Chapter 5 of the R.M. Dolin novel, "Trophic Cascade"
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In a pattern that’s quickly becoming routine, Quando trots into Jake’s room an hour after sunup, stops at the side of the bed, leans in with a grin that looks like a laugh, and sticks his cold nose in the small of Jake’s naked back. He then sits backs and waits. “What the hell, Quando, today’s my day off!” Jake tussles with the blankets to cover himself.
“And as promised, I made huevos.” Sympatico reports from just outside the door. After last week’s incident when Jake exposed himself, she’s reluctant to venture inside. “Of course, if you’d rather sleep, I can just give them to Quando.”
Jake instinctively reaches to scratch an itch before catching himself. “Did you make c coffee?”
“Not to your intensity, but yes”
“Then I’m in, just give me a minute to get dressed.”
“I’ll prepare the plates.” Sympatico heads for the kitchen with Quando in tow, not only for the possibility of table scraps, but because he’s still keeping protective watch over his new best friend. By the time Sympatico has their plates assembled, Jake’s quietly at the table pouring himself a cup of coffee. Normally on rest day he’d eat in the courtyard but since he’s not in charge, he’ll leave dinning decision to the chef. Sympatico prepares two plates of eggs, hash browns, and beans on top of a flour tortilla that’s covered with red chili topped with cheese. She brings them to the table along with two warm flour tortillas buttered and folded into quarters. “Been a long time since I made breakfast,” she reveals, “feels nice.”
Jake eagerly absorbs the sights and smells of his plate, “It looks amazing, and your coffee’s quite good.” He digs in with gusto. “Wow,” he says after the first bite, “I may have to retire Theresa from cooking duties.”
“It would be nice to have something to do, but I can’t compete with her.”
“I have something even better,” Jake says between bites. “Padre’s opening a half-way house to help victims of trafficking and asked if you’d work there?”
Sympatico drops her fork in a sudden panic, “I don’t know,” she quietly answers, knowing she never wants to leave Jake’s sanctuary.
“Padre says it’ll be good for you.”
Sympatico struggles to hold back both fears and tears. She doesn’t want to leave, to move into a house somewhere with other girls like her. Girls who each have someone like Miguel looking for them. How can that be safe? How is that good for her? And why is Jake suddenly casting her off? What has she done? He promised she could stay as long as she wants; does he lie about everything?
“I really like the way you make red chili sauce,” Jake praises, unaware there’s a crisis happening across the table. “It has a complex spiciness without being overly hot, these are absolutely perfect huevos.”
‘So, he is a lair,’ she decides.
“Padre’s converting the old rectory behind the church. I’ll drive you there in the morning and pick you up late afternoon, we’ll have to figure out if lunch is included or if you need to bring something.”
“You’re not kicking me out?” Sympatico looks up with tear-filled eyes.
“Of course not,” Jake answers oblivious to the drama he’s created. “I said you can stay as long as it takes to heal, and a promise is a promise. Besides, I couldn’t let someone who cooks as good as you leave?” Sympatico picks up her fork as emotions slowly return to barely manageable levels. “It’ll be good for you to get out. Padre’s a good man, even though we have our difficulties. Emelia used to spend a lot of time there. I’d drop her off and pick her up under that giant cottonwood in the center of the parking lot. You know, the one with the wooden bench under it. Sometimes we’d sit there for hours talking. She could drive of course, I just wanted to spend that extra time with her.” Jake sets his fork down as a flood of memories burden his heart. “I miss doing that.” His voice trails off, going to places only he’s allowed.
Sympatico jumps up and busies herself with cleaning in an attempt to get her mind, and emotions, wrapped around what this change means. Perhaps she’s not ready, although, who better to trust than Jake and Padre to decide these things.
“I’ve known Dario much longer than Chance,” Jake starts seemingly out of nowhere. “They’re both good men; they got their baggage of course, but who doesn’t. Dario’s got a fuse way too short for his own good, and way too easy to light. He doesn’t hide his emotions and there’s an honest purity in that. Chance on the other hand, puts way too much effort in misdirection. I get why and if he stays long enough, I’m sure he’ll share.” Jake pauses, awkwardly finding his words increasingly hard to verbalize. “You should make an effort to know them.” For some reason, he can’t finish. He knows what he wants to say, just the words for some reason choose to stay hidden.
