Bones of a Saint

by Grant Farley

  “Where do you think they are?” I ask.

  Manny stares around, squints against the glare, and then shrugs.

  We walk between long rows of boarded-up barracks. The gray-white wood looks like it could just curl up and burn. But even in this heat, it feels spooky like a ghost town. Maybe my dad wandered through these same barracks, when they were freshly painted, waiting to get shipped out. We keep walking.

  “You know what ‘Windowpane’ means, don’t you, Manny? Nino told you.”

  Manny stops.

  “Mierda. You going to ask me about your dad now? Here?”

  “There a better time? A better place?”

  “Windowpane is acid, you know that. Made by this dude Owsley that Nino knew back when they were in the Haight hanging around the Dead. It can make you do stupid stuff.”

  “Like what stupid stuff?”

  He stands with his arms crossed for a long, long time. I wait.

  “Like fall off a bridge in Big Sur.”

  “Like he thought he could fly,” I say.

  “Something like that. It was that big one, the Bixby. You ready now?”

  “Yeah. Let’s do this.”

  We wander past a building that looks kind of like the barracks except it’s smaller and the windows are long and arched and a steeple rises above double doors. A chapel.

  “I think this is it,” I say.

  “He said barracks. This is a chapel.”

  “Hell, there’s no better place for a chapel than here, when you think about it.”

  One of the double doors swings open about a foot.

  “I don’t like it.” Manny is shaking. “A chapel ain’t right.”

  But he follows me up the steps all the same.

  “Ain’t right? Hell, you tell me one thing. One thing. That’s right about any of this.”

  I pull open the door. Bobby Martin stands just inside. I know right away that the Ace brought him as a lookout because Bobby and me used to be buddies. A message to me how deep he can get into my life. It gives me the creeps figuring he knows something about me that goes way back to fourth grade. There’s no point in Bobby and me even pretending we don’t know each other, so we both nod.

  “Where is he?”

  Bobby looks down the aisle into the dark.

  There’s a weird ocean swushing kind of sound all around me.

  Sunlight peeks through slats in the boarded-up windows and sends streaks through the dusty air. There are rows of pews, most of them knocked over like dominoes. Everything else is gone. That ocean sound is coming from inside my head.

  What if my father sat in this chapel, in that front pew that’s still standing, praying before he went off to war?

  I start walking down the aisle, feet slipping on the dusty floor. Manny waits at the door next to Bobby. Someone sits against the altar wall, and it don’t take a genius to figure out who. The shadows of two Jokers stand on either side. The ocean sound in my head is quiet and peaceful, like lying in a sleeping bag listening to the waves over the dunes. A part of me is already curling up inside that bag just to get away from the for real, but I shake myself out of it, sucking air thick with dust like an acolyte has been swinging incense all around, only this is a dry, dead smell. The outline of a long-gone cross scars the wall above them.

  I reach the front and stop. All three wear baseball caps so there’s just shadows where the faces ought to be. The Ace sits on a crate like it’s some kind of throne.

  “Kneel,” he says.

  “What?”

  “Kneel and lay the bag before me.”

  I do as he says. The ocean sound inside my head stops like when the water is building to one big mother wave, and it’s so dead quiet I can hear Manny’s throat clucking clear down at the other end of the chapel.

  The Ace reaches out a long arm and undoes the drawstring, the bag falling away from the clock. “A clock. Antique maybe. A righteous choice, RJ. I knew you’d come through. A shame, really, you won’t join us . . . What’s this?” He lifts it and something metallic rattles against the wood. “Man, it’s broken.”

  He drops it and sits back on the box. He takes off his hat and I swear I can almost hear his hand rubbing against those stubs and freckles and sweat.

  The first wave comes pounding back in my head.

  “It . . . it was a accident . . . We . . .”

  “Shut up.” He smiles. “You scared?”

  He leans forward, chewing on his lower lip, chewing at my fear.

  I nod.

  “This stupid clock don’t matter. We got bigger plans.”

  “What?”

  “Be here one week from today with something else you stole from him.”

  “That ain’t fair. You can’t . . .”

  “What did you say?”

  I shut up.

  “We’ll make this our own little ritual. Any questions?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so. Don’t get up until we leave.”

  If only they’d beat me up, anything just so it would be over. Not fair. I stand, my knees shaking. Manny is beside me. He don’t say anything. He lets me turn on my own and walk down the aisle toward the sunlight.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Unfallen Angels

  The water tank rises thirty feet over Mission Street, a huge white ball sitting on three green legs. arcangel is written around the eastern side so that drivers clear over on the freeway can read it. Maybe they know it’s the name of our town, or maybe they think it’s some spiritual advertisement, or just maybe it’s God’s golf ball and He’s about to tee off.

  Manny and me are sitting on the shady west side of a catwalk edging the ball. My feet dangle as we look down at all the craziness of the preparations for the Fourth of July parade. I dig this free-fall feel of heights, the tingling in my legs, the creepy tilt like the water tank can just shrug me off . . .

  “You’re freaking me out,” Manny says. He’s so scared he presses his back against the tank like he’ll melt right through it. Then again, closed-in spaces don’t bother him at all.

