Even the Sparrow

By Tee Spalding

After driving through jungles with a man known to Cate Rafferty only as Alfredo, sitting next to the man she hoped to marry, former priest Mike Green, and careening over the deepest potholes she had ever seen, she remembered asking, Just to learn? when invited to go on this trip. She was not interested in getting involved in some crazy international incident. But they were involved. In her frustration, she wanted to hit someone but had to settle for her ongoing battle with God, who usually ignored her rants about the futility of suffering and why He allowed it.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Sep 24, 2015
• ISBN: 9781504924795

Tee Spalding

Tee Spalding, an enthusiastic member of an interfaith task force on Central America in the 1980s, felt compelled to help refugees fleeing. those countries. As a passionate member of the Sanctuary Movement gaining momentum in the United States, she was asked to join a fact-finding mission to Guatemala and El Salvador. Upon landing at dawn in Guatemala, they were silently observed by a row of men in military dress. There were no greetings or instructions on where to go, and in the eerie silence, they found their way to Customs and were gruffly moved along the line. Orientation by their guides followed, with some softly spoken directions on how to act, where to go —always and only with their guides—being warned that there were “ears” everywhere. She realized now that facts would not be easy or even safe to find.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

It had been many years since we boarded the plane to Guatemala. I found myself grinning at Mike as we climbed the steps, my heart pounding with excitement. He gave me a thumbs up and I nodded, my dream of visiting Central America with my two closest friends was finally happening.

The refugees fleeing their oppressive governments and death squads had made their way into our hearts, and we believed we had to go to their homelands to see and hear the truth for ourselves. The year was 1989, and the truth was not always easy or safe to find.

CHAPTER ONE

S HAFTS of early morning light glanced off the polished steel of a bayonet. A small assemblage of soldiers in battle fatigues greeted us. Some leaned on their guns and yawned while others with military bearing stood at rigid attention. I wondered if any of these soldiers were members of the infamous death squads.

My eyes burned. A sleepless night didn’t improve my vision, and was not helped when the sun suddenly slipped behind leaden clouds. My relief at stepping on terra firma vanished, and my urge to kiss the soil of Guatemala evaporated.

This was not the reception I had envisioned for our visit to the war-torn countries of Central America.

Cate. C’mon.

Peggy sounded tense as she hurried ahead, unencumbered by the long, black habits of yesterday’s convents. Still, the plain white blouse and dark blue skirt set her apart from the other travelers. A small gold cross was her only adornment.

Wait. Wait, I mumbled and hurried to catch up with Sister Mary Margaret Murphy and former priest Mike Green.

I could see Mike, the tall, lean man I hoped to marry some day, striding ahead of Peggy. These two friends dating back to our college days had talked me into making this trip. We all had interesting histories – you might call it heavy baggage – to integrate into our present lives.

It wouldn’t be easy, I thought, as I struggled to carry my duffle bags to the terminal. All of us had plenty of emotional baggage to deal with. Faith issues, marriage issues, loyalty issues. What the hell were we all doing, somewhat or completely divorced from our original life choices?

Peggy struggled between the desire to give herself totally to her religious calling and a nagging belief that her real vocation was in the streets, fighting injustice at all levels.

The deaths of my husband and two year-old son had altered my vision of God. My new view of Him as the grinning author of the cruelest joke ever played on a mother gave me the anger I needed to get up in the morning. Sometimes I didn’t even have that.

Mike had lost his desire to be a priest teaching at the college level after learning his students were more interested in computer technology and how to make a fast buck than in the rich cultures of Roman and Greek civilizations. The kids were immersed in present day digital challenges, not Pompeian earthquakes or Caesarean rule. And that gave me a second chance at a relationship with Mike. Or did it, really?

After making the decision to leave the priesthood, Mike went through all the required channels to be released from his vows and never doubted the wisdom or authority of the church. I, on the other hand, had a running battle with God, the main theme being: Why did He allow so much suffering?