Sympatico busies herself at the sink with her back to Jake. She knows where he’s going and wishes there was a way to stop him. She’s not ready, how can he not see that?
Jake again tries to finish but words remain elusive. “It’s important you get back into normal society. Doing the things beautiful young women do, and-.” He once more struggles and once more stops, again unable to complete the sentence he’s been practicing for days. “What I’m trying to say, is if you ever want to go somewhere,” he struggles even more, the words are there, he just can’t corral them. Sometimes when herding words, getting close to your objective is as good as you can do “Or if say, I can’t get you from Padre’s, Dario or Chance can drive you.” Jake knows at some point he’ll have to analyze what just happened. For now, though, he’s relieved he at least ended with some sort of comprehension.
“That is very generous,” Sympatico says with relief, “but I look forward to you driving me.” Content her life is back on track, Sympatico returns to washing dishes.
Following his usual rest day routine, Jake takes his after-breakfast coffee in the courtyard. Before long, Preston arrives with a box full of wires and electronics and soon he and Jake are busy sketching schematics and arguing over layouts. It doesn’t take Preston long to upgrade the perimeter security system around Jake’s property, mostly because he swapped out the underground wiring with Bluetooth enabled devices. Using contacts at Border Patrol he made years ago while developing a chemical detection system, Preston acquired surplus motion detectors along with sensors that alert on the ground vibration of footsteps. He placed the motion detectors in strategic locations canvasing most open spaces around the perimeter. The ground sensors represent a redundancy placed on the game trails running through Jake’s property in a complex network only nature could construct. The game trails are the only way a person gets through the dense pinon and juniper forest encasing the perimeter like an ancient walled city. Preston interlaces motion detectors and ground sensors early in the driveway as well. As a backup, he installs video cameras in a tactical grid that allows visual confirmation of any detector or sensor. The video surveillance grid also includes cameras in each building and the courtyard to permit monitoring an intruder’s activities should perimeter security be breached.
Dominic arrives midday and is equally swift in setting up the control and monitoring software. The tasting room laptop serves as the command center and is set up to toggle through the different cameras while in steady state mode, showing four locations at a time. Should a sensor or detector be triggered, the display switches to single camera mode and activates an App on each ANA phone. Dominic also added ten terabytes of data storage to record anomalous conditions. He intends to use this data to establish an AI knowledge base of real threats versus anomalous threats, one that can distinguish wildlife from intruders. A way cool feature of his software is the Security App that the boys downloaded to their computers and smart phones allows a multiply-redundant monitoring loop that can be accessed from anywhere whenever a security protocol is activated. He likes explaining his system to Marcos with a smug, “slightly more advanced than your Law Enforcement App.”
Jake appreciates all the features and functionality Dominic worked into his software, it provides a sense of security knowing he can run into town or have a drink at the Al Azar while monitoring the comings and goings at home. If it wasn’t for the App, he wouldn’t be up for attending the Albuquerque Wine Fiesta this weekend and certainly wouldn’t be at the Al Azar having a drink, even if Chance is keeping an eye on things back home.
“Let me see if I’ve got this, Cabron.” Armando asks while playing with Dominic’s App. “I can check the status of any camera?”
“Yep,” Jake proudly answers. “Look here’s the distillery.” He taps a few buttons on the phone’s screen and a real time image from inside of the distillery pops up.
“I assume you’ve got cameras in the tasting room.”
“Absolutely.” Jake brings up the display.
“No one’s there,” Armando disappointedly observes.
“It’s after six.”
“Yea,” Armando sadly realizes, before smiling coyly. Just thought I’d get a peek at Theresa is all.”
“You dirty shit.” Jake grabs back his phone.
“Hey, I’m just saying,” Armando jokes, “we Hispanics are a passionate people. You may not notice the lookers in your life, but a man like me cannot not see.” When he sees Jake’s unamused, he adds, “why the hell you think I’m friends with you in the first place, Cabron?”
“You best not let Hector catch you talking like that, he’ll kick your ass into Sunday.”
