No Witness But the Moon(87)

A late-day Spanish Mass was just ending and parishioners were streaming out of the church. Father Delgado had a long line of people waiting to speak to him after the service. Vega sat in a rear pew and watched them, wishing he could feel what they felt in this place, wishing it could give him the solace it seemed to give them. He took out his cell phone and scrolled to that picture of the two brothers and Ponce’s son at that fruit stand. He touched a finger to the soft, shy face of the man once known as Edgar and now, as Antonio. He’d looked at this picture so often, he felt like he knew them all.

“Perhaps if you offer a prayer,” said a voice behind him in Spanish. “A prayer always helps.”

Vega lifted his gaze. Standing over him was the grizzled, leathery face of the old janitor he’d seen sweeping the pews here the other day. The man was dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks today. His gray hair was freshly washed and still sported wet grooves from where a comb had raked through it.

“Father Delgado told me you were Hector’s friend,” Vega said to the old man in Spanish.

“Yes.”

Vega slipped his phone into his pocket. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” The man nodded to the pew. “May I?”

“Of course.” Vega scooted over.

The man bent with effort and crossed himself. He sat next to Vega and pulled down the kneeling bench. “Are you a Catholic?” he asked.

“A long time ago,” Vega admitted.

“But you know the prayers, yes?”

“I know the usual stuff: Ave Marias, the Lord’s Prayer.”

“I think an Ave Maria would be nice.” The man knelt on the bench. His shiny black patent leather shoes squeaked. Vega sensed he wore them rarely and had never broken them in. Vega felt awkward following the old janitor’s lead and just as awkward not to. So he lowered himself beside the man, clasped his hands together, and followed along in whispered prayer the Spanish words he’d known so well as a child. His voice caught on the familiar line: Ruega por nosotros pecadores—Pray for us sinners. He needed those prayers himself now.

Vega and the janitor sat on the bench after that in a moment of silent communion. All around them people poured out of the church. A few old ladies in black stayed up front, mumbling prayers to their rosary beads, their silhouettes framed by the light of rows of flickering candles beneath jewel-colored glass.

“I don’t even know your name,” Vega apologized.

“Humberto Oliva,” said the man. He extended a large hand. Vega shook it. His palms felt like old burlap but his grip was firm. “I know yours, of course.”

They sat in silence while parishioners drifted past. Vega kept his eyes on Father Delgado up front. He was anxious to talk to him. “Does the Father have any Masses after this?”

“No. Usually after this he makes the rounds of some of the faithful who cannot get to church.”

“If you’ll please excuse me then, I need to ask him something.” Vega started to rise.

“About Hector’s brother, yes?”

Vega sank back down onto the hard wooden bench. “So you know?”

“That he is dead? Yes. I spoke to Alma this morning.”

“Did Hector ever mention him to you?”

“He didn’t know Edgar had survived until about a month ago. That’s when he told me. We were both so happy.”

“Why both of you?”

Oliva stared at his squeaky shoes. “That picture. On your phone? It’s the one I saw on the news, yes?”

Vega pulled his phone out of his pocket again and brought up the picture of the two brothers and Hector’s son on the screen. “This one, you mean?”

“It was taken in Guatemala,” said Oliva. “Near the border to Honduras. In a place called El Floridio.”

“Hector told you that?”

“No.” Oliva pointed a thick stubby finger to his white shirt. “I took that picture. I was with them on that journey. That is how I know Edgar.”

Vega felt as if someone had wrung all the air out of him. “You crossed the desert with them?”

Oliva’s dark eyes held Vega’s. “Yes.” Then he faced forward and laced his thick-knuckled hands on the pew in front of him. His voice took on a soft trancelike quality. The noise and people in the cavernous interior fell away and Vega found himself transfixed by the man’s words.

“I met the two brothers and Hector’s son on the journey from Honduras. By the time we reached northern Mexico, some of the Hondurans in our group had gotten sick or hurt or caught by the Mexican police and deported back. There were only twelve of us left,” Oliva said slowly. “Nine men. Three teenage boys. Near the border, we were handed off to a coyote who was supposed to guide us across the desert and into the United States. He was no older than the boys.”

Oliva’s voice was measured and even, almost devoid of emotion. He barely moved when he spoke, except to lick his chapped lips. “We each carried three plastic gallon jugs of water and some tins of sardines. The water was heavy and hard to carry but it was enough to last us for three days.” Oliva held up three cracked and callused fingers. “That’s what we were told the journey from Mexico to Arizona would take.” He said the last words like a small child who still believed that saying something would make it true.