Page 56 of In a Far-Off Land
“Meet me at the diner tomorrow at noon” was all Brody said before the line went dead.
He hung up the telephone, his gut twisting with worry. He needed something—anything—to tell the detective that didn’t put his own people at risk.
Then, when Oscar got home for dinner, he found Mamá was like a volcano ready to blow. Did she think he wanted to bring thisamericanainto their home? For all the love in heaven, he had no choice. What was he to do, throw her out in the dark? He spent the evening seething while Angel took care of the girl like a stray kitten and Roman watched her like a hungry coyote. Was it any wonder he hadn’t been able to sleep when the rest of the family went to bed?
Now, sun spilled through the stained-glass windows of Our Lady the Queen of the Angels. The statues glowed in buttery yellow, pink, and blue. The altar, draped in white lace, gleamed with gold paint and brass candlesticks. Oscar’s head ached as much as his knees. He had an unwanted woman upstairs in his house, an irate mother, and only a few hours before he had to meet Brody at the Hard Times. A few hours to decide what to tell him about Max and the drink, and what not to tell about harboring the prime suspect. But first, he had to confess the sin he’d committed last night, after everyone else was asleep in their beds.
The priest coughed gently. “Go on, Oscar.”
Oscar swallowed. What was the point of the screen if the priest knew who you were every time? Before he confessed, he had a question. “Padre, isn’t our God a God of justice?”
“Why do you ask, Oscar?”
“I see people who do wrong get rich and good people starve. How can God allow it? It is not justice. It is unfair.”
“Is this about Max?”
Every week for three years, Padre Ramirez had asked him to forgive Max. Every week he failed.
“You have much that Max does not,” Padre went on gently.
“Like what?” His voice rose in disbelief, but he didn’t worry. Francesca and Mamá had confessed before him, and now they prayed the rosary together with the other old women. They would hear nothing from the confessional over their murmuring.
“You have your faith. Your family and our people. He is alone.”
That might be, but wasn’t it through his own fault that he had lost these things? “Sometimes I hate him,” he confessed and not for the first time.
The priest was quiet for a moment. The old women started on the second decade of their rosary. Finally, he sighed. “I will tell you a secret, my son, that I promised I would not. But you need to hear it because perhaps it will help you forgive.”
Oscar was sure he wasn’t going to like what the priest had to say. He didn’t want to forgive Max. Ever.
“You remember when Roman was ill, when he needed the medicine that you could not afford?”
“Yes.” What did this have to do with Max?
“And those months when you didn’t have enough to pay the rent?”
“How could I forget? Themutualistagave us—”
“Not themutualista.” Padre let that sit in the silence of the confessional. “And I didn’t get you and the Garcias the jobs at Roy Lester’s estate.”
Oscar went cold. “Why didn’t you tell me?” But he knew why. If he’d known any of it came from Max, he wouldn’t have accepted it. “He can’t buy my forgiveness, Padre. He has to deserve it.”
He could see the priest shake his head behind the screen. “Forgiveness isn’t deserved, my son. You should know that.” He raised his hand for the words of absolution.
Oscar’s words came out in a rush. “There’s something else.”
Last night, his mind had been jumping like he’d had too much of Mamá’s strong coffee. After he sent Minerva Sinclaire upstairs and the boys had settled, Mamá started on her prayers, and he slipped out the back door. He lit one of his stash of cigarettes and stood under the shadow of the old oak, trying not to think about the girl putting his family in danger, about Max... about Maria Carmen.
That’s when Lupita had come outside. She was wearing a white nightdress that glowed in the moonlight, a wool shawl wrapped around her shoulders. She’d taken to coming out at night to exchange a word or two as he smoked. She was a sweet girl, but he didn’t encourage her. She stood before him, her delicate feet bare, her hair gleaming blue-black in the moonlight. He felt a rush of something—gratitude, maybe, or relief that there were still innocent girls like Lupita in this world of Minerva Sinclaires.
Lupita was obedient and dutiful. Nothing like her sister. Maria Carmen had been everything Mexican fathers feared: headstrong, outspoken, wild. She lived her life like there was no tomorrow. Until there wasn’t a tomorrow for her. Thanks to Max.
Maybe it was the thought of Maria Carmen. Maybe he was just crazy, but before Lupita even spoke, he’d reached out to her, pulling the ends of her shawl toward him. Then he kissed her. She didn’t resist. His hands dropped to her waist and he pulled her closer. Her hair smelled of lye soap and lavender and stirred memories of other nights under this same tree. He closed his eyes and felt Maria Carmen’s soft lips, her body pressed against his.
“My son?” Padre Ramirez asked.
Oscar looked down at his hands, gripping his rosary hard enough to leave indents of the beads on his fingers. “I kissed Lupita last night.”
