Angel Fire (7 page)

“Is someone here?” Juno Alonzo materialized in a doorway that had been empty a moment ago. He was a tall man, almost six feet, and thin. His eyes seemed fixed on her—jet pools in a landscape of strong but gentle features. Full, red lips sloping into a square jaw, chiseled cheekbones leading to a high, deeply lined brow. But his face was more than the sum of these parts. There was something mesmerizing about it, like a portrait come to life. He was easily the most beautiful man—in an ethereal, almost angelic way—she had ever seen. She had the urge to confess all her sins to him and do penance in his arms.

He spoke again. “Hello?”

“Mr. Alonzo?”

“Yes?”

“I’m Lydia Strong.”

“The writer?”

“Yes.”

She wondered for a moment if he would treat her with suspicion and then turn her away as he had to other writers who came to interview him. But instead he smiled and approached her with his hand outstretched in greeting, as if he had been expecting her.

“A pleasure, Ms. Strong. My uncle has read your work to me from magazines and I’ve listened to you interviewed on National Public Radio. I had heard you had a home in the area.”

When she took his hand in hers, he covered it with his other, gently pulling her closer to him. It was a warm and powerful grip, full of a strange energy that made Lydia flush and smile lightly in spite of herself. They stayed like that for a moment longer than would have seemed appropriate in another context. And as she stood captivated by his unseeing gaze, her small hand folded in his large one, she was tempted to believe what she had read about Juno. She wondered suddenly if he did have the power to enter people’s dreams. It was a ridiculous thought but it stayed with her. She would give anything to have one last chance to talk to her mother, to say good-bye, to say she was sorry … for what, she didn’t know. She would give anything to show her mother the accomplishments she had made in her career, to hear that her mother was proud of her. Would it cause her mother pain to know she wasn’t married, that she never went to church? Would Marion be angry or disappointed? Lydia wanted to know these answers so badly sometimes.

She looked at Juno, searching his face for some hint of the supernatural.
Like what—some kind of glowing tattoo—a third eye?
she thought. But even her own internal sarcasm couldn’t dampen the irrational and inexplicable feeling of hope that welled in her. And the images from her dream haunted her, were a tune stuck in her head, repetitive and annoying.

“Please, sit down, Ms. Strong. Tell me what I can do for you.” He led her to a pew with his hand on the small of her back. “I assume you are here to talk about Christopher Poveda.”

“Who?”

“The boy who died recently of leukemia.”

“Actually …”

“Sometimes God calls his children home, Ms. Strong. And there is nothing on earth any of us can do.”

“I’m sure that’s true, Mr. Alonzo. But I am here to ask you about Lucky, the boy’s dog you found dead in your garden.” She felt uncomfortable as she watched his face darken, aware and a bit ashamed that her interest must seem sordid to him.

“Yes?”

“Do you have any idea how the dog got there?”

“There are many people who believe that I have the power to heal. But there are many that disbelieve it—vehemently. These types of people have perpetrated acts of violence against me and this church in the past, may God forgive them.”

She listened carefully to his words and his voice, listening for a note out of key that would signal to her that he had something to hide. One of the first things she had learned at the FBI academy, being one of the few authors ever allowed to attend, was that most liars gave themselves away without ever saying a word. She scrutinized him openly, looking for a tapping foot, a clenching fist, any revealing unconscious bodily movement. But he was solid, fixed. He concentrated on his words, choosing each carefully, speaking
slowly. He seemed to speak as some people wrote, picking words specifically for their nuance and rhythm.

“So you imagined that to be an act of vandalism. Someone expressing anger that you were unable to heal Christopher?”

“I can’t imagine why anyone else would have done such an awful thing.”

“Forgive me, but it doesn’t seem to make a whole lot of sense. Why would you kill one creature to express rage that another could not be saved?”

“It’s a good question and one I have been asking myself since I fell upon the dog’s body.”

