THE SECOND MILAGRO (n/a)

by Linda Rainwater

  “I’m sure.” Her lips quivered.

  He crushed his mouth against hers for a moment, then took her hand and pulled her down the hall. They had to shove and push to make way through the growing crowd. Patricia stumbled on the cobblestones and Miguel held her close to keep her upright.

  As they reached the fountain, Miguel looked up to see a young man on the wooden platform in the plaza. He was blindfolded and gagged with his hands tied behind his back, his shirt torn and bloody. He was standing to one side of the raised structure, guards at his elbows. One of the men had a rope in his hands. Miguel didn’t have the heart to look at Patricia to see her reaction. He pushed on to the edge of the steps.

  A policeman caught up with him and yelled that help was on its way. Miguel was not sure who or what he meant. It did not matter. By the time reinforcements of any kind made it through this crowd, it would be too late. It was up to him.

  A chant came from the people, filling the streets. “¡Justica! ¡Justica!” They stabbed their fists into the air. A shudder went through Patricia to Miguel’s arm where he embraced her. A man in black pants and shirt and what seemed silver paint on his face shouted in Spanish from the platform and forced the boy toward the crowd. His head dropped as if in shame. He looked small, childlike, despite his height.

  The son of Tomas, Miguel thought. His teeth clamped hard, his jaw ached with the pressure. The hatred he had once felt for Tomas had no place here. This boy belonged to Patricia. He would do this for her. As he watched this child that should have been his, his heart cracked.

  The man was listing the injustices the people of Real de Catorce had suffered. According to him, Tomas was the cause of everything from babies born deformed to silver veins playing out. The crowd captured phrases of his speech and chanted them back to him. Someone handed him a bullhorn, and he pranced the stage like a Mayan warrior clutching the head of his victim.

  Miguel was glad Patricia did not understand what the man said. She trembled anyway at the sound of his demanding cries and the echoes that rippled around them. He could not let them know who she was.

  When the moment seemed right, Miguel shoved Patricia back and ran for the stairs. The crowd moved in around her, preventing her from following him. He bounded up the steps, taking the man by surprise, relieving him of the bullhorn.

  A cry went up of “Ramirez! Ramirez!”

  Patricia’s blood rushed through her body like air-thinned water. Her heart pounded to keep up with the flow of people. She struggled against the press of bright shawls and armpits, as fists struck at the sky. When Miguel pushed her away, she had been swallowed by the crowd, like a tiny raindrop sucked into a puddle. She kicked and elbowed her way back toward the platform. Prying her body out of the mass, she gained the bottom step.

  She could see over the heads of the people now. They were shouting “Ramirez!” and clapping. They were happy to see Miguel. Why? Suddenly there was no blood, only air in her veins and she was collapsing.

  He was one of them, she thought. They were glad to see him because he was their ally. Had she not known that earlier with all his efforts to keep her away? She couldn’t think, couldn’t make out his words. An arm came around her and she felt herself eased to the steps. She raised her head and saw Daniel. Behind him was Gena. And Rachel.

  Patricia began to cry. Through her tears she saw several policemen making their way through the crowd. They were coming to help Miguel. To keep her away. To kill Max. They were not even trying to arrest these people. She looked back at Daniel and he was smiling at her. God! He was against her, too. She turned and stumbled up the steps.

  She barely glanced at Max before grabbing the bullhorn from Miguel. Let them kill her. She didn’t care. Maybe that would satisfy them and Max would be allowed to go.

  “Wait!” she shouted and clawed through her brain for Spanish words she knew. “¡Espara! ¡Espara!” she yelled into the mouthpiece. Her fist beat against her chest. “I am Señora Morelos! ¡Soy es Señora Morelos! ¡Espousa Tomas Morelos!”

  Miguel’s hand tightened on her shoulder. “What are you doing?” he shouted.

  “Saving our son!” she cried out, her voice breaking. Her knees almost buckled with the words. And, the look on Miguel’s face. She caught a glimpse of Max struggling against the men who held him. He moaned “Mother” around the gag in his mouth.

