Caged: Reclamation

Chapter 5

Mother Superior Beatrice checked the time on the silver pocket watch that hung around her neck. 6:30 in the morning. She hurried up the stone stairs of the tower, a treacherous endeavor if one didn't watch, wasn't familiar. She was thankful for her sturdy boots. She held the smooth iron railing as she rose, smoothed with time and use. Not far behind her was young Teresa, newly inducted.

The entire sisterhood had been on edge all week as they awaited Angel's complete awakening. They were beyond curious to meet him, a real-world mystery hovering between Beatrice's assurance that God had brought him and Raquel's belief that a devil slept in that tower bed.

They all knew he belonged to Los Reyes del Mambo. That was only a small part of a whole. Jesucristo himself was a rebel. Convicted even. Executed.

"Do you think this is it, Mother?" Teresa called up as they climbed.

"Perhaps," Beatrice huffed, "Now quiet, say nothing. We do not want to frighten him."

Beatrice hit the final landing, panting a little. Teresa had been here earlier to feed the songbird and arrange the necessities for the day on the various tables in the room. When she approached the bed to check that everything was as it should be, he had suddenly reached out and grabbed the steel railing attached to the bed, a noisy violent grip. First one hand, then the other, all in effort to pull himself up. He was breathing roughly, coughing a little, eyes open and fiery. She had yelped in surprise and a little bit of fear and ran to get the Mother Superior.

Holding her breath a moment, Beatrice saw him. Even though she'd been expecting this for some time, the reality was… stunning. She touched Teresa behind her, slowing her forward momentum. She put a finger to her lips, commanding once more that the girl stay quiet.

Angel was sitting upright on the bed, carefully exploring the feeding tube attached to his stomach. He was thin, slight grooves visible from the back that might have been his ribs, shoulders broad, angular. She saw the terrifying tattoos on his back, the Grim Reaper and black angel they had all come to know and the printed announcement of his loyalty to La Habana, Cuba. She recognized the range of scars and echoes of a formerly strong, muscled body. The knowledge of his body was an odd one-direction intimacy with him. He did not know how well the sisterhood knew his physical self.

Beatrice approached him slowly, one careful step at a time. He heard her, turning his head just an inch in her direction. She could not shift away from the ink, the scars, the ones they cared for all these months through their hands with cloths, oils, lotion, water and soap… those marks no longer passive. The color and cuts seemed to have new life, new energy, and it seemed a devil was awake, a Grim Reaper's grin and black eyes aimed right at her.

It wasn't that she disagreed with Raquel's warnings of Blanco's reality, that he was not un ángel, so often Raquel derided their choice of name for him… no, it was that it didn't matter.

God had sent him here, regardless of his misdeeds. Satan was a fallen angel in truth.

She cleared her throat to warn him, to let him know he wasn't alone. She moved closer still to him.

He turned slowly, piercing hazel eyes on hers. The usual three-day growth on his sharp-featured face did not hide the deep scar that marred his cheek. She could see he was trembling. The room was cold, one of the windows open. The sun hadn't had a chance to warm the convent. He said nothing as she took a few more steps. His once-long hair had been cut short, almost to his scalp, and she could see the scar he now sported from the surgery to relieve the swelling of his brain when he had first arrived at hospital.

"Hello," she said, "I am Beatrice."

He visibly swallowed, never releasing her from his steady gaze. His expression was plain and hard to read. She could not tell if he was afraid, or angry, or even curious. There was a hardness there, however, in his eyes, in the set of his jaw. She was deeply reminded of the rebel soldiers she had known as a child during the Cuban uprising against President Batista in the late 1950s. The events of the Cuban revolution are what propelled her to Las Hermanas de la Misericordia. Had she met him as a child, he would have inspired her just as the other men and women had. How ironic that since then, the revolutionaries she treated worked against the Castro regime.

"Do you need something?"

He stayed quiet, still staring at her. When she came right up on him, next to the bed, he licked his lips and narrowed his eyes and said in a rough voice, "Where… are my...?"

English.

