Saint of the Burning Heart

CHAPTER ONE

Nicki rode the bus all night to get home to Encendido, Santa del Corazón Encendido, Saint of the Burning Heart: From the barren plains surrounding Dallas to the hills flowing across far-Western Texas, rocky green hills covered with grama grass, yucca, catclaw, cholla, things lush, sharp, sun-smelling, thorny.

The bus wound its way on two-lane asphalt, where windmills spliced the air and boulders lay in untidy heaps against the hills, through the lonely land, which, due to the altitude and endless sky, had the look and feel of a hawk balanced on the wind: Swaying, high, free and contented in the brilliant light.

Now the bus was careening into the square and coming to a stop with a shudder and a wheeze.

Here you go lady, this is Encendido, the bus driver said. I hope you know the favor I done you, letting that dog ride.

Lugging her suitcase from the rack, Nicki grabbed the grubby rope and led the yellow dog down the steps, where David bounded to her side and lifted her, whirling her in a half circle

Corazón! he said.

David was taller than she was, and he shone, as if fire burned behind his skin then flowed outward to his dark eyes, whitening the scar zigzagging down his jaw, down to brown arms glowing against his white tee-shirt.

Looking up while pecking his cheek, Nicki saw the expression on his face and pulled away, dread filling her heart.

How is Doña Paulita? she asked him, her words flowing up and down, in Spanish-accented rhythms.

Nicki, it’s real bad.

No. No.

Yes, pobrecita, it was yesterday, after I sent you the telegram.

Incredulous, Nicki gasped, her spirit drifting into a cold and empty void, like a balloon careening through space. Where could she go for comfort and support? It couldn’t be.

Where is she?

At her house, when Doña Paulita was in the hospital she told mama to lay her out the old way. Lots of people been by to pay their respects.

Why was she sick?

She went to Mass and fell down, all unconscious. Her face looked funny, sort of twisted. The people was all waiting at the hospital and praying the rosary but Doña Paulita passed away.

Blindly she walked, leaning on David, across the square with the 19th century buildings pressed wall-to-wall, one long block filled with an adobe warehouse, with WOOL MOHAIR FEED painted directly on the plaster above the wide, wooden warehouse door.

A red limestone courthouse squatted in the middle of the square, surrounded by cottonwood trees dressed in fall colors.

Two blocks later, standing on the sidewalk in front of the townhouse, Nicki was so shocked to see the stone house unchanged by calamitous death she dropped the suitcase and sat on it, her face in her hands.

Encendido did not host a more glamorous house. It was Victorian and even had a turret. But the neighborhood was now filled with small businesses, most of which were stuffed into what were once family homes, and cars passed them on their way to the shoe repair shop, the insurance agency, a barbecue stand and the IGA; the town’s only modern supermarket.

Startled faces stared at her from the cars and she thought, bitterly, yes, Nicki, the wild one, is back. In five minutes everyone will know.

Nicki, you don’t have to see her now, come on, let’s go over to my house, David said.

Shaking her head, Nicki tottered to the door, accompanied by the dog’s anxious whining.

Inside, well-loved scents filled the air; old wood, furniture polish, musty, accumulated years, even Doña Paulita’s special perfume, which put its hand around her heart and squeezed.

If her adopted mother still lived, she would have melted in relief, contentment, rest, but nothing moved in this hush. The narrow, short hallway, with its shiny wood floors and stairs leading to the second floor, failed to echo a human voice, nor did the empty, spice-smelling kitchen down the hall.

Double doors stood to her right, and she knew exactly what she would find if she walked into the formal living room. Nothing would have changed. Brocaded sofa, marble-topped rosewood tables, over-stuffed chairs, would be sitting where Paulita O’Connor arranged them fifty years earlier; in 1916.

On the left, though, Nicki knew she would find what she looked for and dreaded to find.

Taking a deep breath, she jerked the library doors open then dropped the dog’s rope and leaned on David.

Doña Paulita lay in her casket on the library table, her face lit by candles sitting at both ends of the shiny mahogany wood. Paulita’s hands were crossed on her chest and she wore the same black dress she had worn to Mass as long as Nicki could remember.

