Read Online When I Knew You by Desireé Prosapio - Free Book Online Page A

hands until they could sneak off out of the view of their protective parents, mothers yelling across the plaza at little boys running away from them through the crowd, the metal legs of lawn chairs straining underneath abuelos and abuelas, and dull brown sparrows picking through fallen popcorn and nachos.  
    The church sat above the plaza, a plump old tia, observing with warm affection the antics of her nieces and nephews. White-washed like the trunks of the trees, the church looked pristine, its slopping sides easily shielding decades of necking teenagers, its wooden doors swinging wide open when they invariably returned years later with their tiny babies wrapped in yellow blankets.
    I pulled into the side parking area, taking note of the cars but realized it was largely worthless. Would they know I was here? Who were "they" anyway? Who the hell was I running from? The engine ticked off heat with an impatient beat.  
    Sunlight brightened the curves of the walls of the adobe church, adding to the sense of serenity and sensuality, a strange and compelling mix for a Catholic church. What may have, at one time, been meant to be austere was revealed by countless painters to be something altogether different.
    I got out of the truck, careful to pack the recorder into my bag, and headed inside.  
    The foyer was cool, as it had always been when I was a child. In the doorway was the marble container with holy water and I automatically reached out and dipped my fingers in to make the sign of the cross. Across the foyer were the red votives lined up at the feet of the statue of the virgin and child, their right hands raised in frozen blessing above the few flickering candles. Rows of pews, dark wood with kneeling pad raised, lined up neatly toward the altar. On the ceiling was the mural depicting some long-dead artist's odd vision of heaven, a heaven populated with the homeliest angels ever to inhabit a church. They floated above the empty pews, carrying incense and playing harps, each one with a face so odd, it was as if someone insisted they be perfectly androgynous, but in the ugliest way possible. Even their feet were big and rough as if Heaven's roads were tough on soles.
    I'd sat through mass hundreds of times in this church as a child until my mother had stopped believing in just about anything. I remember the mumbling priest, the seemingly endless standing and sitting and kneeling, playing on the kneeling pad, which was the only softness seat in the entire place.  
    "Can I help you?"
    I whirled, startled. I didn't see anyone at first.  
    "Down here."
    I looked down. A tiny man in a priest collar stood there, an oversized smile on his face, thick hands clasped in front of him. He couldn't have been four feet tall.
      "I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to startle you. I keep doing that. The ladies in the office are always telling me to get louder shoes."
    "Really?" I said, confused. Certainly they wouldn't see him coming, I thought, then winced, waiting for lightening to strike me down. Making mental fun of a little person priest had to be pretty high on the sin parade.
    He leaned in conspiratorially, and I found myself crouching a bit. "I catch them gossiping. Now they never know when it's safe."
    "That's... ironic," I said.  
    He looked surprised, then let out a delighted laugh. "You know, you're right about that."
    "I'm actually looking for Father Henry," I said. "Is he here today?"
    He shook his head. "Father Henry retired last year. He's in Arizona these days. I'm Father Vincent."
    Priests retired? Wasn't that what heaven was for? "Retired? No, no, that's not possible," I stammered. "He has something for me."  
    My stomach tightened and my head began to throb. I closed my eyes for a minute and the vision of fire leaping out of my apartment window flashed in my mind, Eliah's hardened face staring into the fire, red lights flashing.  
    I felt a gentle hand on my arm and opened my eyes, meeting the tiny priest's