Free El Paso Way by Steven Law Page B

tried to get through to him with his biblical teachings.
    When they were in Tucson, Enrique and the priest were drawn into a noisy alley where a crowd had gathered. A table had been set up and an arm wrestling competition was taking place. What was so ironic was that a very slender man, built similarly to the priest, had taken on a tall, stocky man, twice his size. But the slender man won in a very short time. He collected his winnings, and as he walked away, Enrique stopped him.
    â€œHow did you do that?”
    The man grinned slyly and spoke with an Irish accent. “Arm wrestlin’ is not a brutish sport, young lad.” He pointed at his temple with his index finger. “It’s all up here. You look the other feller in the eyes and you never look away. All at the same time you think yourself to the win.”
    Enrique looked back at the priest, who wrinkled his mouth, then said, “Rubbish.”
    When they returned to the mission, Enrique had not forgotten what the Irishman had told him. He concentrated hard on winning and nothing else, staring into the priest’s eyes and watching the sweat beads form on his forehead, his teeth ultimately gritting. It was the priest who looked away, and down at their fists, as Enrique’s arm became the dominant one. After they’d gone more than three-fourths the way down, their fists slammed on the table.
    The priest looked back up at him with a gasp, but nothing was said. He looked away slowly, stood up and walked outside to the garden.
    For a year they had planned for Enrique’s departure, but had been waiting for the sign to go. Enrique had spent many days hunting and helping the father with the garden and saguaro fruit harvest, stockpiling food and collecting wood for the winter. He also spent time making more arrows, collecting feathers, and even made another trip to Tucson to get a new serape and a new pair of boots. In many ways he had been ready to go for months, but mentally he had never been able to put it all together. Now, he was certain, he would have to.
    There was, however, one more thing that tugged at Enrique’s heart. So many times the priest had asked him about accepting Christ and being baptized, but Enrique couldn’t handle letting go of his anger or his desire for justice, and that was something, the priest advised, that would be required. The priest also warned him that the sign for his departure might not necessarily be from God, but from Satan. That Christ would never condone acts of violence, but that God’s wrath on the evildoers could include Enrique’s passion.
    There was also another reason why Enrique had a hard time accepting Christ. He remembered how his father believed such religion to be nonsense, but how devout his mother was in the faith. His father had more respect for the old Indian shamans than he did for the priests of Christianity, and Enrique always believed that if the truth found him, he would know. After all the years that had passed, Enrique had made little sense of it all. He wasn’t sure about God, but he did believe in the priest. It was the priest who’d found him and taken him in, not an old Indian shaman. Many of the challenges and purposes that the priest had taught him came to light. Especially now, having crossed paths with Pang. It was more than convincing.
    As he turned from the river and looked back at the mission, this place that had been his home for seven years, he looked at the adobe structure, and up at the bell tower, still minus a bell, and at the garden, the stable, and at the creosote bush where he had first seen Sereno, his friendly shadow. All were so special to him. His comfort from a tragedy. His home.
    Father Gaeta walked out the mission door, with Pang behind him. They stood and looked at Enrique. The priest, Enrique could tell, was worried and sad, but they had lived together long enough to know that this day would ultimately come, even though neither could