by J. J. Martin
“Mr. and Mrs. Paquime,” said Danny, “we are worried Father Sweet may treat Antony in a way he doesn’t like.”
“Father Sweet is good man. He love Antonio.”
“It’s so difficult to hear,” said Melody, “but these two men were abused by Father Sweet when they were boys.”
“No,” said Mrs. Paquime. “Father Sweet is man of God.”
I took a long, serene breath. “You are good people,” I said. “I know you are good. We all can see it. And you are dedicated to the Church because you believe it is good, and you trust your priest because you trust in God. You want the best for your children. I know that because my parents were like you. They wanted the best for me and for my brother. But the man who your son is with, I know does not have the best interests of your son at heart. I know this because I was once like your son.”
Mrs. Paquime leaned toward me. “You know Father Sweet?”
“Mrs. Paquime, it is not your fault,” I said. “But please listen. Your son needs help. He needs to be away from that man and back with his family. Back with the people who love him for who he is. Back with you.”
“What you mean?”
“Father Sweet does not love Antonio the way you do,” said Melody. “He loves him in a sexual way. A bad way.”
“No!” said Mrs. Paquime, hitting the table. Her eyes darted like a cornered fox between the three of us.
Mr. Paquime handed Matias five dollars and said something in Spanish.
“Just for a short spell, sugar,” said Melody. “Let us talk with your mum and dad.”
The young boy glanced at us suspiciously before going to the counter to buy a jelly donut, which he took to a table across the room, out of earshot.
Melody and Danny nodded their encouragement. Mr. Paquime did not share his wife’s panic; he leaned back and folded his brawny forearms over his chest.
“If I could go back in time and talk with my parents,” I said. “I would tell them what I am telling you now. Talk with Antonio. I promise you he does not understand what is happening. Tell him it’s not his fault. Tell him that you will get him help, and that he can get through this. Tell him you believe him. Tell him you trust him and that he is more important than church, or priests, or all of this.”
A flame lit in Mrs. Paquime’s eyes. “You think you more important than God?”
“He didn’t say that,” said Melody.
“You not more important than God.”
“It has nothing to do with God,” I said, secretly shocked I was still in control of myself and sharp of mind. “That’s just an excuse he is using so he can — keep your son.”
“Antonio is good boy,” Mr. Paquime said. “He would not do what you say.”
“It’s not Antony,” said Danny. “It’s Father Sweet who is doing this.”
“No, no. Antonio wanted go with Father Sweet,” Mrs. Paquime said. “Father Sweet is a good man.”
I felt sunk. “Having trust and being faithful people is good,” I said. “I believe you are good, decent people. This man took advantage of your decency.”
Mr. Paquime said. “I don’t understand. What you mean?”
Danny interjected. “Wait a minute, did you say ‘go with Father Sweet’?”
“Father Sweet is a good man,” said Mrs. Paquime. “Mr. Kelsey, he love him.”
Melody spoke in a low, sing-song voice that was very soothing. Mrs. Paquime clutched at her words, desperate to understand.
“Mr. Kelsey may not know what we know,” said Melody. “It is not your fault. It is not Antonio’s fault. But the important thing now is that Antonio is brought home to you, and that Father Sweet gets help.”
“Antonio will not be able to talk with you about what happened, and that’s okay,” I said. “You will need to let him get over this. It will take time, but now he needs to get out of there.”
“Hang on,” said Danny. “Where are they? Where did they go?”
Mrs. Paquime wagged her finger in anger at me. “You not know anything what happen. This is your head. You read article and you make imagination.”
“No, Mrs. Paquime. You must hear it. I know,” I said. “Because Danny and I know. We know. We lived it. And, we have come out the other side. But it is very difficult. We want to help so that Antonio does not have to find it as hard as … we did.”
“Father Sweet touch you?” asked Mr. Paquime quietly.
“Mrs. Paquime,” said Danny. “You have to trust us.”
