“If we stay another hour, we can get it finished, then Helen can take it home and bind it,” Anna said. “Unless you want me to do that?”
Helen shook her head. Everybody knew Anna had no color sense. Her stitches were even, points matched perfectly, blocks were square. But Anna’s fabric choices were legendary. Helen was afraid if Anna picked out a binding, the earth-toned leaves would forever be rimmed in shocking pink.
“No, I’ll do it,” she said. “You’re planning to go to that silly Mexican fiesta tonight, aren’t you? I’ve got nothing but time these days.”
“Ninjas!”
This time everybody turned to stare at Rory, who was jumping up and down in the doorway. Before Kate could shush him, there was a crash from the front of the church. The women looked at each other; then, as one, they hurried to the windows overlooking the broad expanse of parking lot that led to Old Miller Road in front of the church.
Teenagers were pouring out of two pickups that were parked within inches of each other. One of the trucks was nose first against an ancient sycamore that anchored the lot. Helen hoped the trucks had collided with each other and not with the tree. As she watched, a group of three boys, dressed in dark jeans and dark T-shirts, started toward the new sign the congregation had erected and blessed that very Sunday, a sign that had already caused its share of controversy within the church community.
One of the boys took a playful swing at the other, dodging and feinting with apparent good spirits. But high spirits or not, Helen didn’t think they were up to any good. They were quickly joined by a fourth boy. That one was carrying a sledgehammer.
“We’d better stop them,” she said. She turned and found her path blocked by a small athletic body.
“Nin-jas!” Rory singsonged. “I—told—you!”
* * *
Elisa Martinez was as accustomed to walking miles every day as she was to the sound of her new name. Weeks passed when the reality of her present life seemed to be the only reality she had ever known. Her legs were strong, and no matter how far she had to walk, she was seldom winded. The name flowed off her tongue, as if she had been born to it.
This morning, though, she was tired and growing discouraged. The Shenandoah Community Church sat on a country road as muddy as it was long. As she had walked Old Miller’s length, she’d skirted so many ditches and puddles she’d probably traveled an extra mile. She had been warned that the previous summer had been dusty and dry, and she should be glad for the rain. She understood rain well enough, but she was learning firsthand the perils of a personal relationship with it.
This morning the air was oppressively humid in preparation for a new storm. The sun was directly overhead, peeking out from coalescing clouds just frequently enough to taunt her. She could see her immediate future. First she would bake, then she would drown. There was little chance she could hike back home from her interview in time to miss the downpour, and she had little protection except a lightweight plastic poncho she carried in a small backpack that doubled as a purse. If the rain started soon, she hoped the church pastor would let her stay inside until the worst of it ended. If it ended.
From the top of the last hill she had glimpsed a steeple, and she knew she was nearly at her destination. She had spent most of the walk trying on “Elisas” for this interview. The stakes were too high to give this less than her best. She needed this job. She could not thank a God she no longer believed in for making it available, but she was grateful that coincidence had gone her way. Now if this brief streak of luck would simply hold.
She reviewed her credentials. She was slight, but she was strong. That would be important to show. She must not appear over- or under-qualified. She must seem accessible, but not chatty. Intelligent and resourceful, but not above menial labor. Interested in the church, but never nosy.
She needed to explain that she would willingly work long or late hours without sounding desperate or pushy.
She needed to tell as much of the truth about herself as she could, so that she would not be tripped up in her own lies.
Old Miller Road curved sharply as she descended the last hill, and when she rounded it she saw the church just a hundred yards in front of her. Like so many of the area churches, it was white, with a tall steeple gracefully in proportion to the building. The roof was dazzling tin; the wings that jutted from either side had been designed to harmonize, not detract. Lovely old trees dotted the grounds; a garden of some sort lay against one side, and as she neared, she saw roses in bloom, despite August’s moist heat. Someone cared about those roses—and cared for them.
She wondered if gardening would be part of the sexton’s job, and she tried to remember when the roses had been pruned at the home she had shared with Gabrio. When had they been fertilized and watered, and how had they been selected? Now she wished she had paid more attention.
She was fifty yards closer before she noticed the two trucks in front of the church, parked beside a white sign. At first she merely noted their presence, but as she drew closer, she saw there was more to note. Much more.
A group of half a dozen boys—high-school age, she thought—were gathering near the sign, which stood about twenty feet to the right of the front door. The boy in the lead, just a few feet ahead of the others, was swinging what looked like an axe. She heard shouts, profanity and forced high-pitched laughter that shattered her preoccupation with the coming interview.
Her pulse sped; her hands grew damp. She stumbled to a stop. This scene was too reminiscent of another in her past, the same high-intensity, testosterone-fueled prequel to violence. For a moment she wondered if she could escape without being seen. Then she read the sign the boys were clearly bent on destroying, and something inside her snapped.
“Stop it!” She was running before she had time to think. Not away, which would have made sense, but directly toward them. “¡Sinvergüenzas! ¿Qué andan haciendo?”
Perhaps the boys weren’t as brave as they’d thought. Perhaps they were only interested in a new and more personal victim. Whatever their reasons, they stopped and turned to watch her approach. She slowed to a halt just in front of the sign, reaching it before they could.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in English. She glared at them, burying all lingering fears where they could not be seen. She knew these boys, had met them a hundred times in a hundred different places. She was too well acquainted with pack mentality, wolves in jeans or soldiers’ uniforms, men and boys who could forget what made them human as long as they stood shoulder to shoulder with others like themselves.
Oh yes, she knew these boys and how dangerous they could be.
The boy in the lead was narrow-shouldered and hipped, with a shock of light brown hair falling over his eyes. He had the soft cheeks of mid-adolescence, a tiny cut on his chin, perhaps from inexperience with shaving. For a moment he looked uncertain, as if he might consider leaving if everyone would just shut their eyes so he could slip away.
Then his expression hardened. “Hey, chica, who do you think you are?”
She wondered what B movie he’d watched for that bit of Spanish.
“Get away from there before you get hurt,” he said when she didn’t move.
“You would hurt me over a sign? A sign in front of God’s house? You’re not afraid He’s watching, waiting for you to make a better choice?”
For a moment fear flickered in his eyes. Her own gaze flicked to the boys behind him, then back to his. “They’re not worth it,” she said in a softer voice. “They want you to take the risk while they watch. What kind of friends are those?”
“Go back to Mexico, cunt!” one of the boys shouted. “We don’t need your kind here.”
“Maybe you do,” she said, not taking her eyes from the boy with the sledgehammer. She was glad it was not an axe, as she’d first feared.