Mike and I didn’t agree on a lot of things. At times I thought we were the poster couple for Unable To Communicate, and at other times, we seemed to be in each other’s heads, totally in sync.

Mike! I had lost sight of him. My pulse quickened. A panic attack five minutes after landing in our first country? Don’t do this now, Cate, to yourself or the rest of the group. I took a deep breath.

The intimidating welcome by the soldiers had weakened my resolve to be independent on this trip. I wanted to prove to Peggy and Mike that they hadn’t made a mistake by inviting me. Even though we had proper passports and visas, the military presence had its effect.

We were here just to learn why so many refugees fled their homeland each day, why the people native to this area barely survived the harshness and fears of a desert crossing, yet continue to risk it. Had it been as bad as we were told by the refugees?

It had only been a few hours since our plane climbed through smog that nearly obliterated the gauzy panorama of Los Angeles freeways and skyscrapers. It seemed like days. How long would the next two weeks feel?

I recoiled now from the words of Sarah, the head of our task force on Central America who had said, Do nothing that will get yourselves, your hosts, or your guides in trouble. You’ll go there and leave, but they must stay.

As I neared the passport booth, my impulse was to stop. Just stop and go home. But a uniformed official gestured to me to move on, and I did.

Buenos dias.

He ignored my greeting. Another official examined my visa, stamped my passport and shoved them back across the desk. I forced myself to be calm as he glanced across the room, then at me and back at the visa and passport again. His face and posture could have been made of granite. Finally he spoke.

Your name?

Cate Rafferty. Como esta?

Address?

Thirteen twenty-three …

The city. A hot trickle of sweat drizzled down my spine.

Los Angeles. I could not let my voice shake.

Purpose of your visit.

To see … Orientation seemed light years away. Another deep breath and I found my voice and communicated as well as I could in Spanish.

I am with an interfaith seminar. We hope to learn more about the culture and customs of Guatemala.

He continued to study my papers as if cramming for an exam, then nodded, pushed them across the desk and gestured for me to go on. Without glancing back, I hurried towards Customs.

The short, dark official stood by the moving belt as I lifted my bags onto it.

Open. My unglamorous things were inspected. Thin cotton panties - no bikinis here - faded jeans, tee shirts and pajama bottoms, styles that had never seen the inside of Vogue. I was told to move on.

Mike! Where was he? Why had he not waited for me?

I stretched, tried to see him over the bustling crowd. He and Peggy had dragged me out of my bleak misery into the world of aiding refugees from Central America, their theory being my pain would lessen when I helped others who had lost even more than I. They insisted I make this trip. Well, I’m here. Where are they?

I looked in all directions for Mike and thought I saw Peggy with her beautiful premature grey hair. The woman turned around. It wasn’t Peggy. Where were they? The airport was as crowded as any in Los Angeles, not only with travelers, but with soldiers looking for troublesome visitors.

This country, enmeshed in secrecy with government-supported death squads, did not welcome inquiring Americans. I hadn’t thought they’d be so obvious. Our group opposed their politics, but was only here to observe, or so I thought, anyway. Mike and Peggy seemed hell-bent on getting away from the airport as soon as possible.

I pushed my way through the crowd, dragging my duffel bags, my hands clammy and slippery. As usual, I had packed too much, especially for this trip.

Rule #1: You will be responsible for all of your possessions. Take no more than you can comfortably carry.

Rule #1: Broken.

Finally I saw Mike leaning against a dingy graffiti-decorated wall. He pushed away from it and made his way through crowds of people chattering in a variety of languages.

You all right? He put his hand on my elbow and steered me through the terminal and out into the humid air. A woman offered fruit. We declined. Clouds played tag with the sun, alternately warming and cooling my tired body.

Sure. Of course. I’m fine. Where to now? My lower lip quivered. His raised eyebrows told me I hadn’t fooled him.