Usually, skepticism of others was part of Lydia’s natural state of existence. The words people spoke, the faces they wore in public, were rarely the path to the truth about them. The inconsistent phrase, the shifting gaze, the unconscious movement were much more certain, though more subtle, indicators of the real story behind the face. She was looking for any of those things now. Hoping for one, in fact. Because as much as the possibility that this man was a psychic and a healer had appealed to her just moments earlier, now she inexplicably wanted him to reveal himself as a fraud.

“May I see where you found him?” she asked, though she wasn’t sure what she could possibly find there.

He led her through the church, again with his hand on the small of her back. It was an odd gesture, at once intimate and authoritative. His large hand made her feel small and, as a result, vulnerable and a bit shepherded. She wondered if this was a consciously manipulative action on his part.

He held the back door open for her and she walked into the lush garden. She hadn’t noticed it before, but in the center, nestled in a bed of leafy green fernlike plants was a small statue of the
Virgin Mary holding the Baby Jesus. Standing about three feet tall and carved from some type of pink marble, there was something unusually beautiful about the sculpture. Lydia found many of the images of Madonna and Child to be cold in their religiousness, as if the emotional bond between mother and son had been forgotten. As if His sacred destiny made it that He was never Mary’s child. But He was once just a baby boy adored by his mother, wasn’t He? This had always bothered her about religion. It seemed to Lydia that someone had taken all the humanity out of it. But the face of this Virgin statue was etched with motherly adoration, a loving smile playing on her lips, her eyes brimming with emotion at the baby nestled secure and sleepy in her arms.

“This statue is remarkable,” said Lydia.

“So I’m told,” answered Juno. “My uncle, the priest who heads this parish, is a sculptor. He mainly works in wood. There’s a case at the back of the church that holds the crucifixes and rosaries he makes most often. The statue was a bit of a departure for him. He made it when we had the garden built.”

Though beautiful, the garden seemed neither as fecund nor otherworldly as it had in the dark or in her dream. But the flowers were meticulously tended, with not one weed pushing its way through the dirt. The earth looked as if it had been recently turned, as it was wet and black as tar.

“This garden is quite lively for something found in the fall, not to mention in the desert.”

“We have volunteers that tend it with great attention. I understand they do a phenomenal job. Though, of course, I’ve never seen it myself. Their scent provokes in me the imagination of color. So wonderful.”

He looked almost rapturous for a moment. Lydia found herself assailed by a flash flood of doubt. She was always suspicious of
euphoria. She considered it a state natural only to psychotics and idiots. And he did not seem to be either. But, she considered, he was a blind man of tremendous faith who had likely never strayed far from the church or the yard where they stood. The world was probably quite a different place for him than it was for her. She wondered what it was like to have such faith, to be moved to joy by the imagination of color. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt joy—in fact, wasn’t sure if she ever had in her adult life.

“Have you lived at this church all your life, Mr. Alonzo?”

“Yes, I was raised here by my uncle. Our quarters are behind the church. I suppose it’s an unusual situation, but I help him with the business of the church and accompany him with my guitar at mass.”

“And heal the sick?”

It was a guerrilla tactic, she knew, to lull people into security with innocent questions and then drop from the trees with something more direct. Juno laughed a little and shook his head. It was a laugh of resignation, with just a hint of annoyance.

“Like I said, Ms. Strong, there are people who believe I have that power.”

“What do you believe?”

He leaned against the doorjamb and appeared to be looking above her for the answer. “I believe that God can heal. People have claimed, though I myself am unconvinced, that my touch has helped them. But I believe that if even one in a million people are helped or believed they are helped by my touch, what right do I have to turn anyone away? There are far fewer people who come now. And you are the first writer I have spoken to in over a year. Only to say what I have just said to you.”

“How can it be that you don’t know if you have this power or not?”

Juno paused, as if considering whether to answer her or not. Lydia knew reporters had tried and failed to get him to tell them as much as he had already told her. Maybe he had sensed that her interest as a professional wasn’t in his curious abilities, and that is why he was so open. She didn’t think she would get any more from him and was surprised when he then went on to tell his story.

