Ceremony of Flies (9 page)

All the while they’ve been talking, the nun has been leading us along the walkway. We pass doors with metal straps holding the wide wooden slats in place. The doors look like they belong in an Old West fort. Howdy, Sheriff. Right nice weather we’re having.

We pass one with its door ajar. Inside there’s a tiny wooden bed and a roughhewn stand holding a ceramic pot. A chamber pot! What the fuck. The tiny room looks as though it should be behind glass in a museum, like letters from Buffalo Bill might be in the drawers of the writing desk.

A hunky-looking version of Jesus on the cross hangs crooked on the wall like some lonely little nun has hastily replaced it.
Fuck me, Jesus
, I can’t stop myself from thinking. Chances are I’m going to hell anyway. If there is such a thing.

Harvey grips my hand and clutches my leg. It makes walking difficult, but I don’t shake him off. I think about it though. Baldy slinks along with us. He growls at everything. The dog does not seem to like it here. The boy doesn’t seem all that thrilled either. He’s a weird kid. He’s not interested in anything. He just keeps his eyes focused straight ahead.

“Are you the only one here?” I ask, because what the hell is she doing out here in the middle of nowhere. This place is seriously weird.

“Father and I are caretakers for the mission.”

Something’s not right but I can’t say what it is. I’ve got this feeling that’s making the hair on the back of my neck prickle.

Maybe they’ve got a phone. Or, I don’t know, a telegraph machine. What’s the Morse code for SOS? Ha! Save Our Souls. That’s a good one.

“Where is your father?” I ask. He’s probably not
her
father, I think, as soon as the words leave my mouth. But who knows, maybe he is.

Rex shoots me a look like I’m being rude.

I guess maybe I did use a little bit of tone. Freckles, the cheerful nun, doesn’t seem to mind.

“Father’s gone down to the well. He should be back before long. I’m sure he heard the bell. Are you hungry? I’ve prepared a meal. It’s extra yummy.” Freckles smiles and gestures to an open door.

A single fly, bigger than an ordinary housefly, zooms and swoops through the doorway.

The nun narrows her eyes and looks at Harvey as she reaches into the folds of her habit in the general area where a pocket might be and takes out something that looks like a rolled-up newspaper.

Fuck.

They get newspapers.

“Father always comes when he hears the bell.” She gives me one of those looks mean girls give when teachers or their parents are around. Or maybe it’s not that kind of look at all, but something about it makes me edgy.

She swats at a fly.

As soon as she swats one, there are more. They perch on the doorjamb, the lips of the flower boxes and every surface they can find. The nun’s swatting only stirs them up. They’re bigger than any flies I’ve ever seen. I’ll bet their maggots are seriously disgusting.

“Ouch!” Rex grabs his neck. “Damned biting flies.” His face turns bright red. “Sorry, Sister. I didn’t mean to cuss.” He smacks his arm, his thigh, his shoulder.

The flies aren’t biting me.

I look down at Harvey.

The nun laughs all delicate like. “Are you hungry?”

“I
am
hungry,” Rex says and grins extra wide. He scratches the welt on his neck as he waits for me, Harvey and Baldy to pass through the door. I try to catch Rex’s eye because what the fuck is wrong with this picture, but he’s too busy making googly eyes at the little Lolita nun.

The room, just like the rest of the place, looks like it belongs in a museum. In the corner, a big cast-iron pot blips and glubs on a wood-burning stove. A long, rough-looking picnic table is set with five settings just like they knew we were coming.

They couldn’t know we were coming.

“Is that a newspaper?” I ask.

Obviously.

“May I see it?”

The nun gives it to me still rolled up.

It’s got a squashed fly stuck to it. I scrape it off and unroll the paper. The headlines are in some weird language I don’t recognize, Cyrillic or Arabic or something. The numbers are the same though.

It’s the 584
^th
of Tzolkin. Or it would be that if that’s how you pronounce a
Z
facing the wrong way. They must be using the Chinese calendar. I should have learned how that thing works. Is it the year of the Tzolkin? The name sounds like one of those animals they only have in Australia.

The pictures in the paper are blurry and grainy to the point of being incomprehensible. At least they are to me.

“Thanks.” I give the paper back to her. The good news is neither my name nor picture made the headlines.

There’s always tomorrow.

“Please have a seat,” the nun says. She’s smiling like one of those pictures of saints on the candles at the grocery store. Her happiness is way out of proportion to reality.

I mean, I’m happy too, but damn. Okay, I’m relatively happy… All right, I could eat something.

Rex grabs Harvey and swings him up in the air before plopping him down on the bench.

The kid doesn’t squeal or squirm or react at all. Is something wrong with him? Is he sick?

Rex sits down next to him, unfolds a napkin and puts it in Harvey’s lap. The kid looks like he’s scanning the place for an escape route.

Sister of the Blessed Good Cheer motions me to come over by her.

I go over by the stove and she puts a knife in my hand.

It does not look that sharp.

“Will you slice the bread?” she asks.

Why me? Is there something about having a uterus that predestines me for kitchen duty? I hate that sexist shit. I hate it most when it comes from women. But what the fuck, it’s just a little bread.

“Sure,” I say. “What’s your name? Or…what should we call you?” I ask her mainly because I’m running out of nicknames to amuse myself with.

A round loaf with an X on the top sits on a stone plate. It looks more artisan than artisan. It looks authentic. With the knife, I saw on it. The blade could be sharper.

“I’m Sister Azrael.”

Azrael, why does that name sound familiar? Isn’t that the angel of something? Weird name for a nun.