His words were deliberate, overly enunciated, slowly spoken. He shook his head, blinked, eyebrows knitted, and Beatrice knew he was probably experiencing aphasia, the loss of words common with head injuries. He ran his fingers down his chest.

"Clothes," he finally said. "Where… are… my clothes?"

Beatrice smiled and emitted the quietest laugh, not expecting that question, not realizing how shocked she was that he was most definitely awake. It was truly a miracle he was talking to her, alive. She nearly said, how nice to meet you. She had never heard his voice before. It wasn't particularly bass-deep nor tenor-high… a baritone if he were a singer, if he overcame the rasp from disuse.

"In that chest over there," she said, pointing to the left of him. "Pants, shirts, underthings, socks and shoes. I can get you a jacket, a coat. Do you want to dress?"

He studied the old wooden chest, painted a rich brown, and returned his gaze to Beatrice. She moved closer to him and reached out to touch his shoulder, to assure him, to connect, and he put his hand up to stop her.

"No…touching."

Here, at the end of aimless river, through the long cave with the constant movies of his life above, he couldn't bear the thought of hands on him, the sensation making him want to jump out of his skin. The idea of it. Touching had nearly killed him over and over throughout his history. Touching is what brought him… here.

Thankfully, the nun retreated. He pulled the linens up to cover himself more. He slipped a hand beneath and felt the cloth wrap around his hips, placed a hand on his crotch, finding more of the same and somehow recognized that it was probably for bathroom purposes. Low-level humiliation made him wince and grunt softly. He searched the room for a bathroom, praying there was one. He saw a small closed door, hoping that was it. He could use a shower, he decided. He eyed the saline intravenous tube, the entrance point on his chest. He delicately touched the patch that held the line.

A single string of words bounced in his head, a phrase that kept coming back ever since he'd woken up to the birds beyond the window…

What the FUCK?

His morning had been so strange and dreamy, floating out of one fog into another. He had a distant sense of who he was, a man birthed by violence, violation, living a kind of perpetual war. He knew the sequential occurrences that had brought him here, each horror leading to the next, and knew the people beneath everything, alongside it all, the boundless love that percolated there… but… but...

names had dropped off, certain specifics scratched away like scratched serial numbers off the barrel of a gun. The sounds of them had disappeared, the stories they might have told, gone. Places however, locations of acts against him and his acts against others, milestones in his life, his history, all blended into a series of confusing and noisy circus rings. It was as if his whole life was under the tall tents of Barnum & Bailey and he was just one in an audience of hundreds, ticket tight in one hand, salted peanuts in the other, mouth open, eyes wide...

What a fucking shit show. What the FUCK?

He could not recall his own name, or those of any of the faces that drifted in and out of his mind. He could see them, practically touch them, knew their hurts and joys… and yet… they were part of the show that he watched.

He swallowed hard. Understood that he had spent a long time in this room. He knew the cracks and furnishings and the sounds of a larger space beyond the walls...knew this room as well as he knew the tent's red and white stripes that held the circus playing in his head.

"How long… have I…," he asked, the rest of the sentence vanishing. He glanced at the woman and rubbed his head, feeling the buzzed hair. A disorienting sensation. He remembered long hair, knew he insisted on it, that it meant something to him but he wasn't sure what. He glanced around the bed and leaned over slightly, over the railing, as if gauging how long a drop it was to the floor.

"Over four months," she said, "nearly five actually."

Beatrice could see her answer affected him. He dragged eyes to hers, holding her there, a tide of fear, worry, and disbelief sweeping across his features. Then that same grief she had seen in his brief times of awareness previous to now burst forth and his eyes watered and he touched his lips and dropped his head downwards. He made a muffled gasping noise and his shoulders shook at the wave that had quickly overcome him. She let him mourn whatever he was mourning. She did not want to push anything.

He needed to ask the questions before she could answer.

After some time hidden in the private darkness his hands to his face afforded him, he breathed noisily and wiped messy tears away, used the sheet to scrape at his nose. He sniffed hard. Almost angrily. He seemed to ease into a less sorrowful pace. The tide of pain on his face rolled back out to sea, leaving plainness, indecipherable emotion. He studied the views outside the tower windows, the green tops of palm trees, coconut and banana trees, the tropical forest, the ocean beyond.

