Here is the end of Part III, where Kel gets to sleep at the end of his second day in Santo Cielo. And the beginning of Part IV. I’ve started at a point near where my prior post ended to get you back into the context of that scene.
But what did I see in Santo Cielo? I certainly didn’t see … (fill in with some things from Mulberry Street) I didn’t even see a lorax or a cat in a hat. “Father Santos,” I paused, but before he would once again tell me to talk with my heart, I continued, “I saw happy children.”
“Si.”
“They played and laughed although they had few toys. When one was hurt, a woman comforted him and sent him back to his friends where he was accepted back without question. The children were together, not apart.”
“Si.”
“I saw women sharing their time and energy with each other. They laughed, too, but spent their time getting things done but in good spirits, without anger or frustration.”
“Si.”
“And the men were comfortable with each other. They drank their beer, told their stories, and . . .
“Señor?”
“I saw people who were happy although they had very little.”
“Si, señor. But, why do you say that they have little?”
“Father, by the standards I am used to, Santo Cielo doesn’t have much. No one has a car. I haven’t seen a telephone or a television. Clothes are hung to dry on ropes strung between the houses. The children play in the dirt with sticks instead of the electronic games that are everywhere in America.”
“But they are happy, aren’t they?”
“Yes, Father. They seem to be.”
“Why do you think that is?” I paused before answering and grabbed the last beer from the bucket. Opening it and taking a couple of sips before responding allowed me the opportunity to consider the question.
“I can only guess, Father.”
“Then what is your guess, señor?” The bemusement had returned to Father Santos’ voice. I looked at him and saw, too, that the glimmer had returned to his eyes. He arched his eyebrows at me and held his hands out as though to tell me to proceed.
“Father Santos, it’s been a long day. I’m tired. You’ve given me a lot to think about today.”
“Señor, I have done nothing more than ask you to do a few chores. A little weeding. A little painting. A little of this. A little of that.” His smile grew as he spoke.
“Father,” I chided him. “This day has been about much more than a couple of chores.”
“Eh,” he said with a shrug. “What is your guess?”
“The people of Santo Cielo are happy because they know who they are and what they have. They do not need, or want, anything else. They have each other.”
“Señor? Do you know what ‘Cielo’ means?”
“No. Why?”
“Cielo means heaven. Our little town here, while it may not look like much to you, is a small piece of heaven for those of us who have decided to live here.”
“I’m beginning to understand why, Father? But don’t they want more?”
“Listen to me, por favor,” he said. I sat in shock when he smacked his forehead with his palm. “Aaaay, just when I think you’re seeing things as they should be seen.”
“Señor, we have a place here where we can live as we wish. The ocean’s beauty and size remind us every day of how small we are, but also how lucky. From the earth, we can draw the foods we need to feed ourselves. What little we need that we can not provide for ourselves, we can get from the villages nearby. We have with us those who we care about. For the most part. We have our heaven here.
“And this ‘more’ you speak of? What is more? Is it your televisions, your automobiles, your, how do you say it, gadgets? Is it the crime in your cities of America? The poor people who live on your streets? The unhappiness that brought you here?
“Is this the ‘more’ you need to be happy? We may not have much here in Santo Cielo, but we have what we need. And, most important, Señor, is that we do not have the things that we do not need.”
We had finished eating and Father Santos rose slowly from his seat with an angry grunt. He picked up my plate and placed it on his with a loud clatter. Father Santos picked the stack of dishes up and almost dropped everything on the floor when one of his legs buckled underneath him. With a muttered expression of exasperation, the old priest steadied himself and walked slowly to the box by the door, setting the dirty plates in it and returning to his seat at the table.
“Señor, I have a simple question for you. If the ‘more’ you speak of is so important, if it leads to happiness, why are you here?” I began to speak, but Father Santos held his hand up to silence me. “No, it is not your turn yet. I am not done. There are times when we wish for more. You are right. When the ocean took Isabella’s husband and spit him back out a few days later, we all wished that Antonio had a better boat. We have noticed that the fish are no longer as near as they once were. We wished that Antonio did not have to go as far out into treacherous waters as he had to that day to put a meal on his family’s table.
“When Señora Contreras’s husband became ill and spent his final months in pain, writhing and screaming in sweat-soaked sheets, we all wished for a doctor to ease his passage with medicine to soothe his pain. We know that a doctor will never come to Santo Cielo, but we wish for one still.
