He put the photo in the pocket of his shirt, kissed his mother, got into the Jeep with Jocko, and they headed up the dirt lane.
I sat on the porch steps, finally alone with Rainy. I put my arm around her and drew her to me. She laid her head on my shoulder, and together we watched the sun drop below the Coronados. The sky was clear and pale blue, with no sign left of the storm that had earlier battered the land. The air smelled fresh and clean, and although there was not a hint of evergreen, which was the perfume of the North Country, I still felt the kind of peace I might have felt if I were home. Because I was with Rainy. And wherever Rainy was, that was home to me now.
EPILOGUE
* * *
Arizona was a dangerous place for Peter, so he came home with us. But not for long.
All our children rendezvoused in Aurora after our return. Stephen came back from driving cattle in Texas and Annie came from San Francisco. Around the kitchen table, with chocolate chip cookies and milk, as was our habit, we told our stories. Annie seemed particularly taken with Peter and his commitment to helping the refugees, who’d come so far seeking only a place they hoped might offer something better than the violence and poverty they’d left behind. She was impressed to hear that he could make himself understood in many of the indigenous languages of Mesoamerica. She shared with him her own experience working with the poor in Central America, when she’d been considering taking vows with the Sisters of Notre Dame de Namur. Over the next several days, they talked intently. Rainy led them both in sweats. Henry Meloux listened and offered his well-considered two cents. And in early August, Peter and my younger daughter left together for Guatemala, where Annie still had friends working among the poor.
Life in Aurora returned to normal, blessed normal. Fall came, and the leaves turned, the colors so beautiful there were times my heart ached, it was so full of gratitude.
We learned about what happened in Mexico almost by accident, from a story buried in the Saturday edition of the St. Paul Pioneer Press, which I nearly missed because I wanted to get to the sports section. The article reported that there had been a massacre at the compound of the man who headed the cartel known as Las Calaveras. Carlos Rodriguez, his son Joaquin, his wife, Carmela, and several other family members were among those killed. Authorities in the United States believed it was simply part of the brutal struggle between cartels for control of territory. Rainy and I believed otherwise. The next day at St. Agnes, we both said prayers for the dead.
In news reports, we watched the wall along the Mexican border expand, the folly of a belief that what we had to fear came from the outside. I thought often about the Guatemalan women and their children. I prayed that they’d found the sanctuary they’d come so far seeking and for which they’d risked everything. I thought about little Juan, and I hoped that someday he would pitch for the Dodgers.
Winter came and winter passed. And in April, on the first anniversary of our marriage, I presented Rainy with a gift I’d made myself. It was a frame constructed of yellow birch, which I’d sanded and varnished and fashioned. Inside the frame, on velum parchment, I’d put the Pueblo prayer my wife had long ago taught me and that had sustained me during my periods of doubt in Coronado County. Rainy loved it, and she hung it above our bed. Some nights when life has seemed particularly difficult, we say the prayer together and it gives us comfort: Across the dark night, we are not afraid.
Our love is the star that guides us.
Through the empty desert, we do not thirst.
Our love is the water that refreshes.
On the long journey, we do not weary.
Our love is the truth that offers strength.
As the mountains rise before us, we are not discouraged.
Our love is the hope that waits on the other side.
When we are together, let us hold hands.
Our love is the promise that is never broken.