Page 7 of At Midnight Comes the Cry
“Does it get any easier?”
“It does, yes. It’s also been an unexpected way to deepen my faith. To better see the face of Christ in others, no matter what they’ve done.” He reached out and squeezed her hand inside its illicit mitten. “I pray it does that for you as well.”
“Father! We caught you!” The accented voice caused her to drop her colleague’s hand. A short, dark man in a heavy barn coat crossed the parking lot, a toddler perched on his hip. A visibly pregnant blonde was at his side. “We wanted to make a donation.” The man noticed Clare and smiled broadly.“La Reverenda!”
“Amado! Isabel!” Clare and Fr. St. Laurent had married Amado Esfuntes and Isabel Christie two—no, three—years ago. “Is this Octavia? She’s so big.”
“I’m two.” The girl held up two fingers, just to make it clear. “I’m going to be a big sister.”
Clare laughed. “I can see that. Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” The girl’s grave demeanor and dark coat made her look like the world’s tiniest Supreme Court judge.
Her father slid her off his hip and handed her an envelope. “Do you want to give the gift to Father?”
“Yes, please.”
St. Laurent squatted down.“Mil gracias, Octavia.”
“El placer es mío, Padre.”
Clare raised her eyebrows. “Polite in two languages. I’m impressed. My son is still at the babbling stage.”
“She was late at first, but then her talking really took off after her second birthday,” Isabel said. “Our pediatrician thinks it’s because we’re raising her with both Spanish and English.”
“Or it might be because she’s a genius!” Amado held his arms out and Octavia let herself be hoisted back into the seat of honor.
“Amado.” St. Laurent looked up from the envelope. “This is too much.”
Amado shook his head. “What we have to share, we share. The farm has run a good profit this year, thanks to God—”
“Thanks to hard work,” Isabel amended.
“—and I know this helps those who need help. Including other immigrants.”
“Although Amado’s not an immigrant anymore. He’s an American citizen.”
The smile Amado gave his wife was slanted. “In some people’s eyes, I will never not be an immigrant.”
Isabel sniffed. “Well, those people are assholes. Sorry, Father. Reverend.”
St. Laurent coughed to cover a laugh. “Thank you, my friends. We’ll put your offering to good use.Que tengas una feliz Navidad.”
“Merry Christmas!” Clare added. As the family left, St. Laurent showed her the check they had left. She whistled. “That will help pay a lot of heating bills.”
“That’s what I was thinking.” He tucked the envelope in his coat pocket.
“How areyoudoing? With the immigrant outreach?” St. Laurent’s church had a strong connection to the mostly Catholic migrant community in the area.
He seesawed his hand. “Attendance at the Spanish-language masses has been down. I try to find out who needs help and meet them where I can, but there are a lot of people going to ground.”
“Because of Immigration and Customs Enforcement?” The agency had been active in their area in the past, with chilling effects on the community.
“ICE has switched most of its attentions toward the southern border now. It’s more the homegrown, do-it-yourself anti-immigration types that are making life hard for the population. There has been graffiti at some farms, signs on people’s land, a couple threats… nothing large or overt, you understand—”
“But enough to send the message that you’re not wanted here.” Clare shook her head. “I guess that doesn’t surprise me, after the Greenwich Tractor Parade.” She described the float, the horrifying handouts, the combativeness of the men on the tractor.
St. Laurent sighed. “It’s been here before. My grandfather’s brother came down from Quebec to work in the mills; he sent home stories of marches through thequartier français. Men with torches, throwing rocks.”
