by K M Stross
The small, dark-skinned man standing outside of the rain-stained wooden overhang of the barn watched Cross approach, uncaring of the bag of feed at his feet or the three angry brown steers poking their heads through the feeding holes and snorting at the empty wooden trough.
“Hola,” he said, loosening slightly when he saw the white collar. He tugged on his white shirt a few times to let fresh air inside. “I do not suppose you speak Spanish.”
Cross smiled and shook his head. “No, I’m sorry. I’m not from around here.”
The man pointed to Cross’s collar. “I have not seen a Padre around here in quite some time.”
“I’m as surprised as you,” Cross said. “St. Joseph’s is closed, it seems.”
“People go to Bisbec for services,” the man said. “My name is Edgar.”
“Father Cross.”
Edgar took his hand and gave it a hard, calloused shake. He was in his forties, with hard brown skin and thick black eyebrows that sank over his eyes and sweaty thin hair matted to his head. “What brings you here, Father? Please forgive my English. Is no good.”
Cross stepped into the shade of the aluminum overhang. “I’m here to investigate Father Aaron Abaddon.”
Edgar smiled. “More questions? So many people come here with questions.”
“Final questions,” Cross said, smiling. “The canonization is a process, you know.”
Edgar nodded, leaning over to pick up the large bag of feed. He poured the corn pellets into the trough, clicking his tongue against his cheek to get the interest of the steers again. “I am not sure why you are interested in cattle, then.”
“I’m not,” Cross confessed. “I’m interested in the Mexicans working here.”
Edgar raised a cautious eyebrow. “They are all legal if that’s what you are worried about.”
“Why would I be worried about that?” Cross asked.
Edgar shrugged. “White men seem to worry about it. Especially the ones who sit on the border in their trucks. They hassle my people sometimes.”
“I’m not with them,” Cross said.
Edgar reached into his pocket for a cigarette. He cupped his hands to his mouth to light it, and Cross couldn’t help but notice they were shaking slightly. “I cannot be too sure with the gringos around here.” He glanced up. “Sorry, Father.”
Cross waved it away. “I’ve been called worse.” Gringo was a new one, though, he had to admit. “All I’m curious about is whether any of your workers ever met Father Aaron Abaddon while he was here.”
Edgar took a deep drag, thinking. “I am not too sure. Workers around here come and go, you know? No one stays here too long. They come from the border for work, and when they can afford it, they head to California or Texas.”
“Away from the vigilantes,” Cross finished.
Edgar nodded. He was pudgy, with long black sideburns and thin brown lips. A line of sweat had begun traveling from the tip of his hairline down his small forehead, over three pronounced wrinkles, coming to rest on his left eyebrow. “The people in the hills, that’s what the new migrants call them.”
“It makes them sound supernatural,” Cross said.
Edgar nodded absently. “You know, the last priest who came here, he didn't want to do anything with any of us ranchers. He did not stray far from the town.”
“I’m not surprised,” Cross muttered. He’d read enough about beatifications and canonizations to get a good idea of how the process worked. And he’d met enough priests to know how they worked too.
“Que?”
Cross leaned hard on the fencepost next to the overhang, exposing his arm to the hot sunlight. “Have you ever heard of a man named Cantrell?”
Edgar tossed his cigarette on the dirt and took a step closer. “I do not want any trouble, father.”
“I’m not trying to cause any,” Cross said.
“These are good people,” Edgar said, pointing in the direction of the field. “They’re just looking for a life here. Is that so wrong?”
Cross nodded, leaning back hard against the fence to keep some distance between them and exposing his face to the hot sunlight. “They’re illegals, then.”
Edgar looked at him, taking a deep breath. “Most.”
“They don’t stick around for long if they’re here illegally,” Cross said, more to himself.
He licked his lips. “They weren’t here to meet Father Aaron.”
“No,” Edgar said. “They’re all here because of Father Aaron.”
Cross pulled his gaze away from the brown soil to look at Edgar. “What do you mean?”
