Santa Olivia

Page 42

But during the day it was different.
With the Santitos dwindling, those who remained spent more time assisting with the day-to-day operations of the church. Loup spent more time training alone. She kept her promise to Coach Roberts and didn’t lift weights without a spotter, but she spent hours working the bags and running on the treadmill by herself.
Like the treadmill, her thoughts ran in an endless loop, going nowhere.
There was the crushing moment of Tommy’s defeat and the worse horror of his death, the bleak despair that had settled over the town. The blackened-over windows of the gym, the scrawled petitions to Santa Olivia. There was the pervasive sense that she could undo it. That she could change the ending, make the dream come true after all. Not for herself, but for Tommy.
For all of Santa Olivia.
And then there was Pilar, who loved her and didn’t want to lose her. Who made her happy in a way no one else ever had. Who had altered her life without hesitation for her, setting all her earlier hopes and dreams aside. Pilar, whom she loved.
She had to choose between them, and she didn’t want to.
Loup ran and ran and went nowhere.
THIRTY-NINE
As winter gave way to spring, Loup tried praying to Santa Olivia.
She’d seen it done, mostly by older members of Outpost, but she had only a vague notion of how to go about it. Religious instruction was something largely neglected among the Santitos. Father Ramon and Sister Martha had too much else to do, and Anna had worked hard enough just to get the rudiments of a secular education into them. The clever ones like Jaime and Jane had eventually taken their studies into their own hands. The rest of them merely abandoned their lessons and drifted toward adulthood.
Loup sat on her heels, gazing at the child-saint’s effigy.
Santa Olivia stood in her niche, wearing her blue dress and her white kerchief, clutching her basket of plenty. Her wide dark eyes stared back, unblinking. To her right, Our Lady of the Sorrows bent a sympathetic gaze downward, pale rust stains on her cheeks.
“Santa Olivia,” Loup whispered. “Tell me what to do.”
She waited.
There was no answer, only the sound of footsteps behind her.
“I’m sorry.” It was Anna’s voice. She hesitated, then continued. “Are you all right, Loup?”
“Yeah. Just thinking.”
Anna came alongside her and studied the effigy. “Such a sweet face. You know, she was there when you were born, too. Santa Olivia. You were practically born under her shadow, right there in the town square.”
“Do you think it means something?” Loup asked.
“I think everything in life means whatever we make of it,” she said gently. “Do you want to talk about what’s bothering you?”
“I have to choose.”
“Yes.” Anna didn’t ask what. It hadn’t been discussed aloud, but she knew. On some level or another, they all did. “Are you seeking guidance?”
“Yeah.”
“I hope you find it.”
“Yeah.” Loup took a deep breath. “I had this thought that maybe if Miguel wins, that would be a sign. That maybe he was the one meant to do it after all, and I was meant to help him. Do you think it might be true?”
Anna was silent a moment. “I can’t answer that for you, Loup,” she said at last. “You have to look inside your own heart for the answer.”
“Why did you choose what you did?” Loup rose in a quick, fluid motion. She gestured around. “This. Them. Father Ramon and Sister Martha. How did you know?”
Anna smiled. “I looked inside my heart. It may seem strange, but it was a strange time. I love them both very much. And I believed very strongly in the good work they were doing. I still do.”
“So you didn’t have to choose.”
“Between love and doing what I believed in?” she asked. Loup nodded. “No. But no one else understood, and in the end, I lost all my friends. All hard choices require a sacrifice. That’s what makes them hard, Loup.”
“That sucks.”
“Yes,” Anna said. “It does.”
Santa Olivia’s name day came. Loup was seventeen. Tommy had been dead for almost two years. She’d been training for almost two years. While everyone else was picnicking in the town square, Pilar let them into the Gin Blossom and poured them both a surreptitious inch from the expensive tequila that the bar kept on hand for Rosa Salamanca.
“Happy birthday, baby.”
It was good, better than good. So smooth. It warmed without burning, a mellow warmth that spread and glowed.
You feel like it tasted.
“Thanks,” Loup whispered.
