Past the weathered mesquite doors, Michael felt a welcoming warmth that was in part his relief to again be inside a church but also this particular church, with its ornate carvings, painted statues, and faded frescoes. Even if the colors had dimmed over time, indications of a vivid interior remained, as on the corner supports of the dome before the sanctuary, where large wooden angels perched, bearing bright banners.
He slipped into a well-worn wooden pew at the rear, on the aisle, next to a Papago family, the father with his straw hat in the lap of his threadbare brown suit, the mother in a dark blue dress touched gently with lace at collar and cuffs, and two boys, perhaps nine and eleven, in black confirmation suits that hadn’t had a chance to get worn out yet. They were obviously comfortable here, in this warm and lived-in sanctuary, suffering the presence of tourists with quiet dignity.
The church interior was more elaborate than your typical Spanish mission church. Colorfully painted religious statues filled niches, and on the ceiling and walls were panels detailing Christ’s life and death and resurrection. The somewhat crude execution indicated these were likely the work of primitive painters, but though the faces held little expression, Michael found the depictions deeply moving.
When he took Communion, Michael got a closer look at the altar, which — beneath the wide sanctuary arch — was vividly painted, polychrome with gilt touches, and arrayed with images of the patron saint Xavier and of the Virgin, as well as scrolls and cherubs. The altar itself was backed by an intricately carved brick and stucco retable.
The service lasted forty minutes, but Michael lingered afterward, sitting alone in the sanctuary but for an occasional tourist, who climbed to the choir loft for a better look and to flash photos.
He prayed for his family. He prayed for forgiveness for himself and his father. He prayed for a miracle for his boy, Mike. But mostly he prayed for guidance and strength. When he settled back in the pew, he felt a presence beside him — it was Father Francisco, a Mexican American in his late forties with a dark-brown face, creped by sun and responsibility; his eyes were large and dark and kind.
The father sat beside Michael in the pew and said, “You don’t look like our typical tourist.”
“I’m not a tourist, Father.” He introduced himself, shaking hands with the priest, then said, “I’m local. My family and I just moved here.”
“And you’re looking for a church?”
“We are. But I’ve missed mass for a few weeks, and I’d heard about your lovely church... It really is quite beautiful... and, well—”
A wonderful smile broke through the leathery face. “You needn’t apologize for stopping by to see us, Mr. Smith. And you and your family would be welcome here.”
“My wife has lost her faith.”
It just came out.
The kind dark eyes did not tense. Gently, the priest said only, “Why?”
“Lot of reasons. Starting with our son is MIA in Vietnam. And... we got rather violently uprooted from our old life, and dropped down here in Arizona, kind... kind of like Dorothy in Oz.”
The priest nodded. “A move takes adjustment. And the loss of a son is an adjustment we never really make. It’s the kind of wound that doesn’t heal. But if your wife could find her way back to the loving embrace of our Lord, that would be a start.”
“I know. I know.”
“If you’d like to take confession—”
“No! Uh, no. Thank you, Father. You really do have a beautiful church here at San Xavier. Pleasure meeting you.”
The priest took his cue and rose and allowed Michael out of the pew. “As I said — you and your family are always welcome here. We do have several Anglo families who are members.”
“Thank you, Father.”
Outside, Michael moved quickly to his Lincoln in the parking lot. Across the way, tourists were buying trinkets and finger food — somehow it cheapened the experience. No way would he give confession, though he had two more killings on his conscience, Tommy and Jackie, those DeStefano crew would-be hitters he’d taken out at Cal-Neva.
But that had been self-defense, or at least in defense of his family (admittedly he’d pretty much just whacked Jackie), and he felt he could sort that out with God personally. He would make do without an intermediary in a collar. Besides, even after all these years, he had vivid memories of the pale faces of the priests who emerged from their side of the confessional after his father, the legendary Angel of Death, had dropped by to cash in his latest sins for forgiveness.
Still, Michael felt refreshed somehow, as he drove back to Paradise Estates. Relieved that he and the Man Upstairs were on speaking terms again. He found the pageantry and the Latin liturgy and the Host on the tongue all reassuring; he was taken back to his childhood, before his mother and brother were gone, when the world was big and unknowable but his life had been small and secure.
A stray thought popped into his mind: after Connor Looney killed Mama and Peter, his father had gone to the Looney mansion, to beard the lion in his den; but, before leaving the boy to sit in the car in the dark, Papa had given him a gun and said, “If I’m not back in an hour, go to Reverend Dodd at First Methodist for sanctuary.”
Papa did not want Michael going to Father Calloway at St. Pete’s, because mob money had built that church.
“No sanctuary there,” he’d said.
And one other thing Papa had made very clear: heaven was the next life; this life was hell, and just navigating through its flames was enough to keep a man busy.
When Michael pulled the Lincoln in the drive, Pat came flying out the front door, a whirlwind in a yellow pants suit. For a split second he thought she was glad to see him, and wanted to rush into his arms as a result of last night’s rekindling.
And she was glad to see him, but not because their love had been renewed or that she’d reconsidered about joining a church...
Her eyes were wide and hysterical, and her voice quavered with terror: “Oh, Mike — Anna’s gone! She’s gone!”
She gripped his arms with steel fingers.
His hands found her shoulders. “Easy, baby, easy. Go slow.”
The words were a rush: “I called across the street, at the Parhams’... to see if Anna wanted to have lunch with us.”
“Right. She and Cindy and some girlfriends were having a slumber party...”
“But they weren’t!” Her eyes and nostrils flared, and words streamed: “Molly Parham said she thought Cindy was staying with us last night — Molly’s fit to be tied, too, but she isn’t part of the Witness Goddamn Fucking Protection Program, with gangsters wanting to kill her and her whole fucking family!”
He took her into his arms and patted her gently, saying into her ear, “Settle down, honey, settle down — it’s nothing. Just a couple of high school girls putting one over on their parents. Just a bunch of kids trying to...” He remembered Anna’s words. “...Get out from under their parents’ thumbs for one night.”
Pat pulled away to look at him, her dark blue eyes showing red-tinged white all around. “No, no it’s worse than that. She’s gone, Michael. She’s run off!”
“What makes you think that? Did she leave a note?”
Pat shook her head, her blonde locks flouncing, as if the hair itself were as hysterical as its owner. “No... but come inside, Mike. Come inside.”
His wife dragged him by the hand through the living room and down the hallway to the bedrooms, and into Anna’s. She yanked the closet open, dramatically, and then opened several doors, and showed him.
“Most of her clothes are gone,” Pat said, working to control herself now. Making her case. “Not everything — she left enough for me to maybe not notice, right away. And her little powder-blue suitcase, that’s gone, too.”