Ask for Me Tomorrow

The doorway was so low that Aragon had to stoop to enter. The man noticed his hesitation.

“Have no fear for your safety, friend. These walls will last beyond my time and yours. Adobe is a very fine building material in a climate like this. It is strong. And more, it is friendly, absorbing heat during the day and giving it back during the night.”

The room was only a little larger than the cabin Aragon had occupied the previous night at Viñadaco, but it was cool and comfortable, furnished with a cot, a table and chairs and an adobe bench in front of the altar. Dwarfing the room and its contents was a life-sized and extremely ugly statue of the Virgin Mary. It was all grey like an angel of death.

The padre looked up at her with affection. “I made her myself. The original statue fell and broke during an earthquake, so I spent some years, ten, perhaps twelve or thirteen — tempus fugit — fashioning a replacement. It is the only gift I will leave behind for the villagers when I die.”

“It’s very impressive.”

“Yes. Yes, I think so. Inside, to hold her together, I piled stones which the children helped me collect. And the sculpting material is what we use to make our cooking stoves, water poured over hot ashes and mixed into a paste. Each day, every time I had a fire, I added a little, and there she is.” He crossed himself. “Now I don’t have to worry so much that the villagers will lose touch with God after I’m gone. They will have the Blessed Virgin to remind them... I was about to eat my midday meal. Will you be my guest?”

“Thanks.”

“Simple fare, a bit of mullet I cooked this morning and some pitahaya. The Americans in La Paz used to call it organ-pipe cactus, so it seems most fitting to serve it in my little church, doesn’t it?”

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name. My memory has dulled with age.”

“Tomas Aragon.”

“Would it be suitable if I called you Tomas?”

“I’d be pleased.”

The two men sat down facing each other across the wooden table. The padre blessed the piece of mullet on the battered tin plate and waved away the flies buzzing around it. Though the fish had a slight greenish iridescence, it tasted all right, and the pitahaya was similar to what he’d been served at the café in Viñadaco, only sweeter and juicier. After the meal Aragon went out to the car and brought in several bottles of beer.

“My saints and sinners,” the padre said. “This is a great surprise.”

“It’s very warm, if you don’t mind...”

“Oh, no no no. I like it any way at all. Tecate. I haven’t tasted that for a long time. This is an occasion, Tomas, yes, a celebration. We ought to make a toast. What do you suggest?”

“To your health, padre.”

“To your safe journey, Tomas.”

“To your village and the future of its children.”

“That’s the best toast. To their future.”

The two men drank. The beer was the temperature of restaurant tea.

“One of the girls has her future planned,” Aragon said. “She will marry her cousin Raul and live in a real house.”

“That would be Valeria. Always planning, already like a woman.”

“I haven’t seen any real houses in Bahía de Ballenas. Perhaps she is dreaming.”

“Perhaps. Now if you will excuse me for a few minutes, I’ll go and bury the remains of our meal.”

“Let me help.”

“No. No, it won’t take long. Sit and contemplate the Blessed Virgin.”

It would have been difficult in that small room to contemplate anything else, so Aragon did as he was told. In spite of the strong beer, the statue of the Virgin remained ugly. There was a frightening determination about her face that reminded him of Violet Smith. It was now Sunday afternoon. In a few hours Violet Smith would be setting out for church to sing hymns — sharing her hymn book with B. J.’s first wife, Ethel — and stand up afterward in front of the assemblage to voice her problems and concerns. Perhaps she would tell about the young man who was hired by B. J.’s second wife to go on a confidential mission, giving names and places and dates and whatever other details she might have wormed out of Gilly or Reed, or overheard on an extension phone or through a thin closed door.

When the padre returned, his breath was wheezing in and out of his lungs like the air through an old leaky accordion.

Aragon said, “Do you teach the children?”

“Whatever and whenever possible.”

“I noticed one of the boys has a deformed leg and acts retarded.”

“A child of God.”

“His skin seems somewhat lighter than that of the others. His parents—”

“He is an orphan.”

“Where does he live?”

“In Mexico all people love children. Pablo can live anywhere.”

“But where does he live?”

“It would break hearts if he were ever taken away. If you have any such thought, any reason—”

“No. None.”

“He is much beloved, a child marked by God.” The padre crossed himself, then frowned briefly through the open door at the sky as if for a fraction of a second he was questioning God’s common sense. “He lives with his grandparents and aunts and uncles and cousins. A happy family. It would be a pity to disturb their tranquility.”

“Where are his parents?”