church."
       "Which church?"
       "Buen Pastor."
       "Very well."
       By then Jack had the gate unlocked, "Come in and have some ice cream," he said.
       Rúben hesitated. He glanced toward the house. "Thank you, padre," he said, "but I must be going."
       Jack smiled, as did Rúben. They both knew he was being polite.
       "Thanks for the letter," Jack said, shaking his hand again.
       "You will be at the seminary this week?"
       "Sí, padre, all week long."
       "I'll see you there."
       "Sí, padre, until then."
       Jack headed toward the door, stopping to open the letter in the light from the kitchen window. It was getting pretty dark outside. It was from his stateside bishop, the bishop of Atlanta. He was the one who made it possible for Jack to take a year's leave of absence to work in Honduras.
       "Don't worry," the bishop had said. "When the year is up, I'll have a parish for you. One of the best."
       "What will I do in Honduras?" Jack had asked.
       "Bueno," the bishop replied, mildly amused at himself. They both knew the bishop hardly knew any Spanish, so Jack smiled as well. "Robles says he could use someone in the mountains for a year. They have a village up there without a priest."
       Robles was the bishop of Honduras. Jack had met him a couple of times at Companion Diocese Committee meetings. He seemed like a good guy.
       The bishop leaned back in his chair, pleased with himself. He was making things happen, that was his mission in life. His desk was large, wooden, and behind him on the dark wooden walls hung paintings of past bishops. Jack felt strange. But he always felt strange around important people.
       "And after the year is up," the bishop continued, "I'm thinking you might be interested in St. Pete's. It's one of the best. By the time you come back, they should be ready to hire."
       Jack tore open the letter, reading the relevant phrases. "I hear you will be in Connecticut after Easter," the bishop wrote. "I want you to take a look at St. Pete's. We'll fly you down. They're ready to go."
       He stuffed the letter in his pocket. Deb liked St. Pete's. Many of its rectors went on to become bishops, and they had an outstanding day school for the kids. Once inside, Deb was still on the phone.
       "When will he be back?" she asked. It had to be Deb's mom, talking about Deb's father. They'd divorced years ago but it never seemed to end.
       "Okay," Deb said. She'd changed into shorts with some kind of a see-through blouse. She had several outfits like that, but she wore them only in the house. Once they arrived in Honduras, they discovered that shorts and flimsy blouses weren't worn in public.
       "Tell him you can't do it, Mom. Tell him it's his responsibility."
       Deb was silent for a moment. Doubtless Deb's dad was trying to get her mom to do something for him.
       "So what if you don't have the number?"
       He could dimly hear Deb's mother, going on about something.
       "Mom, did he say he'd call back?"
       Apparently he had.
       "Well then, when he calls you back, tell him you won't do it."
       "How's Jessie?" Deb asked. She was changing the subject, and moments later it ended.
       She sat down, looking right at Jack, her face blank.
       "What'd he want?" Jack said, referring to Deb's dad.
       "He called from London, and he wants her to drive over to Jersey and pay the utility bill. They're going to cut everything off."
       "Is she going to do it?"
       "I don't know."
       "Did she say she would?"
       "Sort of."
       Jack waited. She'd said something. She could get real definite at times.
       "Some women don't know when to quit," she finally said.
       After that, it was time to get the boys down. Robert was usually easy, but Paul could be pretty difficult. Once in bed, it started.
       "Dad," Paul said, "those shadows are scary, they scare me, Dad."
       "What shadows?" Jack asked.
       "Those, Dad, those." He pointed to the wall where you could see the moving shadows from the banana trees outside the window.
       "Those aren't scary," Jack said, "they're just banana leaves."
       "They're scary, they really are."
       "What's scary about them?"
       "They're moving, Dad, moving without touching anything."
       "What can I do about it?" he asked, suddenly realizing that was the wrong question.
       "You stay here," Paul said, pulling on his dad's arm. His face had a sly, happy look.
       "I'll sit here for five minutes," Jack said, sitting beside him.
       Paul nodded. He pulled his dad down close to his face.
       "Mom said I should forgive you," he whispered happily.
       "I forgive you, too," he said, kissing his soft cheek.
       It was quiet for a moment, only the rattle of the wind in the banana trees, the occasional muffled sound of a passing car, and the faint noise of their landlord's TV. He lived behind them, and his driveway ran right past the boys' windows. He was an Arab, and like a number of Arabs in Honduras, he'd come over from Palestine in the fifties and gone into merchandizing. The guy was fascist, at least it seemed that way.
       "Heil Hitler," he and his friends would sometimes say as they said goodbye to each other in the driveway.
       "Which way do they go?" Robert asked.
       "Which way does what go?" Jack replied.
       "The shadows on the wall when a car goes by."
       Jack shrugged. He didn't quite get the question.
       "Do they go the same direction as the car or the opposite direction?" Robert asked.
       Jack looked at him. He was handsome in a delicate way, with a full mouth and large dark eyes.
       "What do you think?" he asked.
       "They go the opposite," Robert said.
       "That's right," Jack replied.
       Paul turned over. He was getting sleepy. A miracle in the making. Jack figured he'd better wait a little longer, just to make sure.
       Five minutes later, Jack gently got up. Paul didn't move, but Robert was looking at him steadily.
       "Good night," Jack whispered.
       "Good night, Dad," Robert whispered as well. "I love you, Dad," he said.
       "I love you too," Jack replied, his heart swelling with tenderness.
       Deb was in bed when he got there. She was sitting there, her knees pulled up, clasped in her arms. The light fell across her shoulder, shining on her brown hair, her green nightgown of gauze. Her eyes appeared a little wide without her contacts.
       Jack sat down on the couch by the bed. He felt tired, happy, but then he gradually began to realize something, something he should have thought of a little earlier. He needed to tell her he was planning to leave the next day for Teguc, and that could be a problem. She was tired of his being gone all the time, and even worse, if he left without warning. If he told her, she'd get mad, or hurt, or something, and that would be the end of the evening. But if he said nothing and they made love as they often did when he got back from the mountains, she'd be doubly mad when he left at dawn.
       "Did you have a good time?" she asked.
       "All I did was read," he said, "and sit in the church."
       "What are you reading?"
       "The Vision of God by Vladimir Lossky."
       She nodded, saying nothing. When they first met, she'd read all the time. She'd been a fanatic that way. In fact, that's how she got inside of him, talking about literature. Once he arrived on her doorstep, they spent the day together, and then the night. In the morning she sat up in the bed, looking down on him.
       "Are there any Anthony's left in the world," she said, "or are all of us Caesar's?"
       She was talking of Shakespeare, his Anthony and Cleopatra.
       "I don't know," Jack replied.
       "Do you remember what Anthony said at the end?" she asked. He didn't remember.
       She leaned over him, smiling, kissing him on the mouth.
       "My kingdom for a kiss, that's what he said." She looked at him intently, smiling, laughing for a second, her eyes on fire.
       He remembered. Just before he died, Anthony asked Cleopatra for what he wanted most, another kiss. She kissed him, and after his death, she gave herself to Caesar who cared nothing for love. His aim was power.
       "He drank the stale of the gilded puddle, and ate the rude bark of trees," Deb said. It was a description of Mark Anthony the great warrior.
       "What do you think?" he asked her. "Are there any Anthony's left in the world?"
       "I think," she said slowly, "I think Cleopatra loved him when he was strong. Once he loved her, really loved her, he became weak. If you love someone, you become weak. Then she threw him away for Caesar. That's the sad part. People only want you if you're beautiful and strong."
       She was scrawny and pale. Her hair was dark brown, her face flattened, her eyes, green gray.
       "I'm not strong," she said slowly, intensely, staring right at him, "and I'm not beautiful."
       He was transfixed, enveloped, horrified, that she could be so intense, so real, so raw. That's when she got inside him, right there, staring down at him, talking of Anthony and Cleopatra. And they'd been together ever since. But that part about not being strong wasn't the truth, or at least only a half-truth. When she wanted something, nothing could stop her. Or maybe she only got that way after she met him.
       "José came and got me for meals," Jack said, referring to his time in the mountains. "But that was about it until today when the weather cleared up."
       She nodded.
       "Anything happen while I was gone?" he asked.
       "Robert was in the play."
       "Oh that's nice, how was it?"
       "There were soldiers there."
       "Where?"
       "At the school."
       "What were they doing there?"
       "To guard the students and their parents, I suppose."
       Jack didn't say anything. He wondered if she was blaming him for the danger. The school catered to business and government people, but he'd never heard of any of them being killed. The military or the DIN, the secret police, did most of the killings. They killed labor leaders, campesinos who got out of line, civil rights leaders.
       "I'm thinking we should take him out after our visit to the States."
       She was referring to Robert. They'd almost taken him out of school when they first arrived. The other kids were calling him "gringo feo," "ugly gringo." But Jack had been against it, and for once, it went his way.
       "Why? He's doing okay."
       "They're still making fun of him."
       "How do you know this?"
       "He told me," Deb replied.
       "He hasn't said anything to me. In fact, he told me he wanted to stay on."
       "Maybe," she said.
       "How's Liz?" Jack asked. Liz was Deb's best friend in Honduras.
       "She's fine. She came by Sunday and took us to the Copantyl for lunch."
       The Copantyl was San Pedro's only luxury hotel, with a restaurant, tennis courts, and a large swimming pool.
       "That's nice. Did the kids go swimming?"
       She nodded.
       "What's going on?" he asked. Liz had been threatening to divorce her husband.
       "She won't leave him," Deb replied, shaking her head. "He's been fooling around ever since he got here, but she says she still loves him."
       "What do you think?"
       "If she had money she'd leave him tomorrow."
       "Well, maybe she'll figure out something," he added.
       "Perhaps," she replied.
       He nodded.
       It was silent for a moment. He was stuck, dead stuck with no way out.
       "I've got to go to Teguc," he said, suddenly, knowing he'd just botched it, wondering why he had to be so blunt. "But it won't take but a day at the most."
       "When is that?" she asked.
       "Tomorrow, after I meet with the bishop."
       She didn't say anything. He thought she blushed, but he wasn't sure. If so, it was very faint as if she were ashamed.
       "What's that about?" she said quietly.
       "I've got to help a woman in Chasnigua. Her daughter's in jail. I've got to get her out."
       "Why didn't you go earlier?"
       "I just found out today."
       "Have you told the bishop about it?"
       "No, but he's leaving for the coast tomorrow, right after we meet. Plus, I can't bother him with things like this."
       "How long has she been there?"
       "About a year, I think."
       She didn't say anything. The conclusion was obvious. Bishop Robles knew far more about getting people out of jails than Jack ever would, and after a year, a few more days wouldn't make any difference.
       "Do you care if I leave?" he asked.
       She didn't answer. No telling what she was thinking. Maybe she'd figured out that he liked Honduras, that he was thinking about staying beyond their one-year appointment. And if she figured that, she wouldn't like it. It would mean Robert would have to stay in school, and that was just for starters. When it came to the kids, she could get ferocious.
       "Deb," he said, "let me tell you something. The woman only found out about her daughter yesterday. She asked me for help. She's desperate. Nobody does anything for anybody around here. This afternoon I saw a child die. I'm not going to sit here and let this wretchedness go on and on. I just won't. I told her I would help, and I will. It's that simple."
       "Why don't you turn off the light, Jack," she said.
       He didn't say anything, just stared at her, thinking he should say something to make it all right. Or, if he had any guts, he'd show her the letter from the bishop of Atlanta, then tell her that he wanted to stay in Honduras. Have an honest conversation for once. But he couldn't do it. It wouldn't work. He knew it. She wanted out of there and he wanted in. And if he told her he'd change things with Doña Margarita, go to Teguc later in the week, the reason for that would be obvious. It would be to placate her, not because he thought she was right.
       Deb got up and turned off the light. He kept hoping she'd say something, but she didn't. She just went to bed, her face toward the wall.
       He sat there, waiting, hating himself for what he'd done, trying to look good in front of Sonia, saying he'd go to Teguc the next day. If he loved Deb, he'd do it her way in a heartbeat. But then, even if he did love her, why should he? Wasn't the inconvenience of his being gone another day peanuts compared to Doña Margarita's agony over her daughter? But Deb would never give in, never.
       "Deb," he said softly, wondering if she was asleep, wondering why he did what he did.
       "Deb."
       "Yes," she said.
       "I'm sorry," he said, "sometimes I just can't take it anymore."
       She didn't say anything.
       "Why don't we go to the beach tomorrow," he said, "take the kids. The bishop says he has a house for us. They'll love it."
       "Come to bed with me," she said, almost begging him it seemed. He got in the bed and lay there facing her. He could barely see her gray eyes in the dim light, the swell of her breasts at the edge of her nightgown. She took his head in her hands and kissed him. He put his arms around her. Moments later she had slipped off her nightgown and they were making love, lost in a world of utter joy.

Chapter 5--The Bishop

       By eight the next day Jack was sitting in Buen Pastor, his head on the pew ahead of him, praying, thinking about Deb, Chasnigua, Doña Margarita and her imprisoned daughter. He'd run by her house to say that they would leave on Friday. She hadn't reacted, but he knew she was disappointed. Before that, at six, he'd done the funeral for the baby. Now he was waiting for the bishop. In his pocket he had the proposal for the cooperative in Chasnigua, thinking maybe the bishop could sign it, buy some land to head off the disaster about the cement factory. As usual, the bishop was late. The secretaries said he was meeting with the rector of Buen Pastor. Probably some kind of a problem.
       Suddenly, he saw the bishop. He was rushing across the courtyard heading for the gate, visible in segments through the partitions that formed the walls of the church. He looked harried, pale and sweaty in the sun. His shirt was half out at the waist.
       "Señor obispo," Jack called, "over here."
       The bishop stopped, turning in the light, not sure where the sound came from.
       "Over here, bishop," called Jack, getting up from his pew and heading for the door.
       "Ah yes, Jack," the bishop cried, spotting Jack as he came out the door. His expression changed instantly, his face alight, smiling happily. In an instant they had met. He could feel the bishop's soft hand squeezing his own, their faces side by side, same height, the bishop pulling them together in the abrazo.
       "I had the meeting there," the bishop said, his pudgy face suddenly clouded. "They have these troubles here, Jack, always the same troubles for the bishop." He spoke English with a heavy accent.
       It had to be the vestry of Buen Pastor. They were always fighting with their rector. He was a Chilean priest of English descent who looked down on Hondurans.
       "What's going on?" Jack asked.
       "Oh, I can do no more," he said wearily, "no more. Those people, they do not love each other. That is the problem with this world, Jack, there is not much love here. But now, Jack," he said, suddenly happy, "you would like to eat, no?"
       "Yes, bishop, if you wish."
       "Do I wish?" he said, "do I wish?" He twirled his hand in the air, "Of course I wish, we all wish."
       Suddenly, he stopped, his face alarmed, his green eyes squinting at the light.
       "Oh my," he said, turning to rush back toward the office. "Be right back," he cried, "I forgot this thing."
       Moments later he was back, smiling happily, a key in his hand.
       "You will need this," he said. "I show you this thing and you will be happy. But now, do not think of this. We eat first, no?"
       "Yes, bishop," Jack said as they headed toward the car.
       The bishop's car was a battered green Mercedes with tinted windows. The engine was running and the air conditioner was going full blast. Jack wondered how long it had been left running. It was cold in there. Seconds later, they were on the road.
       "You like the Sula?" the bishop asked.
       "Yes."
       The Sula was the main hotel downtown, located on the square diagonal to the cathedral. Jack often took the family there for lunch. The boys liked the parrots, the swimming pool, and the hamburgers. They were like the ones in the States.
       "Watch out," the bishop suddenly cried, swerving to miss an open manhole. "Why do we have these things, Jack, why do we? Someday they kill someone. A little child will die. We should protest this, Jack, protest it."
       "Do they care?" Jack asked. The open manhole had been in the road ever since he arrived in Honduras eight months ago.
       "Yes, that is the problem," the bishop sighed.
       They turned right, heading downhill, passing the International School that Robert attended. Its walls were cement blocks, painted yellow with flowering hibiscus along its sides.
       "What must I do?" the bishop asked, sounding almost desperate. "I try to love that man, to help him. I offer him all those things but he takes nothing. He will not help his bishop."
       He was talking of the professor. The bishop wanted him to live in a nice house so he could entertain the gringos when they came to visit. Without gringo money, they couldn't keep the theological program alive. But the professor refused to live in a nice house and he wouldn't entertain the gringos.
       "Should I stop now? Should I stop trying to be good to that man? I got him the visa at the embassy two years ago. I sent him to the States to learn the new theology. I help his father when he gets sick. He knows these things, but he will not help his bishop."
       They'd reached the circunbulación. The Chamber of Commerce building was on their right. According to Jack's maid, the Chamber controlled the town. She also thought Jimmy Swaggart was God's gift to humanity.
       The bishop edged his way into the traffic. It was heavy and moving past. Hondurans didn't wait for openings. They pushed their way into the flow.
       The bishop looked at Jack, his face earnest, clear, his thin dark hair slicked back.
       "Someday, he will see. Someday that man will know what I do for him. Then he will know that we must love the gringo, that we are not too proud to take their money."
       "Yes, bishop," Jack said, remembering how the bishop once said that he raised more money in the States than any other Latin American bishop. He was proud of the fact.
       Ten blocks later they turned off the circunbulación, heading downhill toward the center of town. The street was only two lanes and packed. It looked hotter outside, a crowded mix of people, noise, and trash. A bus nosed in from a right-hand side street. Just above its front window was a placard with the words, "Yo tambien era joven," "I also was once young." The bus halted, its path blocked by an on-coming truck that refused to give way. Finally, they got going only to be stopped half a block later by a red light. A man with a parrot on his arm was walking from car to car. Everyone ignored him. The bishop rolled down the window.
       "How much is it, señor?" he asked. "Must you sell the parrot today?"
       "Twenty-five lempiras," replied the man. The price was exorbitant.
       "Yes, yes," the bishop replied, thrusting his fleshy arm through the window, stroking the bird. "These things are good. And what is the parrot's name?"
       The man hesitated, his face uncertain. "We allow our customers to choose the name," he suddenly said, apparently relieved.
       The bishop laughed. He pulled a lempira out of his pocket and handed it to the vendor.
       "Gracias, señor," the man replied.
       The bishop waved. "We are all friends here, no?" he said.
       "Sí, señor," the man replied happily.
       The bishop pulled away, the light had changed.
       "The Lord Jesus was right," he said pensively a moment later. "The poor are always with us. I do this thing because no one talks to them."
       The stadium was on the left. All you could see was the back of it, a large concrete structure tilting upward. He'd gone there once with the students and the professor. The students called him "Profe," a term of affection. They pronounced it "Pro-fay," and Jack had started calling him that as well. The students said he could heal people and cast out demons, but Jack had never seen it happen. They were always joking about the professor, making fun of him, especially Marcos, the class clown.
       "The New Jerusalem," Marcos would say, mimicking the professor, walking dreamily into the room. He'd be dressed in baggy trousers, sandals, wire-rimmed glasses. He would look upward toward the ceiling, straight at the overhead light. "Ah yes," he would say, "the New Jerusalem, come down out of heaven adorned like a bride for her husband." The others would follow his gaze as if they too saw the vision. "Yes," Marcos would say, "there shall be no more crying, or sorrow, or pain anymore, for the former things have passed away."
       The students loved it. They would stumble around the room as if they were having visions themselves. Then Marcos would sit at the front table to begin class. The students would take their seats at once. "Estamos?" Marcos would suddenly exclaim, his face radiant, as if he'd entered the very heavens. "Estamos," the students would reply.
       It was the professor's favorite word. He got it from Ríos Montt, the crazy evangelical president of Guatemala who thought he could reform Guatemalan society in one mad burst of evangelistic fervor. Literally, the word meant "We are here." In context it could also mean, "Ready to begin class?" or when the vision was real, "We are in the Kingdom now."
       The bishop was still talking, and this time he seemed so serious that he could almost cry.
       "I must talk to someone," he said. "I tried hard but that woman will not live with me. Now she says she does not like Honduras. She wants her mother. I feel sad. I tried to say I love her, but she don't listen to me. Now she is gone. I know that, but I cannot accept that, Jack, I cannot."
       It was his wife. Jack wasn't surprised. He'd hardly been in Honduras a week before the bishop started telling him his problems. At first he'd been flattered, but later he got the impression the bishop confided in everybody. A week after he arrived, Jack met the bishop's wife. She didn't belong in Honduras. She was a small town gringa from South Florida. The bishop was from Cuba. He'd come to the States after the revolution.
       "When did she leave?" he asked.
       "She never came back," the bishop replied. "She went to visit her mother three months ago. When I call her on the phone she says she cannot come back to Honduras."
       "What will happen with your children?" he asked.
       "That is the worst of all," he practically wailed, "the worst of all. She has them, she keeps them. A man cannot live without his children."
       Jack felt sad.
       "And there is more, there is more. These things never end. But we are strong, no? I tell you this because you are my friend. That man Guerrero is a bad man, a very bad man. Now he says that I cheat him, that I cheat all the priests. He tells that to all those priests, he tells them that."
       Guerrero was a priest in Teguc, originally from Nicaragua.
       "What kind of cheating?" Jack asked.
       "He says that I don't pay the alguinaldo to the clergy, that I take the alguinaldo for myself. That I spend the money on a vacation in Cancun and those other places."
       Jack knew about the alguinaldo. It was an extra month's salary employers paid at Christmas time. Emma had let it be known, and he had paid her.
       "Why don't you pay it?"
       "We can't," the bishop replied. "All the monies comes from the Episcopal Church Center in New York. They only pay the twelve months. They know nothing of the alguinaldo."
       "Is there anything you can do?" Jack asked, thinking that Hondurans were always fighting about money. At least, that's what his gringo friends told him, the ones who'd lived in Honduras for years.
       "What can I do?" the bishop exclaimed. "Do I show that man and all the priests the account books of the diocese? Does that man want to humiliate me? Why does he spread these lies about me, that when I am gone from the country, that I go to those resorts? I don't do these things, Jack. I go to the dioceses in the States so we can have these programs here. That man Guerrero is no good for us, Jack."
       Finally the bishop was silent, staring straight ahead, his hands clenching the steering wheel on both sides.
       "Sometimes the bishop must do the hard thing," he said.
       Seconds later they were there, turning left at the corner and heading for the parking lot behind the Sula. That was the only safe place, or the only place for that matter. The streets were so narrow and jammed with cars that parking lots were your only choice.
       Once out of the car they walked swiftly, crossing the street, passing the vendors selling roasted meat, tortillas, quesadillas, tajaditas, plátanos. They smelled wonderful. They were cooking them over 55-gallon barrels cut lengthwise. You had to squeeze past them to get through. He wondered if the city would ever get them off the sidewalks. The citizens complained constantly but nothing was ever done about it. They got to the corner of the Sula. Jack was already sweating from the heat. The beggar woman with her filthy ragged kids held out her hand but they ignored her. The tourists gave her plenty.
       Jack was still thinking of the professor.
       "You must see God," the professor once said, beaming at Jack from behind his wire glasses.
       "Why must I do that?" Jack had asked.
       The professor laughed, hugging him. "Ah, my dear Jack," he said, "how I love you. You have hopes, the best hopes of all."
       Jack stood there, almost stupefied.
       "Like what?" he asked.
       "Like God," he said, leaning close. You could even see his eyelashes, short and curling upward. "People like you will never be happy until they see God."
       The bishop stopped at the corner, reaching in his pocket for change to buy a newspaper. The papers were stacked on the pavement held down by stones.
       "El Grafico?" he said to the vendor.
       "There is no Grafico," the man replied.
       The bishop laughed happily. "No Grafico," he exclaimed. "These things cannot be. Why, everyone likes El Grafico. Why do you not have that newspaper?"
       "Because it always sells out," the man replied.
       "Yes, but you are an intelligent man. You should bring more of them. Now, give me La Prensa. How much is that?"
       "Seventy centavos."
       "Not enough, not enough," the bishop exclaimed. "Now we know why you are poor." They all laughed.
       The bishop handed him a lempira note, took the paper and refused the change. On the front page was a picture of Gorbachev and Reagan. The headline read, "Mikail Gorbachev, President of the Soviet Union, visits Washington."
       The bishop handed the paper to Jack and headed for the door of the Sula. Jack followed him, suddenly getting the odd feeling that he had become the bishop's porter.
       They pushed their way through the wood and glass revolving door, the heat of the street suddenly giving way to the cool. The main desk was on the left, the gift shops to the right. A group of North American young people were standing around talking loudly, dressed in shorts, tank tops and T-shirts, with backpacks and bedrolls. They were oblivious to everyone except themselves. They stood out, too casual and too much skin. The bishop was heading for the diner at the back. They passed the bar. Normally it was filled with North American businessmen, tourists, and at times, U.S. soldiers. Jack caught a glimpse of it. It was nearly empty. Too early in the morning.
       "I will pay," the bishop said, once they were seated. "The bishop always pays. Yes, that is how it must be. The greatest must be the servant of all."
       "Thank you, bishop."
       Once the food arrived the bishop ate rapidly. Then he leaned back, sipping his coffee. On his finger was a large gold ring, the only visible sign of his episcopate. When he was nervous or pensive, he would twist it round and round, staring off into space. He wasn't wearing his collar or his purple shirt, just blue jeans, deck shoes, and a white embroidered shirt, open at the neck and showing the hair at the top of his chest.
       "Jack, how long have you been here now?"
       "Eight months."
       "Do you take your time off? I tell all my priests that they must rest. The Sabbath, we must do that. We priests work too hard. Your wife, is she happy?"
       "Yes, bishop, she's fine."
       "That is good. It is good that the woman be happy. I want my priests to like the work in Honduras."
       He waved to the waitress, directing her at once to his table.
       "More coffee, no?" he asked, pointing to Jack. The waitress filled up the cups. The bishop suddenly stood up and got some packets of sugar from another table.
       "Jack," he said, sitting down in an instant, dumping in the sugar. "Jack, you can help your bishop?"
       "Yes, bishop," he said.
       "All the peoples," the bishop said, waving his hand in the air as if he were addressing millions, "they want to talk to me. They never leave their bishop alone because there are so many things that only the bishop can do. You help me, no? The bishop must have his privacy. When I leave Honduras, I leave my car with you. Will that help you, Jack?"
       "Oh yes, very much. Can Deb use it while I'm in the mountains?"
       "Of course, of course," the bishop replied. "That is the good thing. I bring the car by to your house and take a taxi from there. Then you can have the car for the wife, and I will not pay for airport parking. I leave this Saturday for the States, but I come back soon. So don't worry this time. But when I come back from those other trips, be sure and bring the car to the airport two days before I return. Sometimes I do not always know when I come back and it must be there. You leave the parking ticket in the car. You can do that for your bishop?"
       "Of course, bishop," he said, feeling uneasy, but still a bit relieved that Deb could have a car.
       "One more thing for your bishop, no?"
       He waited.
       "Next Sunday, in the evening, Father Jim comes. He comes with some peoples from Charleston. They stay here at the Sula. You can meet them here. They want to see the clinics and Father Jim wants to see the theological education program. You do that, no?"
       Jack said nothing. He was tired of showing visitors around Honduras.
       "Jack," the bishop said earnestly, "we must do these things. These peoples are friends. We help them because they are discouraged. The churches in the States do not grow. They do not spread the gospel. They do not live with the poor. They like what we do here. They feel God here, and we are not too proud to receive from them as well. So you help the bishop, no?"
       "If you wish, bishop."
       "Now, Jack," the bishop said happily, pulling the key out of his pocket, "I have something for you. As I said to you, I have the house on the beach. In my car I have the map for you to go there. It is very nice for the family. Take Deb there and those boys. Tell me when you want to go. You go there this week if you wish."
       "Thank you, bishop. Would today be all right?"
       "Of course, leave now if you wish. Tell the guardion that you are my friend. But don't tell anyone of this, Jack. The bishop cannot have the peoples of the diocese using the beach house. So you say nothing, no?"
       "Of course, bishop."
       The bishop smiled, happy about it all.
       Well, that was nice. Now all he had to do was bring up Chasnigua.
       "Bishop?" he said.
       The bishop nodded.
       "Things are not going too good in the mountains."
       "What is that?" the bishop asked, his voice wary.
       "Well, there are rumors that they will destroy Chasnigua to make room for a cement factory."
       "Oh no," he said, his eyes growing wide, "is this true?"
       "I think so, at least I've been told that."
       "Have you talked to José?"
       "Well, not exactly, but I met with the patronato, and they are hoping to set up a cooperative. Later I learned there was going to be a factory there, so I'm thinking they want the cooperative in case they lose their land.
       "Who told you about a factory?"
       "José Antonio told me."
       "Yes," the bishop said, pressing his palms together, his face clouded, "Yes, we must do that, we must help the campesino."
       "They've talked to Julio," Jack added. "He says $25,000 dollars ought to do it. We can turn the place into a garden."
       "Yes, that is good," the bishop replied, twisting his ring round and round. "But I don't have that money for them now, Jack." He gestured helplessly. "I must talk to the patronato of Chasnigua. We must be sure of this. We can meet with them next week at the diocesan convention. Will they be there?"
       "José will, and Jesús, and some of the others. They are the leaders."
       "Good, that is good. We get the money. We get it, yes. If there is danger, we get it. I promised Delicias del Norte we would build a church there. I promised that. But they will understand. Yes they will. So I go to the States this Saturday. I talk to them there. They will understand. These things happen here in America Latina."
       "I'm thinking of writing some of the churches in my home diocese."
       "Yes, yes, that is good," the bishop replied. "That is very good. I help you with that."
       "Can you write a cover letter for us and sign a proposal?"
       "Of course, of course," he replied, sounding relieved that Jack had the matter in hand.
       Jack pulled out the proposal, thankful to be getting somewhere. "Did Julio write this?" the bishop asked. Julio was the head of the diocesan social programs.
       "Yes," said Jack.
       "Okay, he is a good man, but he is young. Sometimes the young man do not see these things so clearly."
       Jack handed over the paper. The bishop read instantly, his eyes skipping down the pages. It ended with a letter to donors in the States, written in typical campesino prose. Jack had translated it, giving a literal translation to get the full effect. The letter came back to him, word by word.
Esteemed Believers in Christ,
      
       We salute you in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ desiring that our divine celestial Father pour out upon you his rich mercies and blessings.
       We, the people of Chasnigua, find ourselves in social and economic conditions so deplorable that we are forced to seek methods to resolve our problems beyond those of our resources presently available. We rural workers are so poor that we cannot consume the agricultural products we produce. They are sent to you. You consume them, but we do not consume what you produce. This robbery is a great injustice that afflicts our world. Now we write you seeking your contributions to a fund to be administered by our beloved church, to form a cooperative in the rural region of Chasnigua. Esteemed companions in Christ, let us remember the words of our Savior when he said "the first must be last and the last first." Now we are last, but place us first in your hearts by returning to us a portion of what we have lost to you. We are writing these things to you that our joy may be complete.
"Ah," the bishop sighed, "he is so right, so right. The campesino feeds the whole world and they have nothing."
       "Will you sign it?" Jack asked.
       "I don't know," he said, twisting his hands. "I don't know about this thing. Julio is a good man, yes, he is good. He wants the justice. That is good, too. But we, we in the church, we must speak to the heart. We cannot tell the gringo that they are robbing the campesino. We cannot do that thing, Jack. We are not economists. We are Christians. You write them, you do that, Jack. Tell them about Juanita who lost her baby, or Juan who dreams of going to school, or Fulano de Tal who works all day in the fields but his children are starving. Then you will receive the help the peoples need."
       He left the letter by his plate unsigned. Jack felt himself getting irritated. He didn't take the letter back. It sat on the table.
       "Jack," the bishop said, reaching over, taking his arm. "We must learn these things. These are the hard things. We learn them the hard way. Yes, yes we do. We learn these things in Cuba when we have the revolution there. They said they want the justice but they had no love. Without the love we have nothing there, no justice, nothing. My family has nothing. There is nothing there, Jack."
       "Your family is there?" asked Jack.
       "My father is there, my mother is in the States."
       "But your father is in Cuba?"
       "Yes."
       "What does he do?"
       "I don't know, he may be in the prison."
       "Why would he be in prison?"
       "He was the head of the dental association before the revolution. When Castro came, they make all the leaders join the party. But he would not join. So he went to the prison."
       "Then you and your mother left?"
       "Yes, my mother and I came every Sunday to the prison. Then one day my father told my mother to take me to the States and never come back. After that, I never saw my father again."
       Jack felt odd, guilty almost, that he'd done wrong to ask the bishop to sign the letter.
       "Jack, I will help you. I write this letter myself to help get the monies for the peoples of Chasnigua. I will have it for you Friday when I come back from the coast."
       "Thank you, bishop."
       "I leave it for you at Buen Pastor. You get it there. Then talk to those people from Charleston. They will help you. I know them. They want to help, that is why they are here."
       "Thank you, bishop," Jack replied again, "I'll talk to them."
       "Now, I have something for you. I need you here. I get an appointment for you to stay three years. You can be an appointee of the national church in the States. They owe me one. I am the only bishop of Central America who does not have an appointee. The church will pay these things for you, for the house, the education for the children, everything. I need you in the theological education program. I pay you the salary I pay you now. It is not good to have the professor teaching all the courses and the peoples like you here. You think about this, okay?"
       "Yes, bishop," Jack replied, "I would like that, but first I'd better talk with Deb."
       "Yes, that is good, the woman comes first. I tell all my priests that thing."
       They got up, it was time to go.
       "But, Jack, when you stay here, two things."
       He nodded, waiting.
       "No politics, and you must be loyal to your bishop, okay?"
       "Of course, bishop."