Let’s go, Cate. The rest are over there by that van. Everything’s fine. He studied me for a minute before asking me, What’s wrong? Where have you been?

Looking for you. These things are heavy. I shifted a duffle bag from one shoulder to another. And damnit, why didn’t you wait for me?

I wanted to tell him I was scared, but prided myself on being tough, a smart-ass when necessary. My defense. Against what? Everything. But he knew me too well.

We’re not on a date, you know. We all have to carry our own weight. Oh, God, Cate, I’m sorry. That sounded awful. You didn’t sleep on the plane, did you? You’re tired. We’ll have to hit the sack early tonight.

I grinned. Together?

He laughed and shook his head. C’mon!

We joined the other members of our group who stood by the old van. They seemed tired, but not nervous.

A tall, attractive woman in native dress, tightly woven multi-colored skirt and cotton embroidered blouse, stepped forward.

I am your guide, Roseanne Brinkley-Ortiz. She spoke perfect English. It looks like we’re all accounted for now. Do you prefer to speak in Spanish or English?

Spanish. We need the practice, Mike said.

Many of the people you will meet only speak an indigenous Indian dialect, but I will translate for you.

She smiled, shook hands, seemed relaxed and efficient.

I stepped into the van and sat on a seat half-covered with torn leather. Mike stayed at the back of the line and talked to our guide. He nodded, jumped up the step and came to sit by me, his body firm and warm, close to mine. I felt safe again. What had happened to me back there?

What were you talking to our guide about? I asked.

Nothing much. She just wanted to make sure we were all here. You okay now? I nodded and squeezed his hand.

Mike. Big, rugged, masculine, and mine. Maybe. Nothing was certain yet on this shaky journey.

Our driver shifted gears and maneuvered away from the terminal. A woman, her thick black hair in a coil around her head, strolled in front of us balancing a huge basket of fruit on her head. She, too, wore the traditional woven skirt and peasant blouse. The colors were as beautiful and fresh as the fruit. She looked up, her eyes bright as her smile, and waved. My heavy mood lifted. I relaxed and enjoyed the changing scenery as we made our way toward Guatemala City.

We were on its outskirts when our driver braked. I strained to see the reason. A pedestrian walked by the side of the road, going in our direction. That was not unusual. Poor people walked here. Sometimes all the way to the United States.

We drew alongside, and I could see a man’s face under a sweat-stained, once-white hat. A brown, ragged serape covered his stooped shoulders. The cuffs on his pants dragged in the dirt and almost covered his bare feet. He carried a rectangular box tied with ropes to his back. The box had a cross of crudely carved, rough wood nailed to its lid.

A coffin, someone murmured. For a child.

No. Please, no. I can’t look.

We drove past. I had to look. Tears streamed down the man’s face, glistening trails through embedded dirt. I needed to do something, to help in some way. To let him know I understood his agony. But how? How could I tell him I had felt the loneliness of his awful walk? Instead of a rough wooden casket, Danny’s had been white and pure, but the pain of losing a child was the same everywhere.

Why don’t we pick him up, Miss . . . ?

We can’t, our guide said. He would not want that. This is the last thing he can do for his child.

Where is he going?

She shrugged. If he is lucky, his child can have an unmarked grave in a cemetery set aside for the poor. He may not even have that.

Why is there no one with him? He needs . . …

Perhaps he has no one. She shrugged again.

But how can that be, here in Guatemala where they have huge families? Can’t you see how alone he is?

Mike put his arm around me. I called to the driver. "Stop! Por favor! Pare acqui!"

The driver slowed, turned to Roseanne. Si?

No. To me she said, Why are you doing this? Her irritation was obvious.

I don’t know. Let me go back and walk with him. I could see his bent figure receding in the distance.

You can’t.

When I signed on for this trip, I knew I would see poor, hungry children, perhaps even dying children, but this was too soon, too graphic a reminder. I had to join that poor, bereft man.

Let me walk with him, just a little way. To show someone cares.

