The Sparrow - Mary Doria Russell [199]
"I’m all right," Sofia whispered to Jimmy then. "See about Emilio. It was bad, Jimmy. You can’t imagine. It was terrible."
Jimmy nodded and kissed her and left to check on the priests, neither of whom had been seen for hours. Stooping to peer into their apartment, he saw how things were and motioned Marc outside. "D.W. would tell you to write up the damn report," Jimmy said very softly, stepping back to the far side of the terrace with Marc. "It can probably wait until tomorrow, if you don’t feel up to it."
A fitful smile appeared on Marc’s face, pale in the moonlight. He understood that he was being offered a good excuse to shirk his real duty, which was to comfort Emilio somehow. He regretted his own lack of pastoral experience. What could one say? Sandoz, he knew, had been prepared for the Father Superior’s death, but Anne, too—a staggering blow, to lose them both at once, and horrifically. "Thank you. I shall write the report tonight. It will be good to have something to do."
Marc ducked into the apartment for his tablet, hesitated, and then picked up the Father Superior’s, with its preprogrammed transmission codes; Yarbrough had shown him how to use it, knowing this day was coming. He looked to Sandoz, concerned that this practical reminder of D.W.’s passing would distress him, but Emilio seemed not to know Marc was in the room. Returning to the terrace, Marc told Jimmy quietly, "I shall be in Aycha’s apartment." He turned back toward Sandoz and then faced Jimmy again, giving a small shrug.
Putting a hand on Marc’s shoulder, Jimmy looked past him at Emilio sitting in the gloom. "It’s okay. I’ll see what I can do."
Jimmy went inside. For a while, he was as helpless as Marc had been, unable to imagine what was keeping Emilio from falling apart. The Irish weep and drink and sing and talk at a wake, so George’s reaction had seemed normal and predictable to Jimmy, a kind of grief he understood. But this... You poor macho bastard, Jimmy thought suddenly, realizing that Sandoz probably just wanted some privacy so he could finally cry without witnesses and shame. Jimmy got to his feet but then hunkered down on his heels so he could see Emilio’s face. "¿Quieres compañeros o estar solo?" he asked gently, to be sure before he left Sandoz alone.
"Soy solo. "
Jimmy was almost out of the apartment before he caught the change in the verb and went back. "Mírame, ’mano. Look at me!" he said, dropped down to Emilio’s level again. He put his hands on Emilio’s shoulders and shook him a little. From a great distance, Emilio’s eyes came to him. "You are not alone, Emilio. Sofia loved them and I loved them, too. Do you hear me? Maybe not for so long, maybe not so deeply, but truly and well. We loved them, too." It was only then, saying it, that the reality of the deaths hit Jimmy, and no burden of stoicism dammed up his tears. Emilio’s eyes closed and he turned his head away and then at last, Jimmy understood the rest of it. "Oh, Jesus. You’re not alone, Emilio. I love you. Sofia loves you. And our kid’s gonna need an uncle, man. You’re not alone. You’ve still got us, right? Oh, Jesus," he said again, taking Sandoz in his arms. "That’s better. Thank God! That’s better..."
It was over sooner than Jimmy thought was good for him but at least there’d been some release. Jimmy waited until he thought the time was right and then, wiping his own eyes on his sleeve, lifted Sandoz to his feet. "Come on. No one sleeps alone tonight. You’re coming with me." He steered Emilio out of the apartment and, voice roughened by tears, called to Robichaux, "Marc, you come on up to our place, too. No one sleeps alone tonight!"
WHEN JIMMY BROUGHT Emilio and Marc into the apartment, Sofia was still awake, dark eyes huge in her small face, lips and eyelids swollen. She had heard what her husband had called out to Marc and guessed what had given rise to it. Flooded with love, she thought to herself: