Макс Коллинз - Road to Paradise

“It’s not a crutch, Pat. It’s—”

Shaking her head firmly, the blonde locks bouncing, she said, “No, Mike, it’s a crutch. It is a crutch. And God knows I could use a crutch. Because, Mike — most of the time? I feel like I’m falling down.”

“I’m here to catch you, baby.”

“I know. And I do love you. You’re not gonna let that little bitch at the restaurant come between us are you?”

“No. Hell no.”

She smiled; there was love in it. “Good. Take me to bed, why don’t you? Let’s fall asleep together in our four-poster bed like the old married people we are. And we won’t talk religion anymore. Or bitches.”

“I can dig it,” he said.

“Ha! Aren’t you the hepcat?”

She was laughing as they walked arm in arm to the bedroom. Pat hadn’t laughed like that for a long time, and Michael found the sound pleasing, and chose not to recognize the desperation in it.

In the shimmering distance, a dazzling white edifice seemed to hover over the beige expanse of desert to meet a violet ragged ribbon of mountains and rise into cloudless blue.

The castle-like Mission of San Xavier del Bac was no mirage, rather a Moorish monument whose stately dome and proud parapets contrasted sharply with an otherwise stark Arizona vista. In the midst of the hell of an American Sahara, the church promised paradise, burning bright and white, stucco covering adobe bricks to conspire with the intense desert sunlight to create that ghost-like glimmer.

Michael had driven out Mission Road, onto the Tohono O’odham Indian Reservation, through a severe landscape of tiny houses and tilled fields that made Paradise Estates seem a world away, not just a few miles. The White Dove of the Desert, as the mission was called, was a tourist attraction, but it was also a working church, holding mass daily, four times on Sunday.

This was Friday, the morning after Michael and Pat had discussed religion, among other things, and he’d asked her to come along, and she, in her robe at the kitchen table with coffee and a cigarette, had declined.

“But by all means, darling,” she said, “you go.”

And she’d waved a hand in a regal fashion reserved for monarchs, popes, and wives.

Things had gone so well the night before that he knew getting back into the touchy subject of church attendance — much less the existence of God — was no way to start their day. But he had gone to mass regularly for as long as he could remember; even on the road with his father, all those years ago, they’d stopped at churches, if not for mass, for confession and to light candles for those Michael’s father had dispatched to final judgment.

Almost two months of no mass had put Michael into a kind of spiritual withdrawal. He needed a God fix.

The mission sat on a slight elevation — to call it a hill would be an exaggeration — which had encouraged that optical illusion of hovering that Michael had, from a distance, noted. The parking lot was about half-full, separating the mission buildings from a plaza of craft shops and stalls selling American Indian snacks, the fragrant food aroma and displays of pottery, jewelry, and baskets emphasizing the tourist aspect of San Xavier.

But the churchgoers making the pilgrimage to the mission for mass were a mix of sightseers and locals, the latter comprised of Indians and Mexicans.

Many of these wore suits and ties, however humble, while the tourists wore sport shirts and slacks and sundresses, including western-style apparel picked up on their Tucson trip, right down to cowboy hats and brand-new boots. Michael — the only Anglo in a suit and tie — could not avoid feeling he was, with these other whites, invading the land of the natives once again.

On the other hand, the collection-plate contributions would stay here, in this parish, just like the money made across the way, selling fried bread and friendship bowls.

At the edge of the parking lot, Michael paused to take in the magnificent wedding cake of a structure, which was a series of arches and domes, every surface elaborately decorated. The only use of wood he could see was in the window frames and doors; otherwise, all appeared to be burned adobe brick or lime plaster.

Twin towers — one lacking a crowning dome, as if to say God’s work is never finished — bookended the finely carved Spanish baroque stone entry, which was a weathered red in contrast to all the surrounding white, embellished by gifted if naive native artisans with arabesques, shells, and swirling scrolls.

Past the weathered mesquite doors, Michael felt a welcoming warmth that was in part his relief to again be inside a church but also this particular church, with its ornate carvings, painted statues, and faded frescoes. Even if the colors had dimmed over time, indications of a vivid interior remained, as on the corner supports of the dome before the sanctuary, where large wooden angels perched, bearing bright banners.

He slipped into a well-worn wooden pew at the rear, on the aisle, next to a Papago family, the father with his straw hat in the lap of his threadbare brown suit, the mother in a dark blue dress touched gently with lace at collar and cuffs, and two boys, perhaps nine and eleven, in black confirmation suits that hadn’t had a chance to get worn out yet. They were obviously comfortable here, in this warm and lived-in sanctuary, suffering the presence of tourists with quiet dignity.

The church interior was more elaborate than your typical Spanish mission church. Colorfully painted religious statues filled niches, and on the ceiling and walls were panels detailing Christ’s life and death and resurrection. The somewhat crude execution indicated these were likely the work of primitive painters, but though the faces held little expression, Michael found the depictions deeply moving.

When he took Communion, Michael got a closer look at the altar, which — beneath the wide sanctuary arch — was vividly painted, polychrome with gilt touches, and arrayed with images of the patron saint Xavier and of the Virgin, as well as scrolls and cherubs. The altar itself was backed by an intricately carved brick and stucco retable.

The service lasted forty minutes, but Michael lingered afterward, sitting alone in the sanctuary but for an occasional tourist, who climbed to the choir loft for a better look and to flash photos.

He prayed for his family. He prayed for forgiveness for himself and his father. He prayed for a miracle for his boy, Mike. But mostly he prayed for guidance and strength. When he settled back in the pew, he felt a presence beside him — it was Father Francisco, a Mexican American in his late forties with a dark-brown face, creped by sun and responsibility; his eyes were large and dark and kind.

The father sat beside Michael in the pew and said, “You don’t look like our typical tourist.”

“I’m not a tourist, Father.” He introduced himself, shaking hands with the priest, then said, “I’m local. My family and I just moved here.”

“And you’re looking for a church?”

“We are. But I’ve missed mass for a few weeks, and I’d heard about your lovely church... It really is quite beautiful... and, well—”

A wonderful smile broke through the leathery face. “You needn’t apologize for stopping by to see us, Mr. Smith. And you and your family would be welcome here.”

“My wife has lost her faith.”

It just came out.

The kind dark eyes did not tense. Gently, the priest said only, “Why?”

“Lot of reasons. Starting with our son is MIA in Vietnam. And... we got rather violently uprooted from our old life, and dropped down here in Arizona, kind... kind of like Dorothy in Oz.”

The priest nodded. “A move takes adjustment. And the loss of a son is an adjustment we never really make. It’s the kind of wound that doesn’t heal. But if your wife could find her way back to the loving embrace of our Lord, that would be a start.”