“When a child gets sick and dies, we all scream at God and wish for a better world. We wish for a world in which nobody gets hurt. We pray for our loved ones and for all of the residents of Santo Cielo to be healthy. To live long lives.
“I know that you do not believe in the real Heaven, and we do not hope to think that Santo Cielo is close to the Heaven that awaits us. If it is, many of us will be greatly disappointed. But, this little village is a place where we … well, we are happy. Isn’t that what a heaven should be?”
“What about the people who leave?”
“They look for their heaven somewhere else. Not everybody is looking for the same thing. Surely you know that. Every man must find what makes him happy. To do otherwise would mean an unhappy life. Surely you believe that we are all entitled to happiness?” Father Santos settled back in his chair and rested his hands on his stomach. “My bones need a rest. I am sure you are tired. Is there anything else you wish to speak of tonight?”
“No. I don’t think so.”
“Bueno. Please,” he pointed towards the cot. “I believe you will have another long day ahead for you tomorrow.”
I didn’t get up right away. The Father, sensing my hesitation, looked across the table at me. In the gloom broken by the flickering candle that continued to burn slowly down, adding a new layer of rumpled wax to its rim, he raised his eyebrows.
“Señor?”
* * *
The same week I sat in a bar and was told of Santo Cielo by an old man whose name I never bothered to learn, I had lunch with a friend. A year prior, Steve came home from work one day to discover that his wife had left him and taken their six-year-old son with her. She didn’t go far, finding a home in the same neighborhood to rent, but for Steve, she was light years away. More importantly, his little boy was out of his life more often than not.
I ran into Steve a few months after it happened. “Hey, Steve, how’s it going?” I asked, innocently unaware of the news he was about to share.
“Oh, you know, things are pretty crappy.”
“Why, what happened?”
“Annette left me.” When he said it, he couldn’t look at me. He stared at the cars speeding through the intersection we stood at, while he worked his jaw and his face slowly turned an angry shade of red.
“Oh, man, sorry to hear that. How’s your son taking it?”
“Joshua’s fine. He thinks it’s fun to go from mommy to daddy’s house and back again.”
“What about you?”
“I’ve never been worse.” He took his eyes off of the traffic and turned his head to me. His eyes bugged out just a little and the veins on his neck strained against the skin. I could practically see the beat of his heart in the vein that runs up the side of his forehead. “I can’t stand it. I knew things weren’t good, but I never expected her to leave. Never thought it would happen.”
He took a breath and looked back out to the street. I realized he wasn’t actually seeing anything happening on the street before us. A car horn blared down the block but he didn’t even flinch. “I get to see my kid every other weekend,” he spit out. “And a couple of evenings a week. That selfish bitch took Joshua away from me. I hate it.”
I have never met a man who was as bitter and angry as he was that day. He was hanging on to his sanity and his ability to get through the day by the most slenderest of threads. My only hope that day was provided when he told me that he was seeing a counselor. I asked him a few more questions, wished him well as best I could, and agreed we would get together for lunch soon.
Many months later, after several impromptu meetings on the same street corner and similar promises to get together, we finally sat down to have lunch. “How’s it going?” I asked tentatively, after we had ordered.
He sighed before replying. “It’s okay. We’re in mediation now, trying to hammer out a schedule. I’ve given up on the idea that reconciliation will ever be possible, so we’re trying to finish it up. It’ll probably end up being one week on and one week off.”
“How are you doing?”
“It depends. When I have Joshua with me, I’m fine. When he’s with his mother, I’m lost. You know, when he was born, he became my passion. All of those things I did before he was born that motivated me — writing, music, traveling, cooking — no longer mattered. I was in the Peace Corps in Africa, man, helping people survive from one day to the next. With Joshua, though, I didn’t need any of that anymore.
“When I got home in the evening, I played with Joshua. I read to him. I helped put him to bed. On weekends, it was all about giving him experiences that interested him. I didn’t have time for any of those other things that defined who I was before Joshua was born.
“Now, I have all this time and I don’t know what to do with it. My passion for the past six years isn’t there and I can’t have it. I can’t figure out how to spend my free time now. I get home after work and sit in front of the TV. It’s just me, the remote control, and the idiot box. Every ten seconds I change the channel. Hours later, I wake up on the sofa with the TV still on. I can’t get out of the rut.