“You, too?”
“Yes, me, too.” Danny smiled and nodded cheerily. His face made me shiver.
Mrs. Paquime surveyed our eyes and reflected. “There is what you say, and what I say,” she said slowly and pointed to the ceiling. “And what God sees.”
Everyone slumped back in their chairs. The life of the bakery carried on around us, people laughing, chatting, and clattering plates and cups. The cash register dinged.
“You go to police?” asked Mr. Paquime, after a pause.
“Right now, the important thing is we get Antonio safe.”
“We cannot talk to police,” said Mrs. Paquime.
“I understand,” I said. “This is moving very fast. I can imagine how confusing this is. We don’t need to talk about that now.”
“No, no. We no talk to police,” Mr. Paquime said, unfolding his arms and appealing to Melody. His eyes pleaded. “We cannot talk to police.”
We were silent while Melody examined their faces. She tilted her head slightly. “You’re undocumented,” she said quietly. “Aren’t you? And that’s why.”
“What does that mean?” I said.
“Are you undocumented?” Melody asked.
“Matias born here,” said Mrs. Paquime.
“How long have you been in California?”
“Ten years. Almost.”
“We not go back,” said Mr. Paquime. “We come here for good education. Opportunity. Matias and Antonio, they don’t know Mexico. Mexico is dangerous.”
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” I said.
Melody patted Mrs. Paquime’s hand. “They could be sent back to Mexico. That’s why they don’t want to talk with police.”
Danny shovelled scone into his mouth with wide eyes, looking like he was watching an exciting movie.
“Even to get their son back?” I asked.
“Where has Father Sweet taken Antony?” said Danny, his mouth full. Everyone stopped talking and looked at him. “Well, I’ve been asking and no one has answered!”
Mrs. Paquime sobbed into her hands.
Melody leaned toward her. “Is it true? Did he take Antonio? Where are they?”
“He is safe,” she said, weeping. “God looks after him.”
“See, I told you,” Danny said. “He’s flown the coop.”
“We don’t know,” croaked Mr. Paquime, at last. “We don’t know where they go. They leave last week. He say Antonio education his responsibility.”
“Oh my god,” I said. I pictured myself as a boy sitting next to Father Sweet in his Beetle, passing a bottle of Coke between us. I came to his shoulder then, and I had to look up at the dark-bearded man driving the jalopy. Father Sweet was intoxicated with glee as he drove us far away into Quebec and away from Blackburn Hamlet. Who knows where he was taking Antony.
“Has Antonio got a phone with him?” I asked.
Mr. Paquime shook his head. His face twitched, as the burden settled over him. He sighed and sank lower in his chair.
“I might know,” said Danny, raising a finger. “Where they’re going.”
Suddenly, Mrs. Paquime shot to her feet, sending her chair squeaking across the tiles. “I not listen to this,” she said. “You are not good people. You are liars.”
She spoke loudly and heads turned her way. Matias looked shocked by his mother’s outburst. She stepped across the room and fetched Matias, seizing his hand and tugging him to his feet and out the door.
Mr. Paquime exhaled, but he did not rise.
“I need to think,” he said, looking at me. “I think about this.”
Melody pulled a business card out of her purse and gave it to him, indicating that her mobile number was available to him at any hour.
He stood, and I saw for the first time the considerable size of the crucifix he wore around his neck.
23
Melody drove us back to the motel, I took my seat in the front and Danny perched his head near my shoulder like a parrot.
“Let’s call Padre,” I said.
“What for?” asked Danny, screwing up his face into an ugly knot of disapproval.
“I dunno. Report? Get advice?”
“Pff. I’ve got a better idea.”
“I want to hear it, sugar,” said Melody.
“I know where they are,” said Danny. “Or where they’re going at least. It’s Tijuana. They’re heading to Gast’s place.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because, I told you before, I got the invite, too. You want Sweet, that’s where you’ll find him.”
