Desperation Road(33)

They walked out and across the yard toward the barn. Mitchell’s truck was parked in front of the barn and he walked around and let down the tailgate.

“Couldn’t get this out of here by myself.”

In the truck bed lay a concrete statue of the Virgin Mary with arms open and ready to catch anything that might fall from the sky.

“Jesus,” Russell said.

“It ain’t Jesus. It’s His momma.”

Mitchell grabbed the round bottom of the statue.

“Grab on. And be careful.”

They pulled the end off the tailgate until the Virgin tipped upright and when she did Russell barely ducked in time to dodge her left arm. She was eight feet tall with a sharp, pointed nose and a look of empathy.

“I figured it might make Consuela feel more at home,” Mitchell said as he looked at the Virgin with a sense of pride. “You know how on TV you see those plazas and squares in other countries and there’s always a statue in the middle? I know they got them in Mexico. Clive told me about it the first time he went down there. Said there were plazas with red dirt streets and Virgin Marys all over.”

“Where’d you find this thing?”

“Guy out on the highway with all those concrete angels and dogs. Had it put away for himself but I got it out of him. We were out riding around. Hitting junk stores here and there. She saw it and grinned and nodded and I took that for her wanting it, so here it is.”

“Here it is.”

“Or here she is.”

“Yes. It’s a she.”

“Think I should move it closer to the house?”

The men looked toward the house and Consuela was standing at the edge of the yard watching them. She was wearing one of Liza’s aprons.

Mitchell got a dolly from the barn. Russell got behind the Virgin and wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled back and Mitchell slid the dolly under her. She weighed as much as them together and her weight helped her roll across the slightly downward slope toward the house. Mitchell directed them to stop when they got to the middle of the yard where a blooming vine had run up and around an old metal post that was once the anchor of a clothesline. They wrestled her off the dolly and faced her toward the kitchen window. Mitchell looked at Consuela and she said something that he didn’t understand and then she went back into the kitchen. Russell stepped back from her and admired her strong arms, her caring eyes, her open hands, as if news of the Christ child would flow from her lips any second.

“I ain’t even gonna ask what you paid for her.”

“Good,” Mitchell said. “Let’s go eat.”

Back in the kitchen Mitchell put his hands back into the fish. The deep fryer sat on the porch just outside the kitchen door and he went back and forth from the fryer to the counter. Dropping fish in the fryer. Preparing more. Russell moved along with him, sipping at a beer, getting hungry. Soon there was a plate sitting in the middle of the table stacked high with crisp, golden fillets. While the men went back and forth Consuela had mixed the cabbage and carrots with some mayonnaise and oil and vinegar and pepper and a bowl of coleslaw sat next to the fish. When it was all ready Mitchell told Russell to open the fridge and get beers for everyone. He got the beers and then the ketchup and the hot sauce and then the three of them sat down around the table.

Russell reached for a piece of fish and Consuela folded her hands and bowed her head. Russell stopped and he and Mitchell waited while Consuela said her grace and then there was no more waiting.

Russell wanted to talk about his mother. About her last months and about the funeral but it didn’t seem like the right time. So instead he talked about how hot it was and how good the place looked. When they were done Consuela cleaned up and Mitchell and Russell went outside and smoked cigarettes. When Consuela finished she met the men outside. Father and son sat down in rockers and Consuela stepped out into the yard and began walking toward the statue. She stopped in front and paused. Gazed at the concrete face. Then she began walking around again with her eyes toward the ground as if she were looking for something.

“What’s she doing?” Russell asked.

“Walking around. Does it every night. Sometimes you can hear her singing to herself. Pretty songs. Sad sounding songs. Reminds me of your momma humming to herself when she was in the kitchen or working around in her flowers.”

The twilight surrounded them now. The first crickets chirped. An evening breeze. They watched Consuela. Her arms behind her back like a schoolchild in line. And then she started to sing and her voice blended with the coming night.

“Still think it’d be best if you stayed out here with us,” Mitchell said.

“Still think it’s best I don’t,” Russell said and he thought of Larry and Walt being there. Promising to come back. He knew they’d follow him wherever he went.

“What’d you do with the gun?”

“Sold it at the pawn shop.”

“Damn you, Russell.”

“Got thirty bucks.”

“Thirty bucks?”

“I’m kidding, old man.”

Consuela reached the pond and began making her way around it and she was only a silhouette in whatever light was left.

“How long does she do this for?” Russell asked.

“Don’t know. Sometimes I’m back inside before she’s done.”