Emilie Richards - Endless Chain

She reviewed her credentials. She was slight, but she was strong. That would be important to show. She must not appear over- or under-qualified. She must seem accessible, but not chatty. Intelligent and resourceful, but not above menial labor. Interested in the church, but never nosy.

She needed to explain that she would willingly work long or late hours without sounding desperate or pushy.

She needed to tell as much of the truth about herself as she could, so that she would not be tripped up in her own lies.

Old Miller Road curved sharply as she descended the last hill, and when she rounded it she saw the church just a hundred yards in front of her. Like so many of the area churches, it was white, with a tall steeple gracefully in proportion to the building. The roof was dazzling tin; the wings that jutted from either side had been designed to harmonize, not detract. Lovely old trees dotted the grounds; a garden of some sort lay against one side, and as she neared, she saw roses in bloom, despite August’s moist heat. Someone cared about those roses—and cared for them.

She wondered if gardening would be part of the sexton’s job, and she tried to remember when the roses had been pruned at the home she had shared with Gabrio. When had they been fertilized and watered, and how had they been selected? Now she wished she had paid more attention.

She was fifty yards closer before she noticed the two trucks in front of the church, parked beside a white sign. At first she merely noted their presence, but as she drew closer, she saw there was more to note. Much more.

A group of half a dozen boys—high-school age, she thought—were gathering near the sign, which stood about twenty feet to the right of the front door. The boy in the lead, just a few feet ahead of the others, was swinging what looked like an axe. She heard shouts, profanity and forced high-pitched laughter that shattered her preoccupation with the coming interview.

Her pulse sped; her hands grew damp. She stumbled to a stop. This scene was too reminiscent of another in her past, the same high-intensity, testosterone-fueled prequel to violence. For a moment she wondered if she could escape without being seen. Then she read the sign the boys were clearly bent on destroying, and something inside her snapped.

“Stop it!” She was running before she had time to think. Not away, which would have made sense, but directly toward them. “¡Sinvergüenzas! ¿Qué andan haciendo?”

Perhaps the boys weren’t as brave as they’d thought. Perhaps they were only interested in a new and more personal victim. Whatever their reasons, they stopped and turned to watch her approach. She slowed to a halt just in front of the sign, reaching it before they could.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded in English. She glared at them, burying all lingering fears where they could not be seen. She knew these boys, had met them a hundred times in a hundred different places. She was too well acquainted with pack mentality, wolves in jeans or soldiers’ uniforms, men and boys who could forget what made them human as long as they stood shoulder to shoulder with others like themselves.

Oh yes, she knew these boys and how dangerous they could be.

The boy in the lead was narrow-shouldered and hipped, with a shock of light brown hair falling over his eyes. He had the soft cheeks of mid-adolescence, a tiny cut on his chin, perhaps from inexperience with shaving. For a moment he looked uncertain, as if he might consider leaving if everyone would just shut their eyes so he could slip away.

Then his expression hardened. “Hey, chica, who do you think you are?”

She wondered what B movie he’d watched for that bit of Spanish.

“Get away from there before you get hurt,” he said when she didn’t move.

“You would hurt me over a sign? A sign in front of God’s house? You’re not afraid He’s watching, waiting for you to make a better choice?”

For a moment fear flickered in his eyes. Her own gaze flicked to the boys behind him, then back to his. “They’re not worth it,” she said in a softer voice. “They want you to take the risk while they watch. What kind of friends are those?”

“Go back to Mexico, cunt!” one of the boys shouted. “We don’t need your kind here.”

“Maybe you do,” she said, not taking her eyes from the boy with the sledgehammer. She was glad it was not an axe, as she’d first feared. “Maybe you need a reminder this is a welcoming country, that your own grandparents or great-grandparents might have come from somewhere else.”

“Just do it!” one of the boys in the back shouted at the leader. “Just smash it and let’s get out of here.”

“I’m not going to let you,” Elisa said, as calmly as she could. “And I’ve seen you, every one of your faces. If you damage this sign, I will remember and describe you, one by one.”

The boy in the lead looked torn. His thoughts were easy to read. If he was arrested, someone in his life would not be happy about it.

She lowered her voice and hoped what she had to say was just for his ears.

“I have a brother. I know it’s hard to stand up for yourself, but you have better instincts than this. I know you do.”

“Yeah, Leon,” one of the closer boys said. “You have girly man instincts. Even the Mex can see it.”

As if propelled by those words, Leon stepped directly in front of her, as if he planned to walk right through her. She put her hands against his shoulders and shoved. He stumbled backward, clearly caught off guard. She took that brief moment to move backward to the sign and stand firmly against it. “You will have to hit me first,” she said. “Are you willing?”

“That’s enough! What is going on here?”

None of them had noticed the approach of a man dressed in a blue polo shirt and khakis. The boys turned as the man bore down on them, and, as one, they stepped backward. Leon moved away so quickly Elisa could feel a breeze.

“Leon Jenkins.” The man moved to stand just in front of the boy and grabbed him by one shoulder. “Let’s hear an explanation.”

“Get your hand off me.”

“When I’m good and ready.” The man reached out, twisted the sledgehammer from Leon’s hand and tossed it on the ground behind him.

Elisa heard voices and turned her head to see a small group of women approaching from the direction of the parking lot. She slumped against the sign, sure now that she was out of danger.

“Just what is going on?” one of the oldest of the women demanded.

“Some of the local youth were planning to renovate our new sign,” the man said. His voice was low and controlled. He still sounded furious.

The other boys looked at each other, then whirled and took off for the pickups.

“Stay out of their way,” the man told the women. He didn’t take his eyes off Leon, who was squirming and clawing at his hand. Only when the pickups were out of sight did the man’s hand fall to his side.

“Exactly why?” he demanded.

The boy backed away, but he didn’t run. Where could he go now? Clearly he would be caught and humiliated further if he tried.

Elisa saw the boy’s fear and his realization that nothing good could come of this. She was unaccountably moved. Now she saw a boy, just a boy like her brother, and no longer a threat. She stepped forward and rested her fingertips on the man’s arm. “He didn’t hurt me,” she said. “Not even when I pushed him away.”

“He might have tried.”

“No, it was the sign he wanted.” She turned to the sign now and read the words out loud. It was an ordinary church sign, announcing the times of services and the name of the minister. Only the last sentence, in Spanish, was at all unusual. “Todo el Público es Bienvenido a los Servicios de La Iglesia Comunitaria de Shenandoah.” The Shenandoah Community Church welcomes everyone to its services.