The Guardians by Ana Castillo Page B

but who I was really surprised to see was my tía Regina. Next to her was el Chongo Man. The schoolteacher did not look like someone who ever went to la santa misa. But there they were. (May the grace of Christ enlighten the hearts of all so that we may love him.) They were obviously looking for me. When she caught my glance my tía Regina's eyes so fixed on me, they seemed to be trying to say something like, “What the hell are you doing up there?” (That is how she talks, Santito.)
    My tía Regina, watching over me, as always, was dressed for a change, out of respect. Her hair was brushed down, long, way past hershoulders. Her shawl was made from an old curtain we found at la segunda. And she stood so straight, my tía looked like una reina. A queen who had come down from her castle to see how her people were doing.
    Padre Pío, she hurts over my father, too. He was her hermanito, after all. Every time my father was at her place, he helped her—cleaning out the gutters, tarring the roof, whatever chore she needed done. She made big meals for him. “Aren't you going to sit down and eat with me?” he'd say. Mi papá did not like her to fuss over him. “You eat. Don't worry about me,” she would say. My tía loves to see people eat her food.
    As I sat up at the altar waiting, the top of my lip was moist with anticipation of my reading. My manos were almost shaking holding my missal. I'd never spoken in public before. I looked around the church at all the roasted pecan faces. A lot of the women around here are gordas. Some are bien flaquitas. I think it has to do with very bad eating habits, too much drinking. Y drugs, también. There were girls with squirming chiquillos who looked like big sisters forced to babysit, but it was usually the case that they were mothers. All the women, young and old, came to church to kneel before la Virgencita. All of them with frowns and tears seemed to whisper, “Someone in heaven, give me a break.”
    The older men's faces looked like they were made of the same leather covering as el Padre Juan Bosco's ancient-looking Bibles, fine cracks cutting into sunburned skin, from lifetimes of working in the sun. Half the rest of the men had caras de crudo, not crude faces but hung over. And as with every Mass, Santo, there were very few young or able men.
    I always wonder—is it not considered manly to fear God?
    It was then that it happened. I turned to face the altar, tan nervioso, as I said, and as I was looking high above, at the life-size crucifix that hangs there, the wisdom de Su Reverencia came to me:
“The One who is keeping you nailed to the Cross loves you and is breathing into you the strength to bear the unbearable martyrdom and the love to love divine Love in bitterness.”
    That was when the grace of Our Lord was bestowed upon me. Even in church Satan could fool someone so desiring a sign as I had. But I saw it, Santo. At first, a single drop. Then a second and a third. Bright and red as the brightest, reddest rose in God's holy garden. Drops of blood slowly coming down the divine forehead of Jesus. I was not frightened at all. It was as if the thorns were piercing my own flesh.
    I felt my head suddenly ache. I put my hands up to hold it. It could have been no longer than a minute of sheer agony. Then it vanished. And my body and soul were calm. Thank you, Diosito, I said.
    When it was time to give my reading, I felt as if the querubines themselves carried me to the podium. God is all-merciful.
    Su Servidor sin Mérito

GABO
    Santo and friend of God, thank you for listening to me,
    My saludos to you and to the Lord, my Father in Heaven. Please ask Him to look down kindly on me—I am trying to be good.
    Padre Pío, I know you do not measure faith by how much a person dedicates himself to reading scriptures but I want you to know I read not only the Bible but everything. It was no one's recommendation or insistence. Reading just came to me. That was how I learned English. I read