Nogales

It was dark when I woke. I dressed quietly so I wouldn’t wake my sisters. In the kitchen, I downed a glass of milk and ate two slices of bread to tide me over until school. When I stepped out the side door, Snoopy barked. I shushed her and she took off to chase a car driving up Highland Avenue.

It was cold. Winter was coming. Even at nine, I knew I was a winter person. On Plum Avenue, I gathered stones I’d need to keep the pack of stray dogs on Walnut at bay. To my left was the Nogales High School athletic field. That afternoon, I’d run twenty laps to keep my streak alive.

When I came around the corner, a black stray growled low and bared her teeth. I knew her from her oversized teats. I held up the rocks, so she knew I meant business. I’d only been in Nogales for a year, but I’d already been bitten four times—twice by the same dog. Through the border fence, two women looked for a spot in the wire to crawl through. My dad said people cut holes in the fence every day the Border Patrol would fix before it started all over again.

Huts and lean-tos dotted the hills across the border. The first time I walked around Nogales, Sonora, with Harvey, I was shocked by how people lived. Compared to New Hampshire, Nogales was Mars.

The church was quiet before the early morning Mass. Sacred Heart Church was affiliated with Sacred Heart School, a place I’d attended until two months earlier when some stuff went down. My mom pulled me and my twin sister out and enrolled us at A.J. Mitchell. Like most things in my life, the switch had happened quickly and without explanation.

I went into the sacristy and grabbed a black robe and square-necked surplice to put over my clothes before I got the chalices and Bible and Mass books and everything else together for the service.

When I came out, the black-veiled Mexican ladies had taken up their positions in the first three pews and were silently mouthing the Rosary. For the year I’d been serving early morning Mass they’d never missed a service or sat anywhere else.

I crossed the altar and genuflected. Whether or not anyone was watching, I made sure to follow every ritual. He was always watching. Especially hard in church.

I pulled a key from my pocket and opened the gold tabernacle surrounded by rows of candles. The priest said the tabernacle was the most important part of a church, even more important than the altar, because it was where the body of Christ was stored.

The wafers were in a box I took back to the sacristy and poured into a chalice. I grabbed a decanter of wine from the closet and placed it on the table. A stamp on the bottom said they were made in Phoenix. I’d never thought about the Communion wafers being made in a factory. It didn’t matter—the magic came later, during the consecration, when the bread became Jesus’s body. His spirit passed into wafers, like the bread he handed the disciples at the Last Supper.

“What makes us Catholics different from Protestants,” said my mother, “is that we believe in the miracle.”

Harvey came in late and hurried to dress. He had a longer journey to get to church every morning than I did. Having to make it across an international border, I was amazed he made it at all. He rolled in full of energy and laughter and was in the middle of telling a funny story when the priest walked in and shot Harvey a look that frightened both of us into silence. Since he was a priest, a man who could do no wrong, Christ’s representative on earth, we had to be serious around him.

The priest jammed through the readings like he wanted out of there. I drifted off in thought. The consecration took place, and Harvey and I grabbed patens to hold under the chins of the parishioners who were accepting Communion.

While the congregants settled back into their pews and prayed silently waiting for the priest’s final remarks, I glanced across the altar at Harvey. He’d hooked his thumbs under his nose and pulled his nostrils up while he pulled his eyelids down with his index fingers, making him look like a pig.

Harvey looked so ridiculous I burst out in laughter. I squirmed in my pew to keep from peeing. I tried to fake like I was coughing, but it was too late. The image of Harvey’s pig face was stuck in my brain, and I couldn’t get it out.

The priest turned toward me. His face was calm, but there were clouds forming behind his eyes. He walked over, rested a hand on my shoulder, and patted my back. I breathed a sigh of relief. I thought he was being understanding. Human. Keeping his eyes on the congregation, he pinched my ear between his thumb and index finger and twisted until my skin tore and bled.

I looked over to Harvey kneeling across the altar from me. His head was down, and he was pretending to pray. I couldn’t get mad. Harvey was just being Harvey, someone who always made me laugh and put a smile on my face.

After the Mass ended, I went into the sacristy to put everything away. The priest stormed in, tore off his chasuble, and shot me a look of disgust. I thought he might have figured I’d learned my lesson and considered I had shown up every morning for almost a year to serve Mass.

“You think church is a joke?” he yelled. “You’re going to Hell! God himself has deserted you.” Then, he left.

Harvey started to cry. “I’m sorry,” he said, “I couldn’t help myself.”

I told Harvey it was okay, but I didn’t have time to talk. Since A.J. Mitchell was on the other side of town, I had to hightail it home to get my books to make it to school on time.

The priest reentered the sacristy and told Harvey to stay, that he needed to talk to him. I was happy to have an excuse to leave.

On Walnut, I saw the cur, but she must have sensed I was in no mood to mess around because she slunk off up the street. I ran to my house on Highland. Snoopy, a stray Deirdre and I had saved from a dogcatcher, found me at the top of the hill and followed me home, nipping at my heels. My dad said she had some sheepdog in her. I was running late, so I grabbed my books and dashed out the door. My mom’s voice stopped me.

“Why aren’t the trash cans out?”

My heart sank. I looked down the street and saw our neighbors’ trash cans were out and the truck had already come.

“I’m sorry. I forgot.”

The smack seemed to startle her as much as me. It happened so fast, I wondered if it happened at all.

“You have to take out the trash cans on Tuesday!”

“I had to get to church and forgot.”

My mother paced, rubbing her hands on her pants.

“I have to go,” I said. “I’m late.”

“That’s not my fault now, is it?”

“It is. I have to change shirts.”

“I’ll call the school.”

In the kitchen, my mother handed me a dishrag. She told someone on the phone I’d run into a door and would be late.

I put the rag under the faucet and dabbed the blood on my textbook and folders. I thought about what the priest said. He was right, God had deserted me.

I wonder about what happened to Harvey. I lost touch with everyone from Nogales after we moved to Calexico. I was talking about the old days at Sacred Heart with my older sister, Eileen, and she said, “You know a bunch of those priests were busted for sex abuse.”

“Really?”

“Father R, remember him?”

I nodded. I remembered him well.

“He’d been busted before. Towns like Nogales, Calexico, and El Centro were dumping grounds for crooked priests. Nothing bad ever happened to you, did it?”