“Where did you think you were?”
Wilson lay back in relief. “Venezuela.”
“Oh, yes, the Bolivarian Republic, as they say. Godless and spoiling for a fight. So you obliged them, eh?”
Wilson didn’t answer.
“Looks like they got the better of you. How many of them did you kill?”
Wilson shot him a look. “I didn’t…. I don’t know. My target was not people.” Wilson caught himself before he went any further. Shut up, you idiot!
“Doesn’t matter, really, now does it? Washington and Caracas have a disagreement, and they send you to kill Venezuelan boys. Guess it’s like shouting to win an argument. They kill; you kill. Someone will eventually stop shouting, and the other is declared the winner. He who shouts last, eh? Will defeating Venezuela make you happy?”
“No, it’s a job.”
“Well, then. It seems you are dedicated to it. I mean, it sounds like you’ve cheated death once, and you were on the brink of it again — until you stumbled across my little slice o’ heaven. Would ya give your life for this job? How much do they pay you?”
Wilson looked out the window.
“Not enough, I should think. They don’t pay me but a few shillings, either, and I’ve lived in the forest for decades, with the cold, the heat, and disease, and with no medical treatment. Fifty years. Most of my mates have gone on to their reward, yet here I remain, in the mud — blessed by God.”
“Thanks for serving mankind, Father.”
“Oh, don’t mention it. It’s my job to save souls this way. You… you seem to save them another way.”
Wilson winced from the barb, and the pain, as he shifted his weight.
“You are a filthy mess, and we need to clean you up. I have a bathtub over yonder. I’ll draw some hot water and put you in for a soak. Then, we’ll have some tea.”
After Father Dan set a bucket of water over the wood stove to boil, he used a hose to fill the tub halfway with water held in a cistern above it. Wilson struggled to remove his flight suit but needed help. Although his foot was swollen and painful, it could bear some of his weight, and he could still wiggle his toes.
Removing the last stitch of Wilson’s clothing, Father Dan led him to the tub. The hot mixed with cold made for a perfect temperature as Wilson lowered his body into the water. He felt an immediate melting away of tension and pain.
“Here, you can scrub your neck with this,” Father Dan said as he handed Wilson a flimsy washcloth. “And here’s some soap. You’ll probably need the whole bar.”
Just then a vehicle drove up. Alarmed, Wilson sat up, his eyes darting from the window to Father Dan.
“Don’t worry. It’s just Monique back from town. She won’t be a moment.”
Wilson lowered himself in the tub as he listened to Monique’s footsteps. She walked up to the door and knocked.
“Come in, lass.”
When she opened the door, Monique gasped with fear as she saw Wilson in the tub. Embarrassed and vulnerable, Wilson looked back at her with wide eyes.
“Monique, this is Jim. He’s an American. Had some trouble with his airplane a few days ago and is in need of a bath and clean clothes. Can you take his jumper and underwear and wash them for him?”
Monique was still in shock as she noted the torn, mud-covered flight suit. Afraid she would run screaming and tell who-knew-who that he was there, Wilson gave her a weak wave and said nothing. He wanted the American Embassy to rescue him, not the local gendarme or some other stranger he couldn’t trust. And he still wasn’t one hundred per cent sure he could trust Father Cody. What have I done?
Monique spoke first. “Father, what have you done now? Why are you helping this soldier?”
“My dear, haven’t you been paying attention? That’s what I do, and I can assure you, after speaking with him a while, this man needs help. Big time as they say.”
Averting her eyes, Monique busied herself and gathered up Wilson’s clothing and the soiled bedspread. She took them to the vehicle and returned with a load of Father Dan’s clothing, neatly folded. She set the stack on his dresser and then placed a bag of dry-cleaned clothes in his small wardrobe.
“Monique, could we trouble you for his clothes by morning? Our guest may not be here too much longer.”
Wilson remained as inconspicuous as possible in the cooling water of the tub.
Having finished her tasks, Monique grabbed her keys and stepped to the door. “Father Dan, you stay here and out of trouble. And no more soldiers!” She glanced at Wilson with a combination of fear and disapproval as she left.
“Good night, my dear. See you in the morning. A basket of your mother’s cinnamon rolls would be a special treat for our guest — and yours truly.”
“You be good, Father!” Monique scolded from outside. Wilson heard the car start and pull away into the twilight to return the ten miles to town.
“She’s gone, lad. You can get out now. Here’s a towel for ya, and I think we can wrap you in blankets till she returns tomorrow.”
Wilson, in his weakness, realized with dread that the woman had his flight suit — with his ID card in it. Father Dan noticed the wave of fear that swept over him.
“What’s the matter, Jim?”
“She has my ID card. It’s in the pocket of my flight suit. It’s important and I need it back.”
“Well, you’ll get it back tomorrow. It may be a little soggy, but she’ll bring it back. Monique is trustworthy, and she’s much more than a scrubwoman. She’s a big help to me serving my little parish out here, doing things for people I cannot. You have nothing to fear, Jim. You are safe here. Be not afraid. You’ll like Monique when she gets to know you better. You must admit, a half-dead soldier is a fearful sight. Most of the people of Trinidad are followers of Jesus Christ, but they keep voodoo in their back pocket, if you know what I mean.”
The priest helped Wilson out of the tub and helped to dry him off. He then offered, as clothing, his own robe and gave him a glass of water. Wilson, still exhausted, lay down in the bed and started to think about Mary and the Firebirds.
He soon drifted into a light sleep and awoke to a rhythmic voice. He opened his eyes to get his bearings and realized he was in the darkened cabin. Father Dan was murmuring in his Irish brogue.
Wilson listened for a while as Father Dan recited the same prayer over and over from his chair on the other side of the room. Hail Mary. A “Hail Mary” touchdown pass. He could use a Hail Mary right about now.
He listened closer as Father repeated the words and then drifted back into unconsciousness.
At the laundromat in town, a nervous Monique pushed the flight suit into the top load washing machine with Wilson’s underwear and socks. She had never seen this fabric before, covered in mud as it was. And stinking to high heaven. She wanted to wash the load fast and get out of there. Could she put this fabric in a dryer? She decided to take the chance.
“Monique, how is our good Father today?” asked her friend Mariella across the counter.
Monique turned with a start. “Oh, he’s fine. Ate all his food. He’s fine.” She returned to her laundry.
“He needs to pray for us. The Americans are making war everywhere over our heads. They will bring evil to us. All so they can take our oil!”
Monique kept her head down and ignored her.
“I can hear their warplanes and bombs in the night. What kind of men kill like this? They are monsters!”