Chapter 6--On the Beach

       It was late afternoon. Jack was sitting on a dune overlooking the ocean. He felt strange, like something was happening to him. The sun was setting and the wind was blowing hard. He was thinking about the professor, staying in Honduras, the little girl who died. It hurt him, the image of her in his arms. In the distance he could see Deb's slender form by the water's edge, and Robert and Paul sitting in the sand.
       To his left there was a line of trees following a creek that led to the sea. Their branches swayed in the wind, palms and hardwoods. He'd just been swimming in the creek, floating downstream, letting the current carry him along. It had rained the night before. He'd grabbed some dead branches that hung over the water and held himself against the current. He could feel the cold of the water as he watched the sunlight filter through the branches and listened to the rattle of the leaves in the wind. Later on, he'd climbed a dune to watch the sea and feel the sun. After the cold of the creek, its rays were a clean sting.
       He was thinking of graduate school, of life before Deb. It was late fall and then winter. He didn't know anybody. He was depressed. He'd been depressed for a long time. He'd go walking along the railroad tracks at night. The trees were bare except for the oaks. Their leaves would rattle in the wind. He would listen to them in the darkness, thinking about his childhood, about his mom, his dad, his girlfriends, thinking he only loved them when they were gone.
       Sometimes a train would come through. From far away he could hear it, the wail of the whistle, the roar of the engines. Then he could see it, the light waving back and forth in the darkness, the sound growing in strength and terror. He would lie beside the tracks, the ground trembling beneath the roaring wheels, feeling the power of the hurtling cars, the howl of the whistle, and for a moment, all his sadness would fade away.
       After classes, in the afternoon, he would lie in bed and stare out the window. He was thinking, reading, wondering what happened to him. The leaves were falling from the trees. One day he read Colin Wilson's The Outsider. That's when he started thinking he was a dead man. Plate glass feeling he called it. It started when he was a child, as if he looked at life through plate glass, unable to feel or touch anything. That's where Deb found him, holed up in his room, thinking he was a dead man.
       "You pulled me from the pit," he used to say. Later on, he discovered she'd been a loner as well. By then, however, they never talked about it.
       In the distance he could see Deb at the water's edge, bending over Paul. Maybe he'd hurt himself, or found a shell or something. He wondered why he married her. He married her to get out of his hole. At the time he thought he loved her. But that wasn't it. She'd brought him back to life and saved him from the pit. That's why he'd loved her.
       "I want to go to church," she'd said. That was five months after he'd met her. They'd lived together in her apartment from the day he first arrived on her doorstep.
       "What for?" he asked.
       "I want to know God."
       "Okay."
       The next Sunday they went to Canterbury, the Episcopal student fellowship. He was worried that people would ask about their living together, or find out that neither one of them was religious. But no one seemed to notice. Three weeks later they had a Faith-Alive, a renewal weekend where people got up and gave their testimonies. Deb insisted that they go, so they did.
       After the second night, they had a talk when they got home.
       "What do you think of the invitation?" she asked.
       "What invitation?"
       "At the end, when they ask people to come up front and give their lives to Christ. When they pray for the Holy Spirit."
       "I don't know," he said, eyeing her nervously, thinking she was getting pretty serious.
       "I'm going up there," she said.
       "Okay."
       "What are you going to do?"
       He shrugged. He didn't know.
       "We need God," she said, "we need God bad."
       "Okay," he said, not knowing what to say.
       He thought about it all night, hardly sleeping, and by the next day he was a nervous wreck. He felt he ought to go up there, but then he worried that he was only doing it because Deb was going up. But then, the more he thought about it, the more he wanted to. So they both went up. Nothing happened to Deb, but when they laid their hands on him for prayer, he started crying. He thought it was Jesus. A lilting light pierced his heart and a terrible weight was lifted off of him. The sad wretched things that had haunted him since childhood melted away.
       After that they built a life, like driving pylons into the pit and building a home above. He made the decision to become a priest, but Deb was the driving force. She always seemed to know what she wanted, the job, the house, the kids, everything. The whole time it was happening he kept wondering why they did it. He couldn't help but think they did it because they feared the pit and not because they loved each other. And if that was true, there was a simple way to stop it. Stay in Honduras. Do away with all the nice things that propped up their lives, have nothing but themselves, face to face straight on.
       He was on the beach now, the water warm on his feet. His boys could see him. He began to run, the water splashing against his legs, the wind on his body. The boys ran toward him crying, "Poppy, Poppy." The spray splashed like sunshine in their faces. Beyond them Deb was smiling at him, her face shining in the light of the sinking sun. In an instant the boys were hurtling themselves into his arms. He grabbed them, first the little one and then Robert. He dragged them toward the sea, falling into the water, feeling the waves crashing over him and sinking down into the warm clean green.
       That evening they got a fire going and Deb came down to the beach bringing a blanket and the "fixins," the ketchup, mustard, and the relish. That's what his mom would call them, "fixins," a Southern term. His mom was from Kentucky, out in the country, just like his dad. The wind was still blowing and it was starting to get cool. The boys broke out the hot dogs. They stuck them on straightened clothes hangers for roasting. Robert roasted his carefully, evenly, while Paul danced around the flames.
       The daylight was fading fast. Minutes ago the eastern clouds had been puffy white and pink, but now they were turning dark. In the west the sky was aflame with purples and gold. He felt a chill pass along his body, a feeling he used to get when he was a kid. It was a sad, sad feeling as if everything was fading fast forever. He wondered where it came from. Sometimes it swept over him with such intensity that the present moment seemed lost and long ago. That's what he was feeling, that his family and the fading day were long ago.
       He thought of the professor, of his words.
       "You must be willing to lose your life," he had said.
       "Okay," Jack replied, wondering what was next.
       "As Jesus said, 'Anyone who seeks to save their life will lose it, and those who lose it for my sake and the gospel will gain it.'"
       "And what is my life?" he'd asked.
       "It's everything you have, Jack, your family, friends, job, future, everything."
       "You think God will take them from me?"
       "Perhaps not literally, but you will be tested. Someday God will ask that you choose him above these things."
       "Why would he do that?"
       "Because, if we do not love God above all, we love nothing in the end."
       "That will be hard for me," Jack said.
       "Why?"
       "Because, the only real thing I've ever known is loneliness. If God asks me to lose anything, I would think it my loneliness talking, not God."
       It kept getting darker and cooler, and after a while Jack went back and got another blanket. He and Deb wrapped themselves in it. The stars came out and spread across the sky. They were brilliant in the night. They said nothing for a long time, staring at the flames, listening to the wind rattling in the palm fronds, almost tasting the clean smell of smoke.
       One thing was certain, if they stayed in Honduras, there would be losses. They'd have to sell their stateside home, lose out on the job at St. Pete's, and take themselves out of the loop for future jobs. And their relationship would change. They wouldn't be living for themselves any more. Then they'd find out if they loved each other, or just used each other to avoid the pit.
       "Time to go, boys," he said at last. "Time to get ready for bed."
       "Just one more, Dad," they begged, sticking another marshmallow on their clothes hangers.
       He could hear the whine of mosquitoes and worried about malaria, dengue.
       "One more," he said
       They roasted a couple more. In the distance, near the horizon, he could see the lights of a ship. They weren't that far from Puerto Barrios, a major Honduran port.
       Finally, they got up. They kicked sand on the flames and headed up to the house, dragging and carrying the blankets, utensils, the food, and the "fixins."

Chapter 7--Laying Low

       Thirty minutes later the boys were in bed. As usual, they wanted a story.
       "A story, Daddy," they said, "a story about muglies."
       For a moment he resisted. He was tired, but he couldn't help himself. They were pulling on his arms, grabbing his hair, begging him, looking up at him with their beautiful, clear faces.
       "Just a little one," they begged.
       "Well I don't know," he said. "These stories just don't happen, you know, you have to be in the mood."
       "What's mood, Daddy?" the little one asked.
       "That's when things are just right," he said, "and you know exactly what you want to say."
       "Do you know what you want to say?"
       "Sometimes I do and sometimes I don't."
       "Do you right now?"
       "Oh, I think so."
       "Good," Paul said.
       "But I've got a problem."
       "What problem, Daddy?"
       "I can't talk about the muglies unless I've seen them. But I haven't seen them lately, so I reckon I don't have much to report."
       Paul's face fell.
       "But then again, maybe they're just laying low."
       "What's laying low?" they asked, their faces so pure and innocent he sometimes felt like crying when he looked at them.
       "I never told you boys about 'laying low'?"
       They shook their heads. He hadn't.
       "Well, boys, it's kind of simple. Every now and then those muglies have their problems, they sure do."
       He paused and they nodded, so he went on. "Now you boys remember how big they are, don't you?"
       "We sure do, Dad," said Paul, obviously happy to be in the know. "They're about as long as my finger."
       "That's right, absolutely right. They're just like us, only smaller. Hmmm, now where was I?"
       "You were talking about 'laying low,'" said Robert.
       "Oh, yes, laying low. Well, laying low is kind of like falling asleep."
       "Why don't you just call it sleeping?" asked Robert.
       "Because laying low for a mugly is not the same as sleeping. They sleep during the day. They come out at night, as you know, but now and then they have to lay low."
       "What is it, Dad?" said Paul, getting a bit impatient.
       "Well, boys, from time to time, things get a little haywire."
       Paul appeared puzzled. Robert just waited.
       "'Haywire' means things aren't working right. You know, when people aren't happy."
       "So they get haywire?" asked Robert.
       "That's right. Every now and then the muglies get a little confused. The men start acting like they are bigger and better than everyone else. They start having fights and telling lies. The women put up with it. But after a while they start arguing with each other and spanking their kids real hard, and the kids, they start crying all the time and fighting among themselves. It's real bad when that starts happening. That's when it gets real haywire."
       "Then what happens?"
       "Well, like I said, they lay low."
       "What's that?" asked Robert, beginning to wonder if his dad really knew what he was talking about.
       "Well, you see, boys, when things get haywire, and all the little kids are crying and yelling, and the men are acting like they own it all, something starts happening to the little kids. Now they're not that little. I mean kids about four, or five, or six. Why, I mean kids just about your age, boys. In fact, boys, they are exactly your age. Well, they just lay down, right where they are, right in the middle of everything. At first nobody notices them. They just keep on fighting and arguing and running off mad and things like that. But after a while, you can't help noticing them. They're lying around all over the place like bags of sand, absolutely sound asleep, right in the middle of everything. So you stop and look at them, you have to. At first they look pretty normal. But then you start noticing their faces, and that's when the laying low really begins."
       "Then what happens?" the boys asked.
       "Well, boys, they have the most beautiful faces. You can't help but get happy looking at them. They look just perfect, peaceful, happy, lying there so sound asleep. It makes your heart melt just to see them. They have the most beautiful dreams. Sometimes you can hear them laughing in their dreams. Not real loud, just low like, like music it seems. Their eyelids start fluttering and they're smiling. Then they mutter things and say stuff, but you can't understand it. You know they are talking to you or to someone they love. Then the adults gather around. They sit down beside them and look into their faces. When they do that, boys, something tremendous happens, something wonderful. The adults just fill up with happiness. They get the most wonderful feelings and ideas. They see the most beautiful things. They see the world when it was young, right from the hand of God. They see themselves all young, and they start laughing and telling jokes and stories. Everything is pure and clean, and then, boys, they forget all about their troubles. They don't even remember them any more. It's like they start all over, right there when they're looking at the faces of their children and watching them dream. That's when it happens, right there when the kids start laying low. After that, they're not haywire any more. They sit there for a long time talking, telling stories about the old days. Then, when it gets late, they say goodnight. They say they are sorry for what they did wrong, even though they can hardly remember it. That's because the old is gone, gone forever, and everything is new and happy again."
       "Have you ever seen them laying low?" Paul asked.
       "I sure have, boys, I sure have. Lots of times. Sometimes I come in here at night when you boys are sleeping, and then boys, I can see the whole world, every bit of it, in your faces. That's when your old dad, and your mamma, get so happy that we can hardly stand it. Sometimes, boys, I start dancing. I dance around the room just like I did when I was young, in my room as a little boy. I dance, and your mamma dances. We dance together all night long. That's why we're so sleepy sometimes in the morning."
       "You really dance all night long?" Paul asked, enchanted.
       "Well, I don't know, boys, I don't know. When your old dad is happy, he'll do most anything."
       "You come in and look at us when we're asleep, don't you, Dad?" said Robert.
       "Yes," he said seriously, "I almost always do." By the way he said it, they knew that it was true.
       They didn't say anything. Paul was a little nonplussed, but he liked the idea.
       "You love us, don't you?" Robert suddenly said.
       "Yes, boys, I love you, always and forever."
       They'd gotten it, both of them. The story was about them, that their dad loved them, that the innocent beauty of their faces would stay in his heart forever.
       Jack pulled the sheets around them. He checked the windows against mosquitoes, still worried about malaria. Once when he was a child, he saw a mosquito pull itself through one of the tiny squares of a window screen. When they got to Honduras they never took the malaria shots, or the pills, because you had to keep taking them and he worried about the side effects. Then he gave them each a hug, held their hands and said a blessing. His favorite one.
      
The Lord bless you and keep you,
      The Lord make his face to shine upon you
     &#160and be gracious to you,
      The Lord lift up his countenance upon you
     &#160and give you peace.
      This night and forever.
     &#160Amen

       "Thanks, Dad," they said, their eyes shining.
       "Just remember, boys," he said, getting up to leave. "If things start going haywire, and you find yourself getting sleepy, all you got to do is lie down right where you are. That's all there is to it."
       "Right, Dad," Paul said happily. Robert was utterly at peace. They smiled up at him, their faces shining pure, even if they weren't laying low.

Chapter 8-Alicia

       Jack didn't much like Teguc. It was crowded, dirty, hilly, with winding congested streets. He and Doña Margarita had gotten in around three. They'd driven straight through except for a short break in Seguatepeque. They'd left San Pedro about eleven that morning, after he and the family had come back from the beach. It was Friday.
       Once in the city he stopped and asked directions.
       "San Romain Prison?" he asked.
       "Sí, sí, padre," was the reply, pointing in the distance, "on the hill opposite the shrine of the Virgin."
       "What virgin?" he asked.
       "The Virgin of Suyapa," the man replied.
       "Who's the Virgin of Suyapa?" he asked when he got back in the car.
       "Our Lady of the Nation," Doña Margarita replied.
       "The Virgin made an appearance here at Suyapa?" he asked. Every Latin nation had a shrine to the Virgin, located where she had appeared to someone, usually a poor campesino.
       "Sí, padre."
       "Do you know how to get there?"
       "Sí, padre."
       "Straight ahead?"
       "Sí, padre."
       It was their longest conversation since San Pedro.
       He drove on, straight through the city. She said nothing. He figured she'd tell him when to turn. They ended up downtown, not far from a hotel where he'd once stayed with his family. That was just after they'd arrived in Honduras, and they'd come to Teguc to get permanent visas. The boys had been throwing up all day long, the final indignity being when Paul threw up on the street outside the hotel. Deb was seething and Jack was wondering if this Honduras thing was a mistake.
       "Here, padre," Doña Margarita suddenly said. He swung right, driving around a small stadium and then heading straight toward the hills. In the distance he could see a cathedral.
       "Is that it?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre," she replied. A moment later she added, "They stole her."
       "Stole who?"
       "The Virgin, padre. Thieves stole her."
       "The Virgin of Suyapa?" he said, suddenly realizing she was referring to a wooden image that was probably enshrined in the cathedral.
       "Sí, padre."
       "Then what happened?"
       "We prayed. All the citizens of Honduras asked the Lord's favor. There were processions in the capital and in San Pedro. In Chasnigua we fasted and prayed for two days."
       "Did they find her?"
       "Oh, yes. They found her in a restaurant."
       "What was she doing in a restaurant?"
       "She was in a trash can in the men's room."
       Jack didn't say anything.
       "She was naked, padre," Doña Margarita said softly, her tone betraying the outrage.
       "What happened to the restaurant?"
       "It is a shrine. People go there now."
       Well, that was different. Instead of the holy becoming profaned, the profane had become holy.
       Up ahead the road forked. He swung right and climbed a low hill. That's where the prison was supposed to be, on the hill opposite the shrine. They went over the top. It looked like a lower-class neighborhood although the houses had walls.
       "Where's the prison?" he wondered out loud.
       Doña Margarita didn't reply. Apparently she didn't know. Jack pulled to the right. He got out of the car and waved to the first person he saw.
       "Is there a prison here?" he asked.
       "Sí," the man replied, pointing a bit further up the street. Doña Margarita got out. Jack locked both sides and they started walking. To the right was a wall with three strands of barbed wire across the top. That was probably it. It didn't look like a prison.
       "Padre," said Doña Margarita, suddenly stopping, reaching into her handbag. "This is my daughter," she said, handing him a photo. He looked at the picture. It showed Doña Margarita and a young woman smiling into the camera.
       "She's very pretty," he said, staring at the photo. Her features were direct, simple. Her eyes were slightly large, innocent looking. He handed back the photo.
       "This will prove that I am her mother," Doña Margarita said.
       They walked on. Jack had no idea what he was going to say. This was, to use a phrase of his mother's, "a wild goose chase." He wished he asked the bishop about it when they were at the Sula.
       "Help me, Jesus," he whispered under his breath.
       The wall turned right and they entered a concrete courtyard. A couple of guards stood idly by.
       "Buenas tardes," said Jack. "This is the prison San Romain?"
       They nodded, looking slightly curious. It wasn't every day that a gringo in clericals showed up at the prison.
       "We've come for the person of Alicia Paz."
       They looked at each other. "Momento," one said, walking off.
       A minute later a smiling stout man appeared, dressed in khaki and wearing a pistol.
       "Coronel Miguel Palacio Rodriguez," he said pleasantly, "and how may I help you?"
       "Well," said Jack, resisting the urge to retreat behind Doña Margarita, "this is the mother of Alicia Paz. We've come to take her home."
       "Yes, yes, padre, of course, right this way, please."
       They walked along a hall and into a waiting room, probably a place where family visited prisoners.
       "Wait here," the man said.
       They sat down. The walls were concrete block, the floor concrete, the roof of tin. There were several lines of metal chairs and a small desk with a chair in one corner. The walls were bare except for a picture of President Azcona behind the desk. His face was strong, handsome, his hair a white mane perfectly combed. He was dressed in an army uniform and standing impressively by an ornate chair.
       A moment later a tall thin man came into the room. He held out his hand. "Guillermo Taylor," he said. Jack shook his hand. It was limp, his face gray.
       "You are here for Alicia Paz?" he asked.
       "Yes," said Jack, "I am her priest from Chasnigua."
       "Well, you must know. She was here because of certain accusations. These have proven false, but she has caused problems among the women."
       "What problems?"
       He shrugged. "It was a small thing, but she received a sentence and it is not yet complete."
       "What was her sentence?" he asked evenly.
       "Bueno, a year in prison and a fine."
       "She's already been here a year."
       "Sí, padre."
       Suddenly, he got it. They wanted money.
       "How much was her fine?" he managed to say.
       "Six hundred lempiras."
       "I don't have six-hundred lempiras."
       The man shrugged.
       "Do you accept checks?" Jack asked, hardly believing this was happening. What would Deb say about shelling out another three hundred bucks? It was awful. She couldn't deny this, she couldn't. He had to do it.
       "Of course, if you have identification."
       "I have identification."
       "Momento."
       The man returned with a receipt pad. They got his passport number, Honduran driver's license, residence number, everything. After that Jack wrote the check.
       "And Alicia?" he said, before handing it to him.
       "Sí," the man said smiling faintly. He turned and walked away. Jack could hardly believe it could happen that fast.
       Ten minutes later he was back. A woman was with him. Jack took one look at her and felt something he'd never felt before. It was in his stomach, his chest, his face. It was revulsion, rage, anguish. They'd beaten her. The right side of her face was scarred, the side of the eye and lip pulled downward. She walked with a slight limp. He glanced at Doña Margarita. Her face was utterly clear. She stepped toward her daughter and they hugged silently. Jack laid the check on the table.
       "My daughter, Alicia," Doña Margarita said, turning toward him.
       "Enchanted," he said, using the best Honduran greeting he knew. He looked straight at her, smiling, shaking her hand, masking the sick inside. She smiled, a half-smile. The right eye didn't smile. It only stared like dead.
       They got out of there.
       Ten minutes later they were jockeying their way through traffic. He was trying to get hold of himself, and wondering if they could get to Chasnigua before dark. Otherwise, he'd have to pay for a motel.
       Alicia and her mother sat in the back. They had said nothing since getting in the car.
       "Padre," she suddenly said, "can you stop here?" They were in some kind of shopping area jammed with people. He stopped. Alicia and her mom got out of the car. They'd never make it back to Chasnigua in time. Maybe he could just drive on after dark. No one in their right mind would do that. The Hondurans were maniacs at night. Some of them even drove without lights, thinking it would save their batteries.
       They disappeared in the crowd, holding hands as they walked. It hurt to see it. They had surely raped her. When it came to marriage, Honduran men liked nothing but virgins. He leaned his head back, his eyes shut. For all he knew he was illegally parked. There weren't any "No Parking" signs. The police decided what was legal or illegal. He couldn't worry about it, just hope they got back quickly. There was a knock on the door. He looked up. It was Doña Margarita. He leaned over and opened the door. They got in. Alicia was dressed in new cheap clothes and shoes. She had thrown the old ones away. He felt a pain in his chest and face.
       Once out of the city, they made good time. It was two-lane, but there wasn't much traffic. By four-thirty they'd reached Palmarola, the principle U.S. army base in Honduras. The bishop had sent him there once to pick up some tires shipped down courtesy of the US army. He'd been surprised by the size of the operation, buildings all over the place, planes, equipment, troops, enough for a good-sized war. They weren't taking any chances after Nicaragua.
       By five-thirty, they were in Seguatepeque. He pulled off in front of a roadside diner and asked Alicia and her mom if they were hungry. They said no, but then they disappeared. He visited the bathroom, hating it. They were nothing but cesspools. He was tempted to walk off somewhere and relieve himself, but there were people all over the place. He got himself a quesadilla, a tortilla with melted cheese, going out to the car to eat it. It was cool outside, even a little cold. Seguatepeque was in the highlands. The wind was blowing through his shirt and against his skin. There were clouds everywhere, dark ones, blowing in the wind and hanging in patches toward the ground where it rained in the distance. He couldn't see the sun.
       Five minutes later they came out eating quesadillas and drinking Pepsis. He opened the door for them. They thanked him and climbed in the back seat again.
       Once they got going it started raining, the wind blowing in gusts and the rain coming at them so hard that he could hardly see. He slowed down, holding to the right, looking for a place to stop. Lake Yojoa was up ahead. He'd been there once with Deb and the boys. There was a restaurant there. He put it in third. The rain was coming at them in hazy walls. It eased up a bit and he could see the pineapples planted on the hillsides, and along the road, deserted shacks where vendors sold pineapple, honey, papaya, bananas, fish. A moment later he recognized the area. They were close to the lake. Then the rain really picked up just as he managed to pull into the parking lot by the restaurant. They would wait it out, because if it got any worse they'd have an accident.
       "Let's go in," he said after a moment, figuring they might as well get a little something while they waited.
       They nodded, and a second later they dashed through the blowing wind and rain. He caught a glimpse of the lake through the haze. The water was a million dimples, the wind flattening the waves in spreading fans. He couldn't see the hills beyond. They hit the porch still blown by the wind and the wet. He was knocking and knocking again. Suddenly he realized that it was closed. They turned and ran back to the car, getting mud and wet all over themselves.
       Once in the car they sat there saying nothing. The windows fogged up so you couldn't see anything. He kept thinking of Alicia, the invasion, the prison, her sitting there in silence holding her mother's hand. He couldn't help himself.
       "Have you always lived in Chasnigua?" he asked, turning back to look at them, asking the typical gringo question.
       "Sí, padre," Alicia said, "most of my life."
       He wondered if he should go on. She might not want to talk. He thought of Rúben. He'd been falsely accused of a crime, sent to jail and beaten by the DIN, the secret police. He didn't mind talking about it. In fact, campesinos would talk about anything, especially outrages. It was part of life. But he wouldn't ask her about the jail, not after what happened to her face.
       "You led an invasion?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre."
       "Why did you do that?"
       "It was the will of God," she replied.
       "How did you know that?" he asked, figuring she'd say most anything.
       "He told me."
       "Who told you?"
       "God."
       Suddenly he thought of the professor, the day they sat drinking tea on his front porch. They were talking theology, the theologians Jack had read, Tillich, Schleiermacher, Macquarrie, Barth. The professor knew them all. He'd studied them, carefully it seemed.
       "They want to avoid God," the professor said.
       "Who?" Jack had asked.
       "The theologians."
       "All of them?"
       "Not Barth, he is different. But the rest are afraid of God."
       "Why do you say that?"
       "That is the point of their theology. That is why they say God cannot be grasped by the finite understanding. For them, God is known in feeling, or at the horizon of being. Their God never speaks to them, never says a Word over against them. That is why they love Kant so much, and that is how they keep the Lord at bay."
       "Why would they do that?" Jack asked.
       "Because," the professor said, laughing, "they are theologians of what they call the 'First World.' They don't want to hear from God, for with God, the first shall be last and the last first."
       "How did you know it was God?" Jack said, looking back at Alicia.
       "Well," she said calmly, "when I was twelve I visited my grandmother in Los Planes. When I got there she was crying in the bedroom. On the bed beside her was my cousin. He had starved to death. My grandmother said to me, 'Pray God to raise him from the dead after the manner of Jesus.' I knelt down with her and I prayed. We prayed all afternoon and into the night. I prayed very hard and I cried. But he did not come back from the dead. Then I got up and said to my grandmother, 'We must bury him.' So we did.
       "On the way home the next day I heard a voice in the sky. It said, 'Those who are true will find rest.' I told no one about the voice from heaven."
       "And you thought that was God?"
       "Yes."
       "Then what happened?"
       "The next year many people in our village lost their jobs. That was a difficult year for the campesinos in the region of Santa Barbara. Many people left for the city, but many stayed. My father left to find work in San Pedro, but he never came back. In that year I began to love my people."
       "Why did they lose work?" Jack asked.
       "Because Don Humberto converted his valley land to cattle. They make more money in cattle, padre. They send the beef to the United States and other countries."
       "Cattle requires less hand work than beans and corn?"
       "Sí, padre."
       He nodded and she continued.
       "In 1972, General Oswaldo Lopez Arellano took possession of the government. That was a great day for the rural people of Honduras. It was his policy to give land to the campesinos. He gave us the land that lies west of the village on the lower slopes of the mountain."
       "Did you take it?"
       "No, padre, Don Humberto threatened us. He bribed members of the patronato. He gave land to a few families and divided them against us. Then representatives of INRA came to our village. They said that we must follow the legal procedures of our government."
       "Did you?"
       "Yes. But nothing came of it. That was in 1975. General Arellano was no longer the president and the men in the capital paid no attention to our requests."
       "There was no truth in that?" Jack asked.
       "No. There was no truth. All of it was lies. Don Humberto, INRA, members of the patronato, they did not live the truth and now there is no rest."
       "Then what happened?"
       "Then I went to the house of Don Humberto."
       "Okay."
       "I knocked on his door and told his maid that I wanted to talk to him. When she came back, she told me to go around back. There was a party there and many people. I walked up to him and I told him that there was no truth in our country, and there would be no rest until our people lived truly, not only for the poor but for the wealthy."
       "What did he say?"
       "He laughed at me."
       "He laughed?"
       "Yes, he said I was a crazy kid. He asked me if I wanted a bribe like the rest of them."
       "How old were you?"
       "I was fifteen."
       Jack nodded. He was beginning to understand why José had said she was formidable.
       "Did you ask for a bribe?"
       "Yes, I asked him for his favorite horse."
       "Okay," he said, wondering what was next.
       "Don Humberto sent an employee to go get his horse. When he came back with it he and his friends said ugly things about me and the horse. So I asked for his pistol."
       "He gave it to you?"
       She nodded yes.
       Of course, Don Humberto would do the macho thing.
       "I told him, in front of everyone, that only a dog of a man would care more for a horse than the starving children of Chasnigua. Then I shot his horse between the eyes. He cursed me, but I had the gun in my hand. After that, padre, I did something wrong. I took out every bullet but one. I spun the chambers and put the gun against my head. They became very quiet. They were all looking at me. I pulled the trigger and it made a little click. Then I walked up to Don Humberto and gave him the gun. I told him we would spin the chambers and pull the trigger in turn until one of us was dead."
       "Did he do it?" Jack asked, thinking her suffering had driven her mad.
       "No. His wife was screaming and his mother was grabbing him. The men were laughing and cheering. But he didn't do it. I walked away and they didn't touch me. I just walked away."
       He leaned back. José was right. Formidable, absolutely formidable.
       "What about the invasion," he asked, "the one last year?"
       "That was ten years later, padre. I prayed for ten years, but God did not speak to me. I studied the Bible and saw that Jesus did not humiliate his enemies. No, padre, Jesus gave his life for his enemies. That is why God did not speak to me. He waited until I understood his ways. Then he spoke."
       It may be madness, but at least she was facing reality and trying to do something.
       "A year ago, God said: 'Occupy Don Humberto's land, the part he does not use.' I went from house to house, talking to each of them, explaining to them why we must do this. We all invaded, all except three families. But when I went to San Pedro to talk to INRA, they took me to the jail."
       She stopped. She was about to cry. He knew it. She bent over slightly, her hands motionless in her lap. It got very quiet. Suddenly she looked at him, her marred face in agony.
       "Padre," she cried in anguish, "did I do wrong? Is God punishing me?"
       "No," he cried, "you did no wrong. You heard the Word of God and you did it. There's no wrong there."
       "But why?" she gestured toward her face. "Why has this happened to me?"
       He couldn't say anything, he hurt so badly. Suddenly Alicia grabbed his hands, her one-sided face twisted up in pain, tears sliding from her eyes, her body shaking. Doña Margarita grabbed his hands as well. Alicia's tears were dripping through his fingers.
       "Say a prayer for me," she pleaded.
       "Yes," he said.
       "Father," he said, and then he stopped. She was doomed. It was obvious. God would do nothing for her. Besides, it was hypocritical. How could he pray for her unless he was willing to sacrifice his life for her as she had sacrificed for others? He forced himself onward, feeling doomed himself. "Father, I give her to you that you might bless her, protect her, and give her life. In Jesus' name, Amen."
       "Thank you," she said, her face alight.
       "You're welcome," he said, trying to smile.
       He couldn't hear the rain anymore. He rubbed the fog off the window, looking toward the lake. It was clearing off outside. Beyond the lake he could see the hills coming down to the water's edge. The day he and his family had come there, they had sat out on the deck and watched the wind blow the waves, the gulls crying in the air, the sky, filled with great clouds. He'd been happy that day.
       He started the car, thinking of a song he used to sing, over and over again. It was before he met Deb. He would lie in his room and look out the window, watching the clouds pass across the sky, feeling utterly desolate. The words came back to him, line by line.
      
