The Maldonado Miracle (8 page)

"You mind?" Giron asked.

Jose was sitting on the bed, looking at the tubes of paint, feeling the bristles of the brushes, and running his fingers over the canvasses. "No. I'll take Sanchez for a walk. I'll be all right."

Giron left just before dark. Jose took the dog behind the rows of cabins and out into the fields. He felt sorry for him. The one bad thing about having Sanchez along was penning him up each day. In Colnett, he'd roamed at will; sometimes trotting all the way to the village to pry into the garbage can by the Garcia store.

Sanchez snooped over the fields, running and stop
ping; sniffing, then running on; looking back now and then to make certain Jose was following.

It was just after nine when Jose and Sanchez got back to Haines Main. The lights were on in the barracks and some of the cabins, but there weren't many men around.

As they passed by the barracks, Jose heard a voice he knew he had heard before.

A figure moved out of the shadow of the barracks, blocking his way. It was the man from the shower. A slice of light from the barracks window illuminated his face. He was grinning and he smelled of wine. He was not wearing his false teeth.

"I think you're gonna be friendly to me, boy. That black man's gone to another farm, and your roomie's out, too. Now, you shouldn't of thrown that soap in my face. I was jus' tryin' to be nice."

Jose did not understand the words, but he was frightened at the soft tone. "No,
señor,
" he said.

"Let's jus' you and I sit down here, an' talk a while."

"
Por favor, señor.
" Jose hoped someone would come out of the barracks. He could hear voices and a radio playing in there.

"Take it easy, boy," the man said, grabbing for his wrist.

Jose tugged back, repeating, "
Por favor, señor.
"

There was a snarl by his ear, and Sanchez's wide jaws clamped on the man's arm. Jose fell back. He rolled over and saw Sanchez tearing at the arm. The
americano
was screaming.

On his feet, Jose grabbed the dog by his ears and wrenched him back. Sanchez was still snarling. His teeth were bared, and there was blood on them.

The
americano
was wallowing back and forth on the ground, clutching his arm, yelling. Men poured out of the barracks.

Jose stood holding Sanchez, dazed and shaken.

Kneeling down, one of the
pochos
said in Spanish, "We better get him to a hospital." He turned to Jose. "That dog do this?"

"It was an accident,
señor.
"

An
americano
worker said, "Somebody get Eddie. Tell him to bring a gun."

Jose understood "Eddie" and "gun," and said, "No,
señor. Por favor.
" He began backing up.

The
americano
said, "I'll get the dog."

As he advanced, Sanchez snarled again, showing his teeth, straining to get loose.

The
pocho
yelled, "Watch him. He's a killer."

Jose wheeled and began running toward Cabin 6, looking back once, Sanchez at his heels.

Inside the cabin, Jose pulled the mattress away and jammed the Colnett money into his pocket. He was stuffing some of his clothes into the suitcase when he heard shouts from up near the barracks and the sound of a car starting.

Sanchez stood by the door, his back hairs up and bristling. Jose said to him, "We must go. They will shoot you."

Putting the art supplies in, he slammed the suitcase shut and left the cabin. "Hurry," he said to Sanchez, but the dog was already plunging ahead.

They went behind the cabin and started across the fields toward the railroad tracks, Jose running as fast as he could with the half-packed suitcase.

They were gone before Eddie arrived at No. 6, carrying a 30.30.

S
AN
R
AMON WAS DECAYING.
Until the freeway had cut it off two years previously, bypassed it with a sweeping curve, it had been a lively little town on the royal road, El Camino Real, historic old No. 101. Now, much of it was abandoned and boarded up. Some of the doorways were littered.

There were exactly seven square blocks to the business district—two blocks on the east side of the Real, five on the west. Once, truckers had stopped at Olcott's Service Station to gurgle down gallons of diesel fuel or gasoline. People had come from Atascadero and Cholame and San Ardo to buy groceries at Estaban Cole's market, tools at San Ramon Hardware, and furniture from Nello Solari; or to have beef stew at the Dinner Bell, or a beer at Pook Goodwins Mission Bell Bar.

Now, they found it simpler to roll out on the banked lanes and go south to San Luis Obispo or north to King City. The drugstore had been abandoned. So had the dry goods store across from the mission and seven other shops. Their windows were either boarded or grimy.