Edgar waved his arms around. “Three years ago, this ranch was me and my son, and that was it. We did not have enough hired help to raise any extra cattle. But then Father Abaddon arrived. He performs miracles on Mexican immigrants, and then he disappears. After the Catholic Church began investigating the miracles, word spread. Catholic Mexicans come here for work, and they stay here to be in the presence of a saint. They risk their lives to come here because they believe in Father Aaron’s connection to the Holy Spirit. They believe Father Aaron will protect them from the people in the hills until they are rich enough to make a life somewhere else.”
“You mean they believe Father Aaron is a saint already?” Cross asked.
“The Mexican culture,” Edgar said, “it has deep roots in Catholicism.” He picked up the empty bag of feed, folding it and then folding it again. “A saint who helped Mexican immigrants means a lot.”
“But he’s not even canonized yet,” Cross said.
Edgar grunted, wiping sweat off his forehead. “There is a runoff ditch being dug on the western bank. When the rain season comes, the water will run back here to the ranch, and we will have enough for even more cattle. Would you like to see it, father?”
“I would be honored,” Cross said.
Edgar led him through the barracks where cattle sat lazily in the shade of the old farmhouse, ignoring the new visitors. Out in the sun again, Edgar put on a pair of sunglasses from his shirt pocket, and they walked across the grassy field toward the western end of the large ranch. The other steers kept their distance to the north end, grazing on the patches of grass—much greener than the land outside the fences—and staring vacantly into the empty plain. They were four workers standing near the edge of the fencing, taking turns digging a ditch into the hard crust of earth that would lead back to the barracks.
“They are only a handful of workers I have here,” Edgar said. “They work for cheap, but they work hard.”
“How do they avoid the border patrols?” Cross asked.
Edgar stopped at one of the large piles of dung in their path, bending down with a groan and examining the contents for a moment with his bare hands before wiping them together with a nod of satisfaction. “Sheriff Taylor keeps the vigilantes in line, for the most part. Sometimes when the townsfolk complain too much, I lose workers in the middle of the night, but they can be replaced. I understand the pressure the sheriff is under.”
“What pressure would that be?” Cross asked.
Edgar shrugged, wrinkling his nose and inhaling the dry air. “Those men who camp in the hills, they used to work on the ranches. They are pissed, and the sheriff understands that. But half the town likes the way things are, and so he must balance these things because there is no one else to do it. I do not envy him.”
“What about the locals?” Cross asked. “What do their children do?”
Edgar smiled and glanced at Cross over his small frames. “Digging ditches is too much work for the gringo children. At least for the pay I can offer.”
Cross returned the man’s stare; the tunneling vision in his left eye was centered on the designer label etched in gold letters on the bridge of the sunglasses.
“Come,” Edgar said, breathing deeply again through his nose. Cross tried his best to do the opposite, uninterested in taking in the unique bouquet of shit and hay enveloping the entire ranch.
They stoppe
d in front of the ditch. There were three male workers and one female. The largest male worker, fat with long black hair and a faded brown shirt, was hacking away at the dry ground with his spade shovel while the others stood and watched. Everyone had a bottle of half-finished water hanging from their jeans, tied to one belt loop with a piece of red string. Their white shirts were drenched in sweat, the darkened water trail running down their backs.
The other two men glanced at their new visitors first, giving a smile to Edgar and a nod of approval to Cross. The woman ignored Edgar completely, staring at Cross’s white collar.
“This is Father Cross,” Edgar said, gesturing with his head. “Father Cross is writing a book.”
The woman extended a hand. “My name is Maria. I am happy to see a Padre in town.”
Cross took her rough hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. He tried to look into her eyes, tried to hide the sexual attraction he was feeling. She was pretty. Short stature, short hair. Bright eyes and high cheekbones. ”Act like a priest,” he told his body. “Nice to meet you.”