“I can’t find that passion I had before Joshua. Before, I thought of myself as a writer. I hadn’t done it yet, but my goal was to live the life of a writer. Now, I don’t know how to get started. I don’t know how to be me again, at least on those days when I don’t have Joshua.”
“Are you still seeing a counselor?”
“Yeah. She says that I’m becoming an expert at making excuses for not doing anything. That I’m using this whole situation as an excuse to avoid challenges. To avoid finding out that I can be happy even when I don’t have my kid.”
We finished our meal and began the walk back to our offices. When we stood at the same street corner where we had run into each other a year prior, I told Steve, “You should go home and write tonight.”
He looked at me with such a look of uncertainty and sadness I thought he might cry. “How do I do that?”
“Just go home and write something. For yourself.”
As though a light bulb had gone on, he smiled, “Yeah. You’re right. For myself.”
We parted ways then and wished each other well.
* * *
“Father, what if I don’t know what will make me happy?”
“It can be a struggle, señor.”
“When I’m not with my kids, I think of them. Right now, in my mind, I can see little Jason sleeping in his bed. He’s nestled in his blankets, with his favorite stuffed animal in his arms. He’s beautiful like that.
“And, Spence? I see him lying in his bed, too. Only, he’s still awake. He’s lying on his side reading a book. He has one arm draped along his side. The reading light on his wall casts him in a combination of shadow and light. In that moment, he’s at peace. Of course, his peace is likely to end since he should have turned his light out already.”
“It sounds like you have two boys you love very much.” When he spoke, the light in Father Santos’ eyes glimmered just a little brighter and he smiled at me. I could tell that he shared in my happiness with my children.
“I do.”
“Then, what is the problem?”
“All I can think about when I am with my family is what life would be like without them. It’s not an unattractive picture. I’ve devoted my life to them and I’m tired. The thought of being on my own again doesn’t scare me.” I realized that my voice had dropped, almost to a whisper, because I was afraid to actually say how I felt.
“That is not good, Señor,” Father Santos said.
“I know. Believe me, I know,” I said quietly. I couldn’t stand the thoughts that had swirled in my head. “When I became a father, my purpose in life upon which all other things revolved, was to raise my children to be the best they could be. I didn’t want to control or dominate them. To force them to achieve any more than they wanted or were capable of. I wanted, and still want, to make sure that they learn the lessons life has and grow up to be responsible adults.”
“It sounds like you are a good father, Señor.”
“But what happens as they grow older and grow apart from me? What happens when they no longer need me?” I heard myself speaking and realized I was pleading to the old man to answer my questions. Father Santos leaned forward and placed his hands on the table in front of him.
“Señor,” he said. He didn’t continue until I looked at him, eye to eye. “Your boys will always need you.”
“Yeah, yeah. It’s not the same though.” I looked down, unable to hold his gaze. “It’s already happening. They’re starting to pull away from me. Spence would rather spend his day emailing his friends and hanging outside with the neighbor kids than playing catch with me. He’s a good kid, but he’s doing what he’s supposed to. He’s finding his way now and I’m just a bystander.”
I wished that the bucket was no longer empty. I needed another beer. “And, Jason? He’s his mother’s son all the way. I’m just tired. So incredibly tired. I don’t know how much more I can take.”
“What of your wife, Señor Rockwell? Does she not provide you with happiness?” I scoffed at the thought, but did not respond with words. “I see,” Father Santos said.
“Father Santos, if I leave my kids, which I think about every day, every single day, the purpose I chose for myself when Spence was born would remain unfulfilled and incomplete. It’s actually pretty simple. I can’t figure out how to find happiness with my family.
“My wife is incapable of helping me. There’s really nothing left between the two of us. All I can assume is that she thinks that once the kids are grown and gone, we’ll somehow ‘find’ each other again. I don’t see that happening again. Too many years of living apart while living together have gone by.
“And, as my kids grow older, that sense of fulfillment I get from being their father moves farther and farther away. If I stay, I’m afraid I’ll lose track forever of who I really am. I’ll struggle to find something to be passionate about once my kids no longer need me. But if I go, I fail at the single most important task I set for myself in this life.”
“This is why you come to my church?”
“Yes, Father. Yes.”
“Señor, think about the people of this village. Of Santo Cielo. How they have found happiness with so little. You can find it, too, but I believe it is time now for sleep. Please.” His tone had quieted again as he finished and pointed towards the cot. A few moments later, I settled down under the thin blanket while Father Santos went about his evening ablutions.