Only a tramp was, Lazarus that day.
      When he came to lie down by, the rich man's cafe.
      He begged for crumbs from, the rich man to eat,
     &#160But they left him to die there, like a tramp on the street.
      
      He was some mother's darling, some father's son.
      Once he was fair yes, and once he was young.
      Some mother rocked him, little baby to sleep,
     &#160But they left him to die there, like a tramp on the street.

       Just before sundown they got to the turnoff to Villanueva and onto the road that ran toward the mountains. The sun was shining through the clouds, its rays parallel to the ground. Everything was intensely clean and beautiful, washed by the rain. For an instant, in the fiery light of the setting sun, the iridescent colors of the earth and trees, the shining dark clouds, he could see Alicia, the second she and her mom disappeared in the crowd to buy her a new dress. He was pierced with grief and ecstasy, that the world could be so beautiful and life could be so wretched.
       They got through Villanueva just as the sun set and then onto the gravel and dirt road up into the hills. As they ascended the clouds came down out of the sky and a fine mist began to fall. He turned on the windshield wipers, wondering if they would make it up the steep place that lay some twenty minutes ahead. If they made it, they were home free. If not, they'd have to go back toward San Pedro. Another hour or more. It began to rain just about the time he got there. He gunned it up the slope and made it to the top. By then it was dark and he had the headlights on, flashing off the dark green leaves of the coffee bushes and the pale trunks of the hardwoods. Moments later they were at the summit and beginning their descent toward Chasnigua. The rain stopped. He carefully lowered the Land Cruiser from rut to rut, sliding down and turning in the darkness. The road leveled and they rolled into the village. It was dark, very dark, a few kerosene lanterns shone in some of the houses. It started to rain again, really hard this time, coming down in sheets. He could scarcely see the way forward. They were getting to the turn-off to Doña Margarita's house. It was slightly uphill. The ground was mud, the tires were spinning. They wouldn't make it.
       "Padre," it was Doña Margarita. "We will get out here."
       They were opening the door, getting out. Their dim shadows moved along the side of the car and into the light of the headlights. They started up the trail, almost stumbling in the mud, holding on to each other. Suddenly they stopped. Alicia had her arms around her mother, around her shoulders and neck, her face buried in her breasts. He could see them, instant by instant between the strokes of the windshield wipers. Her body was shaking. They turned and then they fell. Alicia's bare legs shone in the light, her body against her mother in the mud. She was crying.
       "Get up," he screamed, "get up, get up." But they didn't get up.
       He threw open the door and leaped out into the rain and cold. The water hit him like a blow to the body. It took his breath away. He ran toward them, sliding in the mud. He got there, leaning over them, trying to grab them. He could hear Alicia, crying the same words, over and over again, crying to her mother.
       "Oh my mommy, my mommy," she cried. "I'm so bad, so bad. Oh my mommy, I am so bad."
       He was yelling at them in English, but they didn't seem to hear. He grabbed Doña Margarita and hauled them up together. Hanging on to each other, they stumbled up the trail toward the house. They got to the door. Doña Margarita had the key and unlocked the padlock. They were inside. It was slightly warmer in there, but utterly dark. The rain was pounding on the tin roof with a roaring sound. Doña Margarita lit a kerosene lamp. He could see them in the light, old and young, shining with wet, their eyes dark and luminous. Alicia held out her hand. He took it. He was staring at her. Her voice was firm, steady, her broken face, intensely pure.
       "May God bless you, padre," she said.
       He nodded silently. He held out his hand to Doña Margarita.
       "Thank you," she said.
       He could scarcely control himself. He got out the door. He could see Alicia, her face luminous, steady, determined. A terrible force took hold of him, overpowering, dreadful. It was in the wind and in the roaring rain. He couldn't control himself. Brutal sobs burst out of him, coming out of his chest, squeezing his face. He stumbled toward the headlights, trying not to fall, bowing down on the hood of the car, feeling the cold water coursing down his body, shaking with sobs, pounding the hood with his fist, the words ripping out of him.
       "Oh my God, Jesus," he cried. "Oh my God, it's so wrong, so wrong. Oh my God, Jesus, it's so wrong."
      
      
      

Chapter 9--The Next Morning

       He wasn't quite sure where he was, somewhere in the mountains above Chasnigua. It was evening, getting dark. A cold wet wind was coming over the mountain, blowing through his clothes. Better turn around, go back before he got lost. He wondered where José was. José always went with him, but somehow he'd gotten up there without him.
       He kept going. The wind became colder, the sky darker as if he were entering a cave. He could feel its presence in front of him. It was a big one, and from its depths, there came a cold damp wind. He was pulled forward into the darkness. He felt a chill, an uncanny presence, a sound, a haunting wailing sound as if people were calling for him. He tried to run, to turn around, but he couldn't. All he could do was grab the bedspread, the covers, the sheets, pulling them toward him. He was covered with wounds and the sheets were dried into his scabs. From his body the sheets ran down into the cave. People were attached to the other end, pulling against him. They were ripping the scabs from his flesh, dragging him down into the darkness. He braced himself, grabbing the sheets, driving his feet into the mud. Step by step he stalked backward, dragging them out of the pit. As he pulled, they screamed in torment. The sheets were glued into their scabs as into his. Then some insidious little thing went wrong and the whole mass slid back into the darkness. He went stumbling after them, the lines ripping at his flesh until he managed to hang on and drive his feet like pylons into the mud. Then he tried again, inching backwards over and over again. But he never succeeded. He never got them out of the pit. Then, at last, he woke up.
       He lay there, looking up at the shafts of light coming through the little nail holes in the tin roof. The sheets were still in his hands. It was Saturday morning, Saturday morning in Chasnigua. He'd had a dream, a bad dream.
       He turned over, staring at the wall. A brown line ran up the wall and disappeared at the top. It would reappear on the other side, inside the church, connected to a termite nest as large as a basketball. He wondered why they didn't do anything about it. Maybe they didn't want to pay for the chemicals, or maybe it did no good to simply destroy the nest. They'd just come back.
       He thought of the professor.
       "How do I defeat the strong man?" he'd asked, the day the professor said one must defeat the devil before entering the Kingdom.
       "You don't," the professor said.
       "Well then, who does?"
       "Jesus does. That's why he's God. Only God can defeat the devil."
       "But you said that I must defeat him."
       "Yes, you must."
       "How?"
       "You must be willing."
       "Willing to do what?"
       "Willing to give up false loves."
       "Things less than God?"
       "Yes."
       "You've done it?"
       "I am doing it" the professor replied.
       They said nothing for a moment.
       "It has been hard?" Jack asked.
       "Yes."
       "What is the hardest of all?"
       "To see the New Jerusalem and never see it come on earth as it is in heaven."
       Suddenly the professor reached out and took his arm. "Remember," he said, his voice low, intense, his dark moon face only inches from his own. "Do not forget. If God takes these things from you, he will bring you back like Lazarus from the dead."
       "What things?"
       "Your wife, children, success, things less than God."
       "What if he takes those things and we don't come back like Lazarus?"
       The professor only stared at him, saying nothing.
       Jack sat up in bed. He needed to stop thinking about the professor. He glanced at his watch. It was Saturday, April 5, 1986, seven in the morning. He'd needed to get back, but first, check and see if he could get a bite at José's.
       Minutes later he arrived at José's, knocking and then entering the open door just as Audrey came in from the kitchen.
       "Buenos días," she said, and he replied in kind.
       Audrey was light skinned with green eyes. They said her people came from Spain. There were several other green-eyed people in the village, and even a few people over six feet.
       "Have a seat, padre," she said. Then she disappeared into the kitchen.
       Moments later she came back with a little table and chair. Then she returned with a tablecloth, a glass dish, silverware, and a cup for his coffee. They were so good to him. His first week in Chasnigua there had been a soccer match about a mile from the village. You couldn't get there by road, so they'd given him a horse to ride. Once he got there, he found they'd placed a chair by the side of the field. He was the only one sitting.
       José's house was nice. The floor was concrete, the roof tin. The dilapidated furniture was sumptuous by campesino standards, an old couch, an easy chair, and the usual small wooden chairs. José was doing well. Two years earlier the bishop had put him on diocesan salary. He earned seventy dollars a month and his house looked it.
       From the kitchen he could hear the crackle of the fire and the hiss of eggs cooking. Then Audrey returned with the coffee and a cloth of tortillas. He never drank coffee in the States. It was too bitter. But he liked Honduran coffee. He drank it with a lot of sugar and a bit of milk. He also liked the eggs and the fruit. The hens ate grass, bugs, fresh corn, and the eggs tasted better. In fact, all around, the food in Honduras was better than stateside food. Everything was natural. The only drawback was the parasites and the diseases. Every time he ate anything in Chasnigua he wondered what he was doing to himself.
       "Where's José?" he asked.
       "He left to see his mother. He'll be back soon."
       He nodded. José's mother lived only a hundred yards away. He'd lived with her until he married at the age of twenty. His father lived in another village. José really didn't know him. He was close to his mother, but a stranger to his dad.
       Audrey reappeared with his eggs, cheese, and refried beans. He was hungry. He always got hungry in the mountains. He dug in at once. She gave him a jar of jelly. He put the jelly on the tortillas and ate it with the eggs, taking sips of sweet coffee as he ate. It was good, very good.
       Someone came in from the back of the house, entering softly. It was Juanito, José's oldest. He was around eight.
       "Buenos días," Jack said.
       The boy didn't reply.
       "How's the wind today?" Jack asked, his brow furrowed as if he were thinking hard.
       Juanito still didn't say anything.
       Jack nodded intently, as if he were hatching some kind of important plan.
       "I'm thinking," he said. "I'm thinking that maybe today is the day. Been thinking about it all morning."
       Juanito only stared.
       "Yes," Jack went on, "this might be it, the day of the big flight."
       "What flight, padre?" Juanito finally asked.
       "Well, I'm thinking with this kind of wind, with the hot air rising, I'm thinking that this might be the day we get together and soar like buzzards in the sky. Yes, that's what I'm thinking."
       Juanito's face changed expression, ever so slightly. Jack was getting in the mood. He jumped up, pumping his arms and dancing around the room. As he danced, he could feel his body floating with joy.
       "Yes," he cried, "I can feel it. Today's the day. Today's the day we soar like birds in the sky."
       Then he stopped, staring down at Juanito.
       "Tell you what," he said breathlessly, "tell you what. Get the rest of the kids. Tell them I'll meet them at the church. Tell them that today we'll have the most important lesson of all. Tell them that after this lesson, they'll be able to fly. This time, I'm sure of it."
       Juanito's eyes got large, his face dead serious. That was the thing about those kids. Sometimes Jack got the feeling that they really believed his crazy stories. For weeks he'd been talking about flying. A couple of times they'd gone in the church and practiced flapping their arms, jumping off the benches and taking off after a running start. But they'd never managed any real flight as yet, though he'd promised them that it would happen soon.
       "We do it in the States all the time," he told them. They stared at him, sober, solemn, astonished, until they finally figured out that the whole thing was a farce. Usually he'd do something crazy to tip them off. Then they'd go crazy, dancing and jumping and flapping around the room.
       "Well," he said, staring intensely at Juanito, "are you going to give them the word or not?"
       "Sí, padre," the little boy replied. Then they laughed because they both knew Juanito knew that the whole thing was nothing but the usual gringo madness.
       Jack stuck out his hand, shaking that of Juanito.
       "Thank you, comrade," he said. "See you at the airport."
       Five minutes later, José arrived. Jack stood up and shook his hand. They then began the obligatory pleasantries.
       "How is your mother?" he asked.
       "She's fine, thank you."
       "And the young ones?" referring to his kids.
       "Also, padre," he replied.
       José sat down. Audrey appeared with another cup of coffee. Sometimes it was hard to talk to José. Usually, they just did their church work. He'd ask José what to do and José made suggestions. But he never gave an order, just suggestions, and always with deference. Hondurans were pretty sensitive about authority.
       "Did the people of Protección like our visit?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre. It was a very special occasion for them."
       "Do they want us to come back?"
       "Whenever it is possible for you, padre."
       "Okay," Jack replied.
       The week before they'd celebrated Eucharist in Protección. They'd gone over the mountain, riding horses part way and walking up the very steep slopes. They ended up plowing through high grass, straight uphill, until at last they'd come out in the forest at the top of the mountain. Jack was wearing his brogans. His daddy had bought them for him when he was in high school. Jack saw no use for them at the time, but his dad bought them anyway. His dad was country at heart, even if he was a math professor. But he was wearing them now and tramping all over the mountains of Honduras, visiting little villages you couldn't get to except by foot or horse.
       "Have you seen Alicia today?" Jack asked.
       "She is here?"
       "Yes, I brought her here last night."
       "Thank you, padre."
       They didn't say anything for a bit. Jack was thinking of Sonia.
       "Do you know the daughter of Doña Margarita's sister?"
       José shrugged. "She has several daughters, padre."
       "Do you know Sonia?"
       "Sí, everyone knows Sonia."
       "She told me this village will be destroyed."
       José said nothing. Jack tried to read him but got nowhere.
       "Do you believe her?" Jack asked.
       "They say Sonia is responsible for the trouble we have," José replied.
       "What trouble?"
       "The trouble with Don Humberto."
       "What kind of trouble?"
       "They say Sonia got Don Humberto to have Alicia thrown in jail."
       "But why would Sonia do that?"
       "Because Alicia reprimanded her for sleeping with Don Humberto."
       "Sonia is sleeping with Don Humberto?" Jack exclaimed, suddenly aware that his voice had said too much.
       "Sí, padre."
       He said nothing for a moment. "Are Sonia and Alicia enemies?" he finally asked.
       "I think so."
       "Why?"
       "Because the people love Alicia, they don't love Sonia. They used to be together, Alicia and Sonia. But Sonia went one way and Alicia went another."
       "Which way did Sonia go?"
       He shrugged, not answering. "Bueno, padre," he finally said.
       "Why do the people love Alicia?"
       "She attends to their necessities, padre."
       "So Sonia is jealous of her?"
       "I think so."
       "But couldn't Sonia be lying about the factory? Couldn't it be rumors?"
       "It could be."
       After breakfast, he figured he'd pay Alicia a visit, just make sure she was all right before heading back to San Pedro. Once outside he walked the length of the soccer field, turning right onto the dirt track, going down "main street."
       It was clean outside, and clear, making him think of a day he once knew as a child. He and his dad had visited his dad's uncle who lived on a farm in Kansas. It was summer time. A thunderstorm had just passed and the wind was blowing through the clouds. He'd run toward the top of a hill, feeling the wind on his skin, his bare feet against the cool and wet. At the top of the hill he looked west, the sun was shining through the clouds. In the east, there was a line of cottonwood trees, their silver leaves upturned in the wind, shining in the sun. His body filled with joy, that everything could be so radiant, so shining clear.
       He swung right at the schoolhouse, going up the trail where Alicia and her mom had fallen in the mud. It didn't look the same. He wondered how it could have been so awful the night before. Now it seemed as if nothing had happened. But it wasn't nothing. She'd been desecrated and humiliated. That was a fact.
       Up ahead was the house, adobe, small windows, white walls and a tin roof with patches of brown rust. Some chickens were scratching around outside and it was cool under the trees. "Across the river and under the trees," a song, or a part of a poem? He thought it referred to death. A moment later he was there. He knocked. A second later the upper half of the door opened. It was Alicia, looking directly at him, half-smiling.
       "Buenos días," she said happily, opening the door for him, waving him forward.
       He stepped in. It was cool and dim inside.
       "How are you?" he asked.
       "We are fine, padre," she replied.
       "Your mother, how is she today?"
       "She is well, very well."
       "Is she here?"
       "No, padre. She went to pick up some laundry at Don Antonio's. She'll be back later. Wait here," she said, leaving the room at once and returning immediately with a larger chair.
       "Sit here, padre."
       He sat down.
       She disappeared into the kitchen. There was a picture on the wall of a man and a woman staring soberly at the camera. One of them was Doña Margarita, the other was probably Alicia's dad. It reminded him of pictures of his grandparents, great aunts and uncles, serious faced country people in plain suits and dresses. How could Alicia and Sonia be enemies? Doña Margarita had treated Sonia like a daughter, as if nothing was wrong.
       Alicia returned, bringing the coffee and some sliced pineapple.
       "Gracias," he said. He was happy to get the pineapple, even if he was full.
       Alicia pulled up a chair and looked at him calmly. She appeared composed, even peaceful.
       He motioned toward the picture. "Your parents?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre."
       They sat in silence while he ate. He used a knife and fork to cut up the pineapple slices. If she weren't there, he'd have wolfed it, squeezing out the sweet juice. But it tasted the same, regardless of how he ate it. Sometimes it was hard to get a good Honduran pineapple. They were either too ripe or too raw. But this one was just right.
       "How are you, Alicia?"
       "I'm fine, padre."
       He looked at her, wondering if it was the truth. Somehow he figured it was.
       "Will you see your friends today?" he asked, suddenly apprehensive she might think he was thinking of her face.
       "I don't know."
       He nodded.
       "They might be ashamed to see me, padre."
       "Ashamed?"
       "Ashamed that they did not persist in the invasion. They did nothing while I suffered."
       "But perhaps they don't know that you suffered. Perhaps they thought you were killed."
       "It could be. But everyone is ashamed when they see the cross of Christ."
       He didn't say anything, didn't quite know what to say. He got the feeling Alicia was waiting for him to speak.
       "You are the cross of Christ?" he finally said.
       "Yes, I am the cross of Christ."
       He'd never heard that before.
       "It could happen to anyone, padre."
       She was staring at him, her face clear, steady, as if she reserved a great truth for him and him alone.
       He nodded, thinking it probably could.
       "Padre, have you known the suffering of Christ?"
       "I think so," he replied, thinking of a time when he was six. He and his mom were standing outside his mom's fundamentalist church on 33rd street in Chicago. It was a cold fall day, cold and wet, and the wind was blowing off the lake. He was looking at a child, a spastic child sitting in a wheelchair. His head was drooping on his chest, drooling, his arms akimbo. The image had remained all those years, frozen inside of him.
       "And do you hide from his suffering?" she asked.
       "What do you mean?" he replied, thinking she was starting to sound like the professor.
       "I mean that Jesus did not avoid his suffering, the suffering God gave him. Do you do that?"
       "Sometimes," he started to say, feeling uneasy, thinking of his childhood, his secret place, where he used to hide in the closet. Or of Deb, how he used her to hide from the pit, or even the nice job in Atlanta, just waiting till he got back.
       "I should face suffering?" he asked, seeing his dream, the bandages ripping the scabs off his body.
       "Yes."
       "Why?"
       "Because, if you do, you will see the face of Christ."
       "Do you say this to everyone?" he said, embarrassed by the way she looked at him. "Is this your way, to tell everyone that they should see Christ?"
       "No," she said solemnly, "I only say this to those with tender hearts."
       Her words pierced him, and for a second, he felt like crying.
       "Thank you, Alicia," he managed to say.
       "Padre, would you like some more coffee?"
       "Yes, thank you."
       Moments later she was back with the coffee.
       "I talked to José," he said.
       She nodded, as if he could tell her anything and she would understand.
       "He tells me that you and your cousin Sonia are enemies."
       "You know Sonia?"
       "Yes, I met her earlier this week."
       "No, we are not enemies."
       "Is she angry at you, or jealous of you?"
       "Yes, padre, she is angry and jealous. But she is not my enemy."
       "Why is she jealous?"
       "Because the people love me."
       "And they don't love her?"
       "No, they do not love her."
       "Why not?"
       "Because she is bitter. She says that God has abandoned us, that we should treat people as God treats us. When the people have needs, she does not help them. She says it makes them weak, that they must take what they need."
       "But there are those who say she sleeps with Don Humberto, and that she convinced him to punish you."
       "Yes, she is Don Humberto's mistress. But she did not betray me."
       "But, according to José, the people say she got revenge on you through him."
       "No, padre. She did not do this. She cannot. She can do many things, many things that are wrong. But she will never betray those she loves. She did nothing."
       "But why do the people say this?"
       "They persecute those they do not understand. That is why they persecute her. They do not understand her."
       "Do you understand her?"
       "I don't understand her," she said, staring at him. For the moment he didn't notice the dead eye, the drooping face, only that they were face to face. "But I see her clearly," she added.
       "What do you see?"
       "She says that we must live as God lives."
       "She believes in God?" he asked, thinking of the worn Bible on her bookshelf, her statement that she was a Marxist because God rewards the strong and punishes the weak.
       "Yes."
       "How does God live?"
       "She says he hates some and loves others, so that's what we must do. Kill the ones we hate and love the ones we love. She calls that justice."
       "Who does she hate?"
       "She hates the oppressors."
       "But isn't Don Humberto an oppressor?"
       "Yes, he is an oppressor."
       "Then how can she be his mistress if she hates him?"
       "I don't know, padre. Perhaps she is his mistress because she loves someone else."
       "Do you know what she told me?" he suddenly said.
       "No."
       "She says this village will be destroyed to make room for a cement factory."
       "It could be," she said calmly, picking up his plate, his fork, setting them aside while she carefully folded the small square tablecloth. He noticed how perfectly shaped her hands were, clean with well-kept nails. He wondered how she managed to take care of them while she was in prison.
       "Do you know about the factory?" he asked.
       "Yes."
       "When did you find out?"
       "Yesterday, when we went to buy clothes and you waited in the car. My mother told me everything."
       "What will you do, Alicia?"
       "What I've always done."
       "What is that?"
       "Wait for God to speak to me."
       "What if he doesn't speak?"
       "Then I will do nothing."
       "Even if they tear the village down, you will do nothing?"
       "Yes."
       "Okay," he said.
       "Con permiso," she said, getting up. She headed toward the back room. A second later she was back, carrying a large, heavy Bible. She was strong in a willowy sort of way. She sat beside him, holding it carefully in her hands. It was very old.
       "This is our Bible, padre," she said. She opened the front page, showing him the signatures. "These are our people."
       He took it from her, reading the names. Some were written in the exaggerated scribble of a Honduran signature, others were so poorly drawn he knew they could not write.
       "This is family, Jack," his mother once said. They were standing in the hallway of his grandmother's house. She had opened the Bible, the one on the top of a dark wooden dresser in the hallway. It was dark in there, and cool, early in the morning. He was only seven, the summer after his brother died.
       "Read the names," she said. Then she turned and left him. He read them, making his way backward in time. Palmers and Neelys, Sawyers and O'Hares, until the writing stopped. The first date was a Robert Shey, 1843, Bedford County, Tennessee.
       The next day, Sunday, she took him down the road to a white wooden frame building. It was a Southern fundamentalist church. When he got older he left that church and quit believing in God, at least for a while. They were fanning themselves with paper fans with pictures of Jesus on them. He remembered the first song they sang that day. His mom sat next to him, singing in her clear, high, and tremulous voice.
      
When the roll is called up yonder,
      When the roll is called up yonder,
      When the roll is called up yonder,
      When the roll is called up yonder
      I'll be there.