He looked at her once more and said with a Cuban pronunciation, "Baracoa?"

"Yes," she said, happy that he seemed to have remembered the several times she told him that much in his brief instances of awareness.

"Why?"

Oh this was a harder question to answer. She had to tread carefully. "You were injured. You have been recovering here, with us, the Sisters of Mercy."

He considered her words. Then, with a look of confusion on his face he motioned down the side of his head, referring to her habit. He chewed his lip, searching for the word, settling on, "Nuns?"

Beatrice smiled and nodded. "We live in the oldest convent on the island of Cuba. We are only recently allowed to be public. Previous to last year, we operated in secret, pretending to just be the caretakers of an archeological treasure."

He rolled his eyes and tilted his head at her, and after some moments, said, "That's… a lot… of words."

Beatrice gasped a little and then smiled. He was being funny, mocking his own mental fog, a further effect of his condition. The injuries. The coma or catatonic state. They'd never know the true cause of his perpetual sleep. The devil had a sense of humor.

Without turning further, he could not see the doorway from his bed that occupied the center of the room. If he had done so, he would have noticed several more nuns there, entranced that their guest was awake. Maria was at the front of the gathering. Raquel was making her way through. They were all deadly quiet.

Once again, he pulled up the linens, but then reversed course, pushing them down. He wanted to get up and Beatrice panicked except he realized the railings prevented him from getting out of bed, so he backed off. He glanced at her, questioning. He shook the railing and rumbled, "Help?"

"Yes, shortly. You have been in bed for months and your body is not used to holding your weight so you have to work up to it. You are sitting which is a very good start."

He calmed again, seeming to understand his predicament and held the rail. In his fairly good Spanish, he then said, "You speak English. Why? You are… Cuban."

The women in the door couldn't keep their joy down at hearing him speak in their language.

"He can talk to us!"

He turned at the sound and eyed the few women, his gaze catching on Raquel, long intense moments before he returned to Beatrice. The sisters grew shy and stepped back. Raquel stood in front of Maria, all eyes on Beatrice.

Beatrice decided to lie somewhat. "Your tattoos are in English… a saying. I guessed correctly you are English-speaking. I did not know the extent of your Spanish fluency."

"I do not speak…. perfect. I speak... enough."

The sisters twittered, an excited tone to it, whispers following. Beatrice flashed them a look of consternation and they settled back into their dead quiet. Angel was looking at them again, but once more, focused on Raquel. Since he had spotted her, she entered the room. She was sorry she did not have Abram with her. The dog was with Anna, out in the forested grounds, picking the medicinal herbs that grew there, some naturally, some planted.

He did not stop looking at her as she approached.

It was like watching a movie. He saw himself on a bed in a cluttered room teeming of medical supplies and she was melting something… a liquid… and injecting him and he gasped suddenly in complete recollection of the high that followed, the relief of craziness, madness put away like another medical supply on a shelf… seen but not felt.

Saved by heroin.

He kept his eyes on her because there was so much more that happened with her, so much that she knew of him, so much love and so much hate…

Fucking is better than dying, yes, yes, except he has not been tended to the way you are tending to him, he has never had what you are bringing him, you will hurt him, he is unprepared for the end that is guaranteed to come, be careful with him.

He did not give an internal voice to what lay beside the vaguely remembered conversations, to what else happened in that room with the medical supplies, on that tiny bed.

Him.

When he landed on Raquel, her name also unattainable, he couldn't hide the recognition, the sorrow, the regret, but mostly, unfortunately, he could not hide his slightly-ecstatic recall of heroin. He couldn't have told her the name of his drug aloud but it floated all through his head. He grunted softly, an almost sensual noise, licked his lips and touched his arm, caressing the track marks marked by tattooed tadpoles. He felt a distinct stirring in his loins and some sense of decorum, modesty, or whatever, stopped him from grabbing his dick though he wanted to. Heroin and that seemed connected.