“One afternoon, after my tasks had been completed, I was reading the Bible in my room when I heard the sound of a woman’s faint sobs from the church. The sound was so hopeless, so despairing. I closed the book and rose quietly and walked toward the sound.

“The air in the church was hot and thick, and the afternoon sun, burning over a hundred degrees that day, was beating in through the west windows. When no one acknowledged me, I continued toward the pews. I could tell from the direction of the sound that the woman was sitting in the first row. I walked over and sat beside her. I could feel her misery as if it were my own. It seemed to radiate from her like a fever.

“It was Allison Drew, a young woman I had known for years through the church. The same age as I am, she had attended almost every Sunday mass with her father since she was ten years old. She had also come for the catechism classes my uncle conducted following the noon mass. She had been in a car accident that was a result of her drunk driving. The other driver had been killed and Allison was badly injured. Charges against her were pending. She had lost her vision but, according to what her father told us, she would probably gain it back. That had not happened yet.

“I did not ask her any questions but slid closer to her and put my arm around her shoulder. She leaned her head against me, and wept. She sensed that there was no need for her to speak, and there wasn’t. I could feel her pain, her shame, her hopelessness for the
future, her sorrow for the life she took. I knew no words would comfort her. So, instead, I kissed her forehead gently and breathed into her all the love and forgiveness I knew God would offer her.

“ ‘God has already forgiven you, Allison. Forgive yourself,’ I told her.

“Four days later, Allison regained her sight. She told people that I had healed her, that I had told her of God’s forgiveness. She told them that I knew her feelings without words. People believed. They began to seek me out for guidance.

“I was very uncomfortable with this new role. But I didn’t have the heart to turn them away. I thought,
Maybe God is helping people through me, maybe this is why I am on this earth
. And I found that, somehow, my words had the power to help people solve their problems. When people spoke to me, they felt understood. Maybe it was just because I listened.

“Several months after I saw Allison, a couple who had traveled from several towns away brought their autistic son Morgan to me. I was reluctant, but agreed to spend time with him, though I was not sure how I could help the child. In my heart I knew I hadn’t healed Allison, even if she had convinced herself and others that I had. While I did not mind counseling people who sought my advice, I did not want them to be deceived into thinking that I could heal their sick. But the couple seemed so desperate, so needy, I couldn’t say no.”

Juno had stuck both his hands in his pockets and had turned his eyes toward the ground. He wore a confused and sad expression, as if he still didn’t quite believe what had happened to him. He seemed to be offering the story to her, not quite expecting her to make sense of the events as they had played out, not quite able to make sense of them himself.

“I brought him into the church recreation room where
catechism classes were held while his parents waited, praying in the church. The boy sat on a chair silent and perfectly motionless, smelling lightly of soap and talcum powder. I touched his hair, which had been close-cropped for the summer months. It felt like the bristles of a brush, hard and fuzzy at the same time.

“Thirty minutes passed. The boy was a locked box. Whatever was happening inside his head, there was no energy leaking out for me to feel or recognize.
The boy’s soul is on inside out
, I thought;
he’s sealed inside himself
. I had the sense that Morgan’s life was playing on a movie screen inside his head, two-dimensional and distant. Morgan was a witness to what went on around him but could not participate.

“Suddenly, while I was speaking to him, telling him the story of Noah’s Ark, the child issued a brief, blood-curdling scream. Then he sat still again, as if he had never opened his mouth. He frightened me and I moved away from him and began to play my guitar, not knowing what else to do.

“After a full hour, I took Morgan back out to his parents. I told them I didn’t think I had helped their son. They thanked me for my efforts and left solemn and disappointed.

“As I heard them drive away, I felt angry with myself for not being able to reach the boy, for being so inept in the face of Morgan’s obvious need. I wondered if it was God’s intention for Morgan to remain as he was, or if I had failed in a task set before me.