“He’s just a poco Mexicano,” Armando dismissively replies. “I can take him.” Armando clearly possesses a bravado reserved for Northern New Mexicans when discussing romance, or at least their version of it.
“I worked beside him last Crush, he’s not only strong, but you get him pissed and it’s lights out.”
“Maybe,” Armando gracefully accepts. “Don’t mean I can’t look.”
“You really are a dirty old shit, aren’t you?”
“Eee Cabron!” Armando answers in a teasing tone that’s taken a lifetime to perfect. “You cannot shut down thousands of years of evolution. I am the fine specimen I am, precisely because God wanted Latinos passionate, if you catch my drift.”
“You buying any of this Padre?” Jake asks drawing their other companion into the conversation.
Dressed in sandals, khaki shorts, and a Cuban cabana shirt, Padre looks more like a Santa Fe trust-funder than a man of the cloth. He stopped into the Al Azar on his way back from Los Alamos where he was an invited speaker for a local study group. His invitation to lecture was not tied to being a Priest so he didn’t feel it appropriate to dress in uniform. Wearing his collar lends weight and gravitas to what he’s doing, but when speaking about world affairs to a group of high-end intellectuals it’s a distraction. Padre seeks to engage people on their terms. For intellectuals that means engaging, debating, and being respected as a peer. He also wants them to feel open and honest in their challenges and can’t help but feel showing up in uniform gives him an unfair advantage. “Yes and no,” Padre answers taking a thoughtful sip of bourbon. “Yes, Latinos are passionate. But passions are not most productively applied to sex as brother Mandy asserts.”
“That’s it!” Jake mocks with derision. “Nothing biblical? No wrath of God to smote el Jefe?”
Padre takes a moment to consider an appropriate response; as much for dramatic effect as for perusing his warehouse of appropriate scripture. He takes another sip of bourbon. “I suppose we could go with, “Render unto Caesar.”
“See,” Armando trumpets feeling ecclesiastical absolution. He takes a drink of beer and grins mischievously.
“It doesn’t pardon your sinfulness.” Padre firmly counters. “You clearly are in need of penance.”
Armando’s whimsical expression evaporates. Padre’s known for being old school about such things, especially when teaching young men how to properly respect women. His lessons are as legendary as they are aggressively in the face of the valley’s many pendeho men who get their cues from rap music. “I’m sorry, it was in bad taste, and I won’t do it again.”
“Yes, you will, and you know it.” Padre fires back.
“What about forgiveness?”
“Ask God for forgiveness, not me. And while you’re at it, ask him for the strength to avoid acting on your temptations.”
“Okay.” Armando answers with slightly more repentance but still a long way from full responsibility. “How about I do a few Hail Mary’s and we call it good?”
“I’ll be the one deciding your penance, Cabron.”
A long silence ensues, which makes Armando uncomfortable. He’s not sure Padre’s done with him or if there’s an expectation he needs to meet. Not knowing what to do, he decides to go with looking remorseful, but that strategy only works for a few seconds before his guilt gets the better of him. “What then?”
“You have to pledge to be better bro. Not just say you will, but in your heart commit to being better.”
“That’s asking a lot.”
“I want you say one Hail Mary and one Our Father,” Padre commands with a stoic stare before breaking into a devilish grin. “While you’re getting me another bourbon.”
“You could’ve just asked.” Armando asserts sarcastically while getting up. “You didn’t have to put me through all that.”
“Probably not,” Padre laughs. “But God has challenged me to make you a better man. And between us sinners, that kind of heavy lifting makes me thirsty.”
“What about you, Cabron?” Armando asks Jake. “In case he starts on you next.”
“Si, Senor,” Jake answers with amusement.
“Ya think all this pretty damn funny, don’t you?”
“You know it is.”
“Not so much for me,” Armando says in a parting shot before walking to the bar.
Jake and Padre only manage to sit in silence for a moment. “You get off screwing with people, don’t you?”
“God works through me in unconventional ways.” Padre answers feeling no reason to defend himself.
“I don’t think it’s God; you genuinely enjoy it.”
“What can I say, it’s part of my shtick.”
“Really dude, Yiddish?”
“We’re all God’s children,” Padre offers in a dry tone.