Gold-coin earrings Paulita never removed still dangled from her ears. They were stamped with the Mexican national symbol, an eagle clutching a snake in its beak.

Paulita still looked perfect, as she had in life, her white hair piled on her head, not a wave out of place, her lips curled in the same regal smile. But this was a wax effigy stretched over hollow nothingness. A puffy blue tinge now covered Paulita’s strong bones.

A body was not inappropriate for a room featuring red Victorian wallpaper and a marble fireplace so clean inside it did not contain a puff of ash. The grandfather clock was ticking with dolorous weight.

No es verdad, Nicki whispered, sobs ripping from her throat. She dropped into the leather armchair beside the coffin.

Corazón, David whispered, laying his hand on Nicki’s shoulder.

Someone opened the door and she heard Frank say, What are you doing here Rodríguez?

What strength she had left flowed down Nicki’s body and puddled on the floor.

Glaring at David, Frank glanced at Nicki with masked eyes, then turned venomously back to the other man: Get out, Frank said, snatching his Stetson from his head and clutching it to his side.

You forget, Doña Paulita was my tía and I got a right to be here, David said.

Wrong. Your family is a bunch of ignorant peons whose mothers screwed half Texas.

Seeing David’s muscles bunch into ready knots, Nicki grabbed his arm. It felt like warm iron.

Stop, she said to Frank.

Big man, David said, jerking away from Nicki, You got a month to stay county commissioner. After election day, you Anglos are gonna line up with your hat in your hands asking us for favors, like we been doing all these years. And I was the one done it to you.

Yeah? The next time I send you to the slammer, you won’t get out until your dick falls off.

Frank stepped toward David but Nicki pushed Frank backward, feeling the cool leather jacket under her hands.

Leave him alone, leave him alone, she pleaded.

The dog sprang to his feet and growled at Frank.

Over her shoulder, Frank smiled at David.

And if you think you’re going to marry into the family, since we know Nick here will do anything, you’re dreaming.

Throwing Nicki a look of disgust, Frank turned for the hall and slammed the front door as he left the house.

David grabbed at her, but Nicki slipped from his hands and caught Frank on the front steps.

I need to talk to you, she said.

Nick, give it up. The last time you came looking for me I couldn’t walk for three months.

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to do it.

Sure, he said, trying to pass her without looking her in the eye.

Seeing him in morning light stunned her, her memory crowded with each time she had ever seen his rust-red hair shining in the sun, the scattering of freckles under his green eyes, so hostile now they looked like water rippling under ice.

Smoothing his jacket’s sheepskin collar, her hand traveled to his lips, her heart fluttering in the old way, wanting him in the old way.

Again? he said, jerking his head away, are we going to do this again buster? How many times do I have to tell you I don’t want you around?

You lie, you always lie.

He swept her hand aside and bounded down the steps, fleeing as fast as he could without breaking into a run. She could hear his boots tapping the sidewalk.

I’m coming to see you, she called to his retreating back, her heart beating like a drum roll.

CHAPTER TWO

Alone, Nicki heard the clock’s ponderous ticking and the body’s equally ponderous, unmoving weight.

This could not be Doña Paulita, who had always been so alive.

From that inherited splendor to this frail body was a long fall.

A familiar voice said, What are you doing here?

Turning to see the priest’s black suit and collar, she snapped, What do you think?

Father Dañiel Muñoz stalked to the coffin and closed the lid.

Open it, I want to see her, Nicki said, drawing long shuddering breaths. She had cried so hard her nose felt bruised.

I suppose you’re here for the funeral Mass. But I hope and pray you leave town shortly thereafter, the priest said.

It’s none of your business what I do. Open the coffin, she said, wiping her nose on her sweater. She pressed her face into her cool hands, then lit another camel from one of the three packs she would empty that day.

Paulita would tell you to leave. You’ve done enough damage to yourself and others without insisting on this spectacle. The sheriff won’t be glad to see you.

I don’t need your opinion, Nicki said, Sheriff Robert Burkman’s heavy jowls flashing into her uneasy mind.

And you don’t speak for Reina, Nicki said.

She never liked you. She said people left St. Joseph’s because of you, Nicki added.