       "It's very beautiful," he said, looking up at Alicia. "These names, they are so old."
       "Sí, padre, they are very old."
       "What is this?"
       It was a flower pressed between pages.
       "We don't know. It has always been there."
       He turned the pages. There were some letters and some pictures, a couple of them of Jesus with his chest opened up and his heart showing through surrounded by thorns. Jack felt sad.
       "I must show you something," she said.
       He nodded, handing the book to her. She carefully turned the pages, coming to the Psalms, Chapter 27, and verse 14.
       "This verse came to me last night," she said, "as I slept. I woke up and found it in the Bible. It is from the Lord."
       She read it slowly, emphasizing each word. "'Wait for the Lord; be strong, and let your heart take courage. Yes, wait for the Lord!'"
       "Do you understand this?" she asked. She smiled at him, her face strangely alight with joy.
       "Yes, I understand it."
       "Padre, God spoke to me. We are to do nothing until he speaks again."
       "Yes," he said, his heart sinking. He thought of Vicente, a campesino from Protección who once told him how he had taken holy oil from Escipulas, the church of the black Christ in Guatemala, and oil blessed by the bishop, and oil concocted by Saúl Lanza, the local sorcerer, and mixed them in the name of the Holy Trinity.
       "It's good for healing," he said, his face shining at the wonder of it all.
       Suddenly, there was a knock on the door, and a voice, the quavering voice of José Antonio. "Padre, padre, they are searching for you."
       "Momento," he called, opening the door, hoping he wasn't going to have to be rude to someone if he was ever to get back to San Pedro.
       "Who's they?" he asked, staring at José Antonio, who stood trembling before him.
       "José and the others."
       "What do they want?"
       "There are people here."
       "What people?"
       "The people from the government." The words came like a blow to the stomach.
       "Why are they here?" he asked.
       "I don't know, padre."
       José Antonio knew. He couldn't bear to say.
       He turned to Alicia. "It's the government, they've come."
       "I must stay here," she whispered. It wasn't the verse from the Bible that stopped her. It was raw fear. He could see it in her face.
       A second later they were on their way, heading down the path. They came out from under the trees and Jack could see the sky, and against the sky, the tops of the mountains. They were so beautiful, and the sky was filled with light and shining clouds. He felt strange, thinking of a movie he saw once, about an English soldier in South Africa who was executed for killing a subversive. Until then, killing subversives without trial had been tacitly encouraged, but there had been a change in policy from the home office. They made an example out of him, shooting him on a beautiful day in front of a firing squad. A line from Revelation crossed his mind, "There was silence in heaven for the space of half an hour."
       "Where are we going?" Jack asked.
       "To the house of Jesús."
       They passed through the village, then right, heading down a side lane. He could see the top of Jesús' house in the distance. It was a nice one, red tile roof and white adobe walls. It even had a little lawn out in front which somebody kept trimmed with a machete. There weren't any lawn mowers in Chasnigua, or any machines for that matter, except for Don John who had an electric generator they used to make light for parties and other events.
       The lane was a mess, water all over the place, down in the grass where you couldn't see it. His feet were wet in a second. A crowd had gathered, standing around in front of the house. A Toyota pickup was sitting in the front yard. It had INRA in large letters written on the side, making half a circle. The crowd opened automatically.
       "Buenos días," he said, seeing Jesús, José, and a couple of men he didn't know. They were dressed in casual slacks with embroidered white shirts hanging over their stomachs. Bureaucrats.
       "Buenos días, padre," said José, his voice bright. "I wish to present to you Don Antonio Piñeda and Rafael Humberto Paparoni," he added.
       "A pleasure," Jack replied. He shook their hands, noticing how soft they were, not like the hard claws of the campesinos. He stood there a moment, awkwardly, but their guests knew how to proceed.
       "Have you been here long?" one of them asked politely.
       "Eight months," he replied.
       "You come from the States?"
       "Yes, Atlanta, Georgia. I once had a church there, but now I work here." He gestured toward the village. "Good people here," he added.
       They smiled.
       "Padre," it was José, "they say that the government has no record of our ownership of this land."
       Jack nodded. "Well, perhaps you lost it," he said, staring at the bureaucrats.
       They were unperturbed.
       "Padre," said one of them calmly, "even if there were proper titles we cannot allocate resources on the basis of individual needs. Our country imports cement, and it is the policy of our government to reduce imports. We will build a factory here. These people will have work and they will be moved to new homes. There will be no problem."
       "Who will move them?"
       "That is the responsibility of the Institute for the Mobilization of Human Resources."
       He'd never heard of them.
       "When will this happen?"
       "Bueno. We are sorry to be speaking of this with so little anticipation, but the investors have already released their funds and construction must start toward the end of next week."
       "Where will they go?" he suddenly asked.
       "There are places," one replied.
       "And if there is no place, what then?"
       They shrugged. "We don't know," they said.
       He didn't say anything for a second. What was there to say?
       "What happens if they don't leave?" he asked.
       He thought they'd react. They didn't.
       "Bueno, padre," one said, "such action would be in violation of the law. INRA does not enforce the law. That is a matter for the police."
       He looked around. The campesinos were staring at him as if he was supposed to do something.
       "Very well."
       He stood there for a second, then turned away. He felt strange, noticing the intense blue of the sky and hearing the keening cry of the cicadas, rising and falling as he walked toward their nasty little jeep with INRA written on it. Everyone was staring at him, motionless. He had the hood in his hand, trying to lift it, but it wouldn't lift. It was like his Land Cruiser, you had to release it from inside. So he opened the door and released it. Then he had the hood up, holding it up with his left hand and reaching in and grabbing the distributor cap with his right. He ripped it out, feeling the snapping tugs as the lines to the plugs ripped off. He turned, holding the cap in the air, looking at them, all of them at once.
       "When you tell the truth. When you talk straight. When you give the campesino his land, then I will return your cap. Now, if you will excuse me, I have things to do in San Pedro."
       He dropped the hood, hearing the smashing, slamming sound. He was walking, feeling the water sloshing against his feet, the cap warm in his hand, the people stepping aside as he passed.
       Five minutes later he was on his way home.

Chapter 10--A Prayer in the Church

\       He got into San Pedro around ten, heading over to Buen Pastor to pick up the letter from the bishop. It hadn't been there Friday morning like the bishop said, so maybe he'd dropped it off later in the day. He didn't know what he'd do with it, maybe show it to the folks from Charleston, or fax it to his stateside bishop in Atlanta. Not that it would do much good. The bishop there never did anything without a committee, and that could take forever. Especially if they got wind of something political.
       He pulled left off the circunbulación, heading up the hill, passing the International School, taking the left toward Buen Pastor. It was hot outside, you could see it, everything hazy in the heat. And feel it too. Hot air was coming in from somewhere, mixing in with the AC cold. He swerved right to miss a stretch of coffee beans set out on the road to dry. They took up half the road for half a block. A car was coming toward him, a green Mercedes, tinted windows. It passed him in an instant, driving fast, but starting to slow for the coffee beans. For a second, Jack thought he saw the form of the bishop through the side window. He slowed down, looking in the rear-view mirror. The car stopped, then drove backward rapidly, stopping right beside him. It was the bishop. Jack stopped, getting out of his car to meet him.
       The bishop jumped out of his car. "No more, no more," he cried, his face gray-white in the sun. "No more madman, Jack, no more madman, that madman hurts the world." In an instant the bishop was right in front of him.
       "What?" exclaimed Jack, shocked by the bishop's ferocity.
       "That terrible man," the bishop shrieked, "he hurts the woman. He thinks he can do these things to that good woman." He swung his arm in the air as if the outrage had affected the whole world.
       "What woman?" he asked.
       "Juana," the bishop replied. Juana was a secretary in the diocesan office in Teguc.
       "What about her?"
       "He refused communion to her. He cannot do this thing. This thing is wrong. Humiliating a servant of the Lord in front of the peoples."
       "Who refused communion?"
       "That man, Guerrero. When he does this thing he hurts not just the woman, he hurts everything, the whole diocese. Now they talk, they all talk. They say bad things about the bishop."
       "Guerrero refused Juana communion?" Jack asked, incredulous that such a thing could happen.
       "Yes."
       "She's a member of his parish?"
       "Yes."
       It was unheard of, but a priest could refuse communion to a parishioner. But only when the person was, to quote the prayer book, "living a notorious and evil life."
       "But why would he do that?"
       "Because he hates me. He tells lies about me, he says that I have sex with all the womans in the office. Can I have sex with them? Did I do that, with all of them?" he cried.
       For an instant, it seemed as if the bishop really wanted to know if Jack thought he was having sex with all of them.
       Suddenly, the bishop smiled, his teeth light brown, his face almost gleeful. "Tell me," he said, leaning forward, his face so close that Jack could see himself and the pale burning sky of San Pedro in the bishop's sunglasses. "Tell me, could you do that thing? Could you have sex with all those womans?"
       "No."
       "I cannot stop him," the bishop wailed. "He says these things against me. There are those who repeat Guerrero's lies. They say he will present a motion to censure me next week at the diocesan convention. Have you heard this, Jack?"
       "No, bishop, I have heard nothing."
       "We cannot have these things at the convention, Jack."
       "I know, bishop."
       Suddenly the bishop stopped, staring at Jack, his face utterly blank. Then he turned, saying no more, walking rapidly, getting in his car. Then he was gone, his car getting smaller, swerving left to avoid the coffee beans and finally turning right to disappear down the hill.
       Jack stood there stunned. Then he got back in his car.
       Two minutes later he arrived at Buen Pastor. There wasn't any letter. He asked the secretaries about it, but they knew nothing. Apparently the bishop had only come by to make a phone call before he left for the States. Jack headed back to his car, but then he figured he better pray, really pray this time, because this thing was getting out of control. He headed for the church.
       He knelt down, his forehead on the pew in front of him. The thing with Juana was strange. It didn't feel right. One thing was sure, the Hondurans had been fighting ever since he got there. Most of the time it was money. And he needed money, he needed money bad. Either that or Chasnigua was gone. He should have figured it out when the campesinos starting talking cooperative. That was three months ago. It was ridiculous. Twenty-five thousand dollars could settle the whole thing. Just before he'd left the States, his church in Atlanta had repaved their parking lot for $44,000 and thought nothing of it.
       "Oh God," he said, sitting up, looking toward the altar and the cross. "This is just awful." He stopped, trying to figure out exactly what he wanted to say, thinking of a lady who'd visited Chasnigua about three months earlier. Without thinking, the images skipped through his mind in a second. She'd come down with a medical team to do the usual charity work.
       "I feel so bad," she'd said. They were sitting under a tree in front of the church, eating sack lunches they'd gotten from the Sula. A bunch of the half-starved kids were standing around staring at them, watching them eat.
       "Go ahead and eat," Jack had said, disgusted that she'd never really cared about the poor until she saw them face to face.
       That night the medical team ate supper in Doña Yolanda's front room.
       "He's a goodun," they kept saying, referring to Jorge. Jorge had gone to San Pedro for ice and mixers.
       Jack felt strange, as if he were from another world. They kept on talking, about how great the campesinos were. For them, the whole thing in Honduras was a lark. Then they got onto hunting in the Dakotas or Canada, fishing in Lake Yojoa.
       "What's an operation like this cost?" Jack suddenly asked.
       "We're coming in at about $17,000," they replied, apparently gratified by the amount.
       "Where does it come from?"
       "We get donations. People love it, we do it every year. We come back and show them pictures."
       "Talk to your donors," Jack said. "Tell them you want to forgo the mission for one year. Tell them $17,000 could start a cooperative and solve the problems of malnutrition and disease forever."
       But they wouldn't do it, their "donors enjoyed the pictures," or something to that effect. They suggested he write their diocesan social concerns committee.
       "Padre," someone called. Jack sat up, looking around. He was back in San Pedro, in a pew at Buen Pastor. At the door was the guardion. "They are here to see you," he said.
       "Who?" Jack asked.
       "I don't know," he said. "They're at the gate." He gestured with his arm, pursing his lips Honduran style, using them to point toward the front gate.
       It was José, looking nervous, something Jack had never seen before.
       "Buenas, padre," he said. He stuck his hand through the bars, not even waiting for Jack to unlock the gate. Behind him, the engine still running, Jack could see Jesús at the wheel of a battered pickup they'd apparently borrowed from somebody.
       Jack shook the hand. "Buenas," he replied.
       "Padre," José said, and for once he didn't bother with the pleasantries, "they say there will be no trouble if we return the distributor cap with an apology."
       Jack hesitated, staring at José. Refuse him, Jack thought, make them face it head on. But this was Honduras, not U.S. Rambo. If this thing went to pieces, only the campesino would suffer. As the professor once said, "They don't hurt their own," meaning, they didn't hurt gringos. They just sent gringos back to the States if they got out of line. But campesinos? They killed them. Besides, how could he decide for José? Jesus never forced anybody to do anything he hadn't done himself. Suddenly he grabbed José through the bars, his face only inches from his own.
       "Forgive me," he said. He let go, took out his key, opened the gate, and walked over to his Land Cruiser. Seconds later he was back with the cap.
       José took it and was gone in a second. He didn't look back. Jack wished he could explain himself, say why he was sorry. He stood here, his mind almost blank, hearing nothing but the wind and the faint sounds of traffic. He felt awful, like he'd given in to the devil but seeing no other way.
       He went back in the church, kneeling down, feeling the sweat dripping down his face, his shirt sticking to his body.
       "Oh God," he whispered, thinking it was hopeless, thinking he ought to be in Chasnigua in case they sent troops in, wondering if he had the guts for it. The Roman Catholics were probably right, their priests didn't have families. Not legal ones anyway.
       "Oh my God, this is awful," he said aloud. He paused, waiting for his thoughts. "God," he said, his voice low, intense, "do something. Have mercy on Chasnigua, on Deb, on Alicia, everyone. This is wrong, dead wrong. How can we believe in you if you do nothing for those you love?"
       After that, he got up and went home.

Chapter 11--The Visit of Fr. Jim

       "We have a problem in Chasnigua," José said. He was nervous, excited, his wiry body on the edge of his chair.
       "What is it?" the professor asked calmly.
       They were seated in the front room of the seminary, José, the students, the professor, Jack, and Fr. Jim. Jack had picked up Fr. Jim the night before, Sunday evening. He was visiting the seminary as part of his "tour" of the church in Honduras.
       "There are those who say we should follow the advice of Padre Burleson," José continued.
       Jack had never heard of Padre Burleson.
       "Who's Padre Burleson and what is your problem?" the professor asked.
       "Bueno," José replied. "He is the Catholic priest who comes to Los Planes. He says we should lie down in front of the tractors when Cementos Honduraños comes to tear down the village."
       "Why would they tear down your village?"
       "They need the land to build a factory," José replied.
       "And why should you lie down in front of the tractors?"
       "Because God is on the side of the poor, and we must stand with the poor as did Jesus. That's why he died on the cross. That's what Padre Burleson tells us."
       Jack was translating, word for word, sitting next to Fr. Jim to make sure he got it all. Fr. Jim wasn't reacting. Nor were the students. They probably already knew. Every Monday they discussed the pastoral problems of their mission churches, integrating them with their biblical and theological studies. Rúben had been assigned for this Monday, but he'd given way to José.
       "When will this happen?" the professor asked.
       "Next week," José replied.
       For a moment, it was silent.
       "Why would they tear down the village?" Fr. Jim suddenly asked.
       "Because the rock near the village is good for cement," Jack replied, speaking first in English and then Spanish.
       "But whose land is it?" Fr. Jim asked.
       "They don't know."
       "They don't have deeds?"
       Jack looked at José. "Are there papers for the land?" he asked.
       "No one knows," José replied.
       "They don't know," repeated Jack.
       "Well why don't they go look it up?" Fr. Jim continued.
       "Can you go to Teguc and find who owns the land?" Jack asked. He already knew the answer.
       José shrugged, averting his eyes.
       "It won't do any good," Jack said in English. "Even if there were papers, Don Humberto, the cement factory, or the army, or whoever's making money out of this, can bribe the officials. They've probably done it already."
       "Padre," said José, turning toward Fr. Jim, "we have no remedy. That's why Padre Burleson says we must lie down in front of the tractors."
       Fr. Jim didn't hesitate. "Do you have title to the land?" he asked.
       "No," José replied, "but according to the law we own the land. We have lived on it for more than seven years. We came years ago to work on Don Humberto's land. His lands are in the valley. We live in the mountain. The mountain land was not good land. We thought we would be safe."
       Jack explained the law to Fr. Jim. Campesinos could claim unused land if they'd lived on it for seven years.
       "So you think you should lie down in front of the tractors?" Fr. Jim continued.
       "Well," replied José, "Padre Burleson says the rich steal from the poor. Jesus was poor. The poor suffer the world's oppression and therefore only we poor can redeem it. If we give up our lives, then we follow in his footsteps."
       Fr. Jim turned to Jack.
       "Ask him if he knows where Padre Burleson got his ideas."
       Jack complied.
       "I don't know, padre," José replied.
       That was a lie. All the students knew exactly where Burleson got his ideas.
       Fr. Jim leaned back in his chair, seemingly at ease. His muscled arms were folded across his thick chest. He probably worked out every day, like all the other top people in the States.
       "Everyone should know where these ideas come from," he said. "It's called the theology of liberation and it comes from Cuba by way of Nicaragua. These ideas are all over Nicaragua and that country is a disaster. We in the States want to work with you to stop this thing. We believe it to be a godless evil."
       "You are right, padre."
       It was Miguel, the one student from Nicaragua. He usually didn't say anything.
       Fr. Jim stopped, he hadn't expected an interruption. He hesitated. Miguel started talking, rapidly, the words spilling out.
       "My country is a police state now. After the triumph of the revolution the Sandinistas sent thousands of young men and women of the working and peasant classes to Russia, East Germany, North Korea, to learn mass techniques. When they came back they made my country a police state. My brother was one of them. He wanted me to join the revolution. But I wouldn't join. Now they are destroying my country. Every day there are "turbas," demonstrations against the imperialists, or against those who won't support the revolution. They beat people up. On every block there are 'block captains.' They are not captains, they are informants. This is the system they learned in the communist countries. I could not join this, so I left before they killed me."
       Fr. Jim was entranced. "Why would they kill you?" he asked.
       "Because I would not join the Sandinista party."
       "Do they threaten to kill everyone who won't join the party?"
       "No, padre. Only some of us. I formed cooperatives all over Nicaragua and my salary was paid by the U. S. embassy. Many people knew me, trusted me. They wanted to use me to subvert my cooperatives, but these were free cooperatives, democratic cooperatives. There is no democracy in Nicaragua. My cooperatives are gone. Now they are an arm of the Sandinista government. That is true of everything. I would not join this. So I left, and here I am."
       Jack looked at the professor. He sat calmly, simply listening to Miguel's words. Fr. Jim showed no signs of stopping. This was a gold mine he could not resist.
       "What does your brother do?"
       "He works for the party, and he lives in a nice home and drives a Lada.
       "What's a Lada?"
       "It's the Russian car."
       "Are there Russians in Nicaragua?"
       "Yes, on all sides. Political and military advisors. They are preparing for an invasion. They say we will fight the gringo for years in a protracted guerilla war. They are hiding arms, gasoline, munitions, food, all over Nicaragua. Only the Sandinistas know where they are. Every day ships come from Russia with equipment and arms."
       "What about the church, do they resist?" Fr. Jim asked.
       "No, padre, the church stands with the poor. That is what they say. They say José and María were campesinos, that Jesus preached a new revolutionary order. The Jesuits, the Maryknolls, and many religious occupy high positions in the government. Miguel Déscoto is a Jesuit. He is the minister of external relations. So is Ernesto Cardinal, the minister of culture, and his brother Humberto is the minister of education. They have been trained in mass techniques. That is why Padre Burleson wants the people of Chasnigua to lie down in front of the tractors. He wants a revolution in Honduras. He wants the papers everywhere to tell how the tractors ran over the poor people of Chasnigua. When these things happen, there will be a revolution. It is very obvious."
       Fr. Jim nodded. He was satisfied. For a moment it was quiet. It seemed the end of the matter.
       "Well," said the professor, "let us take a break, and then we shall renew our discussion."
       Jack got up, walking back through the dining room and kitchen to stand in the back doorway. Soila, the maid, was hanging clothes on the line. The students paid her a little extra to do their laundry.
       "Buenos días," he said, and she replied in kind.
       He looked upward toward the sun, the pale sky, the massive mountain looming upward, covered with trees, palm and deciduous trees among outcrops of gray rock. He felt bad. He'd gotten a bad phone call that morning from Martín, a young North American who worked in the diocesan office in Teguc.
       "I'm in trouble," he'd said.
       "What's happening?" asked Jack, thinking of Martín's wife who had an accident three months earlier.
       "Well," said Martín, "do you know what's happening here?"
       "Not really."
       "About Guerrero?"
       "According to the bishop he's causing trouble."
       "Everything the bishop says is a lie."
       "Okay."
       "Did he tell you about Juana?"
       "He said Guerrero refused her communion."
       "That's right. Do you know why?"
       "Because Guerrero's crazy?"
       "Guerrero's not crazy. The bishop's been having sex with Juana for two years. A friend of Eduardo's saw them in Cancun. Then all hell broke loose. Eduardo said he was going to kill the bishop. He came by the diocesan office and I lied to his face. Then Eduardo called Guerrero and Guerrero refused Juana communion."
       "Who's Eduardo?"
       "Juana's brother."
       Jack didn't say anything.
       "I can't do it anymore," said Martín.
       "Do what?"
       "Tell lies, cover up for the bishop."
       "You've been covering for him?"
       "We all have, the entire staff. We've lied to everybody that comes through the office."
       "If you don't, what happens?"
       "I don't know, but it isn't smart to cross the bishop."
       "Okay."
       "Can we talk next week before the convention?"
       "I'd like that," Jack replied, and then added, "Is Guerrero going to bring this up at the convention?"
       "I don't know," said Martín. "But I've heard that Juana wants Guerrero out."
       "What does that mean?"
       "It means Guerrero's in trouble."
       "With permission, padre," said Soila, interrupting his thoughts, needing to get in the house for another load.
       "Sí, Soila," he said, letting her pass. Back in the house, he could hear the students singing one of their songs, accompanying themselves on a guitar.
      
Después de dos mil años de palabras
     &#160el pueblo tiene hambre y tiene sed
      y sigue peregringo en el desierto
      pendiente de promesas que no ve.
      Y viene reyezuelos y doctores,
      Ofrecen por un voto el pan y pez.
      Y el pueblo se somete a la cadena
      porque falta un Jesús de Nazaret.
      
     &#160After two-thousand years of words,
      the people are hungry and thirsty.
      They keep wandering in the desert,
      waiting for promises that never come.
      Then come petty kings and learned doctors,
      who offer bread and fish for a vote.
      The people submit themselves to the chain,
     &#160because they lack Jesus of Nazareth.

       For a second Jack thought of Sonia, how Alicia said she believed in God, a God who hated some and loved others. On the face of it, it explained the facts, that some were cursed and others ran free.
       "Estamos, padre," someone called. It was Marcos, standing in the kitchen. He had used the professor's favorite word, but this time he wasn't being funny. It simply meant, "We are ready."
       He headed for the front room. The students were all there, seated on their metal folding chairs, wearing their cheap synthetic trousers, their white shirts open at the neck. Fr. Jim was sitting next to Miguel, they'd probably been at it the whole time.
       "Well," said the professor, "let us return to our principle theme. What shall we do in Chasnigua? Shall we lie down in front of the tractors?"
       "Padre," said José, "no one will do it. But if you go, we will go with you. But no one else will come. There is only one family who might go. They are friends of Padre Burleson. The rest will leave."
       "Are you asking these young men to lie down in front of the tractors?" Fr. Jim asked, his voice ominous.
       "Perhaps," replied the professor.
       "You think it might do some good?"
       "It might."
       Fr. Jim shook his head.
       "No, it will do no good."
       "What do you recommend?"
       "I recommend that they obey the law. Perhaps the bishop can speak with someone. I know the people in the U.S. embassy. The ambassador is an Episcopalian. He attends St. James in the capital. I spoke with him when I was there last week. Perhaps we can find money and buy new land."
       "Yes," the professor said calmly, "that would be good. But you cannot help all of us. You might help those in Chasnigua, or you might not. But even if you do, there will be another Chasnigua, and another, and another. Some day someone must say we have had enough, we want no more."
       "You will tell these students to break the law?"
       "I might."
       "Why would you do that?"
       "Because God might require it."
       "God?"
       "Yes, God."
       Fr. Jim stared at the professor, and then he smiled as if he'd finally cornered a rat.
       "Do you believe in the theology of liberation?" he asked.
       "I believe," said the professor softly, "that God liberates."
       "Do you believe in violence?"
       "Do you?"
       "No."
       "Well then," said the professor, "if you don't believe in violence, would you use violence to lock up criminals who murder and steal? Or would you let them go free?"
       "I would lock them up."
       "And what do you do if the criminals are the government and the ruling class?"
       "Oh," said Fr. Jim, "so you are a Communist?"
       The professor didn't respond. It got real quiet, the only noise the rhythmic whirring of the fans placed on a table by the window. Then the professor spoke, slowly, softly, in English. Jack was translating into Spanish.
       "And you, are you a capitalist?"
       "It works," Fr. Jim replied, pleased by the question.
       "It works?"
       "Yes, it works."
       "Well, let me show you something."
       The professor got up, walked across the room, opened the door, and disappeared onto the porch. For a second they all sat there. Then suddenly they all jumped up and crowded out with Fr. Jim in tow.
       It was cooler outside. For an instant Jack felt relief, seeing the blue sky, the air blowing warm against his skin.
       "Do you see that?" the professor asked, pointing across the street.
       Across the alley was a wooden shack, the stark frame of a stripped-down truck, a few papaya trees, a crude stove made of rocks and mud covered by a piece of tin, and ropes laden with clothes strung between the papaya trees. The ground was bare and rocky. There were a few chickens, several half-naked children, and by the fire, a woman cooking something among the rocks.
       "Do you see that shack?" he repeated.
       Fr. Jim nodded.
       "The man who lives there works for 'Oso Polar' or 'Polar Bear.' He sells ice cream and icies. He pushes a little cart around town. Some days he makes four or five dollars, other days, nothing. He doesn't even own the little cart. His wife takes in clothing to wash. Maybe they make forty or fifty dollars each month. They have six children. They have no medical care, no insurance, no dental care, and no education. They live like dogs. They own nothing, just the boards in the house, kitchen things, and a few clothes. They're squatters. Some day they will be forced to leave. Eighty-five percent of the people in this country live like that. This country is a capitalist heaven. There's nothing here but the rule of callous cash. There's no minimum wage, no decent working conditions, no health insurance, no retirement, no real unions, no nothing. It's an outrage and it's been this way forever.
       "And that's not all. For over a century people from your country have come here to make money. All of them promised a better life through investment, but it never happened. What you did do was to invade our countries, one after another, to protect your investments. Never once has your country invaded for the sake of the oppressed. Now, what do you plan to do about it?"
       "I don't plan to do anything," replied Fr. Jim calmly. "No one said capitalism is perfect. It's just that the alternatives are worse."
       "What is the alternative?"
       "Some kind of socialism I suppose, or Communism," he said, smiling like a man with all the cards.
       "Is that the only alternative?"
       "The only one I know of."
       "Well," said the professor, "would you please tell the students what you earn each year in dollars?"
       Jack hadn't expected that, nor had Fr. Jim. Before he could get out of it, Jack translated the question. He was cornered, you could see it in his face.
       "$55,000 a year, plus benefits," he said. "Most of my parishioners make more."
       The students were flabbergasted.
       "Another Don Cruz," said Enrique under his breath, referring to a man in Los Planes who had four wives, thirty-plus kids, and a lot of land. The students knew gringos were rich, but it hadn't dawned on them that the wealth included the clergy.
       "Well then," said the professor calmly, "if capitalism works, for whom does it work? For you, or that man across the street?"
       Fr. Jim was silent.
       The professor took his arm. "Look," he said, "let us reason together. You came down here to help us. But you are more interested in Communism than in helping the people of Chasnigua. Tell me, is Capitalism your god and Communism your devil?"
       Fr. Jim hesitated. A shadow of unhappiness passed across his face. He withdrew his arm, looking at the professor, a challenge in his voice.
       "You will tell them to lie down in front of the tractors?"
       "Only God can do that. I cannot say what God will do. But I am sure of one thing, there is no mercy without sacrifice."
       "Will you make that sacrifice?"
       "I might."
       "And you might not."
       "Yes," replied the professor, "I might not."
       "Well then," replied Fr. Jim, smiling. "It's a matter of degree. We all make sacrifices."
       "No," replied the professor softly. "It is not a matter of degree. You are in no pain. I am in pain day and night. You are rich. I am poor. You live in the States. I live here. You believe in Capitalism. I believe in the crucified Christ. Some day he will ask for my life. He will never ask for yours. You do not see him, nor do you hear him."
       The professor stopped, then went on. "You did not listen this morning," he said, his voice low, sorrowful. "You did not see the people of Chasnigua. We had an ideological discussion. You offered us your god. Your god is money. We don't need money. We need acts of love here. We are doomed here. We are starving here. Our souls are starving before God."
       Suddenly he stopped. He stared at them. He looked upward, his face open, terrified. Suddenly he cried out, his voice roaring in anguish.
       "Oh my God, my God," he cried, "how long will you abandon us? How long must we suffer this outrage, and your little ones perish before you?"
       The students appeared stunned. Jack looked at Fr. Jim. He had a strange look on his face, shock, embarrassment, incomprehension. The professor turned toward Fr. Jim, his face contorted in sorrow.
       "Yes," he whispered, "it never, never changes. They hide, they always hide behind their lies. But we're hiding from one thing and one thing only--there is no love without sacrifice. The result," he paused, his face stricken, his voice trembling with rage and grief, "is death."
       Fr. Jim started to reach out to the professor. Then he turned away. He would have nothing to do with this madman.
       The professor got hold of himself. "Would you like to stay for lunch with us?" he asked.
       "No," said Fr. Jim, looking at Jack, "I think I need to get back to the Sula."
       He stuck out his hand. They all shook hands, cordially, one by one. "A pleasure," each student said, and then Fr. Jim and Jack walked down the steps and got into the car.
      