He wondered where the dog was, wondered where he was and she. No, no, he knew where she was. She was dead and he had been left behind in a hospital hallway, people long-disappeared who had dug into his heart with icepicks of love, leading to a brokenness inside of him that wasn't specifically, intentionally, their doing. A child lurked in the memories, two children. More at home. Another dead she.

No, no, the blame on him was wrong. All the shit he woke up to had been entirely his own doing.

Raquel crossed her arms, judgment on her face that was strangely heartwarming, familiar, and he had to ask.

"What... are you... calling me? Mí nombre… I keep hearing it."

"Angel Victor."

He glanced down and shook his head. "Irónico."

Raquel chuckled quietly, sadly, "."

"Can you tell me your name, your real name?" Beatrice asked.

He was quiet for a long time, eyes on the songbird. "I do not know. It… flies…too far to see."

A victor said he had won a war but he didn't. He had lost everything. This convent was a mistake, the songbird in the corner singing of love lost but still hopeful was wrong. He was most definitely not supposed to be alive. He fought a tidal wave of grief for the her that was gone. He could not hide it, he could not fight it. He fell back on the pillows behind him and covered his face and silently cried into the darkness. He couldn't remember her name, or rather, her name evaded him like a squirrel in a forest, scampering up an impossibly high tree. So many names disappeared into the branches.

And he was grateful for it.

The woman in the cacky pants and men's button-up shirt that was missing the blade at her side, silver braids piled on her head, caressed his shoulder and while he wanted to rage wildly at the touch, there was something relieving in it. He wasn't sure what. He just needed her to do that. To touch him.

Tócame.

Touch me.

The other.

He.

He breathed and slowed the pain, fought a powerful desire to sleep that was calling to him greater than any want for heroin, more intense than the remembered cravings lurking at the very edge of his current mental reach. The Havana hospital bloomed to life around him, blame blooming. He could see him sitting next to him, dark hair, dark eyes. He was trying to help but it was not possible, was it?

Are you healed? Are you better? Are you sated? You took him out, you saved the fuckin' world, but she fuckin' paid for that didn't she, for you to have his heart in your mouth, for you to suck him dry one… last… time.

Perfect blame, scapegoating, something he was good at. He never was one to accept blame, not for many years. If the other had not been so engaged in his own war, he had reasoned, he would have noticed, they would have noticed, that she was bleeding out. That she was dying.

But...but… that was a lie. An easy out in a desperate moment. He had not really hated the other when he chased him away. There simply was no alternative place for his hate to go at that time, in that space, in that very instant. That face, those dark haunted eyes, gave permission to be sucker-punched.

Gutted.

All he needed was a few words to pull his name from the woman's lips who stood at his side, her name. She knew a lot of scampering names. He refused to do it. He did not even try because he wasn't ready to see his truths laid out so plainly, a disemboweled body at his feet. He restrained himself. He tied his tongue, pursed his lips, and fisted his hands.

"Angel, look at me," Beatrice asked.

He didn't want to. He didn't want to be here. He was not supposed to be here. He'd fucked things up. He was supposed to be DEAD.

Raquel had to turn away because she found herself angry at Beatrice again. He should be home with his family. She wondered what he knew of them. He had been in the hospital the last time she saw him. He had been beyond consolable because the doctor…

She suddenly wondered if he believed his wife was dead? She wasn't though. Téa was alive and well with their daughter back in the United States. Her eyes widened and her breath sped up. He could not be left with such a horror in his mind-it was probably what he was grieving.

"Hermana…"

Beatrice always had a sixth sense about her sister. Some idea had popped into Raquel's mind and she was about to share, but now was not the time. Beatrice grabbed Raquel's hand and smiled tightly. In Spanish because Raquel refused to speak English (the language of colonists) though she understood it mostly, Beatrice snapped, "Not to worry, we will give him breakfast soon. We must move slowly."

Raquel shut her mouth. She had almost forgotten herself. Even though Blanco was awake, he was terribly fragile and she strongly thought Beatrice was correct… his persistent sleep might have been catatonia, a mental disorder, meaning one wrong step and he might slip back into his frozen state. He had to be gently led into the details of his life…

She almost laughed. Caught those flinty hazel eyes. His expression was…

defiant.