Once, the town could depend on at least three hundred visitors a day to Mission San Ramon, which stood about forty feet off El Camino Real. In addition to dropping silver in the poor box and spending perhaps a dollar at the mission store, the visitors were usually good for at least five dollars in meals and gas in the town itself.

Now, the only mission visitors seemed to be the buffs. Even the busloads of schoolchildren from nearby communities, herded together for a historical outing, had ceased to come. An exceptional day could tally no more than twenty-five visitors. On some days, when the winter mist lay cold over the Salinas Valley, Father Lebeon would pray for even five visitors, and the sandaled, brown-robed Franciscan brothers, their
capuchos
pulled up over their heads, would have been willing to settle for three.

As much as anything, the village of San Ramon had lost its will to survive.

On most nights, Frank Olcott kept his filling station open until one, simply in hopes of capturing an extra dollar for the day. Sometimes, farmers gassed their pickups around eleven after a few drinks at Pook's. Olcott, who was sixty-three years old, seldom slept well anyway because of an old back injury. He kept a pot of coffee on for any eye-weary traveler going slow enough to take the San Ramon off-ramp.

In addition to owning the station, Olcott had been mayor of San Ramon for over twenty years, as well as its only peace officer. In this capacity, he had little to do. He always wore his badge, but sometimes it made him feel silly. The only disturbance amounting to anything usually occurred Saturday nights at the Mission Bell. He'd hobble down the Real, stick his head in the door of Pook's place and yell, "Anyone want to fight a cripple?" That usually did it.

Tall, balding, a stoop-shouldered man with a farmer's ruddy face and sharp gray eyes, Olcott had been struggling to save San Ramon ever since the freeway dried it up. He'd formed a committee to publicize Mission San Ramon, but no one had any suggestions for persuading motorists to slow down to twenty-five and take the exit. He'd even requested the government to declare San Ramon a distressed area. Nothing had worked.

In the past year, there had been moments when he was ready to join his fellow townsmen in a mass evacuation. But then he'd take a walk around the seven foiling blocks and decide not to leave. It was the only town he'd ever known.

A few minutes after one, Olcott saw headlights coming toward him and recognized Father Lebeon's dusty half-ton truck from the mission, hay bales stacked in the back.

In the lot next door, Jose Maldonado Alvarez pulled Sanchez deeper into the shadows by a pile of broken machinery crates. He was waiting for the station to close so that he could get water. The headlights had startled him.

Four hundred feet away, Olcott said, "You're up a little late, Father Lebeon."

The powerfully built priest slid out of the cab and yawned. "People who need last rites don't pick the time." Although clean-shaven, his beard was so blue-black that by last morning mass he appeared grizzly. This time of night, he always had a stubble.

Born in Marseilles, a French seaport, Lebeon tended to be a practical priest rather than one concerned with holy niceties. He'd been assigned to San Ramon after serving the Indians at Mescalaro, New Mexico, and he spoke fluent Spanish as well as French and English. Much to the amusement of the seven Franciscan brothers at the mission, Lebeon had constructed a chinning bar in the barn, and for a time before his fortieth birthday had punched a heavy bag to take out frustrations. His chief regret was that he had not lived in 1794, when the mission was founded. He preferred a rough life.

"I didn't think you'd be open, Frank," he said. "I need a quart of oil for the tractor. Brother Carlos made me promise I'd get it."

"Shouldn't be open, Padre." Olcott went to the oil rack. "Haven't had a paying customer since ten o'clock"

Jose watched them in the dim lights by the pumps. He could hear the murmur of English and for a moment thought about going up and asking the priest for help. But even at this distance, he looked so tough. There was no telling what he might do. It was better to hide and wait for his father.

"Maybe I'm your last sale for tonight," Lebeon said, looking up the deserted highway.

More and more, this village reminded him of the Latin wording on the sundial of that mission in San Gabriel:
Horae omnes vulnerant ultima necat.
It meant, "Every hour wounds, the last one kills." The hours were ticking off.

Olcott snorted. "That damnable freeway." It was odd how they always got back to the same subject. He glanced off toward the wide white paths of concrete that swept by the village, speared now and then by car or truck lights.