      
      

Chapter 12--A Definitive Prayer

       Jack felt strange, as if something had torn apart inside of him. But once in the car he felt nothing, just the heat, the people, walking in a haze it seemed, the sunlight pouring in from the sky. The car was shifting and turning in the traffic and he was thinking of the professor. His face filled with sorrow, rage, and grief. It's God, he thought, that's what God thinks, how God feels.
       "What can I do?" he once asked the professor.
       "About what?" the professor replied.
       "About false loves."
       "Ah," said the professor, his voice happy, "so you are thinking about what I said to you?"
       "Yes, I am thinking about it."
       "Well," he replied, "there's only one way to be done with false loves."
       "How is that?"
       "By asking the Lord Jesus to baptize us with the Holy Spirit and with fire."
       "What is that for?"
       "To show us our hearts."
       "Then what happens?"
       "We enter into hell."
       "You think there's a hell in our hearts?"
       "I know it."
       "How do you know?"
       "We've made the world in our image. There is hell in the world."
       "And if we see our hearts?"
       "Then we can repent."
       "You've repented?"
       "In part."
       "Why did you do it?"
       "Because the Lord Jesus came to me when I was in hell. When I saw how he suffered, I repented."
       Jack glanced over at Fr. Jim. He sat stiffly in the seat, his knees against the glove compartment. The guy was big, six feet or more. He was wearing a pressed pair of cotton khaki slacks and an expensive Almy clergy shirt with a stiff collar encircling his neck. His class ring was on his right hand, and on his left, a large wedding band. He looked more like a corporate executive than a servant of the crucified. Next to him the students had looked like dirt in their shabby synthetic slacks and cheap shirts.
       Jack reached down for the morning newspaper, El Tiempo, dated April 7, 1986. He handed it to him.
       "Want to see the paper?" he asked, suddenly feeling like he hated the guy. "It's the usual news."
       The front page was a single color photograph. Two men were slumped forward in the front seat of a car, their bloody bodies riddled with bullets. The headline read, "Miguel Angel Pavon, president of the Committee for Human Rights (CODEH), of Cortés, and labor director, Moisés Landaverde, assassinated."
       "Who are they?" Fr. Jim asked.
       "Pavon worked for human rights, Landaverde was a labor leader."
       Fr. Jim said nothing, and then suddenly, Jack saw something. Something utterly obvious. The man could stand there, discuss Chasnigua, see the most wretched poverty, and never grasp the fact that love for these people would have to cost. Somewhere, someday, he would have to lose some portion of his good looks, his big salary, and his nice little job as rector of a nice big church. But he wouldn't face it, never. He would always, always, hide behind his rinky-dink anti-communistic pseudo-Christian ideology. And he, Jack, was on the same road, always had been, always would be. He was hiding out like Father Jim, hiding behind Deb, behind his good looks, and behind his bright, bright future in Atlanta. And what's more, he'd keep doing it, do it forever unless something happened, and it better happen right now because he might never get another chance.
       He flipped on the radio. "Music," he said, glancing at Fr. Jim who'd put down the paper and was staring intently ahead.
       Fr. Jim didn't respond.
       Then Jack said a prayer, softly under his breath, but out loud, because that made prayers more definite. He added something to the ones he'd said for the baby and in the church, adding something he'd been afraid to say all along.
       "Do what you wish, Father," he said softly. "Take it all away. I'm sick of these false loves." He thought of Alicia, how she said to him, "If you follow Christ you will see his face." "I want one thing," he added, "to follow the Lord Jesus to the end. Show me my heart, no matter what it costs."
       He leaned back. The music was roaring in his ears. It felt like the wind upon the sea, and the sea was San Pedro, the traffic, the people, the buildings, the dirt and the trash, the roaring waves, and on the horizon, the blue-gray sky forever.
       He got to a light. He waited, thinking of the bishop, how a beggar had come forward with a parrot on his arm and the bishop had given him a lempira. Crumbs from the rich man's table. Something strange was happening. It was like a force, an invisible wall coming at him from the left, striking him, breaking him up inside. He turned to look at Fr. Jim. His face was changing. He looked so bland, so certain, so sure of himself, with his nice clothes and his little trip to Honduras. You could feel the evil, see it in him, not aggressive evil, but evil in a smug, slick way.
       "What did you think of the professor?" Jack impulsively asked.
       "Something needs to be done about that man," Fr. Jim replied.
       Suddenly Jack felt an overpowering urge to slug the guy, to hit him in the face and push him out the door onto the street. He held on to the steering wheel, fighting to control himself. They were getting close to the Sula. He could go straight at the corner to let him out across the street, or go left, circle the block, and let him out in front of the door. Jack went straight, pulling to the right, reaching across the seat to open the door. Then he pulled back, staring at Fr. Jim.
       "Thank you," Fr. Jim said, holding out his hand. Jack took it. He wanted to do something nasty with it, like Stavrogin in Dostoevski's Possessed who pretended to tell a man a secret, but took his ear in his teeth and never let him go.
       "Of course," Jack said, restraining himself.
       "Hasta mañana," Fr. Jim added.
       Jack only nodded.
       A second later he was alone, driving uphill, changing radio stations, one by one, heading for the one that played the U.S. rock-and-roll. It was up at the top somewhere. That was strange, that wall thing, coming at him like that. Nothing like that had ever happened to him, ever. Fr. Jim's face had changed right in front of him. It got evil looking, as if he were a demon, smug, malevolent, dead, and deadly. But maybe Fr. Jim didn't have the demon, maybe he, Jack, had it. Maybe it had been there all along. Maybe it was in the open now, distorting his perceptions and making him see people in its image.
       Now he had it, right on the station. The words were blasting out at him. It was the Rolling Stones and he was bouncing gently in his seat. The words were roaring around inside of him, "I can't get no, satisfaction, I can't get no, satisfaction." Suddenly he was thinking of Deb, the first night he came to her apartment. She'd taken hold of him and lowered her body onto his, and he'd rolled over on top of her and they'd made love, on and on, lost in an endless sea that crested wave on wave until he couldn't do it anymore. Then he stared at her for a long, long time, drinking in her face, still feeling her body lying up against him. He was thinking, wishing, wishing he could ride the wave forever and forget the wretched world and everything that happened.
       He was at the circunbulación now and turning left, heading toward the upper zones. He passed the ice cream place, the Chamber of Commerce building where Rúben said he once found a bag with some bananas in it. He was a kid then, and they were half-rotten. But he ate them all. That night he got sick and threw up all over the place. Up ahead Jack saw a woman walking on the left. Medium height, strong looking, blue jeans, her hair in a red kerchief. He was passing her now, turning to look, a habit of his. She was staring at him, her face wide, her teeth barely showing, her eyes intense.
       Wonderful, what a deal, what a break. It was Sonia. He'd stop, give her a ride. She shouldn't be walking in the sun like this. Besides, he wanted to see her, to talk about some things. They needed to finish up on their last conversation. There was something in her that he liked. He swung left, crossed the road, and swung around into the ongoing lane. In a second he was there, jumping out and walking toward her step by step.
       "Buenas," he said.
       "Buenas," she replied.
       "Do you want a ride?"
       "Where are you going?"
       "Where I always go."
       "Where is that?"
       "Anywhere you want."
       She laughed. He laughed, wondering why he did it. It was wonderful.
       "Good," she said, walking around to the right of the car, getting in while he climbed in the driver's seat.
       He glanced at her, fearful for a second, that he was making a big mistake. She seemed luminous, luminous in a sensual way.
       "I've been thinking," he said, "thinking about what you said."
       "What did I say?"
       "You said that if there is no God there is no law."
       "I didn't say that."
       "You didn't?"
       "No."
       "Well then, what did you say?"
       "I said that Kirilov said that and that he committed suicide to prove it."
       "Well good, that's my question. I want to know, are you or are you not above the law?"
       "To answer your question, my dear Jack,"--he liked the first name part, liked it a lot--"there is only one law. It's very simple and I keep it."
       "What's your law?"
       "To love those we love and hate those we hate. That is my law."
       "Where did that law come from?" he asked.
       "From God," she exclaimed happily, "your God, Jack. He hates some and loves others. Now, I have a question for you. Did you read the book I gave you?"
       "Yes, I read it."
       "What did you think?"
       "There isn't going to be a revolution. It won't happen, it's a dream."
       "Do you use that for an excuse?"
       "An excuse for what?"
       "For standing aside while the capitalists enslave our people."
       "You won't win," he said, wondering where he was, slowing down, turning, turning right up the hill, catching a glimpse of a woman with a basket on her head, going door to door selling vegetables.
       "Why must we win?" she asked. "Shouldn't we kill our enemies for the sake of those we love?"
       "You kill your enemies?"
       "Yes, don't you?" she asked.
       "No."
       "Then you do nothing."
       "You judge me? You judge my life?" he asked.
       She laughed happily. "Ah, my dear padre, why shouldn't I judge your life? Haven't you judged mine?"
       He glanced at her. Her face was open, her body casual, clean, sturdy, delicate, radiant.
       "Yes, I've judged you."
       "What did you decide?" she asked gaily, leaning toward him. "What have you heard of Sonia?"
       He didn't say anything. All he could think of was Don Humberto.
       "They say you love Don Humberto."
       "And who says that, my dear, Jack?"
       He shrugged. He didn't want to say it was José and Alicia her cousin, but he couldn't help himself.
       "Someone told me in Chasnigua. One of the women, or maybe Alicia, I think."
       "Well," she said, looking at him, her face alight with joy. "You tell those women that they are right. Tell them that Sonia loves Don Humberto. Tell them that she goes to his house. Tell them we fornicate like cats in the dark."
       "Do you?" he asked, getting wild. "Do you do that? Do you go to bed with a monster who cares nothing for his people?"
       "Of course. Do you think I'm a fool?"
       "But why would you do it?" he cried. "Why would you do such a thing?"
       "Didn't Alicia tell you?"
       "No."
       "Well, if you must know, it's as the godfather says. 'We must keep our friends close, but our enemies even closer.'"
       "He's your enemy?"
       "Of course."
       "What an outrage," he said, in disbelief and disgust.
       "You, are you so righteous?"
       "No, Sonia, but I do not go to bed with my enemies."
       "Well, tell me. Your wife, is she your enemy or your friend?"
       "She's my friend."
       She laughed, a joyful trill as if he were a fool for thinking such a thing.
       "Why is she your friend?"
       He hesitated, thinking, thinking he was half-nuts and he'd better be careful. Like his pastoral theology professor once put it, "Once you start telling another woman about your marriage, you're as good as dead."
       "She saved me from the pit."
       "Does she still save you from the pit?"
       "Yes," he said.
       "That is good?"
       "No."
       "Why?"
       "Because you shouldn't love someone just because they save you from the pit."
       "Then she is your enemy."
       He stopped the car, facing her. Without thinking he had driven into Vista Hermosa, the wealthy zone. For an instant he glimpsed the pure green of the manicured lawns, the gray flint of the stone in the houses, the swaying tops of the palms, intensely beautiful and intensely strange.
       "Why are you talking to me?" he asked.
       "You want to know?"
       "Yes."
       Suddenly she reached across the seat and took his hand. She pulled it toward her, bending over, looking at him as her head descended. At the last moment she took her eyes off him and gently kissed the top of his hand. He could feel the scrape of her lips across his skin, in his stomach, down into his thighs. When she looked up, he almost died.
       "What did my cousin Alicia say?" she whispered.
       "That you are jealous," he said, trying to defend himself. "That the people love her more than you, that you use Don Humberto to get revenge against her."
       "She said that," she cried, throwing down his hand. "She said that about me?"
       Suddenly he realized that Alicia hadn't said it. It was José.
       "Then to hell with those people," she cried. "It's Sonia, it isn't Alicia. It's Sonia that saves them, and they are so stupid they don't know it."
       She stopped, pushing against the door, trying to get out. Her face was livid, the veins were showing in her neck.
       "Stop," he cried. "I am sorry, I cannot tell you these things."
       She turned back, her eyes wide, flashing, her lips parted. "And now," she said, "since we have spoken clearly, now that we know why you love your wife, we must know if you love God."
       He stared at her, stunned, fearful of what came next.
       "Tell me," she whispered, leaning toward him. "Tell me. Have you asked God for something that matters, something that will kill you if God says no? Have you done that, Jack? Or do you say those piddling little throw-away prayers like the rest of them?"
       "I've done it."
       "What did you pray?"
       "I prayed for a little girl and for Chasnigua."
       "What happened to the little girl?"
       "She died."
       "And Chasnigua?"
       "I don't know," he said.
       "Do you want to know?" she asked, leaning still closer. "Do you think anything has changed, or do you prefer to avoid certain painful realities?"
       "I want to know."
       "Well, it is as I said before. It will be destroyed."
       "How do you know?"
       "Because, Jack, your God does those things."
       He stared at her.
       "Or," she said, suddenly laughing, "perhaps I should tell you how I know those things. But you tell me. Is God answering your prayers? If not, should you love this God who treats you so badly? And not just you," she swung her hand in the air, "who mistreats everyone but the ruthless. Shouldn't you hate someone who does such things? Or do you prefer to throw away your soul because you lack the courage to hate those who make us suffer?"
       "Has God broken your heart?" he asked, suddenly divining the truth.
       "Yes," she said, fiercely, "yes. I loved God once, loved him. When I was young and innocent. But who is he now, Jack? Who is he? He's the one who breaks hearts, Jack, breaks hearts, always breaking hearts."
       "Why do you say that?" he asked.
       "My brother," she said, getting hold of herself. "We went to the church, Alicia and I. We begged for his life. He was sick, very sick. We held each other in the dark and we cried. But he died, so now I know. If there is a God, he has done me wrong. He has done my people wrong. He is like Don Humberto. We should hate, hate him, fight him, fight him forever. And if there is no God, then we and we alone must act against these things."
       "What about Alicia, what did she do?"
       "She quoted the Bible to me. She said love never ends, that love believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. She said we now see through a glass darkly, then we will see face to face. But I told her that we should not accept this. If we did, we would become worms without passion or life."
       Jack didn't say anything. He felt desolate, that this would come to no good end.
       "I have to go," she said.
       "Why?"
       "Because I will do you wrong if we stay here."
       He started the car, heading downhill toward the heat and sweat of San Pedro. They said nothing on the way.
       "Why are you here?" she asked, not two blocks from her home.
       "Where?"
       "Here in Honduras."
       "I am here to advance my career."
       "You want to do some good?"
       "I think so," he said, suddenly thinking she had something dangerous in mind.
       "You know Kenny Morrison?"
       "Yes." Morrison was a real fascist, a member of the English congregation at Buen Pastor.
       "I want to talk with you about him sometime."
       "Okay, whenever you wish."
       "This week, Wednesday, the day after tomorrow."
       "I'll come by," he said.
       "When?"
       "In the afternoon. I have to take my family to the airport in the morning. They're going to the States."
       She smiled. "That would be very nice, Jack."
       They got to her shack. He stopped, wondering if he should get out, but thinking it didn't matter. He could see the mango trees by her house, the heavy leaves, dark green, the fruit, tinted orange and yellow amidst the green.
       She got out, holding the door open, looking at him across the seat. Her arm was slung across the car door, her hair across her face.
       "Tell your God," she said, her voice husky, hoarse, staring at him. "Tell your God not to worry about Chasnigua. Tell him that Sonia Rivera Rodriguez will take care of it."
      
      
      

Chapter 13--A Horrible Fight

       Seconds later he was back on the circunbulación, turning off, heading up the hill toward the house. Up ahead he could see the mountain and the sky so blue. He made a decision, a really simple one. He was going to kill two birds with one stone. He was going to stay in Honduras. If his wife agreed, then great. For once they could do something for somebody beside themselves and build a life upon it. If she didn't, the whole thing could go to pieces like it deserved.
       He got to the house, honking the horn, feeling nervous, thinking she'd think him crazy. He rolled down the window, not sure why, feeling the heat, wondering why Emma wasn't coming out to open the gate. A second later Deb came out, the key in her hand.
       "Hola," he said, waving to her, happy to see her. She looked at him like something funny was going on. She let the gate swing open and he pulled in, hitting the brakes just even with the door.
       "How's it going?" he asked as he jumped out. She looked good, a simple yellow frock that came to her knees.
       "Good," she said, still staring at him.
       "Where are the boys?"
       "They just left."
       "Where'd they go?"
       "Emma took them to Katya's. They're going to watch some videos."
       "Great, now we can talk."
       "Where have you been?" she asked.
       "Seminary," he said, "getting the word, having the talk, the big one."
       "What talk, Jack?"
       "Chasnigua, all of it. They're gonna mow it down, bulldoze the whole blooming thing. But we're stopping it, yes we are. At least we're gonna try."
       "And how do you plan to do that?"
       "Don't know, don't really know. The professor's thinking we ought to lie down in front of the tractors, but maybe we won't do that, maybe we'll keep working on it."
       She said nothing, her face strange, fearful yet empty. "What do you think, Jack?" she asked.
       "Could be. He's got a point. But that's not all I got figured," he said, getting excited, happy to be getting to the sticking point. "I've decided we ought to stay here, right here in Honduras and see this thing through right to the end."
       "Oh, Jack," she said, like he'd finally done it.
       "Don't like it," he said, "doesn't suit you."
       "No," she said softly, turning to go into the house. "It doesn't suit me."
       He followed her in. She kept walking. She turned left toward the back bedroom. He stopped. He wouldn't go on. It was like she wanted him to be her dog. But then, he didn't care, not in the least. A second later he was in the bedroom. She was sitting on the bed, her back against the wall. He flipped the air conditioner on high and leaned against it, feeling the cold against his neck and ears.
       "Back to business," he said, smiling at her. "Now lay it out straight, tell me why you can't stay here?"
       She didn't say anything, and then it hit him. He was acting as if this whole thing were a lark. Be serious, that's what he should do. Get serious because he was cutting close to the bone.
       "Don't want to talk," he said, sitting down on the couch, trying to sound concerned but sounding flippant instead.
       "I will talk if you wish," she said softly, as if she were placating a child. The perfect tactic to make him feel like dirt.
       "Then talk, tell me why we should leave. Tell me why we shouldn't stay."
       "You don't know?" she asked.
       "Oh, you mean having to sell our house in the States, or the nice school for the kids, or perhaps the nice big parish the bishop has waiting for me?"
       "If you wish to put it that way."
       "Well, how do you put it?"
       "I'm thinking of the children."
       "What about them?"
       "This place isn't good for them."
       "Oh, you mean Robert and his school?"
       "Yes, his school."
       "What about his school, he said he wants to go there."
       "No he doesn't."
       "Oh yes he does, Deb. He told me that, made it real clear."
       "Know why he said that?" she asked.
       "Why?"
       "Because he thinks if he didn't you would think less of him."
       "How do you know that?"
       "I know," she said calmly.
       That stopped him, stopped him cold. She had him, just like always. But not today, no sir, not today.
       "Know why we're in Honduras, Deb?" he asked. "Know why we're here?"
       "Why?" she asked evenly.
       "We're here to feather our own nest. That's why we're here. That's why we're everywhere. We care about no one but ourselves."
       "I don't understand you."
       "All right, baby," he said, getting back on the roll, "I'll lay it out for you. Take a little kid. Get him when he's young, sensitive, tender. Treat him like dirt. Keep it up for a long, long time. What's that little kid going to do when he grows up?"
       "I don't know."
       "He's going to feel like he's in some kind of hell hole and he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to get out. And if anybody helps him, he's going to think it's love. But it isn't love, Deb. It just isn't. It's you scratch my back and I'll scratch yours."
       "What are you saying?" she said, leaning toward him, her face starting to get that broken look.
       "I'm saying," he said, suddenly fearful yet strangely relieved, "I'm saying I think we only got together because we were utterly alone and no one else would have us. That's what I'm saying."
       "So you're saying we don't love each other?"
       He couldn't answer, couldn't make himself say it. But he wasn't stopping, pushing out the words.
       "I don't know," he said. "Seems like all we ever do is run from one thing to the next."
       "And Honduras is going to stop that?"
       "I think so."
       "How is that?"
       "Because this place on the outside is like me on the inside. A real hellhole, every day, not a day without it. I like it. I like it cause it's real. And I'm going to face it, face it right here where it's up front and personal. No more hiding, Deb, no more hiding. That's what we're doing in the States, hiding out. Standing around drinking cocktails in somebody's million dollar house, or preaching nice little sermons to people who have everything, or being somebody's little dog so they'll contribute to the building fund. That's nothing but hiding out. Know why we do all that? Know why?"
       She shook her head, she didn't know.
       "Two reasons, Deb, two reasons. Number one, everybody is running from their pain. Number two, unless they face their pain, they'll never love each other. That's why they have those nice things, so they can hide from their pain and each other. It's real easy to see, Deb, real easy."
       "Because there's no sacrifice?"
       "Exactly, no sacrifice. None at all, not by any measure. Love means sacrifice and sacrifice means pain. Down here, when I go into a village they give me food. They're starving, but they feed me, their last egg, their last tortilla. That's love, real love. That's why I can't go back, there's no sacrifice there and there's no love."
       "Jack," she said, patting the bed right in front of her, leaning forward. "Come here, let me talk to you."
       "Oh no, can't do it. Can't do it. Can't do that now, just don't want to."
       "All right, Jack," she said, her voice starting to rise, "but you need to know a little something. You've got a wife and two kids. This may be your sacrifice but it isn't mine."
       "Got something better to do, do you?" he asked.
       "Is that all you think of me," she said, starting to get wild, "that I don't love anyone? Is that what you think?"
       He did think it. He couldn't help it. He thought it. He wished he didn't, that it wasn't true, and maybe it wasn't, but he did think it.
       "I don't know," he said, starting to get desperate himself. "I don't know what to think." Suddenly he thought of Sonia, about loving until your heart breaks. "Tell me, sweetheart," he said, "tell me something, tell me when, when in your hunky-dory life have you ever loved someone so hard that if they didn't come through for you they'd break your heart for good? Ever do that, Deb, ever?"
       "You think I haven't done that?"
       He shrugged. "Have you?"
       "I'll tell you something, Jack," she said, "and I hope you listen, because," she paused, emphasizing the words, "because if you don't, your life is over."
       "I'm a'listenin," he said, thinking he was talking strange, like a little kid, his accent going Southern.
       "You've hurt me," she said, and as she said it, he could see her eyes go gray, her face quenched up, like she would do sometimes when something awful had happened. And every time she did it, he gave in, every time. "You've really hurt me," she said. "You've said I'm selfish, that I'm running away from my own hell. And you're right. I know what hell is like and I'll never go back. I saw it real good when I was a kid. But you're wrong about the most important thing of all. You're wrong if you say I don't love you. If you believe that, you're dead."
       "Why do you say that?" he asked, feeling himself give way, thinking she would win again.
       "Because you don't want love, you want abuse. That's what you really want. That's how you were raised. You want to die in your hole. You just told me that. You don't want anyone to help you, not God, not me, nobody, no one."
       She stopped. It seemed so right and yet so wrong.
       "You're not strong," she said, softly, "you think you can do anything, but you can't. You're fragile. That's why I've always loved you, for your soul. You thought I loved you because I wasn't pretty and I wasn't strong. Because I never had a life. But that wasn't it, Jack, that wasn't it at all. I just loved you, always, from the day I first saw you. You're all I ever loved, you and the boys. It's the only strong thing about me. And now, you want to stay here until they tear you to pieces. That's what you want. I won't let that happen, I just won't."
       "What do you want?"
       "I want to go back, raise our kids, go to a good church, be what we can be. And I want you to go to a therapist."
       "Well, I'm not interested in therapy. I'm not interested in being adjusted or learning how to get along in society."
       She just stared at him, hopeless.
       "Deb," he said, trying to explain, "I'm not going to some guy who charges eighty bucks an hour so people can feel good about greed. Besides," he said, suddenly thinking, "if Jesus had been adjusted, he'd have never died on a cross."
       Deb said nothing. Suddenly her face changed, as if she'd just seen a strange and awful thing.
       "You want to be like Jesus?" she asked.
       "Well, I don't know," he said, suddenly uneasy, like he was too close to something. "None of us can do it, but we ought to try."
       "Want to know why you want to be like Jesus?"
       "Why is that?"
       "Because you hate yourself. That's why you want to be like Jesus. You hate yourself so bad you want to die like he did."
       "That's not true," he cried. But for a second, yet not quite, he knew it was true.
       "It's true, Jack."
       "How is that, my darling? Can you show your little Jack why this nasty little thing is true?"
       "That's why you want to stay here. You don't want to stay here to love other people, to face your own hell. You want hell all right, you want to tear yourself to pieces with these people. You'd even take your family with you, or will you?"
       Suddenly he was going nuts. "What about you, Deb?" he shrieked, leaping up from the couch. "If you love me so much, why do you want to leave? Even if I were wrong, crazy, busted, shouldn't you stay with me if you loved me? Shouldn't you? Well, tell me," his voice triumphant, derisive. "Let's just see. The little woman says she loves her man. She says he doesn't see this, that he only loves abuse. Well then, what does the little woman do for the man? Does she ask him if he wants to be the rector of a nice big church? No, she doesn't do that. Does she ask if he wants to be a lackey to the rich? No, not that. Does she even think he even has a point? Why no, not at all. Well then, what does she do? Show me," he screamed, his voice rising in pitch like a little boy shrieking at his mom, "show your little Jackie how you love him so much, show him how you care."
       "We'll do it," she cried, hurtling herself out of the bed, coming straight at him. "We'll do it, all of it, anything you want. It will do no good, but we'll do it. You'll never be happy, never. You tell these kids these beautiful stories, you carry on about a better world, but the one thing you'll never ever do, you'll never, never see the love in front of you."
       She threw herself against him, hitting him, knocking him over onto the couch.
       "You want to die?" she shrieked, standing over him. "Well, I'm ready to die, too. I'll even lie down in front of those tractors if you want me to. We can even take the kids. Oh no, Jack, oh no. No we won't. I won't take my kids. No I won't, Jack. I'll stay right here. And if you want to lie down in front of those tractors, then you go ahead. 'God might require such a thing,' that's what you said. Well, Jack, you have my permission. And when you've finished, and your kids don't have a daddy anymore, then wherever you are, wherever you are, in heaven or in hell, you can say to yourself, 'Well goodness me, I guess I made a little mistake. I guess that little woman of mine loved me after all.'"
       She threw herself on him, pounding him, smashing him down. He was giggling, he couldn't help himself, curling up into a ball, his arms over his head. It was awful to be laughing like this. Suddenly she stopped, enraged, desperate, intensely beautiful.
       "Tell me," she said, her voice hoarse, grabbing him by the throat, "tell me, tell me you'll never leave me."
       "I'll never leave you, Deb, I never will."
       Suddenly she laughed. It was absolutely exhilarating.
       "You're a coward," she said. "You can't live without me."
       "Yes," he said, "yes," reaching for her mouth, her body, while she fought back at him.
       "Promise," she said, "promise you'll never leave me."
       He was crazed for her, wonder, love, lust, everything.
       "Promise," she said.
       "Yes, I promise."
       "And you, you can't live without me?"
       "I can't, I really can't," he said.
       She was kissing him, kissing him on the mouth, kissing him like she'd die for him and he was going nuts for her, absolutely nuts. They were stripping off their clothes, and crazy, crazy, crazy making love, and wondering, wondering if she meant all those things she said. Thinking it was the game she loved the best. The game she never lost, never. But he didn't care. He would be her slave forever if she wished, because she could give him the one thing he needed most, the thrill of life itself.

Chapter 14--The End

        Deb was in the shower, and then it hit him--the whole mad thing had solved nothing. Absolutely nothing. He was one place, she was another. They were right back where they started. What he thought and felt a moment ago, that utter madness and joy, was absolutely gone. Get up, that's what he should do. Get up and face reality. He turned on his back and looked at the ceiling. He tried to force himself up, not knowing what he would do when he did get up. She was out of the shower. In a second she'd be in the room. The towel would be wrapped around her body, just above her breasts, just below her thighs. She would look ravishing, absolutely ravishing, and he would think her the most astonishing creature in the world.
       She came out, smiling at him. Then he did something. How he did it, he did not know. It was the hardest, perhaps the hardest thing he ever did in his life. He rolled to the side of the bed and sat there looking at her.
       "I've got to go over to the seminary," he said. "See the professor, the students, do something about Chasnigua."
       "Fine," she replied, and then he knew that it was over.