Armando returns with two bourbon cocktails, and another can of beer. “You weren’t talking about me, were you?”
“We were discussing how you’re sneaking too much ice in your cocktails.” Jake dryly answers.
“It’s a sin to cheat your patrons,” Padre piles on.
“How can I cheat?” Armando argues with exacerbation. “It’s not like either of you pays for your drinks.”
“Well, it is my bourbon,” Jake gestures toward Padre. “I don’t know what his deal is.”
“You never give me a bill,” Padre defensively laughs.
Armando scowls. “If I did who knows what my penance would be.”
Padre raises his glass to salute Armando on getting the last word. Jake moves on. “Going back to your question, we were discussing how Padre enjoys screwing with people.”
“Normally I’d agree, he’s like muy loco when it comes to that. But, he had me on that last one.”
“This is why he gets away with it, no one ever calls him out.”
“When he’s right he’s right, Cabron.” Armando sings in classic Valley slang. “What can I say?”
“Here’s what I want to know,” Jake says to Padre. “Were you always this way or did they teach you that at seminary?”
“Let me answer by asking Mandy a question.” Padre relishes the opportunity to work both these sinners. “Was my approach effective?”
“I say yes,” Armando answers while drinking his beer. “I mean you shamed me pretty good; excessively even. In the end I feel like I should, and could, be a better person.”
“There you go,” Padre offers to Jake.
“Okay, I’ll give you your minor miracle on this poor sinner. So, moving on, tell me more about this lecture.”
“The Los Alamos Society of National and International Affairs invited me to talk about the lasting effects of Hugo Chavez on Venezuela society.”
“Why you?” Jake challenges.
“Dude! I’m Venezuelan.”
“Yeah, but you haven’t lived there in what, thirty years?”
“Doesn’t mean I don’t keep up.” Padre is perplexed he has to defend his heritage to Jake of all people. “Besides, the way things are working out here, and there for that matter, Venezuela could very well be my next assignment.”
“Whatta ya mean?” Armando asks with worry.
“Well, no one’s saying anything, but one can’t expect to stay in paradise forever.”
“I’m gonna die here?” Armando says with certainty. “Like my people have for the last five hundred years.”
“Me too,” Jake adds with a grin. “Only long after the biscochito and beer king here tips over.”
“That’s soul food homes, it’s what makes me the handsome stallion I am.”
“Was your meeting at the Lab?” Jake asks unwilling to dignify Armando’s self-assessment.
“No, the Unitarian Church.”
“Seriously?” Jake blurts. “A Catholic Priest in a Unitarian Church is, well, provocative.”
“Yeah, who’d of thought a guy like me would be hanging there,” Padre says acquiescing to the obvious paradox. “I have to admit though, they have a nice lecture room. Hardwood floors and a big wall of windows looking out over a canyon. I’m kinda jealous.”
“Eee Cabron!” Armando chimes in, “that’s gonna get you Dutch with the bishop.”
“It was a non-secular event,” Padre chastises. “And what’s the deal with you two anyway; church is church. God is found anywhere folks gather.”
“Just figure Bishop Abbadelli isn’t gonna be happy when he finds out.”
“He’s pretty much not happy about most of what I do.” Padre answers with forgone resolution. “Giving a lecture on the lasting legacy of Hugo Chavez at the Unitarian Church is the least of his worries when it comes to me.”
“So, good or bad?” Jake asks.
“Whattaya mean?”
“Hugo,” Jake flatly asserts. “Good guy or bad? We’ve been told by our government for years he’s a bad person. But from what I’ve parsed through international media he seems like someone trying to do the right thing for his country, even if things had unintended consequence.”
“I’ve been curious about that myself.” Armando adds.
“You hit it right on the head,” Padre validates. “Yes, your government conducted a huge campaign to paint Hugo as evil and corrupt. Very similar in fact to their character assignation of Castro. And yes, I believe he was trying to do the right thing for the people of Venezuela. He had issues for sure, but compared to your politicians, he’s a saint.”
“Amen to that,” Armando affirms. “The part about our politicians I mean.”
“So how was the lecture?” Jake asks in an un-challenging way.
