Endless Chain. Emilie Richards

      Chapter Five

      SAM DID NOT believe in putting on a show on Sunday mornings, nor did he believe boredom was conducive to spiritual growth. His worship services were high-energy affairs that made use of the arts to emphasize the simple message that God asked us to love our neighbors and treat them the way we wanted to be treated ourselves.

      This was at the core of every one of his sermons. He was less interested in proclaiming ironclad answers to life’s questions and narrowly interpreting scripture. Those who needed a longer list of dos and don’ts, or weekly promises that their way was the only way, had moved on to other churches. For every family he lost, he gained several more.

      On the Sunday after the fiesta, he was donning a colorful liturgical stole woven in Guatemala to brighten his somber black robe. His early service had been well attended for one so late in the summer, and a peek into the sanctuary a few minutes ago had confirmed that this one would have respectable attendance, too.

      He was wiggling the stole into place and matching the edges when Andy, the choir director, stomped in. He was a young man, flamboyant and outspoken, who, despite impressive credentials, had not been able to find a position in a church near his Strasburg home until Sam hired him.

      “They’re murdering the Spanish on the processional! I’ve never heard anything like it.” He flopped down on Sam’s sofa, mock outrage distorting his face. He was a lanky six feet, with a collar-length Prince Valiant haircut colored a stunning orange, and large teeth with a pronounced overbite that made for a spectacular smile. “You’re sure you want us to process to that...that song again?”

      Sam was used to Andy’s tirades. “‘Des Colores’ is the official song of the United Farm Workers. Did I tell you that?”

      “About a million times. You’d better hope there aren’t any union members at this next service, or they’ll come after you with shovels and hoes. Oh, I got some more rhythm instruments after the last service. Somebody donated them. We’ll march with maracas this time.”

      “Good, that will drown out the bad Spanish. God works in mysterious ways.”

      “I just can’t believe you keep this job!” Andy got to his feet. “Off to see who shows up to sing. You know, I could have gotten a gig in D.C. They wanted me at the Cathedral.”

      “We’d miss you, Andy.”

      Andy grinned.

      Out in the hallway, Sam was greeted by the dance director in leotards and a tunic adorned with a wide swath of brightly colored fabric. Liturgical dancers were an innovation he had encouraged, and as they headed for the sanctuary, he agreed to smooth out a transition between his sermon and the dancers’ entrance to a recording of “Amazing Grace” played on marimbas. The theme of the day was clear. The celebration of La Casa Amarilla was still in progress.

      At the wide double doors leading into the sanctuary, he stood at his place in front of the choir. The sanctuary was nearly full.

      As always, he said a short prayer as the organist concluded the prelude. Then he lifted his head and waited for the opening bars of the processional. He felt his traditional mixture of elation that he’d been blessed to stand in front of these good people and fear that he wasn’t worthy.

      He realized, as the processional began, that today he didn’t feel sadness that he was not walking down a longer and wider center aisle to the music of the one-hundred-voice chancel choir of Savior’s Church.

      * * *

      Adoncia Garcia’s home was crowded with toys and furniture her mother-in-law had given her. The mother-in-law, and Adoncia’s two children, Maria, age three, and Fernando, eighteen months, were the only good things to come from her marriage to Fernando Garcia the first, who now rested permanently under a headstone on which his mother was still making payments.

      Fernando had been a bad choice for both Adoncia and the woman in whose bed he’d been shot by a jealous boyfriend. Adoncia, who had been courted by half a dozen faithful, hardworking men in her home city of Guanajuato, had been blinded by Fernando’s smile and promises of a better life in the United States. Both the smile and the promises had been lies. Now she was in Virginia, and her family was in central Mexico. For better or worse, her children were U.S. citizens and her home was here.

      “Maria, you put away your toys now, so we can get ready to go.” Adoncia demonstrated by dropping Maria’s favorite teddy bear in one of three bright plastic tubs along one wall. “You do it like this.”

      Maria complied. She had her father’s smile and her mother’s energy. Elisa was certain the little girl would go far.

      “Today is an English day,” Adoncia told Elisa, who had the day off and was letting it unfold slowly for a change. “Today we speak to the children in English only. Tomorrow, Spanish.”

      “Does Diego agree to this system?” Diego was Adoncia’s boyfriend, a good-natured, intelligent man who was determined to get ahead in the world. He was the polar opposite of Fernando the former.

      “Diego will do anything I say.” Adoncia made a face. “Almost anything. But he will speak English today, or I will not speak to him.”

      Elisa dusted the few vacant surfaces as Adoncia moved into the connecting kitchen to do dishes from their late breakfast. She and the children had an outing planned with Diego, something she had looked forward to for days. Adoncia worked five difficult shifts each week at the chicken plant south of Woodstock in Edinburg, while the children stayed with their grandmother. The overly attentive Mrs. Garcia spoiled her grandchildren as badly as she had spoiled her son, but Adoncia made sure they obeyed the rules at home.

      Fernando toddled over and raised his arms to be lifted up. Elisa settled the little boy on one hip and finished dusting with the other hand.

      “The good thing about a small house is that it takes no time to clean.” Adoncia pulled the plug in the sink and let the dishwater drain out. “I should be grateful for poverty, huh?”

      “After Diego moves in, you can save enough to buy a little house of your own. As hard as you both work, it shouldn’t take too long.”

      “That’s what he says, only he says big house. He wants a big house for all the children.”

      Wisely, Elisa said nothing.

      “Many children.” Adoncia began to rinse and dry the dishes she’d washed. “A hundred children.”

      “Probably only ninety-five.”

      Adoncia laughed. Whenever she did, the responsibilities that weighed so heavily on her twenty-four-year-old shoulders seemed to disappear. Elisa thought her friend was beautiful. She was too plump by this country’s anorexic standards, but she had black hair that curved around her face in shining layers, and warm brown skin she enhanced with bright cosmetics and clothing. It was no surprise to Elisa that Diego Moreno had fallen in love with Adoncia the first time he’d set eyes on her.

      “He would keep me pregnant until I’m an old woman, if he had his way. I tell him ‘one baby will show the world what a big man you are, Diego,’ but he doesn’t see it that way.”

      “You think he’s trying to prove his manhood?”

      “You know a man who isn’t?”

      Elisa thought about Sam Kinkade, who twice last Wednesday had been forced to prove his. She doubted he had wanted or relished either experience.

      “No,” Adoncia continued, “Diego is determined to show everyone he is a big man. In every way,” she added slyly.

      Elisa laughed. “And you’ll be a big woman if you have all those children.”

      “Bigger.” Adoncia