I don’t think I need a lecture on how to care.

Roseanne’s harsh voice made me realize I knew nothing about her. I glanced at Peggy, my mentor as well as friend. She turned away, perhaps embarrassed at the spectacle I was making of myself.

Roseanne’s voice softened. Please try to understand. You cannot draw attention to him. If the rest of his family has disappeared, you will only put him in more danger, as well as us. You must take my word for this.

The reality of what she said silenced me, and the tone of her voice told me the discussion was over. I leaned across the aisle and whispered to Peggy, I’ll see that face until I die.

She nodded, her own face a grim mask I hardly recognized. Brace yourself, she said. This is just your first day here.

My first day. Strange, intimidating, crushingly sad, but at least I had Mike and Peggy, and I believed they understood and sympathized with my reaction to that man and his dead child.

Heavy traffic greeted us as we entered the city. We slowed in front of the Colonial Hotel, and I lowered my window. A mixture of exhaust fumes and the sharp, pungent fragrance of strong coffee and burnt sugar drifted into the van. Horns honked. Planes flew overhead. Sirens screamed. I welcomed the noise, a distraction from my memories.

This seems to be a modern city, Mike. Not what I expected. Or maybe I did sleep through orientation, as you have hinted. Really, though, this is obviously a country of contrasts. It’s almost eerie to find a sense of normalcy here after that scene on the road.

The van pulled to a stop, Mike grabbed my bag, and gestured for me to go ahead.

I’ll follow you anywhere, even on the bumpy road to love, he whispered.

I groaned. Never learned any good lines in the seminary, hmm?

Oh, cruel heart.

I knew what he was doing, and it worked. I felt better. The hotel didn’t look too bad, either. We entered, stood in line for our keys, retrieved our passports, bought bottled water, and finally made it to our rooms. Peggy and I were together, as we had been in our college days.

She grinned. Here we go again.

Want to hang out the window and smoke? Any guys from St. Luke’s out there swooning over us? Funny, Peg, how they never got caught and we always did.

She laughed. I hope that’s not an omen. I glanced at her, but she busied herself unpacking her bag.

How different our lives had been since those carefree days at school. Peggy to the convent and I to they lived happily ever after. Except they didn’t.

I threw my things on the bed and headed straight for the bathroom. An unpleasant odor greeted me. There were no rolls of toilet paper, just little, thin packets in boxes on top of the tank. A notice, posted on the inside of the door, warned in both English and Spanish, Plumbing not equipped for toilet tissue. Do not flush. Put used tissue in basket. Seriously?

Peggy, I groaned. Tell me it’s a joke. Tell me I should be laughing hysterically. Tell me I’m not whining.

But you are. Loudly. It’s not a joke. No need to laugh. Whine if you must.

I stumbled to my bed, fell on it and stared at the ceiling. Peggy had pulled the drapes and in the dim silence of our room, I confronted the picture swirling in my head of that father and his tiny casket. I had connected with him and his country.

Tears burned my eyes. I could almost see my own baby’s casket, the smooth contours of wood, a gold and mother-of-pearl cross on top surrounded by angels. Inside, white satin padding, his Pooh Bear on his chest.

I tossed and turned, punched my small pillow, threw the worn sheet off and pulled it back on. Peggy slept in her usual, innocent way. She had always been able to sleep through anything, even the constant babble of a college dorm.

I marveled at the fact I was in Guatemala with my two closest friends. I could not imagine my life without them.

To be with Mike, the man who had the courage to step out of a comfortable, if confining life to work for peace and justice issues was as wonderful as it was confusing at times. It seemed we had a long way to go in our relationship.

Ex-Father Michael Green. Ex-fiancé, ex-priest, excused from his vows. Executed popped into my mind. No. I would not let my middle-of-the-night demons take over.