“Okay, I guess. The thing I admire about you brainiacs is your ability to keep an open mind. Everyone knows you Labies are a bunch of conservatives. I mean good luck getting liberals to build nuclear weapons.”
“Trust me,” Jake assures with well-reasoned experience. “We’ve got our share of lefties. Attend a County Council meeting sometime and watch them spread their pixie dust.”
“That might be true, but Labies are mostly to the Right of normal. I’m right, Mandy, right?”
“Don’t drag me into this Homes!” Armando immediately responds. “I’m Northern New Mexican. I’d be stood up in front of a firing squad if I didn’t shamelessly vote Democrat. Do they openly steal from us? Yes. Treat us like were stupid? Yes. Has a damn thing’s improved in seventy years of their control? No. But alas, they’re the party of my people, for some stupid-ass reason.”
“Either way,” Padre concedes, “everyone treated me with respect and asked very insightful questions. I may not have changed opinions, but we had a healthy exchange of ideas. And ya know, I have to say I enjoyed that.”
“Yeah,” Jake persists, “but good guy or bad guy?”
“Like any politician, good for some things, bad for others.”
“It’s not a hard question Padre,” Jake relentlessly pressures. “It’s the same one I ask Russians, ‘Lenin; good guy or bad guy?’ I mean with Stalin there’s only the obvious answer but with Lenin or Chavez, and hell I’ll even throw in Castro since you mentioned him, the delineation’s not so obvious.”
“Do you ever get a clear answer?” Padre evasively counters.
“No, which is itself intriguing.”
“Well, you’re not getting one from me either. Men like Chavez and Castro need the critical yardstick of time to be measured. Even Lenin hasn’t had enough time for the Russians to determine how they feel about him.” Padre is now on a topic he’s both comfortable discussing and feels passionate about. “Until the Soviet collapse critical review was outlawed. First the Soviet government told Russians he was a bad guy, so he was. Then they told the Russians he’s a good guy, so he is. Toward the end they told the Russians not to care about him, so no one does. Now the Russians are revisiting where to place Lenin in their pantheon, it all takes time.
“Very few leaders can be judged immediately after death. Our beloved John Paul is an exception. I believe Lech Walesa is close to being in that camp but even he needs time to be judged from a historical context. Look at your Kennedy, after his death Americans rushed to make him a saint, only to later discover how corrupt and misogynistic he was. He treated his wife horribly as well as all those other women. On top of that, he was owned by the mafia. I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but everyone knows the Kennedy’s made their fortune in bootleg liquor and prostitution. History is a harsh but unbiased judge. This is why back when the Nobel Prize meant something you had to wait years after your contribution to be considered. It’s also why the Nobel Prize peaked in prestige when our blessed Mother Teresa won and why it’s become an international farce after your Al Gore and Barrack Obama got selected.”
“There not mine, Cabron,” Armando interjects, “and that’s coming from a firing-line fearing Democrat.”
“Mine either,” Jake concurs. “While I certainly don’t disagree with you, it’s always perplexing hearing you express your strong political opinions.”
“Only because of the secular way America has devolved. In my Order, political opinions are encouraged.”
“What Order is that?” Jake asks glad to ask something he’s been curious about for some time.
Padre sips his bourbon while carefully considering whether or not to answer honestly and expose the truth of who he is and what he’s doing in New Mexico. In the end he chooses evasion. “The Order of Politically Opinionated Priests.”
“Good one.” Jake shoots back. “But seriously, you’re so out there, how do you get away with it?”
“When I was a young man in Venezuela, I was very political. The only difference between me and men like Chavez and Castro was I believed in peaceful revolution pushed on government by the people. They promoted more action orientated measures. When I was called to God, the Church didn’t try to change me. In fact, the reason they sent me to seminary in Poland was to marry my passion for social justice with Christ’s message. Everyone knows the Poles are like me, at least in that regard.”
“Given your pre-Priest history and seminary training,” Jake asks non-judgmentally, “why did they send you to America”
“Better yet, to Northern New Mexico, Cabron?” Armando adds with equal intrigue.
“Great question.” Padre takes his time with the aid of bourbon trying to decide if he should disclose his true purpose. Again, he sides with being evasive. “A question I believe in both your hearts you already know the answer to.”