Todd Manning, aka Blanco Moreno, was not fragile. He was a stubborn bullish bastard who had shut himself down, taking advantage of a very real head injury, for nearly five months because he did not want to face his major crime of…

surviving.

She might have called him a coward for not wanting to face reality but that wasn't it. He had simply insisted on being dead since clearly the bombing hadn't done it. The sleep was as close to dying as he could come.

The tears had stopped. He ran fingertips over the words on his belly. Los Reyes Del Mambo. It took time to put the phrase together, to read the upside down letters. They were not meant for him to read, but were a pronouncement, a declaration to others. A warning. Another him drifted at that. He focused on his hand.

I am sorry, my son. I am sorry for everything. You deserved so much better.

Someone had been holding it, talking to him. Someone… that infuriated him. A man. He roved the room and saw only the women. He shook his head. Maybe just more of the fog. The two women at his side were talking to him but they were using a lot of words that he just couldn't fully process though he did guess they were telling him what had been broken, damaged, the surgeries he'd undergone. Nothing mattered. He didn't care. What they did not tell him was how he got injured. They didn't have to. He already knew.

I am sorry, my son.

He reached out and grabbed Raquel's wrist, rasping, "Did innocents die? Are you here to kill me?"

Beatrice stopped cold her listing of injuries, eyed Raquel, sensing the question was part of a previous conversation, previous to his injuries. Interesting. She crossed her arms, suspicious that Raquel knew much more than she had shared previously.

Raquel answered, eyes on his, "Innocents did not die. I am not here to kill you. It would be a waste of energy since you have been dead for months."

He let her go.

"Help me," he then said quietly, pointing to the bathroom. "I am not doing anything in…," he paused, hitting a blank spot. He patted the sheets and then added, "bed." He scanned the women at the door and sighed. "Por favor?"

Beatrice understood his self-consciousness, his urgency to get up, and chased the sisters away, down the stairwell, leaving only herself and Raquel. She returned to the bed and said, "Okay, Angel," as she lowered the railing, allowing him access now. she disconnected the saline drip.

He looked somewhat intimidated, biting his lip, eying the drop to the floor again.

"Hold our shoulders. We will help you walk," Beatrice offered.

He moved his legs to the side and they hung down. He glanced at the floor some moments, and then nodded, the two women on both sides of him. With his arms on their shoulders, touching he cringed at, touching that made him grind his teeth, they lifted and placed him on the floor.

He felt the cold of the tiled floor and he grunted, hunching, having to resist jerking up his legs like a baby might, the sensation of the floor unpleasant, sharp, almost painful. The odd thought brought images forth, his own children, the little boy doing just that, making him… the father… making him laugh and pick him up, holding him tight in his arms. Right next to him, in that memory was… she. Her laughter rang out and he didn't want to look at her because she was gone and he'd never see that beautiful face again, would never hear her again.

The memory froze him and the women had to stop. He closed his eyes and huffed and he ached to hold that boy once more, that child he loved so much, ached to place the boy in her arms. His head hung down and he couldn't move for the wave of grief tearing through him.

After some moments, minutes even, the pictures finally released him and he whispered, "Okay... okay…"

They took steps, carrying him, but then loosened their hold, allowing him to carry his own weight and he immediately understood why the sisters were at his side. Muscles were like jelly and he cursed, grabbing the sisters to stop him from falling.

They helped him walk the rest of the way to the bathroom and with each step he gained some confidence, some strength. This would take a lot of time and he grunted angrily at the idea of it.

Raquel stayed with him, eyes averted, as Beatrice ran to get clothes.

Todd was thoroughly, unstoppably, awake and a new day awaited him, a new world. He wasn't sure what the fuck he was going to find. It was bad enough that he had found himself … alive.

This was never supposed to have happened.


Pedro Moreno had arrived during the week previous.

He had come to the lush property of the newly-approved convent of Las Hermanas de la Misericordia after the update of a single word from the police chief that pronounced Blanco as "Awake." But there was more to his trip. He also learned that an underground journalist had been poking his nose in places it didn't belong. He needed to be sure of Blanco's safety. He was worried, yet another weight on his shoulders.