Chapter 15--Into the Pit

       Five minutes later he was at the seminary, walking up the walkway. He knocked and Soila answered the door.
       "The students," he asked, "the professor, are they here?"
       "They left."
       "Where'd they go?"
       She shrugged. "They left for Chasnigua. They went in the pickup of Julio."
       Moments later he was back in the car and turning around to get his seat belt. He felt a pain in his neck. Some kind of muscle spasm, a charley horse, hurting something awful. He swung the car around, driving fast, heading for the house to get his toothbrush and extra clothes for the mountains. One block short of the house he saw Deb and the boys in the street, headed toward the pulperia, the little neighborhood grocery store.
       He stopped, leaning out the window, his head screwed to one side. Deb tried to smile and he managed to smile back.
       "How's it going?" he asked.
       "Fine," she said.
       "What's wrong with your neck, Daddy?" Paul asked. Jack couldn't help himself, thinking about muglies, everything a wreck except muglies.
       "Well boys, it got tough last night, real tough. Your old dad, he didn't budge an inch. But those muglies were just too much for me."
       "What do you mean, Dad?"
       "Tug-of-war, that's want it was. Your old dad against the other guys. Muglies I think. I think it was muglies, but I couldn't see them in the dark. It started out muglies, but in the end maybe someone helped them. Or maybe they tied their end of the rope around a tree or something. But it doesn't matter, boys, whatever it was. You old dad lost this one, but not forever. No sir, boys, your old dad won't lose this battle in the end."
       "What's a tug-of-war, Dad?" asked Paul.
       "You take a rope," said Robert, "and whoever pulls the other one down wins."
       "That's right, boys, you got it exactly. That's exactly what happened. It was me against all five hundred of them, the whole mugly village."
       "All of them," said Paul, "even the little kids?"
       "You bet. All five hundred of them, men, women, kids, even old people. They got to talking. They got to saying that they were so tough, tougher than me, tougher than tough. That's what they said. So boys I couldn't let it pass. I just couldn't. I had to challenge them and I did. So this is what happened." He gestured toward his neck. "I pulled a muscle in my neck I was pulling so hard."
       "Are you leaving now, Jack?" Deb asked, her face opaque.
       "Heading up to Chasnigua," he said, "be back pretty quick, I hope, soon as I can, I reckon."
       She didn't say anything.
       "Come back tonight," Paul said.
       "I sure will if I can. And if you want to, we can go down to the creek."
       "Let's go now," Paul said.
       "Can't go now, boys, not right now."
       He opened the car door, put it in park, turned off the motor and leaned down to kiss them. "I love you boys," he said.
       Suddenly he felt like crying. They were the only pure things in the world. He wished he could tell Deb he loved her and say that he was sorry, sorry for not giving her the life she needed. But he didn't. A second later he could see them in the rear view mirror, standing on the street of San Pedro waving to him. He got the sudden terrible feeling that he would never see them again.
       Seconds later he was at the house, at the door, and the phone was ringing. It was the bishop, right out of the blue, calling from the States. What a world.
       "Jack, Jack, you are there?"
       "Yes, bishop, I am here."
       "I call from the States, Jack. I just now talk to Felipe. We have the problems now, the big problem. But I can no longer protect that man. I no longer do that now, okay?"
       "Okay, bishop."
       "Jack, we talk of this thing when I come. I come there tomorrow in the night. I call you when I come. Then we talk. But I must talk to Felipe. You will see why the bishop must do this thing."
       "What thing?"
       "That thing with Guerrero, he has done the terrible thing now, Jack."
       "What thing are you talking about?"
       "And Jack, the car broke down. Felipe needs the tire and the rim. Go to the Toyota peoples in San Pedro. Tell those peoples that you buy the tire and the rim. That is the problem. Felipe is in Seguatepeque and the rim and the tire are no good. They don't have those rims there. Take them to him, and tomorrow when I come we can talk. Is that okay, Jack?"
       "It's not okay, bishop. I need to be in Chasnigua. They have a problem there and I am their pastor."
       "What is that problem?"
       "The one I told you about, the village. They think they're going to tear it down later this week."
       "Oh no, you cannot say this thing. We have talked of this. This is no good. I told you. I want to help them, but this is the politics now. Do you know what happens when the church gets in the politics?"
       "It gets real bad real fast."
       "That is right, Jack, and now I tell you something. We know that woman, Alicia."
       "What about her?"
       "They say she makes the trouble. She leads the peoples to occupy lands that belong to a private man. Perhaps you think this means nothing. No, Jack, they do not destroy Chasnigua to make a cement factory. They don't make a cement factory in Chasnigua. They destroy the village because they do not like the peoples there, because of that woman, Jack. That is why they do these things. You think about this thing, Jack, and you will know it is true."
       He thought of Alicia, the gun in her hand, the dead horse on the ground, and everyone laughing at Don Humberto because he was afraid to play Russian Roulette with a girl.
       "Even so, bishop, we can still buy land, move the people somewhere else."
       "But the problem will not go away. We learned that in the revolution, that we must stay out of the conflicts. We are a pastor to all the peoples, not just to the poor or the rich, but all the peoples. We cannot be for one side, because if they lose, then we will be nothing. Yes, Jack, we know these things in America Latina."
       "Okay, bishop, you want me to buy a rim and tire at the Toyota dealership and take it to Seguatepeque so Felipe can fix his Land Cruiser."
       "That is right, Jack."
       "Where is he?"
       "He is at the Texaco station, the one on the highway."
       "Fine, I'll do it."
       "Thank you, and give the abrazo of the bishop to the señora, okay?"
       "Yes, bishop, of course."
       "She is fine, no?"
       "Yes, she's fine."
       "That is good. It is good when the womans is happy, then the man is happy. Yes, that is the way God makes these things."
       "Adios, bishop."
       "Chao," the bishop replied and hung up.
       Oh how awful, how utterly awful. How could he give in to the bishop like that? It was humiliating. He walked rapidly out of the house, hoping to escape before Deb returned. He pulled away from the curb and headed downhill toward the circunbulación. He'd go right past the dealership on the way out of town. He turned right, picking up speed, suddenly feeling like he should curse God, and feeling crazy that he would think such a thing
       The dealership was on the left. He swung in, got out, bought the tire, bought the rim. Then he gave them an additional ten bucks to send one of their employees to take a bus to Seguatepeque and deliver it. It was ridiculous, their wages, that you could hire someone to spend a day delivering a tire for ten bucks and even include the bus fare.
       Thirty minutes later he had passed Villanueva and was heading up into the hills toward Chasnigua. It started to rain. By the time he reached the turn-off to Los Planes, it was raining hard. But he kept driving on, feeling strange, that something was wrong and getting worse. He couldn't shake the feeling that God had damned him in some unrelenting way. It kept raining, harder and harder. The raindrops were making tiny geysers in the gravel and mud. He came to a stop, the engine running. He'd never make it up the inclines that lay ahead. He put it in reverse, turned it around and headed back toward Villanueva. He'd spend the night there. He couldn't go home, not now anyway.
       He didn't sleep well. It had taken almost an hour to find a room. Finally, he ended up in the back room of a pulperia. He kept thinking about his mom, his dad, their miserable lives. He and Deb were heading in the same direction.
       "Where'd these come from?" he once asked, looking up at his dad. He'd found some sea shells on the top shelf of a closet, shoved in toward the back. He was eight at the time.
       His dad looked puzzled, frowning. His thin narrow face puckered up behind his wire-rimmed glasses. "I don't know, son. They're sea shells."
       Then his dad walked away like he always did, in his dream world, thinking, always thinking.
       "He's working on theorems," his mom told him.
       "What kind of theorems?" he asked.
       "Mathematics theorems."
       Once, when he was older, he asked his dad what kind of mathematics theorems.
       His dad smiled. He hardly ever smiled.
       "Every finite group of odd order is solvable," he said. Then he laughed, his face all screwed up as if embarrassed. That was the thing about his dad. If he wasn't in his dream world he was either mad at you or embarrassed at himself.
       "Did you go to the beach, Mom?" he asked.
       She stopped, staring at him. Suddenly he got the impression she was about to cry. He wanted to put his arms around her, but she never liked that sort of thing.
       She nodded her head.
       "Where'd you go?"
       "We went to Sanibel, Florida, for our honeymoon."
       "Who?" he asked.
       "Your father and I." Then she walked away so he wouldn't see her cry.
       After that, he took the shells to his secret place in the closet. He turned them over and over in his hands, shining the light from the flashlight through them. They were very beautiful, translucent. He put the big ones up against his ear and listened to the surf. It was coming ashore in long lines. He could see his parents standing there, young, beautiful, arm in arm, the waters breaking against their bare feet. Beyond them the sun was setting. It hesitated on the horizon, beneath the clouds on the edge of the sea. Then it sank into the sea. The sky changed from fiery gold to yellow and pink, followed by fading deep reds and purples until, at last, it was night. Without knowing why, he would start to cry, on and on without stopping, utterly, utterly desolate. Then he would sing, crying as he sang, the same lines over and over, a song he'd once heard on the radio at his grandmother's, WSM out of Nashville.
      
I had a home one time,
      I left it all behind,
     &#160And I'd go back home,
      If I could clear my mind.
     &#160Crying, crying, all of the time,
      I've got a broken heart,
      I've got a tangled mind.

       He rolled over, pressing his hands against the cool concrete wall of the pulperia. He hadn't changed. He was as alone as ever. Only now, he wasn't hiding in his closet, he was hiding in Honduras, a little country on the edge of the world.
       "What has happened to us?" he said, staring up into the darkness, thinking of the day Deb first met his parents. He'd taken her home to meet them over the Christmas break.
       His mom was at the door. She hesitated, then held out her hand.
       "Pleased to meet you," she said, her voice shy, Southern, tentative.
       "The pleasure is mine," Deb said, and then she smiled at his mom, leaning forward and giving her a hug.
       For a second his mom almost froze. But then, inexplicably, she hugged Deb and the two of them went arm-in-arm into the living room.
       "Did you have a nice trip?" he heard his mom say, and Deb replied that they did.
       Jack went as far as the hall. After that, he headed upstairs. He couldn't take it, their being together. He got to his room and sat on the bed. His old things were everywhere, books, pictures, the baseball glove his dad had bought him when he was nine. There was also a slide rule he'd never learned to use. He got up and looked in the closet. The old cardboard box he'd used to make his hiding place was long gone, but he knew the box of sea shells was on the top shelf toward the back. For a second he was tempted to haul them down. But he didn't. He just stood there awhile, thinking but not thinking. His dad would get home sooner or later and that would be the worst. He was sure of it. Then he turned and lay down on the bed, face down, the way he always did when he was too depressed to go on.
       Suddenly, he woke up. His dad was at the door. You could hear it banging shut. In a second he was out of bed, bounding downstairs, getting there just as Deb and his mom came out of the kitchen.
       "Hi, Dad," he said, and then before he could think of anything, "this is Deb," he said, almost pushing her before him. His dad stood in the hallway, staring at her, his face gaunt, slightly wrinkled, his eyes small behind his glasses. Mechanically he held out his hand and Deb took it.
       "Pleased to meet you, Dr. McFarland," she said.
       He nodded. She smiled calmly at him, her gaze steady, like a still deep pool.
       After that, it was supper. Jack and Deb were across from each other with Deb at his daddy's left. It was going to be a nightmare because his dad had never made small talk in his life.
       "Where are you from, Dr. McFarland?" Deb asked.
       "Kentucky," his dad replied. She waited, expecting more. "Near Paducah," he added.
       She nodded, "And your parents, they lived on a farm?"
       "Yes," he replied. "Dad farmed, Mom gave piano lessons."
       "You love music?"
       "My whole family loves music," he said, and then strangely, he smiled shyly. "I reckon music is the basis of all sorts of things."
       "Like mathematics," Deb replied.
       "Yes," he said, "and linguistics, and physics and beauty."
       "You would say that mathematics, and music, and linguistics are beautiful?"
       "Yes I would," he said. "My brother got his Ph.D. in linguistics, and mine's in mathematics. But beauty is behind it all."
       "Where's your brother now?"
       "Princeton."
       "There were only two of you?"
       "Well, there was Josie, my little sister. She was pretty, red hair, bright copper, like my mom. That's what my dad said, 'just like your mom,' he used to say."
       Jack could hardly believe it. The man was actually talking, and he wasn't stopping. He was talking about Josie, then back to his dad and the farm, and how he used to do his math problems in his head while he was milking the cows. Then he got back to Josie and how she died when she was eleven, "the year I met Helen my wife," he said.
       "That must have been nice," Deb said.
       "Yes, yes it was," he replied.
       "How did you meet?"
       "She worked for the Phone Company, and Mom finally got Dad to get a phone. Except he wouldn't go get it, so I did. The rest is history," he added, smiling across the table at his wife. She blushed, and he got even happier, talking about how he used to ask her out and how they liked to get ice cream and go for walks. Then, seconds later, he was back on mathematics.
       "You can't try to do it," he said. His face was open, innocent, telling Deb how to prove theorems. "You just let your mind go free and it will come to you. It's a structure, a beautiful structure. And the best proofs," his eyes were shining, "the very best proofs are always the simplest, the most elegant, the most beautiful. You can feel the logic in your mind, like a symphony with all its notes in order."
       Jack turned over, burying his face in his pillow, thinking he was about to cry, wishing that he could so he could be done with it. But he couldn't. He'd cried only twice since he was a kid, the day he gave his life to Christ and the night he let Alicia out in the dark. But he did cry, the moment the image of his dad came to him, his face shining with joy, talking of mathematics and the eternal harmonies. The sobs tore out of him, hard sobs, messy sobs, so loud he worried he might wake up the people who owned the pulperia. He stuffed part of the pillow in his mouth, trying to stop, but he couldn't. He cried like he did when he was a kid, crying because everything was lost, as much now as then. Finally he stopped. He felt empty, his head large, his face puffy, gigantic, and his body like an appendage to his mind. He wondered what would happen now that Deb was gone. There was nothing between him and ground zero. Finally, he went to sleep. Or rather, he just stopped thinking and feeling, nothing except for his head that hurt with a dull and ominous ache.
      
      
      

Chapter 16--The Holy Spirit and Fire

       By daybreak, he knew he was in trouble. His head was starting to pound and he was feeling sick inside. Wherever he looked, it seemed like he was looking through a haze. He got some food and headed out. It was hot, blazing hot. The steam was coming off the road. The pain got worse as he drove. By the time he got to the incline he was driving like a maniac. It was a river of mud but he made it, jamming the gas pedal against the floor, bouncing and sliding from side to side as the car tore its way upward. He was thinking of Alicia, his mom, Chasnigua, the spastic boy he'd seen on the streets, everything at once it seemed. He got to the top, nearly delirious with pain, then along the rutted trail where the coffee plants were, and then downhill, bouncing and twisting from rut to rut, the steering wheel yanking against his arms. He got to the bottom, turned right, and for a fleeting moment, he saw the begonias, their stems three feet tall, their pink and white flowers bunched together at the top. By then he was in absolute anguish. His body had no substance. He was collapsing in upon himself, but still thinking, thinking he'd finally hit bottom, so fast he hadn't expected it, right straight to hell, just like the professor said. And all he wanted to do was to curse God for it. Curse God for all he'd said and done, or hadn't done, for a world so wretched that only the devil could gain respect.
       A moment later he was in the village and turning toward the sun, the light burning at him through the windshield. He was gone, utterly gone. He was screaming, "Oh my God, my God," over and over again, glad the windows were up so they couldn't hear, and cursing God inside, but not saying the words, not yet anyway. He roared into the open space in front of the church and the kids spotted him. He jumped out and they came running toward him. Their faces were shining with happiness.
       "Padre, padre," they cried, "vacalar, vacalar," wanting him to jam them in the car and drive around like crazy. But he couldn't, not now anyway. José and his little daughter appeared. They waved to him, their faces open, happy. Suddenly he felt like crying, but the feeling passed in a second and the pain came down without end.
       "Buenos días," he yelled out, waving at José.
       José replied, "Buenos días, padre," somewhat hesitant.
       "What's new?"
       "Bueno," José said, his face lit up and happy. "We have some good news. Don Jesús tells us that we are safe, that our prayer has been answered. There is no factory, padre, none at all."
       "That's great, José, just great. How did it happen?"
       "We prayed, the professor and all of us, the whole village, padre. We went into the church and prayed all afternoon and into the night. After that, Don Humberto came to see Don Jesús and said that there would be no factory. We are safe now. God has forgiven our sins and we are safe."
       "Wonderful, José, just wonderful," Jack replied. "I'm glad you feel that way. Now tell me, where's the professor? I must talk to him. I've got some stuff on my mind, got to talk, where is he?"
       "In the church," José replied.
       "Thanks," he said, "thanks a million."
       He turned, heading toward the church, wondering if he would make it that far. He turned back to see José, who stood there, staring at him.
       "Later," he said, smiling madly, "later."
       He crossed the grass, passed the iron fence, crossed the tiled porch and entered the dim light of the sanctuary.
       Up ahead the professor was sitting on the front row, his back to him. He turned when he heard the sound of the door opening.
       "Jack," he said happily, "you are here, you have heard the news."
       "Got it," he said, talking English. "Got it down and got a problem." He headed up the aisle, suddenly thinking he would curse God and die.
       Suddenly, he stopped. The professor looked strange, mean looking. Just plain glad that Jack was in the hurt. Tell him nothing, not one thing. Suddenly he thought of Fr. Jim, how his appearance had changed. It wouldn't work this time. Not on your life. Not with the professor. The man was good, and he needed his help, right there, right there on the spot.
       "I'm gone," Jack said, his voice shaking. "Over the top, over the top now. I'm gone, Profe, gone."
       "What is wrong, Jack?" the professor exclaimed, jumping up, walking toward him, grabbing his arm, his brown moon-face right in front of him, open to the pain in his soul.
       "It's God," Jack cried, "I'm cursing God, Profe, cursing him. I hate him, hate him."
       "Shall I pray for you, Jack?" he said, pulling him toward the altar, his hand feeling like fire on Jack's arm.
       "Yes, good," he said, feeling a flickering moment of hope in the sea of pain. In an instant he was kneeling down in front of the altar, looking upward, crying out to God. "Oh my God," he cried. "Oh my God, my God, I'm so sorry I never ever loved you," shocked by his words, thinking he would curse God and die.
       The professor's hands were on his back, burning in like fire. He was saying something, speaking words, strong words, the pain getting worse, much worse, beyond belief, coming up out of his stomach. The professor was driving at it, driving on and on. "In the name of Jesus," those were his words. "Spirits of bondage I bind you. I command you, by the power of his blood. Spirit of loneliness, I bind you in the name of Jesus." Suddenly it was happening, his utter aching, awful loneliness. He felt sick, nauseous. He could feel it, see it, images in the soul, images of power, taking him there. He was in his secret place, the flashlight and the shells, the cold wild wind along the tracks, Deb and the boys while the sun went down, utterly alone, like his dad, desolate, WSM out of Nashville, his soul seared, standing by a sunless sea. It was awful, terrible, and it wasn't over yet.
       He heard the words "spirit of rage, of desolation." The professor was saying those words, but they weren't just human words anymore. They were words of power in the name of Jesus. And then he felt it, saw it, something he'd never seen before, utterly unexpected. It was the thing that killed him, that killed him the second Alicia appeared with her marred face, the day he saw the spastic boy, the day the child died, his broken-hearted mom that he could never help, the whole aching breaking world, that God did nothing, that he hated God, hated him, hated him so bad so bad that he would kill him face to face. And it was getting worse, powerful, terrifying, pure hate let loose upon the world, a vast city in ruins, haunted, terrifying, utterly evil, stretched out before him on his left. He sensed a terrifying force to his right and above him. He looked upward and felt or saw God, like a wind, a wind of fire, a searing wind that swept across the city, burning, searching, annihilating, destroying all evil and leaving nothing behind. He leapt to his feet, his mind ablaze, crying out in a strange and guttural language. But he could not stand. He fell, fell before the face of God and before the altar, convinced that God was about to destroy the world.
      
Chapter 17--A Short Talk

      After that, he sat down. Everything seemed clear, steady. He didn't hurt anymore.
       "What happened?" he asked.
       "I cast some demons out of you," the professor said calmly, "and you may have received the gift of tongues."
       "Where'd the demons come from?"
       "I don't know," the professor replied.
       "They were there all along," Jack said.
       "How was that?"
       "The loneliness, the hate. I didn't know about the hate, just the loneliness."
       "Okay."
       "What do I do now?" asked Jack.
       "What do you want to do?"
       "I don't know."
       "Well," the professor said, "why don't you go home and be good to your wife."
       "Okay. Tell José I'll be back next Sunday for the fiesta patronal."
       "You will see José this Friday at the Diocesan Convention."
       "Are you going?" Jack asked.
       "Yes, of course."
       "Why?"
       "Because, as Jesus said, 'if they do this when the wood is green, what will they do when it is dry and stacked?'"
       "What do you mean?"
       "If the church cannot reform herself, what can we expect in the world?"
       "You will reform the church?"
       "I intend to take some action at the convention."
       "What?"
       "God will show me when the time comes."
       Jack started to walk out. The professor followed him.
       "I saw God," Jack said.
       "You did?"
       "Yes."
       "What did he look like?"
       "Like fire. He's going to destroy the world."
       "Do you believe that?" the professor asked.
       "I don't know, do you?"
       "I believe," the professor replied, "that the Lord Jesus baptizes with the Holy Spirit and with fire."
       Jack sat down. The professor sat down.
       "What is happening to you, Jack?"
       "Have you had visions?" Jack replied.
       "Yes," the professor said.
       "I wanted him to die."
       "You mean God?"
       "Yes."
       "For what?"
       "For what?"
       "Yes, for what?"
       "For this," said Jack, swinging his arm in the air, hardly knowing what he was doing. "For this outrage we call life. What else is there? You said the same. I heard you. 'My God, my God,' you said, 'how long will you abandon us, how long must your little ones perish before you?' Those were your words."
       "Then God is your enemy?"
       "Yes."
       "Good, you have seen the truth."
       "What truth?"
       "That God is a raging fire for those who spurn his love."
       "Why would he do that?"
       "To purify our hearts so we can love instead of hate."
       "But why would I hate God?"
       "Because life is not as you wish."
       "And what if it isn't?"
       "Then you either trust God or take matters into your own hands."
       "Like Sonia?"
       "What about Sonia?"
       "She talked to Don Humberto. That's why this village was saved. Sonia saved it. She told me she'd take care of it, and she did. God did nothing."
       "Well, if that is true, this village isn't saved."
       "Why not, can't Sonia be true?"
       "Did she repent?"
       "Repent of what?" He was starting to get irritated at the professor. He looked kind of clumpy, like a stodgy old man.
       "Repent of being Don Humberto's lover, of using him to save this village."
       They said nothing for a moment.
       "Which is better," said Jack, "that Sonia give life or be righteous?"
       "Only Christ gives life."
       "You don't think Sonia can save Chasnigua?"
       "No."
       "I must go," said Jack abruptly, starting to walk out.
       "Wait," the professor exclaimed. "You must pray to the Lord Jesus."
       "What about him?"
       "That he place his cross between your sin and God's face."
       "And if he doesn't?"
       "Your vision will drive you mad."

Chapter 18--An Ultimatum

       He got to San Pedro around four. The closer he got to the house, the more he thought about Deb. She needed the facts, no doubt about that, especially the facts about God, the demons, and the world aflame. That was the key, getting rid of the demons, and once you had the key, you could open the door. So, maybe they wouldn't break up. Maybe they'd already broken up, symbolically speaking that is, since he wasn't using her to avoid the pit anymore. He'd already faced the pit, that was the loneliness and the hating God part. Besides, Chasnigua was saved. No problem there. No need to leave Honduras on that score.
       He turned the corner, heading up the street. There it was, the concrete wall, the iron gate, the two palm trees in the front yard, just like nothing had happened. He honked the horn, waiting for Emma and the boys to appear. The boys didn't appear, but Emma did. She wandered out with a dreamy look on her face.
       "Buenas," he said, driving in and getting out.
       "Buenas, padre," she said.
       A second later he was inside. Deb was there, talking to someone on the phone, probably one of her country club Copantyl friends. He waved at her, smiling, and headed back to the bedroom and the air conditioning. He figured she'd be coming back, to get cool if for nothing else.
       She came back all right, right after he'd washed his face and arms. She stood there, staring at him, steady, empty like, like she was waiting for the news. Well, he had the news and she was first in line.
       "Got the word," he said, "got it just this morning. Don't quite know what it means, but thought you might want to know."
       She didn't say anything, just stared at him. Suddenly it hit him, something he should have figured. Nobody had visions, nobody. That was one of the nice things they taught you in seminary. Only crazies had visions. Especially a vision that God would destroy the world.
       "Got some good news," he said, shifting gears in a second, "no problem in Chasnigua, no problem at all."
       "What do you mean?" she asked.
       "The village is saved, no factory, nothing."
       "And you think that is good news, Jack."
       "Sure do, no doubt about it. Like I told the bishop, no politics. No politics, no danger. So that's the way I see it."
       "You talked to the bishop?"
       "Yes I did," he said, his whole body starting to implode.
       "What did you talk about?"
       "He asked me to stay here."
       "And what did you say?"
       "I said I needed to talk to you, that's what I said."
       It was silent for a moment.
       "What's wrong with you, Jack?" she asked.
       "I don't know," he said, feeling a little crazy again, "just don't know. Things have been getting a little shaky lately. They sure have. But I'm working on it, keeping it all in line, that's the ticket. That's the plan as I see it."
       "What are you working on?"
       "I saw God, saw him face to face."
       "You saw God?" she said. Her body stiffened, her face dismayed.
       "Yep, sure did, face to face. Like a wind, a wind of fire, and the world, all of it. God will destroy the world with fire. That's what I saw."
       "You believe this?"
       "Don't know," he said, stopping for an instant. "Real good question. Hard to believe on the face of it. Maybe I just got baptized with the Holy Spirit and with fire like the professor was saying."
       She didn't say anything, just looked at him like he was the most pathetic thing in the world.
       "The professor prayed for me," he said, apologetically. "That's when it happened. He cast some demons out of me and I received the gift of tongues like Paul talks about in First Corinthians."
       Suddenly, he stopped talking. She was walking over to the closet, not looking at him, reaching up and dragging something down. It was a suitcase. She'd only done that once before, not six weeks after they'd been married. They'd had an awful fight, a really big one, and she'd said that she would leave. But this time she said nothing. She just dragged it down, letting it fall on the floor with a banging sound. Then she turned and looked at him.
       "We're leaving tomorrow, and we're not coming back. You can come if you want."
       "You're not coming back?" he asked, not knowing why he said it.
       "Yes, Jack," she said calmly. "We're not coming back."
       "But we have only four months left."
       "That's right," she said, absolutely calm. "You stay here in your hellhole, or you can come with us. If you stay, we are finished. If you come with us, you can do something for your wife and children. The choice is yours."
       Then she picked up the bag and put it back on the shelf. For a second he thought maybe she'd changed her mind.
       "The kids will be back shortly. If you love them, you will say nothing of this vision of yours, nor of the destruction of the world, nor of this language that you now speak. Once we are gone, I will ask you to have our things shipped to us. But nothing, Jack, nothing, nothing of this to the kids."
       "Why are you doing this?" he asked.
       "Because you never loved me."
       Then she was gone, walking away in an instant, leaving him there. He heard a dog barking. It was the landlord's. Someone was banging on his gate. Probably one of his fascist Arab friends.
       He lay down, feeling nothing, nothing at all. He looked out the window, staring at the sheer green of the papaya leaves, the white haze of the sky. He thought of Deb, her mother, what Deb had said about her, that "some women don't know when to quit." She'd known all along that he didn't love her, that he'd just used her to save himself from the pit. So now he had to choose. If he chose Honduras, he'd lose his wife and kids. If he chose them, he'd be another Fr. Jim running from his pain. After that, he was so depressed he fell asleep.
      
