Chapter 10 in the R.M. Dolin novel, “What Is to Be Done“
The short drive to Our Lady of Sympatico, just a little south and east of Española, is long enough for Jake to consider, then reconsider, how it is he’s returning after all that’s happened; after vowing not to. The parish’s deeply devout members seem as old as the ancient adobe structure built three hundred and eighty-seven years ago from Abiquiu clay, Truches hay, and Chama River water. While not famous for miracles like the nearby Santuario de Chimayo, for the ninety-six families served, Our Lady of Sympatico is where you come weekly, and in many cases daily, to affirm your belief that in heaven things are better.
Our Lady of Sympatico is the last parish in the sprawling Santa Fe Archdioceses still delivering all masses in Spanish, with every service a High Mass, which is why Emelia likes to attend. Jake on the other hand prefers Sacred Heart of Mary up in Los Alamos. There he can anonymously stare at the sterile brick walls losing himself in thought. Sacred Heart was their parish all the years they lived in Los Alamos, but when they relocated, Emelia quickly adopted Our Lady of Sympatico; in part because Spanish High Mass, with its Latin overtones, is not much different than a French High Mass. Also, the simple guitar music Padre provides is far more life affirming than the full-on choir offerings of Sacred Heart.
At fifty-two, Father Paul Salazar is the ideal age for his rural parish assignment, he’s young enough to possess the stamina required to travel back roads caring for the sick and invalid, yet old enough to have abandoned ecumenical ambition. He succinctly possesses an exuberant happiness overlaid by mournful worry. Padre is gregariously charming with a pointed personality skilled at cutting to the core in an openly unapologetic way. Folks who know him agree that his natural charisma unburdens their soul in a way that seamlessly releases contrition. People who come to Padre with problems walk away relieved, even though he famously does nothing to resolve their issues.
Jake awkwardly enters the outer vestibule with trepidation, trying his best to go undetected. If not for utter desperation, there’s no way in hell he’d be here, but as he famously likes to say, ‘it is what it is’. As he guides his guest into the back pew, he repeatedly vows to be on his best behavior. Padre Paul stands in front of the alter warmly addressing his congregation. “Brothers and sisters,” he joyously sings with a wide inviting smile. “It is my sincerest hope that the pangs of Cinco de Mayo are not too lingering. Although,” he adds with a mischievous grin, “your sullen faces suggest otherwise.” He inventories his congregation, cataloging the extent of each member’s sins by the atoning way they avoid eye contact or painfully stare back through bloodshot eyes. “Enjoy your freedom, that is my wish for you. The impending grip of the new world order darkens our sanctuary deeper and more desperately every day.”
Padre is a man who notices much and misses little. He notices Jake enter, for the first time in months, and even the blind cannot miss the strikingly beautiful woman he’s escorting. What the blind might miss though, is she’s wearing one of Emelia’s favorite dresses and beneath her failed attempt at concealment lie bruises and swelling he’s convinced are tied to why Jake has reluctantly returned. To his disappointment, Padre watches Jake sit without genuflecting but takes comfort that his companion does. While residents up and down the valley readily acknowledge Padre notices much and misses little, his real gift is seeing the unseen. This is why his joyous mood suddenly downshifts as Jake and the strikingly beautiful woman stealthily settle in. “To old friends who have stayed away too long.” Padre announces to his congregation with weighted worry, pausing long enough to make eye contact with Jake. “God and I say welcome.”
Inch for inch, Padre is a cliche small parish fryer. His short, anemically thin body accents a bald head that confirms his Venezuelan origins even though his family’s from Spain, which is why Padre’s fluent in South American Spanish, as well as the Spanish spoken in Spain. When he came to the valley eight years ago, he had to learn New Mexico Spanish, particularly the Northern New Mexico dialect, which is half-spoken and half-sung in an unusual cadence that seems simultaneously fast and slow; formal and slang. To non-natives there’s just enough English sprinkled in to give you a general sense of what’s being discussed without the details of what’s being said, which is usually sufficient unless you’re paranoid people talk about you.