Much to Pedro's surprise, in addition to housing a small medical clinic, the convent was an operating winery, a very small one, with the full backing of the Cuban government. The winery was the brainchild of Sister Anna, a former vintner, who swore the wines would be delicious and capture the imagination of youthful wine lovers coming from Europe in search of something different. Caribbean wines were all the rage these days, were rare, and brought in a lot of money. The sisterhood, especially Beatrice, was shocked when the grapes actually grew, when the wines began to age, and were delicious. Pedro had to admit, the wine was good.

It was a rainy day, the day he arrived. The first place he went was the sanctuary. He knelt at the feet of Jesucristo on the cross, lit candles, rested in the wooden pews to admire the light, the quiet. It wasn't long before Mother Superior Beatrice sat next to him.

You have come to see Angel?

Yes, how do you know?

I know many things.

Beatrice hadn't been so eager to allow him access to Angel.

He has been through much, he is just coming out of his sleep.

You mean, he is not fully awake?

No, he tracks our movement in the room sometimes, he will eat soft food, swallow it. Sometimes he refuses food. There is consciousness in those moments.

Pedro had been disappointed and yet relieved. He did not think he was ready to share the whole story of how Blanco got here. He was not sure Blanco would... appreciate...being rescued, being hidden away from his wife, Téa. He would not appreciate what Téa… had become.

I am unsure of the wisdom of you seeing him.

I have my own reservations. Why you?

He is highly aware even when he is sleeping. I do not want you to speak too much to his circumstances. Amnesia is very common for person in his condition. I want him to slowly come to his own reality. Do you understand?

You want me to not share, to not offer information.

Exactly.

I promise to not speak openly of… things.

He had been escorted to the tower room, through the hidden doorway next to the hanging Jesus Christ, escorted up the stone stairs to the bedside of his putative son, su hijo bastardo. The sight of him lying in a deathly state, still and non-responsive, eyes closed, with a sister massaging his hand… well, it turned him upside down. His condition seemed permanent.

Pedro was uncharacteristically affected, but then everything to do with Blanco was uncharacteristic. He sat on a chair by the window. Fell onto it, moreso. He had been a terrible father his whole adult life, distant, overly strict. His children… two young men now and ever-challenging Leya... had little to no relationship with him. Leya was near actively hateful. His wife had raised them virtually on her own. To see Blanco now and feel pain at seeing him this way was something new to him, the echoes of which he had been experiencing for some time, even since before learning of the abuses of Manuel Caro. Protective, concerned, love, wishes for his well-being. He loved Blanco like one should love a blood son.

Beatrice rested a hand on the shoulder of the clearly upset older man. "Remember, sir, he is aware even though not fully awake. You need to know this, you need to behave as if he fully hears you. Call him Angel." She urged him to go to his bedside.

It had been so long since he had seen him, since he pushed aside the tarp and saw his face blackened by fire and blood. Since he believed him dead.

"Bla- Angel… I am here."

His son breathed evenly, peacefully. Lying on his back, his eyes were closed, his body resting without a flinch or jerk. Pedro wondered if he had ever seen him like this. He did not think so, never having him sleep in his home back in Llanview, never visiting him in hospital following the great beating he had given him when he showed up at the restaurant high on heroin. He reached out and caressed his head, the short hair. It was strange to touch him, another parental right he never exercised, not really. Not in an openly loving way. He carefully ran fingertips down the tattoos of his arm, studying the spider web on his shoulder and upper chest. The MK buried there. He saw the medal he wore on a chain, a saint. It saved his life. The Mother Superior might have rejected the protection if it wasn't for that.

Beatrice came up and handed him a sponge, saying to wash him.

"He must be stimulated to awaken. He has been trying to wake more fully all week."

Pedro took the sponge and contemplated such an intimate act on his son's body. He realized certain practical realities. He turned, hustled away from Angel, to the doorway. He whispered harshly, his hand on the arm Beatrice, "You respect him, yes? He is not abused… he is treated well, yes?"