  The crowd began to hush, as if a magic fog rolled down the valley muffling their speech and paralyzing their movement. Someone near the platform pointed to the stairs. Daniel was helping Rachel up the last step. Rachel waved her arms out as she came across the platform. No one would doubt her blindness. “No!” Patricia cried out. “She’ll get hurt.”

  Rachel reached out for Patricia, catching her arm. “And you might tell them to go jump in a mine with your terrible Spanish. Now what were you saying?” She ran her hand down Patricia’s arm until she felt the bullhorn. Taking it gently, she raised it to her mouth and told the people her name was Rachel. She was a friend of the Señora and would translate the Señora’s words.

  The appearance of the blind woman mesmerized the crowd. People looked to each other, but only a few voices were heard. Some were crossing themselves.

  Miguel stepped close to Patricia, but Daniel held his arm. “No. Let her speak.” When Miguel backed away, Daniel turned to Patricia and smiled. She knew she had wronged him again.

  As Patricia spoke loud and clear, Rachel translated every word into Spanish. The people looked at whichever one was speaking, as if they needed to hear the strange story twice.

  “I am sorry for your problems,” Patricia said. “Very sorry. But my son Max is not responsible. I know Tomas Morelos was a bad man and did much harm to you.” A single shout cried out in agreement. Tears trickled down her face. She went on quickly before they recovered from their shock and carried out their plans. “And I know you want revenge on him or his son. But Tomas Morelos is not the father of Max!”

  Murmurs came from pockets in the crowd. Someone cried out “¿Quien es el padre?”

  Patricia looked at Max. Her fingers ached to touch his face, her arms to hold him. “Forgive me, son,” she whispered. She looked at Miguel and said his name, then turned back to the people.

  “Miguel Ramirez is the father of my son Max!” she said in an even tone, then dropped her head, stiffened her legs. “God give me strength,” she prayed.

  Enough people in the crowd knew English that a general buzz almost drowned out Rachel’s translation. Then everyone talked.

  Max had struggled with his guards until he had maneuvered all three of them to within a few feet of Patricia. Miguel stepped between them and reached toward Max. The guards, miners that knew Miguel, seemed not to know what to do anymore. They made no move to stop him when he pulled away Max’s blindfold.

  Max squinted and shook his head in the bright light. His black hair scattering across his forehead. Miguel again reached out and with both hands behind the boy’s head, untied the strip of cloth that had bound his mouth.

  Cold stare met cold stare.

  The resemblance between them was overwhelming evidence for the crowd. Someone jeered at Miguel that his brother had stolen his son. Miguel turned to Patricia. She saw the hurt in his eyes and, hate, she thought.

  Suddenly, he reached behind Max, pushing away the two men who guarded him. He took a knife from his pocket and cut the bonds. His hand on the young man’s shoulder, he steered him to face the crowd.

  “¡San. Francis me ha dado un milagro! ¡El me ha dado un hijo!”

  Some people shouted. Others laughed. The few jeers that were yelled went ignored.

  Miguel turned to Max. “I hope you are not ashamed to call me your father. When we have time to know each other.”

  Patricia stood apart from the two, waiting to be cursed by her son and by Miguel. Suddenly, there were shouts. A fight had broken out on the fringe of the crowd. She saw Daniel hurrying toward her only seconds before the sun glinted off the rifle barrel.


  People screamed, scattered, ran. On the platform everything seemed to move in silent, slow motion. Daniel pushed against Max. Max stumbled, but was righted by Miguel. Then Daniel leaped in front of Max to push him again.

  The air cracked. Daniel’s back bowed like an acrobat. He folded and fell on top of Max.

  Patricia clasped her hands to her face and screamed. Miguel was saying something to her, but the only thing she heard was a sound tearing through her throat and ripping at her fingers.

  Miguel felt a hand on his shoulder. Carmina. He stood and let her through, then watched as she and Patricia bent face to face over Daniel.