Chapter 19--In the Couch

       "You want a story?" Jack asked. The boys were ready for bed and it was story time.
       "You bet, Dad," said Paul.
       "I got some good news, some real good news," Jack said, forcing himself to be cheerful.
       "What's that, Daddy?"
       "Well, you boys have noticed how sad I've been lately, sad because I can't see all my old mugly friends that I knew back in Atlanta?"
       "Not really, Dad," Robert said. "We haven't noticed it."
       "You haven't?" he asked in mock surprise.
       They shook their heads.
       "Gosh, boys, I thought I'd told you. Didn't I tell you about my old mugly friends, about old Jabin, Rogga, Zeebu, Taylart, and all the others, and all the great times we had? How we used to sit up late at night and cook honey cakes, talking about things, where the world came from, why women are so beautiful, and all that? I've been thinking how much I missed them and I never told you that?"
       "I thought you had a tug-of-war with them," said Paul.
       "That's right, I sure did. But that was Honduran muglies. I'm talking about my old-time Atlanta muglies. The ones I know and love."
       "You never said there were Honduran muglies."
       "I know, but I didn't find out about them until yesterday, or maybe it was the day before."
       They sat there, nonplussed.
       "Well, like I said, I got some good news."
       "What is it?"
       "They're here."
       "Who's here?"
       "The Atlanta muglies."
       "Here?"
       "Yep, right here in Honduras."
       "Right, Dad," said Paul, hoping to beat his older brother to the punch with a word of skepticism.
       "What, you don't believe me?"
       "No, we don't."
       "You're right, boys, absolutely right. I wouldn't have believed it myself if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. I saw them right out there in the living room, the whole clan, sitting around talking just like the old days."
       "What were they talking about, Daddy?"
       "They were trying to figure out where they were. Now you remember how big they are, don't you?"
       The boys nodded. They held up their fingers, indicating about four inches.
       "That's right, they're awful small, but that doesn't stop them. They do everything just like we do. Now where was I?"
       "You said they were in the living room," Robert replied.
       "Oh yes, they were in the living room. They were wondering where they were, or what happened, and talking about it. That's what they like to do, you know, talk. That's about all they're good at."
       "How did they get here?" Robert asked.
       "Good question, Robert, very good question, I was wondering that myself."
       "And . . . ?"
       "Now, you boys know where they used to live, back when we lived in Atlanta?"
       "We sure do, Dad," said Paul with enthusiasm. "They lived outside in the ground and they came out at night and danced so the moon would go across the sky and you went out there and talked to them."
       "Exactly, Paul, exactly. You remember where they'd take their vacations, don't you? I told you about that, didn't I?"
       They shook their heads.
       "I didn't tell you that? How could I forget that? Well, anyway, you remember how hot Atlanta was in the summer time?"
       They remembered.
       "So, just like you'd expect, the muglies had real problems sleeping when it was really hot outside. But as you recall, it didn't bother us because we had air conditioning. You remember that, don't you?"
       "We sure do," said Paul.
       "I never told your mom about this, because I didn't think she'd like it. But just before we came here it got real hot and I let them in for a few day's vacation in our couch."
       They stared at him, their faces round, perplexed, knowing something was afoot, but not quite sure what it was.
       "Then what happened?"
       "What do you think?"
       "They came in the couch?" said Robert, astonished at the revelation.
       "Exactly, they came down with the couch when we shipped our furniture here."
       "Wow," said Paul.
       "But didn't they get hungry?"
       "Oh no, they didn't get hungry. They were on vacation. They had all the food they needed, several weeks' worth in fact."
       "They came out of the couch here in Honduras?"
       "You got it. And of course, you know what that means."
       They didn't know.
       "Well, they got kind of confused, because when they came out it wasn't like it was when they went in. When they went in there was a rug on the floor, some flowers in the corner, and a table with chairs. Here we've got no rug, that's what really got them perplexed. The walls aren't the same either."
       "Do they know they are in Honduras?"
       "Oh no, they think they are still in Atlanta."
       Robert smiled. It was all baloney. Paul was perplexed.
       "You see, they're waiting for the world to end, that's what they think. It won't be long now."
       For an instant the boys didn't say anything. Jack stared at them, his face intent, happy, as if he'd just discovered the secret of the universe.
       "Is the world gonna end, Daddy?" Paul asked, sounding a little scared.
       Jack laughed, giving him a hug.
       "No, young heart," he said. "The world's not going to end."
       "Why do they think the world is going to end?" Robert asked.
       "You don't know?" Jack replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
       "No."
       "What do you think those muglies were thinking when the movers picked up our couch, packed it in a crate, hammered it shut, hauled it to the airport, and stuck it in a plane that roared for hours?"
       "They thought it was the end of the world," Robert exclaimed.
       For an instant Paul looked hurt that Robert had got it first.
       "What would you think?" Jack asked, looking right at Paul. "What would you think if suddenly this whole neighborhood, all the houses and everything, started shaking and rocking and then there were terrible sounds, and then darkness for a long time?"
       "I'd think the world was coming to an end, Daddy," replied Paul triumphantly.
       "Exactly."
       They were silent for a moment.
       "What are they gonna do now?" Paul asked.
       "Well, boys, like I said, they were talking. They were having a debate. In fact, boys, they got a little confused and upset because the old ways just aren't working any more."
       "What ways?"
       "Like I told you. They get up in the night and sing and dance to make the world go round. I told you that, didn't I?"
       "Yes."
       "Well, that's what was happening. That's how I got on to them last week. I heard them singing. I'd gotten up because I couldn't sleep. Then I heard the most beautiful sounds coming from the living room. I knew who it was, knew it right away. So I slipped out there, walking real quiet not to bother them. Even though they know me, they can get scared sometimes, me being so big and all. So, like I was saying, I went out there. It was really beautiful because the moonlight was coming in the windows and making soft white patterns on the walls and floor. There they were, all lined up just like always, wearing their beautiful shining clothes. They were standing in circles face to face, and singing, singing so softly, their voices like rustling leaves. I thought I would die it was so beautiful. The music would swell, going up and up to the stars, and then it would die away to a whisper. Then silence, so deep and so still. Then it would start again, first one and then another, sweet haunting melodies. Finally it came to an end and they sat down. They were silent for a long, long time, and then they began to speak."
       "What'd they say, Daddy?"
       "They didn't understand something. They just didn't understand why their old songs couldn't make the world the way it used to be."
       The boys didn't say anything. They just stared at him, because he was looking at them as if he was about to cry, like he was a mugly. But he was a mugly. He was losing everything, and the old ways, the way of beauty and innocence, the things he did as a kid, sitting in his secret place, looking at the sea shells, making up his beautiful dreams, talking to his kids and laying low, all of that was gone forever because it simply didn't work.
       "What's going to happen to them, Daddy?" said Paul, his voice pitiful. Jack knew he'd gone too far, the way he'd talked and the look on his face. He'd carried them to some sad, hard place.
       "Don't worry," he said, giving Paul a hug. "Don't worry at all. Those old muglies are doing just fine. I just lay down on the floor like I used to, my eyes dead level with their eyes. They were standing up, of course, and we had a long, long talk. I explained the whole thing to them, every bit of it. The couch, the packing crate, the trip in the plane, all of it. No problem, no problem at all. They got it in a second."
       "Did they keep singing their songs?" asked Robert.
       "They sure did. They got real happy. They crowded all around me, all around my head. They sang their great friend song, the one they sing to people they love, people who've made them happy."
       "They sang it for you?"
       "Yep, right there on the living room floor. And as they sang the little kids would run up and give me little slaps on the face because they like me so much. Then they turned and ran because they're scared since I'm so big. The adults laughed even while they were singing. It was really great, because they only do it for those they really love."
       "Sing it to us, Dad," said Paul breathlessly.
       "I would, child heart," Jack said, shaking his head solemnly, "I surely would, but I can't. I can't repeat any of their songs because these songs are their very hearts. They made me promise I'd never tell."
       Paul was awed.
       "Right, Dad," said Robert sarcastically.
       "What?" Jack cried, as if insulted. "You think I don't know their songs? I've known their songs for years. You want to hear that song? I'll sing it for you. Only," he lowered his voice like it was a deep dark secret, "only don't you ever, ever tell, because if you do, I'm in big trouble."
       They nodded, leaning forward intently, waiting. He started to sing, but he could hardly keep from laughing. It was so ridiculous, the three of them huddled together, as if the whole thing were real. But he contained himself, singing the mugly words, filled up with the wonder of it all.
      
Teistto tatyaala, leisnos leo phan,
      Razcisno mayagala, hereo beo gan.
      Maaya ogla laza, triesno heva wan,
      Tororo anya lala, haveo wanza man.

       "Really, Dad," said Paul, "That's no song."
       "It is, boys, it is, it's their language."
       "You're lying, Dad," cried Paul, launching himself at his dad, trying to knock him over.
       "What?" cried Jack, "How can you say these things? Who are you animals?"
       He grabbed them both, rolling over on the bed. He threw them back and forth, one under each arm, tickling them. They fought back, trying to squish his head into the mattress. He pretended to fight back and then he gave way.
       "Help," he cried, "wild animals, child attack, help, help, my own children are beating me up."
       They were on top of him, pinning him down. He struggled in feigned desperation. Finally, with a great heave, he managed to get partially up only to slide off the bed with his boys crashing down on top of him.
       Finally he got them calmed down and told them that it was time for bed. He took them in his arms, one on each knee, and hugged them. "I love you boys," he said. He said a prayer for them. He gave them to the Lord and asked God to bless them. As he prayed, he could feel the end of the world.

Chapter 20--A Visit in the Night

       Someone was banging on the gate, clang, clang, clang. Jack woke up, climbing out of bed, dragging on some clothes, heading for the door. It was the bishop, dressed in his purple bishop's shirt. He'd arrived for their little chat as he had promised. Behind him were Rúben and Felipe, his usual entourage.
       "Espere," Jack said, coming toward the gate, the key in his hand. He opened it, shaking hands with them, "buenas, buenas." Without stopping, the bishop pushed past him, walking straight into the house. The others followed along. They all sat down at once. It was business first and pleasantries later.
       "I have some papers," said the bishop abruptly. "I cannot tell everyone, but I must inform the clergy of the diocese of my decision."
       He held up one of the papers. It was covered with handwriting, written in crude lettering. Jack had seen such letters, usually written by campesinos. The bishop began to read. This is it, thought Jack, this is where he nails the guy.
       "Tegucigalpa, capital of the republic, March 27, 1986. I, Rafael Antonio Hualde, a refugee from Nicaragua, presently living in Casa Esperanza, a home for refugee boys under the auspices of the Episcopal Church of Honduras, do solemnly swear as to the legal truth of the following."
       The bishop paused, and then read on, as if steeling himself for what followed.
       "I arrived in Honduras in November of 1985, and began my occupancy in Casa Esperanza in January of 1986. Not many days later, I was approached by Padre Guerrero who told me that he must inspect all of the boys for fungal infections. He told me to let down my pants. Then he sodomized me. I did not tell this to the other boys. The padre did this to me two times more. I know he did this to others. I said nothing because I was afraid that he would send me back to my native country. I know that what I did was wrong, and I have prayed to the Virgin that she forgive me. I swear that all these words are true. Signed, April 28, 1986, Rafael Antonio Hualde."
       The bishop put it down and picked up another. He read it rapidly, his face contorted with disgust. He finished and glanced up at Jack. "There is more." He held up another. "Juanito," and then began to read the same terrible and lurid account.
       "How can this be?" he suddenly cried, handing the paper to Jack. "Juanito is only nine years old."
       Jack looked down. The handwriting was awkward and irregular, the writing of a child. He scanned the page. The words jumped out at him, crude descriptions of repeated sexual acts.
       He handed the paper back to the bishop. The bishop was speaking. His voice was plaintive, almost desperate.
       "I cannot accept that man. He tells those lies about me and my staff. Now he has destroyed the reputation of the church. The newspaper peoples came to my office. I lied to them. I went to his family, to his wife. I showed her these terrible things. That woman cried. She begged me not to send him from the church. But I do that. That man hates womans. He tells the lies about the woman who love the Lord. He has no chances left now. I told him. 'You go,' I said, 'you go now. You cannot stay here and hurt the people of the Lord.'"
       "Where's he going?" Jack asked.
       "To the States. I got the visas and sent them to the States. I paid the tickets."
       Jack glanced at Felipe and Rúben. They were impassive. One thing was clear. It was the end of Guerrero. He spoke no English. He'd end up washing dishes somewhere.
       "Ever been to the States?" Jack once asked him.
       "No, padre," Guerrero replied. "But we will go there someday."
       "We are going to visit Disney World," one of his boys had said.
       They were standing in the driveway, Guerrero's whole family. They had come by to pick up a TV Jack had brought for them with his household goods. It came in duty-free and they were getting it at the stateside price.
       "Do you believe in healing?" Guerrero's wife asked. She was plump, pretty, with a cute face.
       Jack sort of nodded that he did.
       "We believe in healing," she said happily, putting her arm around her husband. "My husband used to drink and beat our boys, but the Lord healed him with the imposition of hands."
       "When did this happen?" Jack asked.
       "Nine months ago."
       Jack looked at her boys. There were two of them, teenagers, young, awkward, pimply. They smiled at him.
       "Thank you, Jesus," Jack said. It was the right thing to say.
       The bishop stood up. "Now you know," he said. "Now you know why I must do these things. He is gone now. He has spread the lies, and the enemies of the bishop will believe those lies. But we are friends, no?"
       "Yes, bishop," Jack replied.
       He could hardly bear the man, his pasty face, his wretched little eyes. The bishop didn't seem to notice.
       The others got up. They shook his hand. "Good night, padre," they said.
       He heard the gate clang, and then faintly, the car driving away. He sat there a long time, utterly desolate. It was ghastly. Guerrero may have done it, but Jack couldn't avoid the sickening feeling that he'd been framed.

Chapter 21--In my Dreams

       Finally, he got up. Nothing to do but go to bed. Prepare for tomorrow. Moments later he slipped silently under the sheet, thinking Deb was asleep but she wasn't.
       "Who was it?" she asked.
       "The bishop."
       "What did he want?"
       "Nothing."
       They lay there silently, and then she turned to face him in the dim light.
       "What will you do?" she asked.
       "About what?" he said.
       "Will you stay here?"
       "I don't know."
       She didn't say anything.
       "Why don't you come with me tomorrow?"
       "I can't."
       "It would be the end of you?"
       "Yes."
       Through the window he could hear his landlord yelling at his wife in Arabic.
       "Why did you marry me?" she asked.
       "I think I married you to get out of a pit."
       They said nothing for a while.
       "What pit," she asked.
       "My darkness, something I've avoided for years. You got me out of it, made me happy. I'd never been happy before, not really. But if you marry someone just because they take away your pain, is that really love?"
       "How would we know we did love each other?"
       "We'd suffer for each other, and we'd do it gladly."
       She didn't reply.
       "You're strange," she said.
       "I suppose."
       "I mean, you don't seem crazy like you were earlier."
       "I'm crazy, Deb."
       He pulled her close, kissing her on the forehead.
       She turned in his arms, her back to him. He put his arms around her, taking her hands. He could feel her breasts against his fists.
       "This place is strange," he said. "People come here, they see the suffering but they don't think it has to do with them. They cook up something, some kind of ideology about the economic system, or life, or God, so they can avoid suffering for others."
       "You avoid me?" she asked.
       "Yes, Deb, I avoid you."
       "Why?"
       "You're too much for me sometimes."
       "Will you avoid me forever?" she asked.
       He lay there, thinking, wondering if he would, or if he really loved her. Or maybe he was afraid of her because, in the end, he loved her more than anything.
       "No," he said, "I won't."
       After that, they didn't say anything. He wondered if she was falling asleep. It could happen in an instant. He could barely hear the hum of San Pedro traffic and the far-off bark of dogs and people talking. Their landlord must have gone to sleep. For once, his television was off. Then he heard a rooster crowing, a single one. He thought of Peter who betrayed Christ, and somehow he got the feeling that he wouldn't betray his wife, not in the end anyway.
      
O Western wind when wilt thou blow,
      The soft rain downken rain.
     &#160Christ if my love were in my arms,
     &#160And I in my bed again.

       Give her back to me, he prayed silently.
       "Will you wait for me?" he asked.
       "I don't know."
       "Then why did you give me that ultimatum?"
       "We're better off without each other."
       He said nothing, sad and happy, happy to feel her body against his own.
       "Want to hear a confession?" she asked.
       "Yes."
       "Want to know why I fell in love with you?"
       He nodded, her body feeling so soft, warm, her hair like gauze in his face.
       "That last time we made love, you remember?"
       "Yes," he said. He would never forget.
       "It was like I was watching myself. As if I were in a deep still pool, watching myself from the bottom. I've always been that way, almost always, except when I first met you. That's why I thought I loved you. You were broken, tender, smart, a little crazy. I felt things for you I never felt before. And because I loved you, I thought you would be happy. But I was wrong. You'll never be happy, Jack. You'll always be miserable. I can't keep you out of your pit, and you can't get me near it. That's why we're at the end."
       "What of the boys?"
       "You can live close by. They can't live without you."
       "Nor can I," he said.
       It was quiet outside. He could hear the faint rustle of the banana leaves against the window, the hiss of the wind in the palms. Maybe it would rain and wash it all away.
       "Did we ever love each other?" she asked.
       He was thinking of Alicia, of Paul, of God, everything at once, the line that Alicia quoted to Sonia.
       "Love never ends," he said softly, "believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Now we see through a glass darkly, then we shall see face to face."
       "Yes, Jack," she said, "my apostle Paul."
       He thought of a friend who got a divorce, and how, when the end came, they treated each other with the utmost tenderness.
       "But if you were to love someone," he asked, "would it be me?"
       She didn't seem to hear him.
       "Would it be me?" he asked softly, not wanting to wake her.
       He gently pulled her closer to him. He felt her body twitch once or twice as she fell asleep. She almost seemed to wake up for a moment. She twisted in his arms, wrapping herself around him.
       "In my dreams," she murmured, "in my dreams, I still love you."

Chapter 22-Goodbye

       Jack put his arms around his boys. They were in the airport. He could feel their little hands and arms pressed around him, their faces against his own.
       "We love you, Daddy," they said, both of them. He could hardly bear it. He buried his face in their arms, against their chests. A voice came over the loudspeakers, a call for Taca flight 391 with destination to Miami.
       He stood up. It was the first call. It would be another thirty minutes. The flight would be late as always.
       "Why don't we get a coke?" he said.
       They made their way toward the stairs to the upper level. The airport was always hot, dirty, and crowded. He'd never liked it. Hot because the air conditioning was nearly useless, and crowded for lack of space and chairs. The boys bounded up the stairs, their carry-ons bouncing as they ran. The restaurant was crowded, but they found a table just as someone was leaving. Jack got in line to order.
       He didn't feel like eating, and Deb didn't want anything either. She watched her diet pretty closely, plus, this wasn't exactly a happy occasion. He looked at her across the room. Paul was standing on his chair and she was trying to get him to sit down. She looked pretty in her plain way, wearing dark slacks and a light green blouse. Sometimes she seemed like two different people. In the day she was a mother, or even some kind of professional. But at night, when he lay with her and stared into her eyes, he could hardly bear it. It was too intensely personal.
       "What do you wish, sir?" the man behind the counter asked. Jack ordered some cokes, a couple of hamburgers, and french-fries. They weren't like the stateside french-fries. They were thicker and fatter, but the kids liked them just the same.
       He reached in his pocket for some money, handing the man a twenty-lempira note, then taking the change and the food as well. He turned, heading for the table. Right in front of him was Robert, staring up at him, his eyes dark and heavy, his face pale.
       "Dad," he said, and Jack stopped, suddenly frightened. He glanced across the room at Deb. She had Paul's hand, apparently taking him to look out the window at the runway.
       "Dad," the boy said, pulling on his hand. Jack knelt down, his eyes level with his son.
       "Mom's not coming back," he said, his face starting to contort, his eyes filling with tears, but not spilling over, not yet anyway.
       "What do you mean?" he said.
       "Mom's not coming back," the boy said.
       "That's right," he replied, wondering why he said it.
       "And you're coming back here," the boy said. "You're coming back here and leaving us with Mommy. We won't be together then, not anymore."
       Jack said nothing, just stared at him, feeling the warmth of the french-fries through the bag, a hard, tight feeling in his chest. He could hardly think for the pain inside of him. A lie formed in his mind, that it was only for a little while until he got back to the States.
       Suddenly he felt his boy's hand on his head, pulling him toward him, pulling his head against his son's chest.
       "Oh my son," Jack said, his voice breaking. "My son, we've done so wrong, so very, very wrong."
       He pulled back, staring up at his child. The boy's face was clear, utterly clear.
       "Forgive me," he said, grabbing hold of him. "Forgive me."
       The boy nodded. They said nothing for a moment, just gazed at each other. Jack stood up and Robert straightened himself as well. He took his son's hand and together they walked over to the table.
       Moments later Deb was back and they ate their food in silence.
       Time passed. A second call came over the loudspeakers, and then a third.
       "We better go," he said.
       Paul grabbed his coke, wanting to take it with him.
       "Leave it here, Paul," said Deb softly, gently taking it from him. He didn't resist.
       They got up and moved toward the stairs, the only fair-haired ones in the crowd.
       They descended the stairs and came to the door into the departure area. They wouldn't let anyone but passengers go to the gate. He knelt down, looking at his boys.
       "I love you, boys," he said, "love you heart and soul."
       He felt their arms around him.
       "Goodbye, Daddy," Paul said. Robert said nothing.
       "Be happy, boys," he said. "Be good to your mamma."
       "We sure will, Dad," said the younger one. "You can count on us."
       He stood up, hesitating, and then he hugged Debbie. For an instant she clung to him. He wanted to hold her but forced himself to let go.
       They moved through the door, looking away from him to see their way forward. He watched them disappear.
       He went up on the deck. It was a clear, hot day. There was no wind, and in the distance he could see the banana fields. Down below was the tarmac. The passengers would walk across it and climb the stairs into the plane.
       He waited, watching the first of the passengers walking toward the plane in a ragged line. They were looking up at the deck and waving. Then he saw Deb. She had the boys in front of her so she could watch them. He waved to them, though they weren't looking in his direction. The line stopped at the stairs going up into the plane. The passengers had to show their boarding passes. Deb looked back and upward toward the deck. He waved. She saw him. She knelt down to tell the boys, pointing to their dad. He waved, both hands. The boys saw him. Paul waved. Robert only stared in his direction. Deb showed the man their passes and they went up the stairs onto the plane. The boys went on in. She stopped in the doorway and turned back to look at him across the distance. She raised her arm briefly. He raised his hand goodbye. Then she was gone.

Chapter 23--At the Gate

       "Someone has come for you," Emma said, standing by the door to the bedroom. He'd come home from the airport, thinking nothing, and fallen dead asleep face down on the bed fully clothed.
       "Who?" he asked.
       She shrugged. "A woman," she said.
       He got up. He knew who it was. It was Sonia. He walked through the house and out into the driveway, his eyes adjusting to the light. She was there, standing on the other side of the gate looking at him through the bars.
       "Buenas," he said, stopping, staring at her, fearful of what would happen next.
       "Where have you been?" she asked.
       "Right here," he replied.
       "This is Wednesday, did you not say that you would come and see me Wednesday?"
       "Yes."
       She smiled at him, her voice coy. "Have you decided that Sonia is too much for you?"
       He said nothing.
       "You got Don Humberto to save Chasnigua?" he finally asked.
       "Yes."
       "How did you do it?"
       She held up her little finger. "He loves me, he'll do anything I ask."
       Again it was silent.
       "Why didn't you come to see me as you promised?" she asked.
       "I just said goodbye to my wife."
       "And now you are alone?"
       "Yes," he said.
       She smiled. He could feel his body start to burn.
       "When will she be back?"
       "She's not coming back."
       "Oh," she said, her face clouding. "So she has left you?"
       "Yes."
       "I'm sorry, Jack."
       He stared at her. Across the street a man with an automatic rifle was standing at a gate talking to a maid. The place was guarded twenty-four hours a day. The guy who lived there was a banker.
       "How did this happen?" she asked.
       "I don't know," he said. "Maybe the Lord Jesus did it, or maybe I did."
       "Why would Christ do such a thing?"
       "He takes away false loves."
       She laughed, "Ah, Jack, you are a crazy man. Why would he do such a thing?"
       "I asked him to."
       She stopped, her face serious. "You asked him to?"
       "Yes."
       "Then what happened?"
       "I saw my heart."
       "What did you see?" It was the sort of thing she loved.
       "I hate God."
       "Yes," she said, leaning toward him. "Yes, you are right. You should hate him. I am happy for you." Then she added, self-consciously, "And your wife, is she your friend?"
       "She was my friend but I made her my enemy."
       "You drove her away?"
       "I told her that we would stay here. She told me that I only wanted to die like Jesus."
       "Was she right?"
       "Yes."
       "You want to die?"
       "Yes."
       "You mean physically die?"
       "I mean end it. Be done with the middle way between love and fear."
       She leaned toward him. "Ah, Jack," she said, "you are wonderful, there is no one like you."
       He could hardly keep from kissing her.
       "What about Kenny Morrison?" he asked.
       "Well," she said, "if you wish to be done with your life, I have something for you."
       He nodded.
       "Become his friend. Find out where he takes his pleasures. Go with him. He goes with Julio Midence, the head of the death squads. We want to kill Midence. For only those who hate," she slid her hand along the bars until it touched his own, "can ever truly love."
       "You want me to take his life into my hands?"
       "Yes."
       He leaned toward her, drinking in her face, the perfect shape of her lips, her slightly bent Mayan nose, her wide eyes, her sweat shining in the sun. Her way was the only way, the other wasn't even there.
       "How can I take a life when I cannot even live my own?" he said.
       She said nothing, only stared into his eyes as if they were suspended in time forever.
       "Jack," she said, "I have no hope now."
       "What?" he said, surprised. He'd thought that he was gone.
       "They have won."
       "Who?"
       "The transnational capitalists."
       Good grief, what was this madness? How can she be thinking that at a time like this?
       "What are you talking about?" he asked.
       "Gorbachev is visiting Washington. They're all capitalists now. They will turn the whole world into a market. You, me, my country, all of us, we're nothing but pawns. The patrón will rule the world."
       "Yes, Sonia," he said, suddenly feeling desperate, "but you are still you. You live, you love, you hate, you are free."
       "No, Jack, I am not free. They've cut off our money. We have nothing. Now they will kill us."
       "Who will kill you?"
       "The security forces. We can't pay bribes any more. We are all dead."
       He was speechless.
       "They want something of me, Jack. They want me to talk to Don Humberto. He's a friend of Midence, to take their names from the death list."
       "Will you do it?"
       "Should I?"
       "You are asking me?"
       "Yes."
       "Don't do it."
       "Why not?"
       "Do something else."
       "What?"
       "Follow the Lord Jesus."
       "Oh, so you are a priest after all. What did he do?"
       "He didn't use sin to hide from God."
       "What sin?"
       "Sleeping with Don Humberto."
       "And that is hiding from God?"
       "Yes."
       "How?"
       "Without Don Humberto you have nothing between you and God's will for your life."
       "Are you any better?"
       "No, but someone must do the truth."
       "And what is truth?"
       "To stop hiding, to stand before God. Leave Humberto. Let God decide what happens to Chasnigua. Let God decide for your friends. Let God decide it all. I'm done with saving myself, done with it, done."
       "Yes," she cried, "but God hates me. I know it. He hates the poor and weak. He only rewards the strong. I see it every day. Everyday he walks the streets of San Pedro. He is happy now. Raw capital will rule the world. But where is your God, Jack, where is he?"
       "My God is the God of love," Jack exclaimed, "he's only known by the pure in heart. That's why I've never seen him."
       "And Chasnigua? Humberto will level it if I leave him. He told me so. He plays with me, Jack, plays with me."
       "Never again, Sonia," he cried. "Never again." The words boiled out like fire. "Let God destroy the world if he wants. But never, never, prostitute yourself again, never."
       "Okay, Jack," she cried, "I will do it." Suddenly she was gone, turning and walking away.
       He stood there, hanging onto the bars, trembling. Relieved that he had passed the test, stunned by what he'd done.
 