Beatrice did not understand, was even offended, "Of course, the dignity of our patients is everything."

He shook his head, "People did terrible things to him as a child. Abused him. You understand? He is not touched improperly, ever, yes?"

After a moment, Beatrice understood the more serious accusation in his inquiry. There were many problems in the Catholic churches these days among… priests. "I assure you, we are the most honorable of caretakers. Only proven women of worth are here."

"They are...without men...maybe they get curious!"

Aghast, she said, "No, Señor Moreno, no. I promise you, he is treated with the highest of consideration. Properly. We are married to God, we are not… curious."

After some moments, he returned to Blanco's side. He picked up the sponge and took Blanco's hand in his and ran the sponge down his arm. He never did such a thing for his own children. He remembered the black soot and the blood. He wiped the imagined grime off his son. He swiped across his chest, swabbed his neck, his face. He moved and did the same on the other side. He thought of Téa, even thought of Rico. Guilt fired through him at the feel of the man's skin, of the incredible vulnerability of him just lying here, unable to defend himself. He thought of Blanco's children, knowing deeply, that Todd… the man… the father… had held them in his arms, had changed diapers, had washed them. He had spent hours with them. He loved them so very much.

He set the sponge down, unable to continue. The life he deprived so many of… was horrific. Téa's face loomed darkly at that, her hate. The way she stood at that table in the restaurant, her hands slamming down, the crescents of her ivory breasts. He held Blanco's hand. He wasn't supposed to share too much information but he couldn't help it. He needed to confess.

"I am sorry, my son. For this, for everything. Where is my brother? Do you know? Was it you? He deserved what happened. I am not angry at that. I am sorry for my role in that. I cannot make up for what he did to you, or for what your father did. I am sorry for everything. You deserved so much better."

It was then that Blanco opened his eyes. Pedro gasped a little. He knew it was a halfway point to consciousness because of the glassiness in those hazel-colored eyes. He did adjust his focus though, moved down to his hand in Pedro's. Eyes focused there. He breathed in deeply and Pedro could see that he bit down on his teeth, his jaw flexing.

"Blanco?"

His son's breathing picked up, turning quickly into a fast pant, his head jerked to the right, then the left, and like an explosion, he went into a massive seizure. Beatrice came running from the chapel across the way, having heard the telltale noise of the bed. The sister that had been tending to him earlier was on the other side of him, trying to minimize his flailing limbs. Pedro stepped back as Beatrice expertly turned him to his side, as she held him with hard hands and prayed over him, the two women now praying.

Pedro had never seen one up close, never. He knew of his son's condition but thought the fits to be rare. He was horrified at the violence of it, the blood that leaked into foaming saliva, the still present muscularity of his tensed body, how his eyes had rolled back so far only white was visible. How he did not breathe through most of it. Pedro could not believe his son had managed to cover that up in Statesville from all other than his closest compatriots, such as Rolon, his workers, those kids, those young men.

The thing finally ended, Blanco taking long breaths, finally relaxing his muscles. He had closed eyes. He curled up on his side now, hands curled into him. He breathed noisily, his lips parted. The sister had pulled the sheet away from him and she fluffed it. He appeared like a child, naked but for folded cloth between his legs and tied around his hips, naturally curled into a fetal position. The sister flapped the sheet once more so it fluttered down onto Blanco, covering him.

Beatrice looked at white-faced Pedro with some curiosity now. He was a handsome man, thick silver hair that flowed back, light brown skin that was taut with age, strong body evident through his Cuban-style shirt and pants. She guessed he was near 70. He had money, his fine European leather shoes telling her that. He wore a moustache and his features were hardened by a history that could only be filled with darkness. She knew he ruled Los Reyes Del Mambo… the same name emblazoned on the belly of Angel. She waved him to her side, walking him to the chapel. She closed the door. The room was lit by lamps similar to those that marked the way up the stairs. This room had no windows. Jesucristo hung on a cross here, too, naked, suffering… except for a cloth at His hips not unlike the one that wrapped Blanco.

Pedro collapsed on the pew, bending over and holding his head in his hands, slightly traumatized by what he had just seen.

