John Irving - Avenue of Mysteries

“I see — we’re scattering, are we?” the Iowan asked, but no one answered him.

“We’re covering the bitch from head to toe — the Mary Monster will have ashes in her eyes!” Lupe raved incoherently. But Juan Diego didn’t translate his sister’s outburst.

At the entrance to the temple, only Edward Bonshaw paused at the fountain of holy water; he touched it and then his forehead, under the portrait of Saint Ignatius looking to Heaven (forever) for guidance.

Pepe had already lit the candles. The dump kids didn’t pause for even a small splash of holy agua. In the nook after the fountain, they found Brother Pepe praying at the Guadalupe inscription — the “Guadalupe bullshit,” as Lupe was now calling it.

“¿No estoy aquí, que soy tu madre?” (Lupe meant that bullshit.)

“No, you are not here,” Lupe said to the smaller-than-life-size likeness of Guadalupe. “And you’re not my mother.” When Lupe saw Pepe on his knees, she said to her brother: “Tell Pepe to go find Rivera — the dump boss should be here. El jefe will want to see this.”

Juan Diego told Pepe they were scattering the ashes at the feet of the big Virgin Mary, and that Lupe wanted Rivera to be present.

“This is different,” Pepe said. “This represents quite a change in thinking. I’m guessing the Guadalupe shrine was a watershed. Maybe Mexico City marks a turning point?” Pepe asked the Iowan, whose forehead was wet with holy water.

“Things have never felt so uncertain,” Señor Eduardo said; this sounded to Pepe like the beginning of a long confession — Pepe hurried on his way, with scant apology to the Iowan.

“I have to find Rivera — those are my instructions,” Pepe said, though he was full of sympathy for how Edward Bonshaw’s reorientation was progressing. “By the way, I heard about the horse !” Pepe called to Juan Diego, who was hurrying to catch up to Lupe; she was already standing at the base of the pedestal (the ghastly frozen angels in the pedestal of Heavenly clouds), staring up at the Mary Monster.

“You see?” Lupe said to Juan Diego. “You can’t scatter the ashes at her feet — look who’s already lying at her feet!”

Well, it had been a while since the dump kids had stood in front of the Mary Monster; they’d forgotten the diminutive, shrunken-looking Jesus, who was suffering on the cross and bleeding at the Virgin Mary’s feet. “We’re not scattering Mother’s ashes on him, ” Lupe said.

“Okay— where, then?” Juan Diego asked her.

“I really think this is the right decision,” Edward Bonshaw was saying. “I don’t think you two have given the Virgin Mary a fair chance.”

“You should get on the parrot man’s shoulders. You can throw the ashes higher if you’re higher,” Lupe said to Juan Diego.

Lupe held the coffee can while Juan Diego got on Edward Bonshaw’s shoulders. The Iowan needed to grasp hold of the Communion railing to rise, unsteadily, to his full height. Lupe took the lid off the coffee can before handing the ashes to her brother. (Only God knows what Lupe did with the lid.)

Even from his elevated position, Juan Diego was barely eye-level with the Virgin Mary’s knees; the top of his head was only thigh-high to the giantess.

“I’m not sure how you can sprinkle the ashes in an upward fashion,” Señor Eduardo tactfully observed.

“Forget about sprinkling, ” Lupe said to her brother. “Grab a handful, and start throwing.”

But the first handful of ashes flew no higher than the Mary Monster’s formidable breasts; naturally, most of the ashes fell on Juan Diego’s and the Iowan’s uplifted faces. Señor Eduardo coughed and sneezed; Juan Diego had ashes in his eyes. “This isn’t working very well,” Juan Diego said.

“It’s the idea that counts,” Edward Bonshaw said, choking.

“Throw the whole can — throw it at her head!” Lupe cried.

“Is she praying?” the Iowan asked Juan Diego, but the boy was concentrating on his aim. He hurled the coffee can, which was three-quarters full — the way he’d seen soldiers in the movies lob a grenade.

“Not the whole can!” the dump kids heard Señor Eduardo cry.

“Good shot,” Lupe said. The coffee can had struck the Virgin Mary in her domineering forehead. (Juan Diego was sure he saw the Mary Monster blink.) The ashes rained down, dispersing everywhere. There were ashes falling through the shafts of morning light and on every inch of the Mary Monster. The ashes kept falling.

“It was as if the ashes fell from a superior height — from an unseen source, but a high one,” Edward Bonshaw would later describe what happened. “And the ashes went on falling — as if there were more ashes than could possibly have been contained in that coffee can.” At this point, the Iowan always paused before saying: “I hesitate to say this. I truly do. But the way those ashes wouldn’t stop falling made the moment seem to last forever. Time — time itself, all sense of time — stopped.”

In the ensuing weeks — for months, Brother Pepe would maintain — those worshipers who’d arrived early for the first morning Mass continued to call the ashes falling in the shafts of light “an event.” Yet those ashes that appeared to bathe the towering Virgin Mary in a radiant but gray-brown cloud were not heralded as a divine occurrence by everyone arriving at the Jesuit temple for morning Mass.

The two old priests Father Alfonso and Father Octavio were annoyed by what a mess the ashes had made: the first ten rows of pews were coated with ashes; a film of ash clung to the Communion railing, which was curiously sticky to touch. The big Virgin Mary looked soiled; she was definitely darkened, as if by soot. The dirt-brown, death-gray ashes were everywhere.

“The children wanted to scatter their mother’s ashes,” Edward Bonshaw started to explain.

“In the temple, Edward?” Father Alfonso asked the Iowan.

“All this was a scattering !” Father Octavio exclaimed. He tripped on something, unintentionally kicking it — the empty coffee can, which was rattling around underfoot. Señor Eduardo picked up the can.

“I didn’t know they were going to scatter the entire contents,” the Iowan admitted.

“That coffee can was full ?” Father Alfonso asked.

“It was not just our mother’s ashes,” Juan Diego told the two old priests.

“Do tell,” Father Octavio said. Edward Bonshaw stared into the empty can, as if he hoped it possessed oracular powers.

“The good gringo — may he rest in peace,” Lupe began. “My dog — a small one.” She stopped, as if waiting for Juan Diego to translate this much, before she continued. Or else Lupe stopped because she was wondering if she should tell the two priests about the Mary Monster’s missing nose.

“You remember the American hippie — the draft dodger, the boy who died,” Juan Diego said to Father Alfonso and Father Octavio.

“Yes, yes — of course,” Father Alfonso said. “A lost soul — a tragically self-destructive one.”

“A terrible tragedy — such a waste,” Father Octavio said.

“And my sister’s little dog died — the dog was in the fire,” Juan Diego went on. “And the dead hippie.”

“It’s all coming back — we did know this,” Father Alfonso said. Father Octavio nodded grimly.

“Yes, please stop — that’s enough. Most distasteful. We remember, Juan Diego,” Father Octavio said.

Lupe didn’t speak; the two priests wouldn’t have understood her, anyway. Lupe just cleared her throat, as if she were going to say something.