Read Online Bulletproof Vest by Maria Venegas - Free Book Online Page A

Their marriage troubles had begun on that hot summer day when she had found her way to a service that was held in the basement of a house. Ever since that day, there had been an almost imperceptible shift in her mood. There was a new ease about her, like she had relinquished some cumbersome load that had been bogging her down for years. He knew this could mean only one thing, because even though she was his wife, he was aware that her heart had always been shut against him, that the day might come when some cabrón would walk into the place that had been denied to him.
    â€œYou don’t fool me, Pascuala,” he said, eyeing her from across the kitchen table one night. “You have fallen in love, haven’t you?”
    She did not deny it. She told him yes. Yes, she had fallen in love. She had asked Jesus to come live in her heart, and he should do the same, so that he too could feel the same peace and joy that she felt. He agreed to join her at a service, and on the following Sunday, the two of them stepped into the dank basement. He removed his hat, same as he would have done had he stepped into a Catholic church. Rows of foldout metal chairs sat under the humming lights. They took a seat in the back row, near the entrance, and while she bounced their baby on her knee, he took in the mayhem. Men and women spilled into the aisles, jerking about with their eyes closed and bumping into the walls and chairs—to him, they looked like blind chickens clucking about.
    The only thing that place had in common with the Catholic church was the wooden pulpit from where a minister delivered a sermon. He carried on and on, shouting about hell and damnation one minute and practically weeping the next as he spoke of a place where the streets were paved with gold and the seas shimmered like crystals, a place where there would be no more suffering and no more pain. His wife sat next to him, staring at the minister with an unflinching gaze. The minister went on, saying that the only way to get to the Promised Land was through Jesus, by asking Him to come live in your heart. And then the minister was extending an open hand to him, asking if their visitor would like to ask Jesus to come live in his heart. He told them no, thank you. No, he would not like to ask Jesus to come live in his heart. He had seen enough, his suspicions confirmed. It was so obvious—his wife had fallen in love with the minister. He forbade her to ever return to that church.
    Ever since she gave her heart to Jesus, she stopped cutting her hair, stopped wearing jeans, makeup, and jewelry—she had stopped doing all kinds of things. Such was her devotion to Jesus that she did not make any decisions, no matter how great or small, without consulting Him first. The holier she became, the more damned she made him feel. Damned for drinking too much and damned for being a Catholic—for worshipping plaster statues that could not possibly hear his prayers. Be that as it may, he would have never turned his back on his parents’ religion, no matter how hard she and the hallelujahs tried to convince him.
    On more than one occasion, they came to his home, wearing their polyester suits and cheap cologne, and calling him brother. At first, he humored them, took the time to sit and listen, to ask questions, even. “How do you know there is a hell?” he asked. “The poor devil who goes to the other side stays there. When have you heard of a man that has gone to hell and come back to tell about it? Never.” They told him that Jesus had died for his sins, had gone to hell and back, and someday, soon, he’d be returning for his people. “Jesus has been coming since I was a boy, and he hasn’t arrived yet,” he said, before showing them to the door. They had the audacity to make him feel damned while calling him brother. This is what the hallelujahs called each other—brothers and sisters—as if they shared a bloodline that