  The crowd was crazy. He looked out over the pandemonium to see if he could spot the one with the rifle. He saw some of his men moving cautiously along the street that led up the hill. He was sure the man who shot Daniel worked for Catera. No doubt he would be escaping to the house above the old church. He looked back at the crowd around Daniel. There was nothing he could do.

  He signaled some other men at the police station and they worked their way up back streets trying to intercept the fugitive. They caught up with other men at Puente de Jesus, the bridge across from the old church.

  “He has gone through the graves and escaped.” One man reported.

  “There is a house on the other side of that wall,” Miguel told them. He directed some of the men to go up through the cemetery, and led another group himself farther along the road to a hill above the house. As they neared the upper walls, a barrage of gunfire filled the air. Then a loud roar.

  “Helicopter,” Miguel said, and threw himself over the wall.

  General Ruiz and some of his men were pouring out of the house, headed toward the helipad. Whoever they were chasing, probably Catera, had beat them there.

  The blades created a dust storm as the machine came off the ground. It made a half-turn and hesitated. Something dropped out of it, then it lifted into the air. A figure rose from the ground and began running. Someone had either jumped or been pushed out.

  Miguel and several others set out in a chase. General Ruiz and his men were gathered on the bridge, shooting at the helicopter. Ruiz was stomping his feet and cussing. Catera had gotten away.

  Miguel and his men fanned out around the house and church, but the man Catera had ditched had alluded them. Then Miguel remembered the tunnel Patricia had come through.

  He opened the door of the church cautiously. No one was there. The stairway and the room below were empty. He peered into the black hole and thought he heard a noise.

  Moving as quietly as possible, almost bent double he made his way through the dark. A scraping sound filtered through the heavy air. When he seemed on top of the sound, he lit a match.

  Jim Mainland was on his knees shoveling dirt with his hands.

  “You have some answering to do, Mainland. Come back out with me. This tunnel is not safe.”

  Jim whirled and threw a clod of dirt in Miguel’s face. The match fell as Miguel covered his eyes. Before he could try to clear them, Mainland tackled him. They tumbled and rolled in the narrow space, throwing punches and kicking indiscriminately. They were equally blind in the dark, but Miguel’s eyes hurt like hell. Memories of the earthquake made him want to forget Mainland and get above ground as quickly as possible.

  He threw a hard punch that connected with some part of Jim. Then, with all his strength he crawled on all fours in the direction he hoped would lead back to the church. He thought he felt a vibration in the ground.

  Suddenly, Jim knocked him down and tried to climb over him. Miguel grabbed for his leg and Jim plunged to the floor of the tunnel with a crash. Before Miguel could get back on his feet, a loud crack sounded all around him. Dirt and rocks followed.

  Miguel was not sure where he was. He just knew he was blind and covered with something heavy. Then he remembered. It took some time, but he struggled until his right hand was free. He felt above his face and realized he had a space between his head and a wooden beam. He was afraid to move.

  “Mainland,” he whispered. There was no answer.

  He worked his other hand free and began to push his way out of the debris that covered his legs. He seemed to be at the edge of the cave-in. The other man may have gotten out. As he inched his way out of his partial grave he heard a groan.

  “Mainland?” he called.

  Another sound.

  Miguel clawed through the dirt he could not see. He found a beam and when he shifted it, a cry of pain pierced the dark. By patting around the surfaces, he found Jim’s head and his right shoulder. It was the only part of him not covered. Miguel dug until he had freed Jim to the waist. Another beam rested against his hips. Miguel could not move it.

  “Stay still. I will go for help,” he said softly.

  “Wait.” Jim’s voice was weak. “Don’t . . . I don’t think I’ll make it.”

  “You will if I get help.”

  “No. Tell Patr—” He coughed and cried out in pain. A gurgling sound came from his chest. “Tell her I’m sorry. About Max.”

  “Max is okay.”

  “No. Sorry about me . . . taking Max.”

