“No,” says Tíve. “No more novicios.”
“But Tíve. He’s a good boy, a manager at Lowe’s. Just turned forty. We need young people. You said so yourself.”
“No,” says Tíve. “It’s not the right time.”
Anger flashes across Al’s face, then disappointment. He glances again at Amadeo, seems about to say something, then says quietly, “Please, brother. Isaiah needs this. I did good with Elena, but Isaiah is bad into chiva, in and out of rehab and all that, even robbed his sister once, took the computer and TV and everything. We don’t know what to do with ourselves. He’s doing better now, but it’d give him comfort, give him something bigger than him. He thinks it could save him, and I do, too.”
“You’re not bringing that poison into the morada. Hell no.” Tíve heads for his truck, his walk stooped and uneven.
“Harsh,” Amadeo says, but he can’t deny feeling pleased, because he was chosen, and not just for the hermandad, but for the most important role there is. “His son Elwin OD’d.”
“I know.” For a long moment, Al continues to gaze after Tíve, his expression troubled. Quietly, Al says, “In my grandpa’s day, there was a Jesus who asked for nails. Best Jesus they ever had.”
Amadeo swallows. “Seriously? He actually got nailed to the cross? With real nails?”
Al Martinez nods. “That’s some sacrifice, huh? Think of it.” He slowly turns his hand, one way and then the other, then touches the center of his palm.
“Who was he?” Amadeo has the sense that he is teetering on the edge of a great mystery. Around him, the night is huge.
Al shrugs. “I just know what my dad told me his dad told him. I just know he did it.” He tosses his keys lightly and heads to his car.
Amadeo stands alone in the deserted lot. After that, a man would never be the same again. He imagines the scene, as he always imagines the olden days, in black and white: the man’s steadfast expression as the nail pierces his flesh, the searing light that fills him. The gathered people fall to their knees.
AT SIX THIRTY in the morning on Holy Wednesday, Amadeo wakes to the gurgle and hiss of pipes in the wall near his head. He flops over in his limp bed, tries not to think about Angel. Christ’s pain, he reminds himself. Think of that. Each night, Amadeo practices his expression in the bathroom mirror after he showers, water running down his forehead. He spreads his arms, makes the muscles in his face tighten and fall, tries to learn the nuances of suffering. Now, lying in bed, he tries again, but his face is stiff as tire rubber. He tries to train his mind on that long-ago man, who with a few nails, made something real.
It makes him queasy to think of Angel, queasier to think about whoever got her this way. This is not a detail that made it into the story Amadeo heard from his mother, but he doesn’t need facts to picture it: some cholo dealing chiva from the window of his lowrider.
When he wakes again, Angel is looming over him, prodding his shoulder. “Dad? Can you drive me to school? You need to get up.”
Amadeo murmurs something into his pillow as she shuts the door. Later, faintly, he hears her call his name again, but the sound doesn’t break through the surface of his sleep.
When he wakes, it’s after ten, and the house is sunny and empty. He still has two hours before Mass. Angel has left a note on the table: Got a ride with Tío Tíve. No signature, no XOX. Guilt sits heavy in his gut. He eats the cold eggs and bacon Angel has left out for him, and then, because that jumpy, awful feeling won’t go away, he cracks open a beer.
Angel never used to work out, has never once joined a team or performed a proper push-up. All through elementary school she feigned menstrual cramps and carpal tunnel syndrome to get out of PE, and in middle school, thanks to sweeping cuts in public school funding, she never had to register for it at all. But because studies show that exercise during pregnancy results in lower rates of illness and obesity in infants, every afternoon Angel takes a walk. Brianna, Angel’s teacher at Smart Starts!, gave them each a daily planner and a sheet of foil stars to mark their daily exercise. Angel loves her planner with its maroon plastic cover stamped to look like leather, and she loves pasting the star neatly next to each date.