The Hummingbird's Daughter_ A Novel - Luis Alberto Urrea [152]
“Why not?”
“Oh, Cruz! My father would never allow that!” She put her hands over her mouth and laughed. “Can you imagine Tomás Urrea allowing me to kiss pilgrims? Ay, Dios!”
Cruz smiled.
“Or dance with them,” he said.
She laughed again.
“Can you imagine?” she cried. “Can you imagine me waltzing with a pilgrim?”
He shook his head.
“Sometimes,” she said, “I don’t actually touch them. I can see the colors around them, the light that comes from the body. Sometimes the light breaks. Do you understand? No? Let me see. It is as if the body were a candle.”
She took his hand and led him to the votive candles.
“The flame might be the soul. But see the way the wax glows? The burning flame casts light through the candle. See?”
He watched the candles; their waxen bodies glowed below the flames, reddening as if blood were in them.
“I see,” he said.
“Soot on the candle”—she wiped black ash on the side of one of them —“blocks the light. So too does illness. Do you see? The sickness makes . . . a shadow. I see the shadow.”
She went back to her seat.
His hand, where she’d held it, felt warm. He rubbed it on his pants.
“I can sometimes touch the shadow,” she said.
He went to the bench and sat behind her.
They were close enough to smell each other.
“May I touch you?” he asked.
She was quiet a long time.
“To bless you.”
“Usually it’s me doing the blessing.”
“But I am here now. May I?”
“Yes.”
He put his hand on her back. His other hand on her head.
“Bless you, Teresa.”
Then he laid his forehead against her spine. He closed his eyes.
“Sometimes,” she murmured, “I take their pain into my body. I pull their affliction into me, and then God cures me. It is very hard. It leaves me very tired. It is the ultimate test of faith.”
He rested his face on her back and smelled her.
When Cruz awoke on the pew, she was gone.
It was morning, and the jangle and smash of the cooking, feeding throng filled the air. This was the day the Tigers were to return to Tomóchic. Cruz rose, genuflected and made the sign of the cross, retrieved his hat and rifle, and stepped into the day. He blinked in the harsh light and pushed through the bodies.
Teresita was already speaking to a small group on her porch. Cruz spied Rubén and Saint Joseph standing near the steps. Segundo stared at him, leaned over the railing, and spit.
“Where were you?” Cruz asked his men.
“Sleeping,” said Rubén.
Saint Joseph smiled at him.
“I had a miracle,” he said.
“Oh?”
Cruz had already forgotten the tumor on José’s neck.
“Show him,” said Rubén.
José pulled the bandana away from his neck and said, “Look.”
Cruz turned his eyes away from Teresita and stared at his neck. The oblong purple growth was gone. A long pucker of flesh remained on the back of José’s neck where the tumor had been. José laughed. Cruz gasped, laid his finger on the old man’s neck. It was hot, scaly as a lizard’s, but there was no tumor.
“Gone!” Saint Joseph laughed.
Cruz stared at Teresita. She looked up and smiled at him.
“Daughter of God,” he said.
Fifty
THE NOTE WAS LEFT on the porch swing, held down by one of the recently dislodged white rocks from the plazuela.
From: I, the Pope of México Libre, Pastor Cruz Chávez, Leader of Tomóchic, Captain of the Tigers of the Sierra
To: You, Daughter of God, Teresa Urrea, also known as Saint of Cabora, But I prefer Teresita
My dear Saint. No, you do not care to be called Saint, and God bless you for that! Does it not state in the Good Book that we who believe are all Saints in Christ! Amen!
Dear Teresa.
May I call you Teresa? Honestly, I would like to call you Teresita. All right?
Teresita! It is me, Cruz.
The Lord has directed me to inform you that you have passed the test we brought to you. Did I say that right? Forgive me my failures of orthography (I thought you might like this big word) but I do my best. Amen.
José was healed by your touch. By the Holy Spirit! Glorious is the Spirit! Amen. We must go back now. Amen.
You do not like the name, but we place you among our pantheon of saints and guardian angels. Tom