  “This ain’t the Bixby, RJ.”

  I pretend I don’t hear that. Looking down at all the people, it’s like we’re angels. Like nothing bad can touch us up here.

  Nothing.

  “Manny, you remember that teacher that went on and on about free will?”

  “Father Speckler.” Manny sucks air, his fists white-knuckling the rail.

  “Yeah. Well, he said how free will was some kind of gift to us. That God was doing us a favor giving us free will even though it let evil into the world.”

  “RJ, you ain’t getting me into another one of these talks. If you’re gonna bag on God or the Church, you can just shut up.”

  “I didn’t mean nothing by it. I was just looking at all the people down there and it’s kind of like we’re angels looking down on them. Then I was thinking about the Blackjacks and this weird thought hit me. Maybe God made free will just for His fun. If God cranks the world up and lets it go without knowing where it’s headed, well that’s got to be a whole lot more fun for Him.”

  “RJ, you’re full of crap. You’re hanging around that old man too much. It’s making you weird.”

  Manny is right about that. I had hoped he’d do the sidekick thing with me to Leguin’s, but he just don’t fit in there. We’re high enough to catch the breeze sliding over the mountains from the ocean, while down below the asphalt is baking in the sun.

  The buildings on Mission are mostly just used-to-bes from when the highway came right through our town. Like the weekend produce stand that used to be a forties two-pump Spanish-style gas station. Or the New Light Gospel Covenant Cathedral, which used to be an old movie house and has just enough letters to spell out god is lite on the old marquee. Or All-American Tires, speciali
zing in reconditional tread, which used to be a blacksmith with a really cool metal sculpture garden for hippies and tourists and now has tow trucks to troll the freeway.

  Locals stand in clusters along the sidewalk. Two years ago, the parade was crazy huge for the bicentennial. But these last two years have been kind of a letdown. Abuelita sits on her beach chair like it’s a throne, her granddaughters taking turns holding an umbrella over her. We both better pray she don’t look up and see us. One person I don’t see is Roxanne. The Fourth’s one day her mom would always let her run free. But Roxanne is nowhere around. And no one even cares. People just say she ran away and that’s the end of it.

  Then I see them, with their Raiders caps, T-shirts, and greasy jeans. Blackjacks. People in the valley pretend the Blackjacks are just a figment. As long as people can pretend, the Blackjacks don’t feel so scary.

  Two red devil drum majors waving plastic pitchforks strut down the street. Our school banner reads, the fighting angels. The little band follows, dressed in choir robes and halos.

  Three Blackjacks cut in front of Davy Franklin on the sidewalk and push him around back of the Taco Den.

  “Manny, did you see that? That deputy stared right at them and didn’t do nothing.”

  “What do you expect, RJ? That’s Meyers. Nino said he used to be a Blackjack himself.”

  “Yeah, I guess it makes sense,” I say. “A Blackjack who’s gotten too old don’t have a lot of career options. Being a deputy would be pretty tempting to some guy who spent his kid years bullying people. And it gives the Blackjacks connections on the inside. But there must be some okay deputies.”

  “Sure. But can you trust which ones?” Manny shrugs. “And would a good sheriff even believe you, RJ? You’re already a royal pain in his butt.”

  “Okay, don’t rub it in.”

  The band is followed by a white Caddy convertible with Mayor Benny Brown sitting on the trunk above the back seat, waving.

  “But what if we were to go to someone outside the valley?” Manny asks.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Well, like the sheriff or the police or whatever, over in San Luis or something,” he says.

  “Man, they don’t have jurisdiction over what’s going on here.”

  We let that hang between us.

  The mayor is followed by kids pedaling bicycles decorated by red, white, and blue ribbon, baseball cards flicking the spokes, and American flags. We whistle down at Charley pedaling my Stingray like crazy. The 4-H straggles down the street, led by Fat Jack the jackass.

  Standing in a flatbed truck that’s draped in bunting are the Bobby Soxers, our town’s only sports claim to fame, having finished runner-up at State. Theresa is the star. Manny and me go to all her games. I always hope for the other team to get a runner on first. Then our pitcher, Bertha, will whip a sinker and the batter will smack a grounder up the middle, but Theresa’s long legs will run it down and she’ll toe second and then lift and spin and toss across her chest and double the runner at first. It is the only time I can stand and shout, “Theresa, you’re beautiful!” and Manny, instead of slugging my shoulder, he has to high-five me. Now, like she has some kind of radar, she looks straight up at me and waves.

  Uniformed VFWs end the parade. Nino-’n-Smitty, wearing jeans and their Marine jackets, walk with them. They could’ve been near the front of the parade riding their hogs with flags and banners flying. But here they are at the end walking with these old guys from the VFW.

  “If my dad were alive,” I say, “he’d be walking there, too.”

  “Right on,” Manny says.

  The town falls in behind the vets as the parade wanders to the picnic grounds.

  Manny is squirming to get down now, but I could stay up here always.

  “Manny, I hear Roxanne is missing. You think the Blackjacks done something to her?” Manny won’t look at me. “Manny?”

  “’Buelita says I shouldn’t talk about her with you.”