“I have no interest in him. I just want to make sure Antonio gets away from him.”
“Well, whatever. That’s where you’ll find him.”
“What’s in Tijuana?” asked Melody. She shook her head. “That is one sorry town if you ask me.”
“Monsignor Gast has a compound there. Most of his followers are rebels and exiles. Priests who think the Church has lost its way.”
“Lost its way? Where should it be?” I asked.
“It’s become too liberal. Too progressive.”
“I don’t know what the point is if Antonio’s parents aren’t involved,” I said. “What are we going to do? Kidnap the kid, give him back to his parents and then go to jail while they give him right back to Sweet?”
“Would you boys testify?”
“Me? Fuck that. No way,” I said.
“Danny?”
He said nothing.
“Do you know other survivors?” Melody asked.
I looked at my thumb, still wrapped in napkin. “I blew it. We’ll head back home tomorrow.”
“It’s early to give up yet,” said Melody.
“What’s the point?” I said. “Besides, my brother’s having surgery. I need to get back. I screwed this up.”
“I don’t think you did,” said Melody.
We arrived at the motel. Melody slid the car into an open spot under our second-floor room, near the stairs to the breezeway.
“Thanks for everything, Melody,” I said, avoiding her eyes. “You’re a good person. Sorry you put in all that effort for nothing.”
“It wasn’t for nothing. I’m not done.”
“I am,” I said. “They win.”
“Are you sure feeling sorry for yourself is going to help you accomplish something?”
I shot her a look. “I’m not.”
“Suit yourself,” she said.
I opened the car door and walked up the stairs to our room.
The bed had been made and looked inviting. I poured myself a cup of whisky, lay down, and clicked through the channels looking for hockey.
Eventually, Danny entered.
“She’s gone,” he said.
“We’ll leave tomorrow,” I said. “I’ll get our flights sorted in a bit. I need to rest.”
Danny poured himself the last of the whisky. “That’s it for the booze,” he said. “I don’t want to touch the wine.”
“Let’s leave tonight then.”
“For Tijuana?”
“No, you idiot. For home,” I shouted. “Fuck Tijuana. I’m not going to fucking Mexico. This is over. I blew it, I didn’t convince them of anything, fuck. They don’t get it. Nobody gets it.”
Danny lay back on the bed and we watched high-school lacrosse on a public access station, sipping our warm whisky.
“How do you know?” he asked. “I mean, what to do?”
I groaned. “What are you talking about?”
“You seem sure it’s time to give up. How do you know?”
I propped myself up on an elbow to confront him. “I don’t get it. What do you want? Why are you in this?”
“Trying to be a good Catholic.”
The words took a while to surface, and when they came I spoke in a hard voice. “Bullshit. All of it. Just a machine for exploiting and manipulating people, exalting habits into pointless rituals and protecting lying shitbags. And now, you’re one of the lying shitbags who needs protection.”
“There are a lot of reasons why someone might find a spiritual life worth living. What are you trying to do with Antony? You’re making amends with your life, and it will benefit someone else. That’s spiritual. It’s good. It’s God.”
“Ugh. Enough.” I turned back to the television.
“Whatever you call it. It’s reconciliation, it’s love.”
“Shut up. Just be quiet. Fuck. You got a lot of problems, Danny. You’re fucked up. And I bet it doesn’t start and end with what you did to that little girl.”
He froze. “I believe in justice,” said Danny slowly. “That includes me … I will get what’s coming to me. Catholics also believe in forgiveness. You asked what’s in it for me, I’m part of the problem. I know that. I know about Father Sweet. I inherited it. But I’m not blaming him. If you’re going to call yourself a Catholic, you take the good and the bad.”
“I don’t call myself anything,” I replied. “You and your Padre taking the good and the bad. Why? Hasn’t it proved to you now to be rotten to the core?”