“Father Cross is looking for people who met Father Abaddon,” Edgar said. At the mention of the priest’s name, the two idle male workers made the sign of the cross. “I told him I was not sure if anyone here had been around that long. I cannot remember anymore.”
“No one has been here that long,” Maria said. “You are getting senile, old man.”
Edgar looked at Cross. “There. You see? Another good part about so many workers crossing the border is I can fire the ones who talk back.”
Maria turned her attention back to the ditch, hacking at the dirt with her spade. “You would not fire me even if I killed your livestock, old man. You enjoy the damn view.”
Cross raised an eyebrow, glancing at Edgar.
Maria tossed a shovelful of dirt on Edgar’s brown boots. She turned back to Cross and smiled. Her teeth were straight, tinted yellow; her lips looked smooth and glossy, undamaged by the afternoon sun. “Please excuse my language, Father.”
Edgar laughed. “You caught her on a good day, Father. Usually, she curses much more.”
Maria ignored him. “I live above the café on the east side of town with my family, Father. If you need anything, please stop by and we will try to help you in any way we can. Don’t count on this man to share any of his wealth.”
Edgar smiled at Cross. “How’s that for hospitality? What more could you want out here in the middle of nowhere? It is a shame you have taken a vow of celibacy.”
“Ignore him,” Maria said with an icy glare toward the rancher.
Edgar laughed again and slapped Cross on the back. “Come, I will take you back to the barracks and get you some fresh water before you pass out. I am not interested in burying a priest on my land.”
Cross nodded to Maria. “Thank you. I’ll be sure to take you up on the offer of hospitality before I leave town.”
When they were out of distance of the workers, Edgar took off his sunglasses and glanced back over his shoulder. “Opportunities like the hospitality of Maria do not often appear in small towns like this. Believe me, I know.”
“My life is forfeit.”
“Oh, of course. But I can imagine how difficult it is. I’ve taken a forced vow of celibacy for months now. Months! When I was younger, it was weeks. And you know the worst part? Every day that passes, I miss it less and less.”
Cross forced a smile. “I’m sure you’ll find love eventually.”
“Oh of course,” Edgar said. “I meant no disrespect to you or your mission. Is that the right word? I do not know a good word to describe it.”
“Mission works fine,” Cross said.
Edgar shook his head. “But Maria … oh, to be ten years younger. A landowner is a privilege few Mexicans enjoy in this town. Only Jesus Ramon and myself, I think.”
They stopped in front of the well behind the barracks. Edgar grabbed the bottle of water hanging from his belt loop and placed it under the metal spigot. He pumped the red handle a few times, and clear water began to flow out.
“Tell me,” Cross said. “Have you ever come across a man by the name of Gabriel Morrissey around here?”
Edgar screwed the cap on the bottle and held it for a moment, thinking. “Should I?”
“No,” Cross said, taking the bottle. “Thank you.”
“If he is a Mexican, he has probably moved on,” Edgar said. “If he went out at night, then those bastards in the hills probably sent him back to Mexico.”
“Not Mexican,” Cross said. “Just … an old acquaintance I wanted to look up. I thought he might still be in the area.”
“Who was he?” Edgar asked. “Perhaps I can suggest someone who might have known him. I know a lot of people in town now. Some of them don’t like my skin, but they like my money at least.”
“He was just a man,” Cross said. “Someone who might have been passing through a while back and stuck around. He liked quiet, little towns like this.”
Edgar nodded and grabbed another cigarette from the pack in his pocket. “I cannot help you there. But feel free to come back if you have other questions.”
“I appreciate the courtesy,” Cross said. “Thank you for all of your help.”
“And take Maria up on her offer!” Edgar called out after him.
Cross walked back into town with the water bottle gripped tightly in one sweaty hand. The sun had long ago dipped behind a cropping of slow-moving clouds, preventing his black shirt from overheating to an unbearable temperature. He sipped at the bottle of mineral-rich water, wondering what the men who had attacked him last night would think if they knew he was sharing a bottle of water from a Mexican.