  “With me?” I ask. “Why the hell not?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “If I knew, I wouldn’t ask.”

  “Well, she just said don’t.” Manny clutches the rail and gets up like he’s going to head down the ladder with or without me. I stay seated, waving my legs in space.

  Manny sighs and sits back down. “With the parade over, someone is gonna see us up here.”

  “Maybe Roxanne joined some cult,” I say. “Like your tía with that Peoples Temple.”

  “Don’t talk about my tía,” he says.

  “I ain’t. I’m talking about Roxanne.”

  “Okay, then. Roxanne could do just about any crazy thing, RJ.”

  “But a cult?”

  “You’re the one who thought Jim Jones was so cool when he was here on that housing thing,” he says. “With those sunglasses and that suit. And people say he’s a cult leader.”

  “I said he looked cool.”

  “Same dif.”

  “Not hardly.”

  “Well, you can’t blame my tía. Even your Sanders worked with Jones.”

  “He’s not my Sanders,” I say. “And he had to work with him. Jones was the head of the freaking housing authority, and Mr. Sanders was working with migrants.”

  “Why you arguing, RJ?” Manny gets up. “The Peoples Temple cult ain’t even in San Francisco no more.” He creeps along the catwalk to the ladder. “They’re in South America on some commune.” He climbs over and then looks back at me. “And Roxanne ain’t leaving this valley.”

  “You feel like going up to the old mission aqueduct? We haven’t been up there in a long time. We could watch the fireworks from off eagle rock. Like old times.”

  “Yeah, RJ.” His voice has softened. “I’d like that. Like old times.”

  I get up and follow him back down into the for real world.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Kaboom

  It’s almost sundown when Manny and me are walking up the canyon along Indian Trail Road with the foothills on our left and the valley spread out to our right. It’s the best place to catch the fireworks. Clouds off the ocean make a ripply sky ceiling, and there’s this weird light the color of my bronzed baby shoes.

  “You haven’t carried Charley with us since that night with the blood,” Manny says.

  “We don’t need him tagging along.”

  “That don’t sound like you, RJ.”

  “Well, it’s better he’s not with us if the Blackjacks show up,” I say.

  “Have you seen how he’s growing?” Manny asks. “In a few years, he’ll be taller than you. Won’t that be weird?”

  “Well, then he can carry my ass for a change.”

  Indian Trail Road used to be dirt winding along the foothills. Now the road is gooey new asphalt warming the soles of my Chucks. There are rocks below the trail that are all that’s left of the old Mission aqueduct. Manny and me used to hike to the end of this trail where there’s the remains of a dam they say was built by the Chumash. In late spring, there used to be enough water in the pond above the rocks to swim in.

  “Those were great times up at the dam, huh, Manny?”

  “The greatest.”

  “Let’s go up there after.”

  “After what?”

  I shrug.

  “It’ll be dried out,” he says.

  Then we’re stopped by a gate blocking our way. A wrought-iron sign arches between Spanish stucco pillars flanking the road: indian trail estates. Iron gates wrapped with a chain lock us out. A wall runs in either direction.

  “You know about this, Manny?”

  He shrugs. “It’s the first housing tract in the valley.”

  “Yeah, no kidding.”

  “Nino-’n-Smitty tried to get work here,” Manny says. “But they wouldn’t hire.”

  �
��They’d work here, on this?”

  “It’s a living.”

  “Hell it is.” I shake the heavy chain.

  “Look over there.” Manny points to the right.

  Three cars are parked on a visitors pad outside the wall. Fancy cars. A souped-up Bug, a baby blue Toyota pickup, and an old teardrop Porsche.

  “Those ain’t locals,” I say.

  “Maybe we better leave,” Manny says. “See that no trespassing sign?”

  “No way.” There’s plenty of slack in the chain, so I slip through.

  “That’s trespassing,” Manny warns.

  “You think they can make us trespassers on our own childhood? Get your ass in here.”

  He shrugs and slips in.

  Streets have been laid out in sharp angles and small circles. There’s even a sign that points down Pocahontas Lane. Concrete slabs have been poured for each house. Two-by-four framing rises like dinosaur bones on most of the slabs. We walk to the end of a cul-de-sac near the valley ridge, where there’s a slab that’s bigger than the rest. This could be the best chance I ever get to stand inside a mansion, even if it’s just getting built, so I step through the framing that’s going to be the front door.

  “RJ, what are you doing? Let’s just get out of here.”

  “I gotta check this out.”

  Manny hops onto the slab after me. Manny’s MO is to make the best of a bad situation. That’s why he’s searching the ground around the electrical boxes for slugs we can buff and then slip into the slot in the old Coke machine outside the New Light. The sun is finally setting into a muggy warm that feels like breathing into a Folgers can.

  “We shoulda brought flashlights,” Manny says.

  I wander through the framing of the unbuilt mansion. Our trailer would fit into what’s probably going to be the living room. There’s a second story and a higher part that could be some kind of loft.

  “RJ, those are Slows over there.” He points to some college kids at the edge of the ridge. “Slows” means guys who go to the college over in San Luis Obispo. They don’t usually come slumming into the valley. But when they do, it’s never good.