I put my hand over my mouth to suppress a sob brought on by the memory of a Guatemalan peasant and a small wooden box. I covered my eyes and tried to block out the picture of my own despair on that other dark morning, the haunting refrain of bagpipes drowning out my lamentations as I walked between two caskets, one large, one small. I escaped into sleep.

CHAPTER TWO

A low-flying plane rattled the windows of the hotel, abruptly bringing me fully awake, reminding me of the turbulence on our flight here. After thundering across the tarmac and into the sky over Los Angeles, we had circled south toward our destination, our quest, not for the Holy Grail, but for the truth of the present-day turmoil in Central America. But how qualified were we to determine the truth? As we lurched through a wild summer storm, doubts began to shadow the resolve I had felt in the safety of home.

Now, in the quiet peace of our hotel room, I forced myself to remember the positive attitudes we had working with the refugees, their gratitude as they adjusted to sanctuary and safety.

Once again, I slept. When I woke, Peggy seemed to be coming to life, too. She yawned, threw off the covers and sat up.

Are you awake, Cate?

Barely.

We’ll be leaving in a while.

Where, exactly?

A women’s community in the country. Roseanne will give us a full schedule later.

How do you know this?

She caught up with me right after we got off the plane and gave me a brief sketch of what we would be doing.

Well, why not get going now before it’s too late?

I looked at my watch. Oh, it’s only one o’clock. Seems later.

I’m not sure, but we’ll have to rely on her guidance She’s no doubt being cautious. It’s possible we’re being watched.

Watched? You’re kidding. We just got here.

Peggy shrugged, but didn’t speak for a few minutes. She seemed to be studying me.

Why are you frowning, Cate?

Well, I’m wondering if we did the right thing in coming here. If we are, as you so casually mentioned, being watched.

"I said it’s possible we’re being watched. Forget it. But I’m sure we’ll all have doubts at times.

Do you ever, really?

Well, Cate, to assassinate a priest on the altar …

A monsignor, yet.

Yes.

And the nuns, Peggy? Are four of them less important than one priest?

Oh, for heaven’s sakes, don’t be silly. One nun - one any woman - being raped and murdered …

It wasn’t just that. I sighed. Neither of us spoke for several moments.,

Peggy, in my mind, in my waking hours, I keep seeing the utter contempt on the assassins’ faces as they dumped those terribly violated bodies on the side of the road. Women who had been helping their people! So, let’s just get on with what we’re supposed to be doing, get out of this stuffy room, and try to find some answers.

Right. And I hope we’ll breathe some clean air in the country.

As if to support her words, a breeze, balmy and refreshing, filled the room. Peggy took a tissue from her purse and wiped her face.

Are you okay, Peg? You’re very flushed.

She nodded. Just a little warm. Not used to this humidity. That breeze helps.

We were quiet, lost in our own thoughts. Peggy, it must have been awful, and so frightening. You were actually here at that time. You know, when the nuns…. I shook my head.

Those headlines entered and exited my consciousness like the tiny prick of a pin, leaving only a trace of sadness behind. I didn’t even read beyond the headlines. What was wrong with me?

You were fighting your own demons and didn’t have the energy for anything else.

I poured a cup of water. If it gets any more humid in here, we’ll need umbrellas. Have some water, Peggy. You look drained.

I’m fine.

We were quiet again, lost in our own thoughts. I broke the silence. You know, when Mike left the priesthood, I was shocked. He was always such a straight arrow. Always played by the rules.

He still does. He was more patient than most waiting to be excused from his vows.

I flopped back on the bed and stared at the ceiling. I was so angry at first. How he dumped me for the priesthood, then dumped the priesthood for social justice work. Didn’t do my ego a lot of good.

I’m surprised you’re still carrying that anger around with you.

I shrugged. Just a little moment of rage now and then. But I’m truly grateful for the few sweet years I had with Dan and Danny. Mike was a part of that. And it’s wonderful to be in love with him again. But scary, too.

Why scary?