  “What do you mean?” Miguel cradled the wounded man’s head.

  “Needed the mines . . . money. If I could—,” he coughed and gagged.

  Miguel thought for a minute that he was unconscious. “You are not making sense, Mainland. Stop trying to talk.”

  Jim’s hand found Miguel’s chest, and he held onto his shirt. “Don’t want her to know my part. Just I’m sorry. Don’t want to hurt her.”

  Miguel thought he understood. Whatever Mainland had done, it would not do Patricia any good to know. “Well, at least we agree on one thing. Patricia has had enough pain. She does not need more.”

  He thought of Daniel and his anger rose. “Now I am going for help. Do not try to move.” He was not sure Jim heard him.

  He crawled for several minutes before he felt another vibration coming through his hands. A cloud of dust rushed up behind him as he sprinted toward the opening.

  CHAPTER FORTY THREE

  The hotel room was sparsely furnished. A single bed covered with colorful striped blankets. A table and lamp. A picture of Madonna and child on the wall. A straight backed chair beneath the window.

  Patricia sat on the hard seat, holding back dusty gauze curtains and staring out at the stars. She had bathed and changed into a clean skirt and blouse. They were on the bed when she came to the room.

  She had watched the shadows of the sunset creep along the mountain peaks until they disappeared. The night breeze was cool, but she didn’t feel it.

  Sounds of revelry had filled the air for hours. The festival had begun in earnest once the tension broke after the shooting. Then, it was almost as if all the pent-up hatred and problems of this little town were blasted away in the fireworks that lit up the sky. Now there was silence.

  She waited for someone. Who would be first to come and condemn her?

  Max? She had held him for only a moment before he jerked free of her and disappeared. Later, she had seen him with Rachel, walking away, talking. She had been told about the beating he had suffered, but the doctor had said he was a brave young man and would be fine.

  Miguel? He wasn’t there when they carried Daniel away. She’d probably never see him again.

  Daniel had been brought here. To a hotel across from the church. She didn’t know if he was alive. They wouldn’t let her in to see him. So she had come to the room they said was hers to wait.

  Her self-exile seemed endless, but they all needed time, especially Max. She could not bring herself to seek him out, but prayed that he would come to her. She didn’t care if he came to bombard her with questions. Or came only to stare at her in disbelief. Or to curse her. She needed to know that he felt something, even if it was hate. That she could work against. She could ask forgiveness. Ignoring her, he gave no hope.

  Rachel would come. But first she would work to heal everyone’s wounds in her own way.
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br />   Of course, there was still one more cut of the saw. One more admission of sin. If Daniel lived, what would she tell him? She had told no one else. Rachel was the only one who knew. She would never have the chance to tell Miguel, but that didn’t matter.

  The door creaked and she jumped from her chair. The room was dark and a figure was outlined by the light in the hall.

  “Max?”

  “I guess in this light, you might mistake us.” Miguel moved toward the lamp beside the bed and clicked it on.

  She turned back to the window, not wanting to look at him. The memory of the hurt on his face when she told him about Max made her muscles harden, as if waiting for a blow.

  He sat on the narrow bed. Springs squeaked under his weight. A scent of dust floated on the air.

  She could not bear the silence.

  “Daniel?” Her voiced quivered. She hugged herself against a sudden chill and sat back down on the little chair.

  “The doctor is with him. He must remove the bullet before Daniel is moved. It did not come through his body and may be near his heart. There is a surgeon in Cedral. At the clinic. He is coming. We can only wait.”

  “Is Daniel awake?”

  “He was conscious, I was told, when they brought him in, but he is not now.”

  She stared at the stars, wishing Miguel would leave. There was nothing more she wanted to hear.

  “Patricia, I have to tell you something.”

  She was silent.

  “Jim Mainland is dead.”

  She jumped. “Jim? Dead? How? What happened?” She turned in shock to face him and only saw his silhouette against the lamplight like some shadowy messenger of bad news.