“You hungry, kid?” Rex asks Harvey.

“I don’t eat the food for the dead.” He shoves the tin plate away.

The nun’s mouth falls open and she stares at Harvey like he took a shit on the baby Jesus.

“Ha, ha.” I make myself laugh. I don’t think I’m fooling anyone. “Kids say the weirdest things.”

I’m kind of wishing I was sitting next to Harvey instead of across from him because it’d be easier to ignore the defiant look on his face. Is he about to have a temper tantrum? I’m not sure what to do if that happens. At least he’d finally be doing a kid thing. I suppose I should smack him. I think that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Harvey, true to his word, doesn’t touch the food on his plate.

Baldy doesn’t have similar qualms. He slurps and gulps from the dish the nun gives him. It’s the most disgusting noise I’ve ever heard.

Sister Azrael, Azzie I’m going to call her for short, doesn’t eat anything herself. She sits down right next to Rex and slides a big leather-bound book in front of her. She opens it up. Flecks of dust rise up from it and glitter in the light streaming in through the window. Bet that old thing has a serious silverfish infestation. Wedged in between the parchment pages is a bird feather. She takes it out and dips it into a bottle of ink. These people take their reenactment fantasies way too seriously.

“Name of the Mister?” Azzie flutters her eyelashes at Rex.

He doesn’t seem to mind one bit.

“You want to write my name in that book?”

“I do.” She leans over and kisses him on the cheek.

I didn’t think nuns were supposed to do shit like that.

Rex looks at her like he’s in love or some fucking thing and tells her his name.

She writes it in big flourishy letters, then looks at me.

“Me?”

She nods.

“Emily,” I say.

Fuck, I should have lied about my name. The last thing I need is to be on the record.

“Emily…Dickinson.”

She doesn’t react to the name even a little. She just writes it down and looks at it on the page. She picks up her napkin and leans across the table to dip the corner in my glass of water. She rubs the page like she’s trying to wash one of the names away. I can’t see which one.

A darkness blocks the light from the door.

“Fra Serra!” The nun squeals with glee. She snaps the book shut.

Spanish Missions

Fra Juníper Serra, on behalf of the royal family of Spain, founded the mission system California. He worked at the enterprise until his death at age 70.

The purpose of the missions was to convert and educate the Native Americans in the hopes of turning them into ordinary taxpaying citizens.

El Camino Real, The Royal Road, connected all of the California missions. It eventually became Highway 101.

After Mexico gained independence from Spain in 1821, it could no longer afford to keep the missions running. The land and buildings were offered for sale to the Native Americans. Still not in favor of making payments to invaders, they declined.

During his presidency, President Abraham Lincoln formally required the return of the missions to the Roman Catholic Church. The missions that haven’t declined into an unsafe state of decay still operate as churches. They hold regular services.

Most are open to the public.

9

“Hey, Kitty.” Rex rolls a cigarette and dampens it down with his lips before handing it to me. That kind of grosses me out, but I take it anyway. “You ever watch one of them telenovellas on the Spanish TV?”

“I’ve seen them, I guess, flipping through channels. But I’ve never watched one all the way through if that’s what you mean. Why?”

He flicks open his Zippo and strikes it for me. I only ever smoked weed and I almost choke myself on the first hit of the cigarette.

We’re sitting in chairs made of wood slats out in front of the room Sister Azzie says is going to be ours. The room is small and cramped as a cave with a bed that’s only a little wider than a single and a cot for the kid. I guess they think we’re married. They must, because they’re religious and it doesn’t seem like they’d approve of out-of-wedlock shenanigans. I sure as hell don’t want to tell them the real story.

The sun’s hovering around the horizon. The light is causing all the shadows to turn painterly shades of pink and violet. Dark will show up before long. I’m dreading the dark more than usual. I can’t really say why. I’ve got this feeling like sleeping in that little bed is the point of no return. Stupid, I know. I passed that bump in the road a long time ago.

“I’ve been thinking I might have a face that’d be good for Spanish TV,” Rex says.

The magic-hour light is especially kind to Rex. He isn’t bad. Not at all. I’d hook up with him under normal circumstances, but circumstances aren’t all that normal.

“Yeah, I can see that.” I smile at him. I don’t think I’ve smiled once through this whole thing. It feels good.

“I’m going to look into that once we get to Mexico.” Rex scratches his leg with his thumbnail. Then he scratches his neck. That fly bite looks like it’s getting infected. It’s swelling up.

That’s pretty awesome that Rex is planning what to do in Mexico. It’s like we’re together in this for real.

Cool.

It feels like we’re at a motel, like we’re on some family vacation. The stuff that happened—Vegas, Barstow—seems like a long time ago. Like it happened to somebody else. I get this feeling like we’re in Mexico already.

Safe.

The outline of
The Padre,
as Rex insists on calling him, materializes at the distant edge of the mission compound. He’s got Harvey sitting up on his shoulders, which is seriously weird considering how hard Harvey fought when the father first suggested he show Harvey the well. I like the idea that someone else would be in charge of the kid for a minute so I pulled him off me and handed him over. That kid can really scream. I’m not sure why he would need to see a well, but whatever. Maybe the father secretly baptized him. Couldn’t hurt, I guess. The kid seems like he’s going to grow up to be a troublemaker.

Baldy lopes along beside the boy and the priest. Their shapes are silhouettes that gradually take on dimension. At least he’s bringing Harvey back. All priests can’t be bad, right?

I’m not sure what this feeling is I have. It’s kind of like having a two-beer buzz when a band is playing a really great song. I wish we could all stay frozen in this old-postcard moment forever.