“All week I thought about today’s sermon,” Padre continues in Spanish. “What to discuss the day after Cinco de Mayo? I have something brilliant prepared I assure you, but suddenly I feel the need to talk about the prodigal son.” Jake gets Padre’s calling him out, not because he understands Spanish, but because everyone turns to stare. He knows behind each welcoming smile is after-mass gossip that will be told and retold up and down the valley. Jake’s not as talented as Padre at noticing things, but even a man who sees little and misses much, catches the mischievous way Padre enjoys screwing with him. “People think once they’ve heard such stories repeated,” Padre continues, “they no longer have value, but I assure you, the classics are always relevant.”
As a Franciscan, Padre’s devoted to a quiet life of helping others find happiness in simplicity. His sermons, though deeply poignant, are structurally simple. “Of all the orders,” Emelia likes to say, “Franciscans are God’s favorite.” Over the years, Emelia and Padre developed a strong bond. She often accompanies Padre to call on sick parishioners and he relies on her whenever the Church holds a bizarre or needs someone to cook at a funeral. She likes that Padre’s fluent in French and often spends afternoons helping in the Parish Garden just for the chance to speak her native language.
Padre is without a doubt the most controversial priest in the archdiocese. Not because of his overt political activism, which constantly causes Bishop Abbadelli pause, but because Padre plays in a Salsa band. While that might not be copacetic in most rural communities, Northern New Mexico Catholics have a unique way of separating their faith from their personal lives that miraculously manages to leave both highly integrated. Not only do parishioners not mind their priest playing in a Salsa band, his is the most sought after for weddings and parties. Nobody thinks less of Padre or is uncomfortable at a club knowing a priest watches every sinful act. If anything, playing in a Salsa band has hastened Padre’s acceptance into the community. After only eight years, Padre’s farther through his initiation than Jake is after thirty-five. The main thing people question about Padre playing in a Salsa band is how Bishop Abbadelli permits it. The Bishop has an unyielding reputation for strict adherence to tradition and dogma and permitting one of his Priests to play at questionable venues seems out of character. Consensus speculation is that Padre’s talent is so special, even the Bishop has to acknowledge it’s a gift from God.
The thing about a Catholic Mass is that it’s not necessary to know Latin, Spanish, or whatever language is spoken, to understand what’s being said. Between what’s happening around the alter, and whether you’re standing, sitting, or kneeling, you pretty much can follow the script. Jake’s companion is clearly Catholic, she anticipates when to stand or kneel, and her lips move in silent syncopation with each prayer.
“Ahora,” Padre joyfully announces at his favorite part of mass. “Vamos a ofrecer a los otros el signo de la paz.” The Parishioners share Padre’s eagerness for the ceremonial exchanging of the sign of peace. It provides an opportunity to connect with neighbors, see what’s going on with people around you, and validate the latest valley gossip. For Jake it creates something of a dilemma bordering on crisis. Unsure what to do, he awkwardly extends a hand to the woman he can’t figure out what to do with, but to his astonishment, the woman overrides his gesture with an embrace. “Mucho gracious Senor,” she whispers in Jake’s stunned ear.
The woman withdraws quickly keeping her head down to avoid eye contact or interaction with other parishioners. Jake needs a moment to digest what’s happened and to process what a hug implies when protocol dictates a handshake. Here sits this woman, in his wife’s dress, wearing his wife’s perfume, speaking for the first time. Jake desperately needs a moment to himself, unfortunately, he’s compelled to be in the mass’s moment because neighbors are more than mildly interested in his stunning return. As quickly as he can, Jake completes his obligations, the entire time only diverting his eyes from his guest long enough to complete the next interaction.
Padre does not notice Jake’s awkward attempt at a handshake but sees the way she hugs and gently kisses him on the check. He anxiously bobs and weaves around parishioners vainly straining to catch Jake’s reaction. No matter how he maneuvers though, he can’t get a clean line of sight, which only heightens his curiosity. Padre hurriedly works down the left side of the center aisle offering his sign of peace, transitioning from pew to pew with a haste causing parishioners to wonder what’s wrong. “It has been a long time my friend,” Padre says reaching for Jake’s hand.
“So, it seems.”