I don’t know. Everything changed after the accident. I worry more. Of my many fears, on a scale of one to ten, flying gets an eleven – I thought we’d never get here – going to Confession, eight, getting married again, somewhere between zero and thirteen.

Peggy laughed. Yet, here you are. The plane didn’t crash. No one’s hearing confessions. Want me to hang those shirts?

You forgot to mention getting married.

I don’t want to go there. Too complicated.

A loud noise, like a back-fire, shook the walls of our room. I ran to the window.

Was that a car, I hope?

Peggy peered over my shoulder. Evidently. There’s an old junk yard relic coughing its way up the street.

Well, it got my adrenalin pumping. Oddly enough, I feel better, at least awake. Whatever works, I guess.

I relaxed a little, picking up where I had left off.

"Mike felt so strongly about coming here. I wanted to be with him, but now that I’m here … you know, on the plane, I had a few minutes of real peace. You were asleep. While I stared out the window at the star-studded night, I watched a light show that IBM and Star Wars together couldn’t touch. Lightning zipped across the sky, rippled and faded before the next strike. Clouds in the distance resembled snow-clad mountains ablaze with celestial halos! All I could think was, George Lucas, eat your heart out."

Sounds beautiful! Wish I had seen it. Maybe if I close my eyes … She leaned back against the wall.

You know … do you want me to shut up?

Un huh, she mumbled.

Was that a yes or a no?

No.

Okay. That night was like an epiphany, if that doesn’t sound too lofty. It all came together, why we were going to Central America, everything. I wasn’t afraid. I knew we were doing something important. But I wish the epiphany had lasted longer.

Real epiphanies don’t disappear that quickly. And you have Mike to hang on to when things get muddled.

Yes. Oh, Peggy! I love the way he looks. Big handsome guy, his features smudging just a little as the years gently prod him toward middle age. Everything about him is gentle. And I’m so volatile. I don’t know how he puts up with me.

Don’t be so hard on yourself. You’re fine. Your features are also smudging a little, you know. Very nicely. Freckles still fresh. So many fresh freckles!

Stop it!

No gray hair.

Well, I hope not. I’m only thirty-eight!

Me, too! And look at me. Short, pudgy, with a lot of gray hair. She smirked. Fortunately, we nuns are not known for our vanity.

Thanks.

Peggy laughed. I want you to be unafraid, with a little more backbone. You don’t owe anyone an apology.

Good grief, do I have a big yellow streak running down my back? I don’t think I’m that scared. I just want to know what’s going on, and you and Mike seem to have some inside scoop that you’re not sharing, and I can only think you don’t trust me.

"Of course we trust you, but you must admit you were pretty rattled when we first got here, with the passport and custom agents, etc. We went over all of this in orientation.

Well, what about you, Soul Sister? You seemed a little shaken when that car backfired. By the way, when was your last protest? Arrest? In other words, your social life outside the convent?

Oh, c’mon. Peggy sighed, as if bone weary. I do have a life, you know. It’s not all fun and games with the police! I admit, though, at times I do wonder a bit about the traditional ‘religious calling.’ Everything was so simple when I entered the convent. The Ten Commandments. The Golden Rule, Do Unto Others, an emphasis on the personal rather than the communal nature of our faith.

And now? Did you choose the wrong vocation, too?

And now, we’re talking Liberation Theology! It’s confusing, but actually, the basics are really no different from anything we learned in religion classes, or should have.

Seriously? My religion classes were with Mother Superior. Every day she added about ten more ‘Thou Shalt Nots.’ We never learned much about how to treat our neighbors, near or far. It was all about purity, even though sex was not a word ever mentioned.

We both laughed. I poured more water into our cups. Liberation Theology is different, though, Peggy. It threatens the entrenched clergy and in their eyes, is doctrinally suspect.

But not in our eyes. She smiled. I seem to recall you making an impassioned speech about everyone’s right to be all they could be, or something.

That was in the comfort of my apartment after a glass or two of icy chardonnay, I think. Oh, that sounds so good.