Stop that dog growling at me.

I don’t tell him what to do. He’s my friend.

What happened to the four strays you left town with?

When did you begin caring about my animals?

Dañiel, pronounced Danyell, in the Spanish way, was only forty-five, but his graying black hair made him look older, and the deep creases traveling down his face marked him like an invalid suffering from a long illness.

You’re one of my parishioners, he said.

The only time I went to Mass is when Reina made me go, but if it’s any of your business, I found homes for my dogs. They couldn’t come with me.

Then how did you get this one?

I found him at the bus station in Dallas, she said, tentatively adding, Frank was here.

Ah, dear Frank, your devil of a brother, or nephew, or whatever he is. Did you manage to avoid violence?

He’s coming to the funeral isn’t he?

Try not to play games with me.

How is he?

How is he? Dañiel mused. Frank never changes. His heart is on leave from normality. He hasn’t been here to see his own grandmother in more than a year. When I went to the ranch after his father was killed, he personally came to the door, as drunk as it’s possible to be and not die of alcohol poisoning. Then he turned to a whole room full of people and said ‘Pope lovers can kiss my shiny white rosary.’ Those were his exact words, and I am absolutely sure he was christened a Catholic.

When Nicki smiled with a child’s delight, Dañiel’s face turned red. Stop smirking. You know what he did to his father don’t you? Didn’t Paulita tell you how John L. died?

That was an accident.

Dañiel played with his gold seminary ring, twisting it.

Smiling at Dañiel, Nicki stood up, put her hands on the coffin, closed her eyes and opened the lid. She took a step back and took a deep breath, but seeing Doña Paulita’s body shook her as badly as it did the first time she saw it.

If she saw Paulita’s body fifty times, her heart would still plunge into longing and disbelief.

Dañiel jerked the red curtains open and light rushed in, highlighting both heads of black hair, Nicki’s so dark it had blue highlights.

This is barbaric, Dañiel said, I thought Paulita was a little beyond this, theologically speaking, but I suppose she needed one last performance as princess of Spain; probably to spite me.

Why do you do things like this, close coffins? Nicki stepped back from the body and waved her cigarette in the air, with what she considered nonchalance. You fought with her, with everybody, and people here respect priests. What does it matter if she wanted this?

Candles should burn in front of the Virgin, not human flesh. Paulita’s death does not make her eligible for worship.

Nobody is worshiping!

I won’t tolerate this, if you tolerate one thing, it encourages these people. They still put jewelry, those damn promesas, on the saints, as if heaven takes bribes before answering prayers. They bring those silver body parts they call milagros to church and think they’ll be healed, a silver ear for a human ear, a hand for a hand. Ridiculous.

What do you care if it makes them feel better? When you don’t let them do what they have always done in church, you force them to worship at shrines.

You’re just like them. He snorted. At heart, you’re all Indians. For all I know, you people still worship the moon. Dañiel sighed. She didn’t really dislike me, did she? I was her confessor.

I don’t know. It’s been a long time.

She immediately regretted sparing him because Dañiel, before Nicki could stop him, decisively closed the lid on the coffin and turned to leave.

Dañiel’s tactical retreat stalled at the appearance of a plump Hispanic woman with red, chapped hands and a weary face.

Father Dañiel, Doña Paulita wanted to be home, like this, Deluvina Rodríguez said, with anxious eyes. She tucked stray hair back into its hasty bun. We must open the coffin.

Mrs. Rodríguez, I will not allow it, and if I find out the casket has been reopened, I will not conduct the funeral Mass.

Taking the woman’s shoulders, Dañiel turned her toward the room and stepped behind her; Look, Nicki’s here.

Hola, mi amiga, Nicki said, hugging the newcomer.

Then once more, Nicki flung the coffin lid open.

Tossing her short hair back from her face while swinging her gold loops, Nicki gave her defiant college girl imitation, although she had not stepped on The University of Texas campus since she finished her freshman year: Don’t hold the funeral mass, she said, turning toward Dañiel, blowing streams of smoke toward the priest. "We don’t care, we can invite another priest.

But if you don’t, Nicki added, I will make sure all of Reina’s friends know you would not respect her and they will refuse to attend Mass at St. Joseph’s. Ever.

