Desert Blood by Alicia Gaspar de Alba

Author:Alicia Gaspar de Alba [Alicia Gaspar de Alba]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781558855083
Publisher: Arte Público Press
Published: 2013-10-15T00:00:00+00:00

25

OUTSIDE OF THE SACRED HEART CHURCH on Fourth and Oregon, noon mass was just letting out. Father Francis, in his white robe and Guatemalan-styled stole, stood in the doorway thanking his parishioners. The older women kissed his ring, the men shook hands. Ivon told her chaperone-escort-driver-pain-in-the-ass cousin William to wait in the truck while she went to get the copies of Irene’s flyer from the priest.

Father Francis gave her a hug. “How are you? How’s your mother?”

“You can imagine,” she said.

“I mentioned your sister in today’s homily and asked the congregation to pray for her.”

“Thanks, I’ll tell Ma.”

Father Francis paused to pump hands with two women in black lace mantillas. “Vayan con Dios,” he told them, then glanced over at the truck. “Is that William? I haven’t seen him since he went away to college.” Father Francis waved at William.

“He’s such an asshole,” said Ivon. “He won’t let me drive because Uncle Joe told him about that incident on the bridge yesterday, where I almost whacked this Camaro with a crowbar when it cut in line, and now William’s saying he doesn’t want to drive across to Juárez, either. He wants us to walk over. How am I supposed to look for Irene on foot?”

“Just walk the strip,” Father Francis said. “Many of the girls disappeared from nightclubs on the strip behind Juárez Avenue, on Ugarte Street, mostly. The Mariscal area. You know that’s the red-light district, right?”

“I used to live here, remember? I know the Mariscal.” In the old days, when she was with Raquel, Ivon had had a girlfriend named Magda who worked in one of the bars of the red-light district. The Red Canary, it was called.

“Just talk to the bartenders and the waitresses, maybe they can give you some leads. As long as you’re with a man you’ll be safe.”

Ivon forced herself not to roll her eyes at that comment.

“If you can wait a minute while I finish up here, we can go down to my office, and I’ll get you the flyers and give you the names of some of the bars where those girls disappeared. Why don’t you wait inside, where it’s cooler. Shall we ask William to come in, too?”

“Let him roast out here, what do I care?” said Ivon.

She glanced at the truck. In his missionary shirt and tie, William was fanning himself with a folded-up newspaper.

Ivon walked over to the little booth in the vestibule that had candles and rosaries and prayer cards for sale, little booklets of the church’s history, the oldest church in south El Paso. She bought a small votive candle and took it over to the candle stand at the entrance to the nave, placed it in a blue glass holder, and lit it for Irene.

“Give her light,” she whispered to the statue of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. She wasn’t a believer, but Brigit had taught her the power of visualization and white light.

Finally, the priest greeted an old woman in a wheelchair pushed by a middle-aged woman dressed entirely in black, the last people to file out of the church.

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