“A legal, though,” he said out loud. It didn’t matter—pondering the delicate politics of the U.S.-Mexico border wasn’t his purpose in Purgatory.
He walked up Main Street and turned west on Abaddon Drive, keeping his good eye out for the bar Sheriff Taylor had mentioned. There were three on the row of buildings along the street, tucked between a small video store featuring VHS tape and a shop called “Ma’s Presents.” The red apostrophe was missing or had faded away long ago. Cross stopped to glance in the window, but there were no lights on inside and no sun shining in to reveal anything other than the wooden rocking chairs on display in the front.
The sign hanging in the window read “Hand-Made Gifts” in English. Below it, in Spanish, there was much more writing. The curious detail caught Cross attention, forcing him to backtrack to the video store. It too was closed, with new hours outlined on the official sign. Then, below it on loose-leaf paper, written in large black letters: “Attencion.” Below that: more writing, in Spanish, a much more detailed explanation of the store’s new hours. Cross stared at the alien language a moment longer, scanning all of the writing for any English-sounding words, but none of them were decipherable.
He walked into the only bar with its neon signs lit, hoping there would be a cocktail napkin or pack of matches to identify the name. Inside it smelled like cigars and the three lights hanging from wide overhead fans were dimmed, forcing Cross to close his left eye and focus only with the right while he navigated his way around the large empty tables to the bar. Three men were sitting at one of the circular tables. Large white men with dark whiskers covering fat or nonexistent chins, enjoying the flat-screen television hanging over the bar rather than each other’s company.
Cross stepped up to the bar and followed the gaze of the men up to the TV hanging over the rows of dark-colored liquor bottles. On it, an Arizona Diamondbacks pitcher threw a strike down the middle of the plate while the batter in blue watched it sail past, feigning a bunt.
The bartender noticed him after a moment and set down the glasses he was washing to walk over. He immediately noticed the white collar, frowning and clearing his throat.
“What can I get you, father?” he asked.
Cross glanced in the direction of the tap beers. “What do you have on tap?”
“The usual,” he sai
d. “Nothing extraordinary. Or I have orange juice and iced tea.”
Cross reached into his pocket, feeling around for paper money, and pulled out a wrinkled bill that looked like a five. “Just a bottle of Miller, please.”
The bartender reached into the wood-paneled refrigerator under the booze shelf for a bottle and opened it, filling the golden lager into a frosty glass. Cross set the bill on the table, keeping two fingers on Lincoln’s head so the bartender couldn’t make a quick getaway. “Does a man by the name of Cantrell ever frequent this place?”
The bartender frowned and pointed over Cross’s shoulder to the solitary man sitting at one of the booths near the window. He was wearing an old black cowboy hat tipped downward to hide his face, his back leaning hard against the solid wooden booth and his arms crossed as if warding away the half-finished glass of beer on the table. He looked asleep.
“Thanks,” Cross said.
“No problem,” the bartender said, handing back a stack of bills. “I don’t normally break fifties, by the way.”
“Oh.” Cross took the money, reaching into his pocket and pulling out another bill. He held it close to make sure it had Lincoln’s face, then set it down on the counter. “Thank you. I apologize.”
He took his glass and walked over to Cantrell, who didn’t look up until Cross coughed loudly twice. His face was thin, just like his body, with worn features and wrinkles around each eye that ran in trenches to ward off the free-flowing sideburns. His brown hair poked out of the hat, running down behind his ears in greasy clumps. He looked forty or so, aged a little faster with the help of a couple decades of alcohol and sun.
“Anything I can do for you, stranger.” His voice sounded like his throat had been stuffed with sharp rocks, each word raking up a little phlegm that pulsated against his voice box.
“That depends,” Cross said. “Are you David Cantrell?”
Cantrell smiled and lowered his head. “No one’s called me David for a long time, Father. Certainly not anyone with a direct line to God.”
“I could take off the collar if it helps.”