“I have come to help you repent, my son,” said the Father.
“I'd rather you brought me dinner,” said Luis. “A nice roasted chicken. Some baked beans. That, to me, is heaven.”
“What was the last meal eaten by the prisoner you killed, I wonder?” asked the Father.
“It was a sacrifice, Padre. Payment. For La Santa.”
The Father swallowed; another sacrifice.
“There are real Saints for these times. St. Jude Thaddeus, Saint of desperate causes.”
“He is for some other Mexico,” said Luis. “I used to work for a tourist company. Then came the swine flu. No more tourists. Then the drought. My mother can't even grow vegetables anymore. The cartels are the only way to survive, and their god is The Skinny One.”
“I'm from Sinaloa. I used to run with traffickers before you were born. Before del Golfo started the wars. Then, one day...” Father Juarez tapped his cane against his leg. “But the Lord saw that I should live.”
“And what a life you have, begging dogs like us to say we're sorry.”
“There. I saw it. In your heart you know The White Child is false. I'm leaving now.”
Luis whipped around, angry. “You're not leaving! I see you here! You're just as much a prisoner as we are!”
Father Juarez coughed. “Perhaps. But when I'm hungry, I eat. Right now I feel like a nice piece of spicy chicken.” Luis lunged for the Padre through the bars. But he couldn't reach the old man, who was already hobbling away.
No comments:
Post a Comment