Once he settled himself in his corner, the silence of the little house was soon pierced (need a better word) by the sound of his breath rattling the through his throat and lungs. Although Father Santos slept just a few feet away, I was essentially alone with my thoughts and as tired as I was, I tossed and turned for quite awhile.
With nothing to distract me, I found myself returning over and over to the sensation I had felt when I slipped below the ocean’s surface and water filled my mouth. Rather than recognizing that the moment was long gone, I found myself swamped by the fear. In waves, it came over me and then I thought again of leaving my kids to a life without a father. I couldn’t help it. Considering Antonio’s death, my own wasn’t out of the question.
In the dark, alone, I cried softly at that thought, the warm tears sliding silently down my cheeks. I didn’t bother to wipe them away. I cried for my kids. I cried for my wife. I cried for myself. I cried for the life that could have been, but wasn’t. the life that had died somewhere along the way.
As the tears dried and the fear left me, I thought of the many words of Father Santos. He was right. And the old man in the bar was right. I deserved to be happy. The question still remained, though. How could I achieve that state? I couldn’t imagine a happy life without those moments with my boys. I needed my daily reminder of them. No matter how much stress they caused me, no matter how much worry, every day one or both of them said or did something that made it worthwhile. Those little actions and reactions, random thoughts expressed in the most innocent of ways, and the way that they demonstrated every day that they were growing up all had become a part of the vital essence of my life.
After what felt like hours of kicking these thoughts around, I finally began to clear my mind and felt my eye lids grow heavy. As sleep took me, I thought of Isabella. Of the one time she laughed and her face lit up. I saw her thank me again for our short walk and puzzled over why she thanked me before finally falling asleep.
Part IV
Ding! Dong! Ding! The ringing of a bell woke me up to the sun streaming into Father Santos’ home. At first I thought it was an alarm waking me to get ready for the day. When I reached out to turn it off, my hand hit nothing but air and I opened my eyes to find the snooze button.
It was then that I realized that the ringing bell was coming from the church and there was no alarm clock to turn off. I sat up quickly and immediately regretted it. My body ached and my sun burn chafed.
Once again, Father Santos had left me alone to greet the morning. I rose and walked to the window that looked out towards the Pacific Ocean. From my vantage point, I could see the bell tolling back and forth against the crisp blue sky. A group of villagers, with children running happily ahead and then circling back around them, walked up the hill to the church.
While I watched, Father Santos came from around the front of the church. “Señor, mass is about to begin,” he said when I opened the door to meet him.
“It’s not Sunday.”
“No, no, Señor. It is Wednesday. It is not only on Sundays that we gather to worship.” He stopped and began to turn to go back to the church before he returned his gaze to me. Quietly, he asked, “Will you join us?”
I shrugged, “Sure.” I followed Father Santos back down the path, through the flower bed and across the hard scrabble earth that stretched out from the color of the flowers. When I got to the cross, the villagers were streaming up the path and into the church. I stopped and waited for them.
This was their church and their faith that they were practicing. I felt out of place, more than I had since I arrived. Once the last little boy scurried into the church after his mother, standing at the entrance and swatting him on his backside as he passed into the church, I walked slowly up to the door. Mottled sunlight filtered in through the couple of stained glass windows on the side of the church that faced the east. Flecks of dust weaved back and forth in the light, riding on gentle currents of air. Candles were scattered around the altar. But for the most part, the church was bathed in darkness.
The people of Santo Cielo were scattered amidst the pews, with most up front, as close to the altar as they could get. In the front row, an old woman dressed in black and with a black lace shawl wrapped around her head sat next to Isabella. On the opposite side from her grandmother, Isabella’s little boy sat. I could just make out the top of Ivan’s head. For the few seconds I looked, he never stopped moving. Turning to his mother, pointing to something up at the altar, turning back to her.
I slipped into the back pew and sat down, resisting an unbidden urge to kneel down and cross myself. The words of the Our Father played through my head. After a couple of lines, I lost my way in the prayer. It had been too many years since my childhood of reciting it every Sunday and holy day.
Within a few minutes, Father Santos entered from behind the altar and the church was immediately enveloped in silence. Even Ivan stopped moving, if only for a few seconds before beginning his energetic bounce again. The old priest was wearing his priestly robes. White, with a gold _______. In the dim light filtering in through the windows he practically glowed.