"It's progress, Frank."

"Wish you'd talk turkey with God to slow it down," Olcott replied sourly.

Lebeon smiled. "Put the oil on the bill, will you?"

"Why not? I do it for everyone else."

The priest climbed back into the truck. The engine turned over, and the pickup crunched over the gravel apron, as Olcott began padlocking the pumps.

A car coming from the other direction caught Jose in a circle of strong light, and he jumped behind the pile of packing cases, losing his footing and falling backward. He yelled as a long splinter pierced his thin jacket and entered the flesh of his left shoulder.

Olcott heard the yelp and turned, peering toward the vacant lot.

The pain was fierce. Jose reached up to his shoulder and found that the spike of wood had driven through. He realized that he was impaled on the packing-case slat. He tried to lift himself with his right hand but almost passed out. One end of the board was still attached to the case, on an angle to the earth.

There was nothing to do but call for help. He took a deep breath. "
Ayuda! Ayuda!
" he shouted. Sanchez, standing protectively over him, began to bark loudly.

Olcott got his flashlight and headed in the direction of the barking, wondering what kind of nonsense was going on next door. The beam of his flashlight finally picked up the boy and dog by the splintered crating, left over from better days when he had sold irrigation pumps.

Shining the light into the small, stricken face, Olcott asked, "Now, what are you doin' out here this time o' night, and how the devil did you do that?"

"
Ayuda,
" Jose said weakly but sucked in his breath when he spotted the badge on the man's chest.

Sanchez kept on barking, his tail whipping. He was still straddling Jose.

"Get that dumb dog away, and I'll help you," Olcott said gruffly.

Jose spoke to Sanchez in Spanish, calming him down. The mongrel moved aside but eyed Olcott, making low noises in his throat.

Olcott came over and knelt. "Good Lord, you did it up brown. That went right through." He pulled the jacket and shirt aside. "There's a half inch stickin' out. Sharp as a nail."

Jose closed his eyes so as not to see the badge.

"All right now, just lay still, and I'll get a hand under you. We'll go straight up. This is gonna hurt, boy."

The words were meaningless, but Jose gritted his teeth as Olcott's fingers worked under his shoulder. He refused to cry, but a groan came out.

"Here we go, up."

There was a red flash of pain, and then it was over and Olcott had pulled the shoulder free. Jose felt himself being lifted to his feet. His knees were wobbly.

"All right, boy, I'll take you to Doc Atherton's and wake him up. But somebody ought to pound your behind for being out so late." Then Olcott spotted the suitcase. "What you doin'? Runnin' away?"

Jose took several steadying breaths. He was certain this man would turn him over to
la migra,
then go looking for his father.

He moved back a couple of steps, scooped up the suitcase, and darted off toward El Camino Real. Olcott shouted, "Hey, come back here, boy."

But Jose and Sanchez were already out of sight, and Olcott hadn't run ten feet in twenty years.

He muttered, "I'll be double damned," and shook his head. "Crazy Mex kid." He went back to the service station and turned off all lights except the one over the cash register.

 

J
OSE MADE IT
several hundred yards along the Real and then stopped. The shoulder hurt, but it was his stomach that was giving him the most trouble. He felt queasy. He looked back toward the station. The stoop-shouldered man with the badge wasn't following. He went on.

When they were almost opposite the mission, he said to Sanchez, "I must rest. We'll hide until morning."

They went up the worn, uneven adobe steps and into the nave. It was dimly lighted by a bank of prayer candles near the confessional booth and the wooden statue of Christ. There were more candles near the railing before the tabernacle at the front of the church. Jose crossed himself and looked around, feeling safer already.

But he was worried about someone coming in. He glanced up at the choir loft and started for the steep steps, Sanchez trotting behind.

They reached the top, and the hand-hewn floorboards creaked as they moved to the far side. Jose lowered himself down, sprawling against the cold outer wall, his left shoulder extending over the last board, which was spaced about six inches from the plaster-covered adobe. Letting out a long, shuddering breath, he said weakly, "I'm sure I'll be all right in an hour or so, Sanchez." His voice sounded hollow in the empty church.