“I’m not hiding. I’m not shirking anything. Like I said, there are a lot of reasons why people come to church.”
“You are cowering in the rectory. Hiding.”
He shrugged.
“I hear your bishop doesn’t like female altar servers,” I said.
“He’s against the feminization of the Church. Moral relevancy and all that. He thinks we’re all going to be homosexuals in skirts soon.”
“Look in the mirror.”
Danny drank the last of his cup and hopped off the bed.
“I’m going to get some more booze. Can I have some money?”
I handed him fifty dollars.
“Thanks, brother.”
“Don’t call me that.”
“Whatever you say, brother.”
24
We drank another bottle of whisky and fell asleep with the television on. Knocked out from all the booze, we both slept through the morning and rose at eleven thirty. My head throbbed, and the uneven ground torqued under me.
I fetched Aspirin from my bag. Danny moaned and cried out for water. As soon as I could get vertical, I had a shower and got dressed. Danny said Mass with his head held low.
I took a walk around the block with a stale lobby coffee. I kept my eyes down against the sunlight. The noise from traffic did nothing for my headache. Car after car buzzed past. Hangovers were a familiar state for me and — typically— I became antisocial to the point of hatred. Where are these cars going? What on earth could be so important for all these people to be out rushing around? What’s the point?
When I returned, Danny was back in bed, lying with his back to the door.
My phone rang. It was Jamie. I took the call on the breezeway, leaning on the railing overlooking the parking lot.
“Hey,” I said, impersonating enthusiasm. “How are you feeling?”
“Good! Psyched. Ready. Just finished up a bunch of things at the office, wrote some letters in case … you know. One week to go. How is your project going?”
“Badly. It’s over. I blew it.”
Jamie spent a few moments before venturing the big question. “Can you tell me now what you were doing?”
“Maybe over a beer sometime.”
“That might be as good as saying never, you know.”
“Then, not on the phone,” I said. “Not now. But I’ll be home soon.”
“Can you tell me about the woman you met?”
Another call was coming in. It was Melody.
“Perfect timing, it’s her on the other line,” I said. “But it’s not what you think. I screwed that up, too. I’ll be home like today or tomorrow and will tell you. Gotta go.”
I switched the lines and took Melody’s call. She whooped happily when I picked up.
“Are you still in town?” she asked. “Because I had a very interesting discussion with someone this morning.”
The housekeeping cart was outside the room next to mine and the maid, who looked strikingly like Mrs. Paquime herself, waved at me.
“Who?” I asked Melody.
“Mateo Paquime. That’s the dad. He told me what you said meant a lot. He said it was like talking to Antonio as an adult, asking for help. He understands what’s happening and he said he’ll testify even if it means all of them are deported back to Mexico and lose everything.”
“Wow,” I said. I walked closer to the housekeeping cart and saw the maid had placed there a photograph of two little girls in Catholic-school garb, holding hands before a hedgerow. Daughters? Granddaughters?
“Do you understand? You got to him,” Melody said. “You did it.”
A weary grin came upon my face and I stretched my back and one arm. “Can we go to the police and be done with it?”
“We could. But if we push a bit more we can get Antonio out. Any way to find out where Sweet is, exactly?” Melody asked. “Without tipping him off?”
This was pushing me further than I wanted.
“I’ll ask Danny,” I said, after a long pause. “But I think he’ll just say Tijuana.”
“Ask me what?” Danny said over my shoulder. He had snuck up behind me and stood on the breezeway in his underwear.
“If there’s a way to find out exactly where Antonio is,” I said to Danny. “And you-know-who. Are they still in America? Can you call Tijuana and find out?”
Danny’s shoulders slumped and he shuffled back to the room.
“There’s a good chance the Paquimes will be deported to Mexico,” said Melody.
“You aren’t friends with the police? Why would they rat them out?”
“They’re cracking down on illegals, sugar. But Antonio will be safe and with his family wherever they wind up.”