First opening his mouth to retort, then having second thoughts, Dañiel said, Fine, but this barbaric ceremony is on your soul.

With a soldier’s posture, Dañiel marched to the door, his head high, as if he were not utterly routed.

The women weren’t interested in the priest’s exit. They embraced, closed the drapes, lit the candles and knelt, beginning their prayers below the face: Hail Mary, full of Grace, the Lord is with thee...Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Because he faced the street, Dañiel didn’t see the curtains close, but stood unmoving, taking deep breaths, as though the sky were an oxygen mask.

Why didn’t I remember what she’s like?

That bitch, she’s always has her way. I hope the sheriff puts her on the next bus to nowhere. If she only knew what people here think about her. Paulita must have been crazy to adopt her.

Busy with his thoughts, Dañiel failed to notice his direction until he finally looked around and smelled barbacoa, the scent drifting from the Bluebonnet Café.

The café was different from other buildings on the square; it was not stone, but a newer, 1920s–era wood-framed structure, yellow, with flaking bluebonnets decorating the plate glass window.

If he were capable of happiness, the café and the town of Encendido would have made him happy.

But Encendido did not comfort him. Nothing much did.

First, he took a step toward the café, as if a plate of barbacoa would heal his wounds, then changed his mind and headed toward St. Joseph’s.

You couldn’t bring anything back, not freedom, not innocence: Responsibility was a life sentence, he thought, his shoulders hunched and his eyes filled with misery.

CHAPTER THREE

Doña Paulita’s Cadillac convertible parted cold wind like a missile as Nicki drove to Frank’s ranch, afternoon sun painting brittle grass a rich gold.

The two-lane asphalt wound through valleys skirting green hills, passed windmills and a herd of antelope leaping a barbed-wire fence, lighter than air.

Heart hammering, she finally saw the limestone house gleaming in the sun, surrounded by barns, the bunkhouse, corrals.

Inside, it was exactly as it had been; tall windows reached to the ceilings, spreading light across the stone floor. Half-burned logs were scattered in the fireplace, as if someone stared at the flames the night before, deer antlers and cattle horns dotted the stone walls, as did mounted animal heads; deer, bear, elk.

Shotguns and rifles stuffed the wooden gun cabinets; a worn leather sofa and chair faced each other, split in several places. A dusty saddle lay beside the door.

Coffee smells drifted from the kitchen, but she sat waiting in the familiar living room chair, the dog beside her, knowing Frank would feel her presence in the house and come looking for the intruder.

Hello, Nick, he finally said, standing in the door and sighing at her, then sitting on the sofa, as if he were a polite visitor who could hardly wait to leave.

Are you coming to the funeral tomorrow? she asked.

I suppose. She didn’t much like me.

Yes, she did. You were her grandson. You just upset her sometimes. She moved her hands on the arms of the chair, leaving wet smears.

Silence.

Any luck on the circuit this year? he asked.

Didn’t Reina tell you?

She said you got a title last year.

Was she proud?

Seemed to be.

I got a national championship. I’ve been on magazine covers. Nobody can beat me and Guayacán.

Guayacán?

My quarter horse. I bought him for almost nothing, because he wouldn’t learn the roping competition. But I trained him. He’s black with a white blaze. He looks exactly like Night, you remember Night, don’t you?

Isn’t guayacán a scrawny little bush? Grows over in the Big Bend? he asked, reaching into the pocket of his red-plaid shirt and taking out a small bag of tobacco. He rolled the cigarette and lit it by striking a match on the bottom of his worn boots.

Yes. He’s little and ugly and tough, like the guayacán bush. But Frank, he can do anything.

Horse is probley just grateful he wasn’t turned into dog food. Hell, you ought to wave a can of Alpo in front of his face every week or so, keep him motivated, he said, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Trying to laugh, instead, Nicki’s face crumpled; she had promised herself she wouldn’t say the words, but she couldn’t hold them in, biting her lip, cursing herself: Do you remember all the hours you spent teaching me to ride the barrels? I think about that every day.

Uh huh, he said, studying his boots. What do you think? You believe those mescans can win the election?

"Why are