"The chief of police told me of you," Beatrice said, "begged me to take Angel on your behalf, that Angel needed protection. He said Angel had a Catholic medal around his neck. I saw it and agreed that God had brought me this man."

"What if he did not have the medal?"

"It is hard to say. There might have been other signs of my obligation to him. I feel it though, medal or no medal."

Pedro lifted his head to the wooden beams above, to the imaged sky above. "Do you know that a man gave him that saint? Angel is loved not just by a wife, but by a male prostitute. Angel loved him back. They were lovers. That medal probably swung between them in bed, with the hard motions of carnality, sodomy. Would you have still taken him, knowing that? Knowing the medal was… insulted."

Beatrice smiled. "You think God cares of such things? He only sees souls. Two souls who love each other? That is not a barrier. Fucking is not a barrier to God's love. Never has been.."

Pedro lifted a brow at her curse word. "Try three souls. Mother. Perhaps the three fucked-Angel, his wife, and his lover. With that medal swinging."

Beatrice shook her head. "So God sees THREE. Three has spiritual meaning, you know."

Laughing sadly, "Tell the Pope that."

"I listen to God, not the Pope. Some might say that is blasphemy. You should be glad of my… disagreements...with the Pope." She sat back, eyes again on Pedro. "The chief told me nothing of the relationship between you and Angel. Are you another lover of his?"

"No."

"Does he dislike you, Señor Moreno? Does he have strong feelings about you, that are negative?"

Pedro was silent for long minutes. He finally confessed what he was sure to be true. "He hates me. I suppose that is not uncommon for men. For fathers."

"Are you his father?"

"Not by blood." He turned to Beatrice. "But I love him like a son. I owe him a great debt. Did you receive my donation?"

"Yes. It will sustain us for another year. You have to know, however, money does not pay for sin. Did you harm Angel during his life? This… abuse... you mention."

A light went on for Pedro with this line of questioning. "Are you saying his seizure was a reaction to me?"

"I believe it is. He has done that before. We figured out that he was experiencing pain when we were massaging his muscles too close to when we gave him the bath… too much touching. The small act you did of sponging him does not fit the pattern-that was not the trigger. It makes me think YOU were the trigger, your voice, your touch. Are you the one who abused him?"

A breathy chuckle met Beatrice. In English, he said, "I did not abuse him in that way. Others did." He turned to her. "My brother for one. And I protected him for years. But I suppose...I abused him in other ways. You are probably right, Mother. If the only way to communicate in this purgatorial existence of his is in the form a seizure, violent, bloody, loud… then YES, I have no doubts he is telling me exactly how he feels about me." The chuckle turned into a laugh that accompanied tears. He returned to Spanish.

"He will waken. I know this now. It is certain. Sister...Mother… you be careful when he does so. He is my son and he is a dangerous man. Do not be fooled by the quiet… on that bed… by his gentleness in sleep."

"I should be careful of you, too, then."

"Yes."

"Perhaps it's best that you go home. Leave Angel to us."

"No, I need to see him, I need him to see me."

"Why?"

"I prefer my battles up front and so does he. We do not like mysterious roads ahead."

From then on, Pedro took una casa de particular in town. He was to wait. Once there was complete wakefulness, he was to come to the convent. Blanco would only see Pedro from a distance at first, to allow him to slowly come to understand that it was Pedro he was looking at. Beatrice was very confident there would be no seizure.

But she could not be sure there would be no violence.

Outside the tower, looking up, Pedro Moreno saw activity. He had arrived this morning on his usual visit to get an update. A sister stood at the window, her white habit rustling in the breeze. He had seen a gaggle of sisters running towards the sanctuary. Either Blanco was dead or he was awake. Fully so. Full consciousness.

At that moment, he heard a bark and he turned. The black dog called Abram was pulling on a leash at his thick neck, growling, canines showing, saliva dripping at the eagerness. He barked more, aggressively. The young nun held onto the leash, held it hard, calling out, "Abram! No! Stop!"

It wasn't hard for Pedro to imagine his own throat being torn out.

To be continued...