“God has missed you.” Padre places his left hand on top of their clasped hands while looking soulfully into Jake’s eyes. “But he has not forgotten you.” After a dignified pause, Padre eagerly leans past Jake extending his hand. “Welcome to my humble parish Senorita,” he says in South American Spanish. “We are blessed by your presence.” The woman awkwardly extends her hand, generally looking toward Padre but carefully avoiding eye contact. Padre immediately confirms his suspicions, he also completely and quite accurately understands why she won’t make eye contact. “God has muy sympatico for those who suffer,” he softly says. The woman cautiously looks at Padre through the corner of her eye. He tightens his grip, placing his free hand on top of their clasped hands. “God listens to the lost in Spanish,” he reassures her. “Pray to him for the peace you desire, the comfort you deserve.”
While Jake’s unable to fully translate, he understands the deep and serious intonation of Padre’s words. It’s reminiscent of their last conversation when Padre spoke about sympatico and God’s unmitigated love in the same serious way. Seeing Padre after all that’s happened brings to the fore painful memories he works so hard to keep in remission.
Keeping with his lifelong pattern, Jake decides to exit when communion starts. His plan is to leave the woman in their pew while he orchestrates an escape, thereby transferring his problem to Padre. As he subtlety slides down the pew, inching closer toward escape, he begins to rationalize how unfair it would be to abandon her without proper context, so he slowly surrenders with pouting acceptance. As the faithful make their way to communion in a painstakingly slow procession, Jake’s mind wanders over the events of last night and how it is he came to be sitting in church after so long an absence. He isn’t paying attention when a nudging on his shoulder awakens him to the strange woman in his wife’s dress prodding him toward the aisle.
Padre’s been serving communion so long he’s easily able to keep pace with the geriatric faithful while carefully keeping an eye on Jake and his guest. Upon seeing her push against Jake’s reluctance, Padre steps to the side of the communion line to offer assistance. “Mi amigo,” he joyously shouts. “In my church, everyone gets communion.”
Shocked to be called out, Jake’s glances back at the exit quickly reconstituting his earlier plan. “Most of life lacks context, right?” he says to the woman, who responds by nudging him again toward the aisle.
“I am pleased to inform you,” Padre sings with mischievous delight as he opens his arms and flashes a teasing grin. “No exceptions.”
Because Padre’s speaking in English, it’s clear to everyone he’s talking to Jake. Those in line, and those returning to their pews, all stop to watch Jake. Realizing resistance is futile, he reluctantly steps into the aisle taking a step back to allow the woman into line ahead of him. As they start their communion procession, he whispers, “best laid plans of mice and men, right?”
Padre ends Mass outside visiting with Parishioners as they file past. It’s painfully slow since members move with the pace and determination of a desert tortoise and it matters little they’re on their way to the Parish Center for coffee and cake with Padre. “Start without me,” Padre shouts to the last Parishioner as she begins her arduous journey across the parking lot. He fidgets anxiously in place the requisite time to complete his post-mass obligation before scurrying inside, slowing his dash to a controlled walk as he approaches the back pew doing his best to appear nonchalant even though this is going to be the most interesting thing he’ll be involved in all week. “When you make an entrance, mi amigo,” Padre proclaims. “You really make an entrance.”
Jake pops into the aisle to remove any barrier between his problem and solution. “Padre,” Jake points back at the woman. “This is-, well actually, this is part of the problem. I don’t know her name.”
“I see,” Padre responds in a tone swimming in judgment.
“She doesn’t speak English.”
“Is that Emelia’s dress?”
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
“Nothing, just couldn’t help but notice.”
“It’s not like that.”
With equivocating conviction, Padre glares at Jake before smiling warmly at the woman and slapping Jake on the back. “Relax, my friend, I’m just messing with ya.”
Jake’s in no mood to be messed with. “Look, something’s gotta be done and I’m out of ideas.”
“Hard to imagine. How is it you two crossed paths in the first place? I mean you have to admit, it’s a bit out there.”
“I gotta confess, and you know I never confess, but last night was so surreal-” Jake realizes the story he so eagerly needs to tell is not something one shares with a Priest. “Probably best we focus on helping her.”