Chapter 24--Son Pocos

       "Padre," it was Emma, "they search for you."
       "Momento," he said, crawling out of bed. It was Friday morning, almost noon, the day of the diocesan convention. After the encounter with Sonia he'd done virtually nothing. At one point he'd gone down to the offices of Mudanzas Gamundi, the moving company, to see about getting some of their furniture packed. Most of the time, he lay in his room, trying to find the strength to go on.
       He pulled on his clothes and headed for the gate. It was Martín.
       "Buenos días," said Jack, thankful to see him.
       "Buenos días," said Martín, shaking his hand. He was big, pudgy, young, with blond hair scarcely combed.
       "What's up?" said Jack.
       "We've got a problem. Lala's out in the car and we've got a bunch of starving kids on our hands."
       "What kids?"
       "The ones from Casa Esperanza."
       "What are they doing here?"
       "The bishop sent them here."
       "Here?"
       "Yes, here."
       "What for?"
       "How should I know."
       "Okay, what do you need?"
       "We need your Land Cruiser to go to Muchilena and get some food. The kids don't have any food."
       "Why not?"
       "Because Pearce's maid was supposed to be taking care of them, but she left the day they got here. That was four days ago. They moved in across the street from Lala, that's how I found out about it."
       "There's food in Muchilena?"
       "Julio knows a wholesaler there. We can get it cheap. But his pickup's busted. You've got the only car big enough to haul anything."
       "When does the convention start?"
       "Around two, but we can be a little late."
       "Be right with you."
       A minute later, he was backing the Land Cruiser out of the driveway. Emma closed the gate, and Martín and Lala climbed in.
       "Buenos días, padre," Lala said, and he replied in kind.
       "How did Pearce's maid end up with the kids from Casa Esperanza?" Jack asked in English.
       "She was out of a job. Pearce left because he couldn't take it anymore. He'd been letting the bishop use his house for sex with Juana. But after this thing with Guerrero, he just left. So I guess the bishop gave his maid a job taking care of the kids so she'd keep her mouth shut."
       "Was Guerrero framed?"
       "That's what the kids told me, and that's what they told Lala."
       Jack looked back at Lala. "How are you, Lala?" he asked in Spanish.
       "It's an incredible thing, padre," she replied.
       "What thing?" he asked.
       "The thing the bishop did, padre. It's contrary to the laws of God."
       They got to the circunbulación and turned left toward the road to the coast.
       "They say the devil pays bad," Lala said. "Everyone knows this, but nobody listens. The Lord himself tells us, 'Wide is the gate and broad is the road that leads to destruction, and many there be that find it. But small is the gate and narrow the way that leads to life, and few there be that find it.'"
       "Sí, Lala," Jack replied.
       He liked Lala. He first met her downtown selling fried chicken she cooked over a split 55-gallon oil drum. "Son pocos," "There are few," was her favorite phrase. Every time she saw some outrage--kids sniffing glue, neighborhoods without water, city officials using public equipment for private ends, women selling themselves--she'd say "son pocos," followed by a long discourse on the consequences of sin.
       "Padre, those boys came to my house. They hadn't eaten in three days."
       She paused. He waited. She'd go on about the bishop and the kids, keeping at it until she had it clear in her mind, everything down in black and white. That's how she saw things, black and white. She'd spent time in jail for putting a hex on someone and supposedly killing them.
       "Nobody helped me, padre," she once said. "Only the Lord Jesus. I prayed and prayed. He opened the jail and got me out." After that, everything was dead clear for her.
       "Yes, padre," she went on. "I told those boys it was wrong what they did. They should not sign those papers. They said that man Guerrero did nothing to them. But Felipe told those boys he'd send them back to Nicaragua if they didn't write those papers. So they did it. It was wrong, but they did it. And the bishop? You can't fool the devil. Some day he will die like Guillermo. They say worms entered his brain and every woman he misused came to him at night and tormented him. He screamed for six months before he died."
       No telling who Guillermo was. He wouldn't bother to ask. It reminded him of Iris in Los Planes who got pregnant out of wedlock and gave birth to a stillborn child. Everybody in Los Planes was convinced the baby was born with teeth and that it called to its mother by name from inside the womb.
       "Has the bishop got anything on you?" Jack asked in English, turning toward Martín.
       "Not that I know of, but that doesn't matter. He'll get you if you cross him."
       "Have you crossed him?"
       "Yes."
       "What'd you do?"
       "It's what I didn't do."
       "Like what?"
       "Like not make arrangements for his honeymoon."
       "He's married?"
       "Oh yeah. He and Juana got married three weeks ago, secretly in Nevada. And he's going to get married again. The presiding bishop's going to do it."
       "He'll do it?" Jack asked, stunned by the effrontery of it all.
       "Sure, they're great friends. Robles sent him a primitive, a nice one as a present."
       "Qué feo," said Jack, "what ugliness."
       After they got to Muchilena, things got complicated. They couldn't find the owner of the wholesale company. Then, after they tracked him down, he wouldn't okay a sale at cost until he'd heard from Julio. So they tried to call Julio. It took two hours of relentless dialing to finally get through. As a result, they didn't get back to San Pedro until around seven.
       The convention was in the Sula, upstairs in one of the convention halls. The place was about the size of a basketball court, hardwood floor, nice lighting along its light green walls, and even something like glass chandeliers hanging from the ceiling.
       The room was filled with people, campesinos mostly, along with a few gringos, delegates from the English congregation in Teguc and the one at Buen Pastor. Everyone was lined up in rows on metal folding chairs. The bishop was up in front, standing behind a couple of tables. He had a microphone in his hand. He glanced at them as they entered. José and the others from Chasnigua spotted Jack. They waved a greeting, their light-brown faces smiling to see him. Jack headed in their direction, shaking hands with each of them as he went down the row to sit on the end. Martín disappeared toward the back.
       "What's been happening?" he asked José.
       "Bueno," said José, looking earnest, "the bishop addressed the delegates and we have heard reports."
       Jack nodded, figuring not even José was covert enough to hide his feelings if something outrageous had happened.
       "What are we doing now?"
       "Resolutions," but this time his voice was just a bit off-key.
       "Well," the bishop said, "at this moment, I would like to turn the convention over to the secretary of the convention, Padre Harkens from La Ceiba."
       Harkens got up, the mike held loosely in his hand. He was a big guy, with a heavy head of hair and a sonorous voice. Presumably, he had single-handedly faced down the U.S. army. At least that's what he said. The troops had been using his hometown for R and R, flying in by helicopter from Palmarola. They were getting the street girls pregnant, some as young as twelve and thirteen. So Harkens had gone to US army headquarters and confronted the top brass head-on. He claimed to have told them that he "got very angry" at this sort of thing. After that, the students went around imitating him, repeating the phrase with every little indignity.
       "According to the rules of parliamentary procedure," Harkens intoned, "the chair of the convention cannot offer motions. The bishop would like to offer a motion, and he has asked me to preside."
       "Thank you," said the bishop. "I move we energetically protest the presence of the Contras on Honduran soil and the sending of military aid to the Contras by the government of the United States. Further, a copy of our resolution will be sent to the President of the Republic of Honduras, the Congress of the United States, and the Presiding Bishop of the Episcopal Church in the United States."
       What's going on? Jack wondered. The bishop was anti-Sandinista and pro-Contra all the way. He'd once referred to himself as "a little to the right of Atilla the Hun."
       Jorge from Chasnigua raised his hand, then stood up.
       "Well," he said, "who will tell the Sandinistas that they have to stay in Nicaragua?"
       There was a titter of laughter.
       "A good point," the bishop replied. "As a refugee of Cuba, I appreciate your view. Nevertheless, small countries like Honduras cannot allow themselves to be platforms for the East-West conflict. If we are invaded, I am sure our ally the United States will honor its defense commitments."
       Jorge sat down.
       "Is there any more discussion?" Harkens asked.
       There was a voice from the back. "I have an objection." It was the professor. He was walking up the aisle, his dark face slightly sweaty in the light from the glass chandeliers. Once in front, he stopped.
       "I would like to amend the motion."
       The bishop waited, not looking too happy.
       "My reasons are twofold," the professor said calmly. "First, this church does little to resolve the serious economic and social problems that create the East-West conflict. Secondly, the purpose of sending a copy of the motion to the Presiding Bishop in the United States is to persuade the liberals to send our diocese more money. Therefore, I amend the motion to read that we demand not only the departure of the Contras, but also the departure of the troops of the U.S. army, and that we send this proposal to no one, not to the Congress of the United States, nor to the Presiding Bishop, but only to the president of our own republic. Do I have a second?"
       "I second it," said Jack.
       The bishop stepped forward. "Yes, yes," he cried, "Yes, you say these things." He waved his arms in the air, his face dismayed. "You say these things but you do not understand. We must have the help of our North American friends, yes we must. We are not too proud of this. Without the help of our friends, we have nothing, no church, no missionaries, none of these good things."
       Suddenly he paused, looking around as if for help. "Let us vote, now," he cried, "yes, we must settle this thing with a vote. That is the way of democracy." He looked earnestly at Fr. Harkens.
       "All in favor of the amendment," said Harkens, "signify by saying 'Aye.'"
       "Aye," said Jack. He could hear the professor as well, and from the back, a third, possibly Martín.
       "All those against, 'No'"
       "No," came the voices, muted, uncertain, yet nearly all of them.
       "The motion fails," said Harkens, "and now to the original motion. All in favor say "Aye.'"
       "Aye," they said, again uncertain but stronger.
       "Those opposed 'No.'"
       The bishop turned to look at Jack.
       "No," said Jack, staring right back at him.
       "Bishop," someone said. "I have a motion." It was Rúben.
       "Yes, Rúben."
       "I move a vote of confidence in our bishop and an affirmation of his engagement to one of the finest young women in our diocese."
       "I second it," said Felipe.
       The bishop seemed surprised. "Oh thank you, thank you," he exclaimed, swinging his arms as if shocked. "How can you do this thing for me? Yes, we must do this now, no?"
       "I have a word," the professor said, suddenly standing up.
       "Oh no," the bishop cried, "Oh no, we will not have the word of this man. No, we will not. We break now. Yes, we break. Then we vote."
       In an instant he'd put down the microphone and was walking out, walking right toward Jack, right at him.
       "Come with me," he said, grabbing Jack's arm, "you come with the bishop now."
       He turned, pulling Jack after him into the hallway. There he stopped and turned, his face pale, the light glimmering at the edge of small green eyes.
       "Jack," he cried, "Oh my Jack. I cannot tell you this thing." He was wringing his hands. "Oh I cannot. But you must know, yes you must. The bishop, yes the bishop, he is not a strong man. I do not want to do this thing. I do not. But that woman, he hurt that woman. She tell me, she tell me that I must get rid of that man. 'You or him,' she said. Can you forgive me, can you?" he cried. Suddenly his face contorted, enraged, grabbing Jack by the shirt. "You did this thing to me," he hissed, "you voted against your bishop. You got in the politics with that woman, Sonia. I know you tear up that car that belongs to the government of our country. Yes I know." Suddenly he stopped, practically weeping again. "Jack, you must help your bishop. We cannot humiliate that woman. That man Guerrero humiliated her, he did not give her the communion. But you cannot, Jack, you cannot. She is the one who loves me, Jack. The only one who loves me. You must vote for her and for the holy matrimony. For if you do not," he suddenly changed again, "I will do to you what I did to Guerrero." Suddenly he was gone.
       Jack stood there, stunned, thinking of Deb, her words, "They will break you, Jack." Robles could finish him off in a second. All it took was a phone call to his bishop in Atlanta, telling him something about Sonia, or Alicia, or the distributor cap, or even something worse, that he molested someone, or at least had an affair. He might even call Deb for that matter. Then it would all be over.
       Go vote, that was it, go vote, one way or another. He could see the doorway, the delegates standing around. He walked slowly toward them. They smiled at him as if nothing were wrong. They didn't care because this kind of thing went on all the time. They'd vote for the bishop. So tired, that's what he was, so tired and tired of fighting. Sit down, take the first chair. He sat there, waiting. The bishop was banging on the table, calling in the delegates. They wandered in by twos and threes.
       "There is a motion," the bishop said, calling them. They weren't all in yet.
       "Come in, come in," he called out, waving at them like a mother hen gathering her chicks.
       "You know the motion," he said, his voice calm, confident. Then he smiled, his voice amused. "There are those who wish to speak to this motion. They will say we have not always lived as Christ lived, as if the grace and forgiveness of God mean nothing, as if the bishop should be condemned for being a man."
       He paused, a few of them laughed.
       "So that is what they want. But we do not need to hear these things. We vote now. We need no more discussion. Now we vote."
       Jack leaned forward, feeling giddy, so tired he could hardly think. He felt his head on the cool of the metal chair in front of him, and at his feet, clumps of dirt fallen from the shoes of a campesino.
       "All in favor of Rúben's motion," the bishop said, "say 'Aye.'"
       "Aye," they said.
       "Those against?"
       "No." It was a lone "No," only the professor.
       Slowly Jack got up, walking toward the door and down the hall. In a moment, he was on the street. The sun had just passed beyond the mountain. The evening air was warm. The street was crowded, filled with vendors, the shoppers, the dirt and sweat of San Pedro. He turned right, passing the beggar women, heading for his car. Then he drove home, feeling nothing, but thinking, thinking that Robles would probably call his bishop in Atlanta anyway, just for spite, just for the vote on the Contra thing. Once home, Emma let him in. He went to the bedroom, turned on the AC and lay down on his stomach. He thought of Lala and her words, "son pocos." He was one of the many and not of the few.
Chapter 25--Fiesta Patronal

       By Sunday, Jack was in Chasnigua. He was sitting in the church, leaning forward, his head on the pew in front of him. He thought he'd gotten to the end, and maybe he had. But things just kept happening. After the convention José and the others had come by the house.
       "Buenas, padre," they said, smiling at him. He looked from one to the other, wondering if they would act as if nothing had happened. They did.
       "Padre," José said, "you will be attending the patronal feast tomorrow?"
       "Do you want me to?" he asked.
       "Sí, padre, the people wait for you."
       "Would you like a ride?" he added.
       "If it isn't too much trouble."
       "No, it isn't too much trouble."
       So he went and got his vestments, water, extra pants, toothbrush, the usual things. Then he went over to Sonia's, not caring what the campesinos thought. She wasn't there, so he left a note.
Saturday afternoon, April 12, 1986
      Sonia,
      
       Forgive me, I don't know what I said to you. I am not worthy to be your friend. I did the very thing I told you not to do. Please do nothing foolish. We are leaving for Chasnigua now. Please come see me.
      
      Jack
All the way back the campesinos sang their praise songs, "Alabaré, alabaré, alabaré, alabaré, alabaré a mi señor." "I will praise, I will praise, I will praise my Lord." Eventually, Jack joined in. After a while he got it. They were feeling bad, and singing was all they could do about it.
       Somebody was coming into the church. He could hear the door sliding open and it got a little lighter. Then it closed. The dim returned. Whoever it was had taken a seat at the back. He turned slightly, glancing backward. It was Saúl Lanza, the curandero, the village sorcerer and healer. Except he wasn't a sorcerer anymore, at least that's what José had said.
       "What does he do now?" he'd asked José.
       "He does nothing, padre," José had said. "He just goes in the church and waits."
       "What's he waiting for?"
       "The end of the world."
       "The end of the world?"
       José nodded, Jack waited. "He says the antichrist was born in 1947, the year the Jews returned to Jerusalem. When the antichrist appears he will rule for three-and-one-half years. After that, the end will come."
       "Does anybody believe him?" asked Jack.
       "Sí, padre, there are some. They say he waits in the church for a sign."
       "What do you think?"
       "I don't know. They say when he worked for the lawyers he knew these things." That made no sense. If Saúl were that educated, he wouldn't be living in Chasnigua.
       "What lawyers?"
       "Chief Lempira, Napoleon, the spirits of the dead. He did seances. They gave him messages. But he doesn't do it anymore. He quit."
       "Why'd he quit?"
       "He joined the Pentecostal Church. Then he burned all his books on sorcery. All of us were there. He preached for two hours."
       "What did he say?"
       "He said that we should accept the Lord Jesus and have the demons cast out of us. After that, we would receive the Holy Spirit and speak in tongues."
       "Did you do it?"
       "No."
       "Why not?"
       José shrugged. "I don't know, padre."
       "But he's not a Pentecostal now?"
       "No, padre." José hesitated, then continued. "They say the pastor at the Pentecostal Church was having relations with a thirteen year old girl. Saúl doesn't go there anymore. He doesn't preach anymore either. He just comes here and waits. That's all he does now, padre. He's not a curandero anymore or anything."
       "Help us, Jesus," Jack whispered, thinking they were all nuts.
       For a moment, it got quiet in the church. The wind stopped blowing and he could hear the kids outside. They were trying to climb a greased pole with money wrapped in a rag at the top for a prize. Up ahead on the wall was a life-sized painting of Jesus, and above him a yellow light with radiant beams and a dove descending upon him. Blue and white crepe paper was strung across the ceiling, making a pretty canopy. They had decorated it for Easter and left it up for the fiesta patronal. To the left of the altar was a Sanctus candle along with a tray of little candles. Jack got up and lit three of them. He put three lempiras in the can. Then he knelt down and prayed for the little girl who died, for Chasnigua, and for his family. After that he went back to his seat, glancing back at Saúl who looked like he hadn't moved the entire time. It was spooky, having that guy sitting back there.
       Outside, he could hear people laughing and talking. They were still going strong with the fiesta patronal. They'd had a sack race, a horse race, and then a game in which they killed a chicken. They buried it up to its neck, blindfolded people one by one, and let them wander around trying to chop off its head with a machete. That had been the favorite. The whole crowd got electric every time the chicken nearly got killed, and they laughed when a blindfolded person stepped on its head without knowing it. Blood lust, that's what it was. That night, there would be Rey Feo, the Ugly King. Earlier that day, the kids had cornered him and insisted he be there.
       "What's Rey Feo?" he'd asked.
       "They crown the new king for the year, padre. It's very funny."
       "Well I don't know," Jack said, shaking his head, "I got some pretty important things to do tonight. I can't talk about it right now. It's secret stuff, up on the mountain in the dark."
       He lowered his voice, staring at them solemnly, his eyes wide, as if they were going to see a ghost or something. For a second they got dead serious.
       "You wouldn't believe it even if I told you," he said. Then he laughed, and they knew it was all a joke. After that, he promised he'd go to Rey Feo, and asked them to come get him when it started. Then they all ran off.
       Saúl was getting up. You could hear the bench sliding. The door opened and then closed. He was gone. Jack felt better. He kept thinking he needed to eat. His stomach hurt, but he couldn't tell whether it was hunger or maybe parasites or worms. It was getting darker outside. He probably ought to get out there with his people. He was their pastor. He got up and walked up to the altar. He knelt down, surrounded by the soft light and shadows of the candles.
       "Father," he whispered, "forgive me, take care of my wife, my boys, of everyone." Then he stopped, trying to figure out what to say next. "Redeem these things, let us see your face. Do justice in the diocese. Forgive me for hating you. Do not judge me, this village, all of us, but help us. Help Sonia, and give me another chance." He remembered the professor's words, that he must know Christ or go mad. "Father," he prayed, "let your judgment cease. Let your forgiveness reign. Protect this village, and above all, let the Lord Jesus stand between our sin and your face."
       He heard a noise. The door of the church was gently sliding open. He heard whispering, and feet quietly inching toward him on the floor. It was the kids. He didn't move. He'd pretend he didn't hear them. At the last second, when they were almost upon him, he'd surprise them. He covered his face with his hands. They were coming closer, very close, their feet barely scraping on the concrete. Suddenly, he turned and faced them. His face froze in mock fear, feigned terror. He leaped up, crying out for help, as if they were dreadful monsters or ravenous wolves. He ran left into the aisle. They were screaming behind him, about fifteen of them, trying to run him down. He sprinted toward the back of the church and circled back down the right aisle until they headed him off. He froze. They froze. They had him trapped, surrounded. Suddenly, with a gigantic leap, he vaulted to the top of a bench, leaped over two of them, and landed in the center aisle. He raced toward the front with the horde in hot pursuit. As he passed the front row he gave an impressive flap of his arms, vaulted off a chair, and landed on top of the dresser where they kept the altar hangings. It tottered beneath him. They stopped, shocked, stunned, staring up at him, their faces transfixed. Joy surged through his body, lifting him up as if to fly.
       "Yes," he cried, bouncing, floating, his eyes blazing, flapping his wings, staring down at them, the dresser shaking dangerously. "Yes, tonight, we'll fly, all of us, when the adults aren't looking. We will soar like bats beneath the stars."
       They stared at him, spellbound, their bodies tense with astonishment.
       Suddenly, he gave an impressive flap of his arms. He leaped into the air and landed in their midst. They went nuts, absolutely nuts, flapping their arms, running around the room, climbing on the benches, jumping off, knocking over the Virgin. "I'm flying, I'm flying," they cried. Then, recognizing that someone might get hurt or something destroyed, he managed to head them toward the door and they poured out into the night.
       He crossed the patio as they ran ahead. Suddenly he saw Sonia, standing at the fence. He stopped, shocked, frightened, thrilled.
       "Jack," she said, "I must talk to you."
       "Go on," he said to the kids. "Go on." He turned and stepped with her into darkness.
       "Jack," she said. "It is over now and so I tell you."
       "What?" he asked, knowing the worst had happened.
       "I did as you said." He could scarcely see her in the gloom. "Exactly as you said. I read the gospels. Jesus was a dead man. He had nothing, absolutely nothing. No power, no guns, no money for bribes, nothing. But he lived without fear and so I did it."
       "What did you do?" he asked, stepping back from her.
       "I left Don Humberto," she whispered, "though it tore my heart out."
       "It hurt you?"
       "Yes, it's everything, this village, everything."
       "I should have never told you to leave him."
       "It was right."
       "Yes, but I could not do the same."
       She said nothing, only stared at him.
       "He will destroy the village?" Jack asked.
       "Oh yes, and he will kill me if he ever sees me again."
       "Then why did you do it?"
       "Because," she said, leaning toward him, "I'm like you. I hate God for this wretched world, for not having the courage to come before me to explain these things. But if I insist on his appearing," she spoke slowly, intensely, "then I must be willing to tear away everything between me and his presence."
       "What do you mean?"
       "I mean, if I'm about to fall into a pit, to use your words, then I should throw myself on God rather than prostitute myself. If God is the savior, let him save me. Besides" she added, stopping for a second, trying not to cry, "it kills the tender things of life."
       "What tender things?" he asked.
       "You, me, this village, all of us."
       He was speechless.
       "Do you understand me?" she asked, pulling him toward her.
       "I don't think so," he said, nearly delirious she was so close.
       "Know why we are monsters?"
       "No."
       "We use each other to save ourselves. When I used Don Humberto it killed me, my innocence, everything. And it killed Chasnigua. When I decided to save them, they could never face life."
       "Yes, but you have more nerve than I. There are children here."
       "Yes, and when Jesus was born in Bethlehem, Herod killed every child in the city. But Mary was not to blame."
       It was silent for a moment.
       "Does anyone know that this village is doomed?" Jack asked.
       "I don't think so, they still think they are safe."
       "What will you do now?" he asked.
       "I'm going back to San Pedro. Julio is waiting for me. He will take me back."
       "Are you in danger?"
       "Will you preach tonight?" she replied.
       "Yes."
       "Then tell them the village will be destroyed."
       "Why tell them? They'll do nothing. I've been trying to get them to do something for months. They never will."
       "Tell them anyway. Tell them to face their cross the way Christ faced his."
       "Okay, I'll tell them."
       For a second, they stood frozen. Then they hugged and she was gone in the darkness.
       He turned, heading toward Rey Feo. Up ahead was a stage, empty except for a few chairs and surrounded by palm branches for walls. It was brilliantly lit by light bulbs powered by an electric generator. A crowd had gathered. As he arrived a number of them greeted him. "Buenas noches, padre," they said, shaking his hand as he passed.
       Almost immediately the ugly king appeared, or rather, there were two ugly kings. They came up a path marked by the palm branches stuck in the ground. Each was accompanied by his queen. They marched to a tune on a tape recorder, ascended the stage and sat down in the chairs. The crowd cheered and booed. They were horribly dressed, with heavy boots and ragged royal clothes. One of them wore a crown. The queens were young men wearing tight skirts, heavy work boots, and tight blouses with stuffed breasts. Their faces were heavily made up with lipstick and rouge, and each was adorned with a crude wig. They attempted to appear serious, but could scarcely conceal their glee as the enthusiastic crowd greeted them. Both kings and queens were smoking huge stogies, loosely wrapped cigars that burned rapidly and emitted large clouds of smoke. They passed a bottle back and forth, presumably filled with whisky, or, as it was called, "guaro."
       The king with the crown stood up and attempted to quiet the crowd, but they only cheered the louder.
       "Have respect, have respect," he cried. "We are in the presence of the enchanting and beautiful princess Dorotea de la Venada y Morena, our revered queen. . . ."
       He pulled a ragged and dirty handkerchief out of his pocket and blew his nose violently. The crowd tittered. Then he reached in another pocket and pulled out a pair of spectacles and cleaned them with the dirty handkerchief. Finally, from a third source, he hauled out a piece of paper and he held it up to the light. He cleared his throat, peered over his spectacles in the direction of his queen, and began to read.
       "Esteemed virgin of my youth, mother of my children, inspiration of our village, and worthy recipient of our homage and our love. As my final act before surrendering the crown to my successor, I must dedicate all my accomplishments to your everlasting honor, humbly hoping that my many labors and the labors of your affectionate people will bring you the eternal honor that you so richly merit."
       At this point he paused, while his queen indicated her acceptance of his labors by daintily nodding her head, or rather, manfully squelching a smirk while nodding acceptance. The crowd cheered again.
       "And now," the king continued, "I must give an account of my accomplishments, the state of our realm, conditions in our fair village, and the achievements of our thrifty, industrious, progressive, and honorable people." Again they cheered.
       He read on, his tone mocking, grandiose. "First and foremost we must recognize the progress we have made on all fronts, economic, social, cultural, and spiritual. All of us are aware of these advances and I will mention only the most noteworthy." He paused and then continued. "The outhouse program has progressed rapidly, we are in the latter stages, lacking only the training of someone in the operation of toilet tops. The latrines begun two years ago have been further lengthened as we await the purchase of lime. The road from the village to the main road has been improved, excepting the sections from the main road to the creek, and from the creek to the village. The water project has made us the envy of our neighbors. A channel has been dug from the spring to the cow pond. The latter has been deepened that our cows may bathe, and then a channel was cut from the pond to our village so that both man and beast may enjoy the benefits of this precious resource. Our hospitality is legendary, even our animals are welcomed into our kitchens and our beds. At night the willing women of our village open their homes to any man in need. Nor is our spiritual life lagging behind our other accomplishments. There has been a marked increase in church attendance. Our young men and women, thanks be to God, have discovered that the church is the ideal place to find solitude. Finally, we rejoice at the fertility of our soil, the labor of our men, the strength of our women. Our dedication to work, to production, to the increase of wealth, has only been outstripped by our dedication to the social graces, the women giving themselves up to endless gossip, the men passing their days in boasting, drinking, womanizing, cards, and lying."
       He was coming to the end, the crowd was cheering him on. His voice gained in power. "The parasites have grown apace, the water is still raw, the food grows scarcer, the children get sicker, and the women grow uglier as the men grow stupider. All in all, I must conclude that this year has been one of the best in living memory."
       Jack was swept away. The stage so brilliant with light, the smoke, the noise of the crowd, the smirks of the young men, the mock gravity of the kings burned into his soul. It was wonderful. Even if doomed, they were telling the truth at last.
       "And now my beloved subjects," the king continued, "before I surrender the crown to our new monarch, I must bestow upon one of our citizens the shield and lance of Don Quijote de la Mancha."
       The king stopped. Someone came up onto the stage and handed him a gold-painted wooden lance and a shield made of tin. The king continued in the same grandiose style, but Jack sensed that he was now in earnest.
       "Inspired by the beauty and purity of our patron princess, the ineffable Dorotea de la Venada y Morena, there is one among us who has taken up the standard of Don Quijote de la Mancha." Jack noticed that some of the little children were looking at him. Their faces were intense, secretive, happy.
       "While others see only laziness and indifference, he sees energy and enthusiasm. Rather than ugliness, he sees beauty, rather than squalor, he sees splendor, rather than despair, he sees hope. And although we have failed him, we are compelled," and here the king began to speak slowly and deliberately, "we are compelled to confer upon him the honor of being our own Don Quijote de la Mancha. "
       Again the king paused. He was about to proclaim the final words. The crowd was turning to look at Jack. He suddenly realized that he was the one. He felt his chest constrict. He could hear the final words, stretched out in one long proclamation of triumph and joy, "Our own beloved padre, padre Jack McFarland."
       The crowd went wild, cheering, applauding, their faces filled with joy and light. The kids were jumping around him, grabbing him. He could feel their little hands squeezing his hand. They were pushing from behind, dragging him by his clothes, forcing him forward toward the stage. The crowd parted before him. He looked at them. They were beautiful. The kings stood to welcome him, the queens struggled to maintain their composure. Once on stage the old king grabbed his arm, speaking low into his ear. "You must bow to the queen." He reeked of alcohol and smoke. Jack stumbled over to the queen. She held out her hand. He bowed. The hand was dirty but he kissed it anyhow. The crowd roared. The old king bowed and presented him with the lance and shield. The kids were packed together at the foot of the stage. They were screaming, "Padre, padre, fly, fly, fly." He walked to the front of the stage. He'd pushed Sonia to push them in the pit and they had loved him all along. He held up the lance, the shield. They cheered wildly. Their hero and their traitor all in one. The moment passed. He thanked the old king, bowed to the queens, left the stage and ran into the night.

Chapter 26--The Worship Service

       Five minutes later, Jack was knocking on Alicia's door. Doña Margarita answered.
       "Buenas noches," he said.
       "Buenas noches," she replied, opening the door so he could enter.
       "Is Alicia here?"
       "She's away on an errand, padre."
       "Where did she go?"
       "She went to the house of Don Humberto."
       "Gracias, Doña Margarita," he said, turning away, starting up the path toward Don Humberto's. Then he stopped. He'd never make it. He had no flashlight, and besides, he didn't know the way. He'd only been there once to ask Don Humberto if they could use one of his fields to play soccer. They'd sat in his living room, drinking liqueurs served by one of his wives. That was six months ago.
       "Doña Margarita," he said, turning around. "can you go with me?"
       "Sí, padre," she said, disappearing into the house and returning in a second.
       They started up the path. The church bell was ringing in the distance. Time for the worship service. They saw a light up ahead, bobbing in the distance, coming down the trail. Before he knew it, he glimpsed the willowy form of Alicia.
       "Alicia," he cried.
       "Padre," she said. In a second they were hugging each other.
       "Alicia, I talked to Sonia. She says Don Humberto has betrayed us, that the village is gone."
       "He doesn't call it betrayal, padre."
       "You have seen him?"
       "This afternoon."
       "What happened?"
       "I asked him if he would do to Chasnigua as he had done to me."
       "What did he say?"
       "He was very courteous. He invited me in for a drink."
       "Did you go in?"
       "Sí, padre. I went in and we had a drink. He said the villagers are like pigs. They are only good for slaughter."
       "So I pointed to my face and asked him if I was a pig to deserve this. He said I was different from the others. Then he apologized to me, padre."
       "Yes, but he owes you more than an apology."
       "Yes, that is true," she replied calmly. "He said he told his men not to hurt me, but they did. He said that we should respect each other because we are the strong ones."
       "Did you accept that?"
       "No. I asked him if he was afraid of the judgement of God."
       "What did he say?"
       "He said the only god he knows is the patrón, and that the patrón ridicules those who show weakness."
       "Will he destroy the village?"
       "Sí, padre, this week."
       "I'm going to see him," said Jack. "He shouldn't do this thing."
       "No, padre. It will do no good. He won't listen. Besides, he left this evening for San Pedro."
       They could hear the church bell in the distance, insistent.
       "Will you preach tonight?" she asked.
       "Yes."
       "Good. Tell them that we will have no rest until they tell the truth."
       "And what is the truth?"
       "Tell them to repent. If they repent, they will love each other. Then they will find rest, even if this village is destroyed."
       "Okay, I'll tell them."
       Five minutes later, they were in church and Arturo was announcing the gradual hymn. It was 338 in El Pueblo Canta su Fe, page three on the mimeographed sheets. They began singing, ragged at first, but finally gaining strength.
      
I am thinking of God,
      I am thinking of his love.
      
      They all forget their Lord,
     &#160and little by little they lose the way,
     &#160between anguish and cowardliness,
      they rush onward losing love.
      God speaks to them as a friend,
     &#160but they flee from his voice.
      
      I am thinking of God,
      I am thinking of his love.
      
      I feel anguish when I see
      that after two thousand years
     &#160among so many who are deceived
      so few live by love.
      So many speak of hope
     &#160as they remove themselves from God.
      
      I am thinking of God,
      I am thinking of his love.
      
     &#160Everything would be better
      if my people would simply try
      to walk the way without fleeing

Face to Face

Earl's Testimony

Empire

Face To Face

Introduction to Face to Face

Longing

Personal Context of Face to Face

Review by Betty Bedell

Timothy Sedgwick's Sacramental Ethics

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