I hesitated. Peggy seemed deep in thought. How far should I go with this?

When I first heard about this ‘new’ theology I was impressed, but no ecclesiastical bombshell hit me. It also didn’t give me the security of the Baltimore Catechism. Who’s right? Who’s wrong? Yes, a lot of us fish-eaters are pretty confused. And social activists - progressives - don’t win any popularity contests with south of the border hierarchies or right wing politicians.

Getting scared again?

No, but we’re about to challenge City Hall in a country not even our own. It would be a joke, except funny is not the way I’d describe death squads and bodies by the side of the road. Maybe I’m just thinking about how it would be if I were arrested for being curious. Or, just for being.

I hadn’t talked this much to Peggy in years. She only visited me in my apartment that I shared with Scruffy, my cat, a few times.

Another loud noise, like a gunshot, shook our room and the stupor that seemed to be settling on us. I wondered again about the wisdom of coming to a country that greeted you with soldiers armed not only with guns, but also bayonets. Clean, sharp looking bayonets attached to what seemed to me very large guns. I shuddered at the memory.

CHAPTER THREE

I leaned back against my pillow again. You’re puttering, Peg. .

I’m just trying to find some place to hang my clothes.

Use the hooks. I don’t need to hang mine.

I drifted into a deep, dreamless world. No cars sounding like guns. No guns. No doubts about Mike.

A loud staccato of rapid Spanish shattered the silence of our room.

What …?

Adrenaline pumping, I jumped off the bed and hurried to the window .

My God.

I saw a red-faced Mike being hustled into the hotel by a cop. The sun, still high in the sky, seemed suspended in space by the force of its own heat, resisting the pull of a western horizon. Why was Mike out there? The rest of us were resting in moderately cool rooms.

After so little sleep, my days and nights were jumbling together. I began to wonder if I had been dreaming. I started toward the door. It swung open and shut again quickly, silently, as Peggy hurried in and put her fingers to her lips.

Where were you? I could hear the panic in my voice.

Shh. Just get dressed, she ordered. We’re leaving .

Where’s Mike now? What’s going on?

I heard voices outside and went to the window again and cautiously pulled the curtain aside. A line of marchers walked toward the corner. Peggy said, I’ll be right back, and left.

I wanted to follow, but she quickly shut the door, leaving no doubt I was to stay behind.

When she returned a few moments later, I grabbed her arm. Who are those marchers? What was Mike doing? Where is he? Tell me!

His room, thank God.

What was the cop doing with him? I’m going to see him.

Don’t. Just get your shoes on so we can be ready to leave.

Then tell me, is he okay? I’m about to blow a gasket, and if I do, you’ll have to pick up the pieces.

Yes! I told you he was in his room. He’s okay.

As I slipped into my sandals, I took a deep breath and looked around. The walls, painted a faded shade of rose, held pictures of rural scenes – coffee plantations, jungle flowers and a Mexican sleeping by his burro in the shade of a cactus. Always the cactus. Always the burro. But it did look peaceful.

C’mon, Cate, hurry.

I had no desire to hurry, and didn’t need to look in the mirror to know how swollen my eyes still were. I took several deep breaths, patted my face and swung my arms. Poor man’s workout.

Peggy stared at me. Are you okay?

I wasn’t, but I am now. Stop worrying about me.

But I was still shaky from the restless nap and the emotional turmoil of the preceding hours, and I slumped back onto the bed. A soggy humidity plastered me against the lumpy mattress. Peggy seemed very nervous as she took things from her bag and put them back again.

Giving up any hope of sleep, I threw my legs over the side of the bed and stood, glad to feel the floor beneath my feet. I need a shot of caffeine or something. My head must be filled with dead brain cells.

I can’t help you there. But you have a whole medicine chest in that one little bag.

Careful, Sister. You may come crawling to Doctor Cate before this trip’s over.

Are you fully awake now?

"Enough, I guess. Is