Padre’s gotten what he wants from Jake and is already moving on to a more interesting soul. “Let me see what I can do.” Padre nudges past Jake to sit beside the woman softly taking her hand. “Hola.” Padre has a legendary knack for finding that pivotal place in a person where trust pushes past reluctance. Sometimes it’s with soothing words while other times it’s his soft smile and reassuring eyes. Some even confess to a profound aura providing a safety bubble that miraculously unlocks secrets. “In a world deepened by darkness,” Padre tells her in South American Spanish, “let God’s love be your light, your renewal. God does not judge, I don’t judge. Everyone’s journey has hardships.” The woman allows Padre to briefly look into her eyes. “Sometimes, those hardships cause us to question the foundations of humanity, love, faith, and even the possibility for happiness. I can assure you, things that now seem lost, are waiting for your re-embrace.” The woman only acknowledges Padre in darting glances. “The soul’s a miraculous thing,” he continues “whatever pain and hardships cut and tear at its core, there it is; ready to trust in goodness, in mercy, and most important, in love. I feel your sadness, your pain, your desire for peace.”
Jake drifts outside satisfied his plan’s on track. He meanders to the wooden bench under the large cottonwood at the edge of the Parish courtyard. It’s the place Emelia always waits for him to pick her up. The near-noon sun is blocked by broad leaves providing protection from the heat. Jake sits in a long-ago familiar spot thinking about Emelia, about how things went so horribly wrong. He retraces the difficulties between he and Padre and the bizarre chain of events that lead him here. “I sure do miss you,” he whispers.
The satisfying solitude is brazenly shattered though when Padre explodes out of the church with a volatile veracity blasting Jake up from the bench. Padre’s rapid race across the courtyard confirms this is probably not going to end well. “You won her in a card game!” he shouts without breaking stride.
“It’s not like that.”
“So it’s not true?”
“Technically true, but-”
“That’s so not right!” Padre continues to shout even though he and Jake face off a few feet apart. “What in heaven’s hell have you gotten yourselves mixed up in?”
“Nothing! We’re playing poker at Mandy’s–, she storms in–, then before we know it, one thing leads to another.”
“So somewhere in the midst of your Cinco de Sinning you decide, what the hell, I’ll win me a woman?”
Jake glares at Padre knowing from experience he must choose his words carefully because every word, every nuance, gets contorted. “As I said, technically yes, but not like you’re suggesting.”
“Difference without distinction,” Padre scoffs. “We’re talking about a person.”
“I don’t need your judgment, I need your help.”
“What! You want me to ask God to make you a better poker player?”
“Go to hell!”
“Why, afraid of spending eternity alone? Emelia would be so disappointed.”
Jake weakens from the staggering blow. “She’s not,” he softly whispers.
Padre knows he cut Jake deep, that was his intent; to expose the soul you have to carve through flesh. After years of guiding the lost through dark crevasses of agony and torment, Padre’s come to understand that men need to have their compass confirmed even when heading in the right direction. “You haven’t changed one bit, simultaneously on the attack while in retreat.” Jake glares hard at this man upon whom he now so depends, and like early round boxers, they pace back and forth in front of the bench and around the tree, occasionally stopping on the edge of saying something. Finally, Padre takes a poke, “you aren’t here for forgiveness, are you?” Jake glares back, staying light on his feet ready for anything. “What is it you want?”
Jake stops with the length of the bench between them. A warm breeze pushes through the cottonwood daring the Santa Anna’s to subsume the entropy swirling through their souls. “I don’t have the resources she needs. Help her gets home, I’ll cover the costs.”
Padre considers Jake’s request. “I’ve been in this valley long enough and see things; the aftermath of evil, the suffering of souls I cannot save, the harshness humans are capable of inflicting, both on themselves and others. You my friend, have no idea what you’ve gotten yourself into.” Padre sits on the edge of the bench rubbing the back of his bald head. “Not only is it bad, it doesn’t end well.” After some reflection, he restarts on a new track. “I rescued a dog once, a beautiful collie with black patches covering both eyes. She was emotionally damaged though.”
“What the hell does that have to do with anything?”
Padre ignores Jake’s aggression. “I brought her home, fed her, showered her with all the love I have and in return, she taught me a fundamental truth, a truth I’ve had to relearn many times.” Jake glares at Padre unsure if a truce has been declared. “Sometimes, my friend, we can be so damaged, so exposed to evil, we lose the ability to recognize kindness.” Padre walks beside Jake resting a hand on his shoulder, “I know how profound your loss has been and I admire your strength, your courage. I have muy sympatico when praying to relieve your suffering.” Padre looks mournfully toward the church. “But her loss, mi amigo, is on a completely different plane.”
