Chapter Twenty-One

The spires of St. Vincent De Paul's rose like gloomy watchtowers over the shotgun shacks of the Latin ghetto. In the waning light of day, the sun cast shadows on the gargoyles and flashed menacingly off the rose window. The parking lot was crowded for early evening Mass, but Joe found a spot near the edge of the lot and made his way to the heavy double doors. He stepped inside, pausing a moment so his eyes could adjust to the dim light of the vestibule. In the main chapel, he could hear the priest intoning the words of Communion.

The familiar words about drinking the blood of Christ gave Joe an uncharacteristic shiver, but his business wasn't in the main chapel. Quietly slipping his keys into his pocket, he turned toward the smaller devotional chapel, dabbling his fingers in the holy water and crossing himself before entering.

The chapel was oppressive with incense, quiet and darkness, except for a faint bit of light coming from a side window and an array of candles in red glass votives clustered around the feet of a life-sized statue of the Virgin Mary. Joe took a few steps toward the statue but hesitated when he noticed an elderly woman in black kneeling in front of her, whispering a rosary.

He sat on one of the half dozen pews and waited for her to finish, closing his eyes and willing himself to relax. Finally the woman rose to her feet and made her way up the aisle, silent as a ghost. Had Joe not opened his eyes at just the right moment, he might not have noticed her departure.

Looking around to make sure the chapel was really empty this time, he made his way toward the saint again. First he stood at her feet looking up at her. Then he climbed the broad pedestal to examine her more closely. He spotted a few nicks on her hands and rubbed them thoughtfully, but other than that, he was satisfied. She was free of dust and the wood had been well cared for. Almost as an afterthought, he examined her velvet robes. From farther back in the chapel he had noticed silver spangles adorning her gown, but closer examination proved them to be little tin hearts, keys, cars, houses, animals, and just about anything else the pedestrian human mind could think of, pinned to her robe by adoring parishioners. She had become a Virgin of Lost Things.

Amused, Joe stepped down from the platform and turned as if to leave. But a few steps from the door, he stopped. He returned to the saint's feet and glanced around the empty room as if someone might have wandered in during the time he had been there. Then he solemnly lit a votive, knelt and bowed his head. After a few moments, he got to his feet. He cast a hopeful look at the face of the Virgin, then with a shake of the head at his own superstition, he turned again to leave.

This time he got into the vestibule before being stopped, this time by a real person. Mass was letting out, and as he worked his way through the crowd, someone called his name.

"Urgulano, is that you?"

Joe scanned the faces of the people milling around him.

"Over here!"

Joe spotted a thin, gnarled man in a worn leather blazer and he made his way over to him. "Chále!" he said, gripping the man's hand, "Or should I still call you Cholo? How are you, man?"

"Menos mal. What brings you back to the old 'hood? Once you get out, you're not supposed to come back. Didn't anyone ever tell you that?"

"Can't help returning to the scene of the crime, I guess."

"Hey, I heard that. How've you been? You're the last person I thought I'd see hanging around here."

"I'm in town on other business," Joe said vaguely. "I had a little time to kill and thought I'd check up on a couple of my statues." He motioned with his head toward the Virgin's devotional chapel. "But what about you? This church, or any church for that matter, is the last place I'd expect to find you."

Chále looked abashed. "Well, you know how women are. They have expectations and Inéz just loves the church. She'd be here for every Mass and probably start a few of her own if I gave her half a chance." He hooked his thumbs in his belt loops and rocked back on the heels of his boots. "I come with her and the kids once or twice a week. Keeps the home life peaceful, if you know what I mean."

Seeking to avoid a discussion of home life, Joe made a show of looking around. "So where is Inéz?" he asked. "How's she doing?"

"She's picking the kids up from the nursery. She's doing great. Gonna have another kid in the spring."

"That makes how many now? Three?"

"Three?" Chále laughed. "You've been gone way too long, man. "We're up to five now, and the new one will make six."

"That's a lot of mouths to feed," Joe said.

"Sure is. And work isn't always easy to find, either."

"So things aren't so good?"

"Oh, they're all right I guess. Could be better, but hey, what couldn't?"

"True enough."

Chále scoffed. "'True enough.' Listen to you, Mr. Famous Artist! As if you'd know anything about that any more."

"I do all right," Joe said. "But just because a few people know my name doesn't mean I'm out buying yachts. I have my problems just like anyone else."

"Well, you sure don't look it." He gave him a playful punch on the arm. "You in town long?"

"I hope not. I'd like to leave tomorrow, if I can get my affairs wrapped up by then."

Chále's face fell. "That's too bad. I was thinking if you had a little time, we could go get a beer, hang out, maybe shoot a little pool. It would be like old times. That is, if you're not too fancy for your old friends."

Joe grinned. "I'll never be too fancy for my friends, and I could stand to take my mind off a few things."

"You free later on? I gotta get Inéz and the kids home, but after that I usually head to the ice house for a couple cold ones. Gotta wash away the taste of those communion wafers, you know."

"I'll meet you there. Just tell me when."