Sinners and Saints

Sinners and Saints Chapter 5 - Oh Hell No

I sigh and pull the last two pills out of his bottle, wondering how often he gets headaches.  Even with my limited knowledge of church hierarchy, I know with the recent child-sex scandal still rocking the church, his life can't be easy.  I also know this isn't the first time accusations of abuse have been raised – but this is the first time they haven't been able to shut it up.  Money and power equal corruption – women, children, even men.  Dig even a little and it will come up.  Yesterday proved that to me. 

I take the pills with me and wander back down the hall.  There are restrooms between the choir room and kitchen and a water fountain between the men's and women's.  I knock the pills back and listen as I swallow the metal-tinged water from the fountain. 

Jose, Father Jonas' neophyte, is practicing his Spanish sermon in the choir room.  I don't understand a lot of it, but catch a word or two here and there.  That doesn't matter, though.  It's Jose's passion and conviction that come through the loudest.  Although fully-fluent, Father Jonas handed off the Spanish masses to Jose when he graduated from seminary.  With his dark hair and sparkling eyes, the senoras giggle and blush at his attention. 

Raised by Lupe and her husband, Armando, Jose never had any idea who his father was.  His mother – Lupe's daughter – died in a brutal gang-rape in Little Havana when he was a toddler.  He was a couple of years younger than me, but always looked up to Jojo and me as his big sisters.  

I smile to myself and go back to the office.  Inside, I find that Father Jonas has pulled the liquor cabinet out of the small closet behind him and is currently pouring Jojo and himself Irish Carbombs.  There are also several books sitting on the desk now. 

"Jose's getting more confident," I comment and wait for my drink.  Even though a margarita was on my mind, Father Jonas' carbombs are legendary – and rare.  Both my sister and I have tried replicating them many times on our own, but even though we bought the same liquors and mixed the same percentages, we never matched him. 

"He is," Father Jonas' face lights up briefly, proud of his charge, "None for you – you're driving," he adds, motioning me to sit again. 

"Jose can drive us," I pout. 

"No, he can't," the good Father counters, "He has counseling and classes the rest of the day." 

I roll my eyes and sigh.  Jojo tries to offer me a sip of her drink, but I shake my head.  "Let's get this over and go home," I try to send her with a look.  I don't know if she understands, but she puts her drink on the corner of the desk and turns her attention back to Father Jonas. 

"Do you ladies know what stigmata is?" he asks us, eyes still far away. 

"Like Padre Pio?" Jojo leans in, "The physical manifestation of the wounds of Christ suffered during the crucifixion?" 

"Exactly," Father Jonas nods and smiles, "When I was six years old, a mysterious wound opened on my left side that wept and bled and would not respond to repeated attempts to close it.  I was in and out of hospitals for months.  Several surgeries, several specialists, tests, medications – none of it did any good.  The wound would reappear less than a week after I was discharged.  My parents were at a loss.  The pain and eventual blood-loss made it impossible for me to stay in school.  I had no friends – no one wanted to be around the creepy kid whose side bled all the time.  I had just turned eight and was in the hospital again.  It was the night before another surgery and I was supposed to be asleep, but something woke me up.  The rest of the kids in the ward were asleep and the lights were very dim, but I knew someone else was in the room.  The most beautiful woman I've ever seen was standing at the foot of my bed.  I can't describe her, other than to say that the complete and all-accepting love that she radiated was so pure – so unblemished by selfishness – that it was almost too much for me to bear.