Padre’s words provide no comfort; they didn’t then, they don’t now. What Padre said about the woman though, causes Jake to confront the persistence of prospective. “You can help, right?”
“I could not help my collie, I cannot help her.”
“Isn’t it what you do?”
“I am but a simple priest, who like any man, has limits.”
“If you won’t help, and I don’t know how, then what?”
“I have not finished my story.” Padre motions Jake to sit with him on the bench. “One morning my collie and I were on the plaza for Farmer’s Market. Suddenly, this low rider starts up with a huge backfire that feels like a shotgun going off in my ear. My collie gets so freaked, she bolts snapping off her collar. When I finally find her, she’s curled up on this boy’s lap shaking from the evil that so frightens her. The boy isn’t doing anything; just letting my dog lay on his lap. I try taking her, but she won’t leave. For some reason, she needs to stay with him. Feels safe I suppose, which makes no sense, I’m way better able to protect her, provide for her. But the thing is, for the first time since I rescued her, she’s found a place where peace is possible.” Jake looks at Padre unsure how to respond. “My point is this, I couldn’t save that dog no matter what I did because the sad fact of my limited existence is, I can’t save everyone. That boy who did nothing other than let her lay on his lap could. Who knows why? God’s invisible hand I suppose.”
Jake shoots an angry glare, he’s had more than his share of God’s invisible hand.
Padre continues. “We could spend all day analyzing the whats and whys, but in the end all that matters is that woman feels safe with you. She finds peace in your presence. A security she hasn’t felt since her unspeakable torment began. You’re the necessary first step in her long journey to re-becoming the person she was. I cannot guide her. I cannot be the one to help her be reborn. But you my friend, you are like the boy rescuing dogs.”
“I get your allegory, but there’s a huge difference between dogs and people.”
“We’re all God’s creatures.”
Jake looks at Padre realizing this outcome was predictable. “Spoken like a freaking Franciscan.”
“God gave you this burden. It’s not for me to interfere.”
“You can’t know what God wants.” Jake feels the gravity of his responsibility settling in even though he’s yet to concede its inevitability.
“I have the faith in you, you lack in yourself.”
“It’s not about faith, it’s about ability.”
“Difference without distinction my friend.”
“Dario says he’ll take her to his Abuela’s.”
Padre shakes his head. “She escaped to the Al Azar for a reason. You won that card game for a reason. We cannot dissect God’s plan in search of some logic you find convenient.”
“I can’t do this! I’m involved in things, big things.”
Padre’s skilled at walking people beyond their resistance. “Sometimes worlds overlap. Sometimes the left hand guides the right. What was it you told me that night at Saint Vincent’s when you tried to explain how everything in the universe is connected, ‘a butterfly flaps its wings in Albuquerque-’”
“And the weather changes in Moscow. That was about the randomness of chaos.”
“Man’s chaos is God’s divine plan.”
Jake is about to respond but realizes Padre’s out maneuvered him. Wearily he gets up from the bench. “Suppose I help. How?”
“That boy did nothing more than provide a lap.” Padre knows the only way to end a discussion with Jake is to walk away so he starts toward his delayed cake and coffee. He pauses once again putting his hand on Jake’s shoulder, then without a word, walks off. Halfway across the parking lot he turns around. “You are a man of much resource. Open your heart. Hear her tears. Feel her suffering. In so doing you will answer the call of your own simpatico.” Padre restarts toward the Parish Center, but after only a few steps again turns around. “It pleases me to see the burden of greater responsibility has touched you.” He looks thoughtfully at his friend. “You were right earlier; Emelia is proud of you.”
Jake starts to say something but stops. Padre is almost to the Parish Center when he finally manages a response. “This is why I don’t come to church! You don’t relieve burdens; you make them worse.”
Padre turns around. “Be honest, you knew that going in.”
Once in a very great while, a simple parish priest is blessed enough to witness God’s invisible hand and Padre knows he’s being so honored. He turns back toward the Parish Center feeling a vibrant sense of meaning and purpose. For God to be at work in Jake, and confident God’s including him in his plan, is as deep as Padre has ever dived into the esoteric essence of spirituality. It overwhelms him with boundless exuberance. “Simpatico, mi amigo,” Padre whispers with satisfaction. “Together we begin our journey toward infinite simpatico.”