“You bet.” Pilar smiled, but there was a shadow of sorrow behind it. She twined her fingers with Loup’s, lifted her hand, and kissed her knuckles. “C’mon. We better get out of here before I get in trouble.”
And then it was past and the date of Miguel’s match was hurtling down on them. He was ready, as ready as he’d ever been. Sparring with Loup in private, learning to fight a southpaw. Sparring with a couple of the other fighters in public, fighters closer to Terry Flynn’s height and reach. Working on a strategy with the coach, practicing his combinations. Running, jumping rope, working the bags, and hitting the weights. He’d dropped ten pounds. Miguel was still built like a bull, but he was a leaner, fitter bull.
“Whaddya think now?” he demanded two nights before the fight. “I got a shot? Huh? Huh?”
“Yeah, Mig.” She nodded. “You’ve got a shot. A real good one.”
When the night came, he was cheered, long and loud. Miguel Garza might have been feared more than he was loved and resented more than admired, but he was one of Outpost’s own, born and bred. In the ring, he turned around slowly, raising his arms. His robe was fancy and new. It had a blue bar with a single star across the shoulders and two broad vertical stripes, one red, one white.
Half the crowd roared louder.
“I don’t get it,” Pilar said.
They were near Miguel’s corner. Coach Roberts glanced down, a fierce light in his usually watery eyes. “That’s the Texas flag, child. Used to be your flag.”
“Oh.”
Miguel shrugged out of his robe with a flourish. The flag motif was repeated on his trunks. He raised his arms again, reveling in the adulation.
“Don’t show off, Mig,” Loup murmured under her breath. “Save your energy.”
Pilar took her customary grip on Loup’s arm. “You really think he has a chance?”
“Yeah, I do.”
“Would it change anything if he won?”
Loup turned her head, looked into Pilar’s worried eyes. “Yeah,” she said softly. “I guess it would.”
“Okay.” Pilar swallowed. “I’m gonna cheer my fucking head off for Miguel fucking Garza, then, okay?”
“Okay.” Loup squeezed her arm. “So am I.”
It was a good fight, the best Outpost had seen in years. The two men were evenly matched. Miguel was a brawler by nature, but he had the experience, training, and wits to harness his strength and fight a good inside game. Terry Flynn relied on his reach and speed to keep Miguel at range.
During the first few rounds, it was Flynn who struggled. He hadn’t expected Miguel to be so prepared to fight a left-handed opponent. Miguel took advantage and pressed him, trying to close at every opportunity, softening him up with flurries of body blows. He landed a few solid jabs to the head, and in the third round, a combination ending with an uppercut that sent Terry Flynn staggering against the ropes.
The crowd roared.
Pilar’s nails dug into Loup’s arm.
Loup caught her breath at the simultaneous darts of hope and regret that lanced through her.
But then the referee stepped in between the two men. Miguel skipped back, bouncing a little. Flynn dragged himself off the ropes. He shook off the blow, tapped his forehead a couple of times, reminding himself to keep his guard up.
The match continued.
Tasting victory, Miguel pressed harder, going for the knockout. He had Flynn on the defensive and he knew it. But the near miss had sharpened Flynn’s focus. He found his rhythm and his defense improved.
“Slow down!” the coach shouted at Miguel between rounds. “You’ve got a lot of fight ahead of you, son! Pace yourself!”
“Aw, c’mon! I’m killing him out there!”
“No, you’re not! Slow the fuck down, Mig!” Loup called.
His gaze slewed around, and he gave her a curt nod.
It was close. It was so very, very close. At the end of six rounds, Miguel was way ahead on points. Despite trying to pace himself, in the seventh, he began to flag. He held his ground, but Flynn began to score points on him. They weren’t hard blows—nothing dramatic, nothing Miguel couldn’t shake off in disgust.
But they counted.
By the eleventh and twelfth rounds, Miguel was spent. He plodded after Terry Flynn, swinging, but the snap was gone from his punch. Flynn was tired, too. Still, he kept moving, kept circling, kept landing outside jabs and straights.
The bell rang, ending the match.
“So?” Pilar shivered. “Who won?”
“I don’t know,” Loup said soberly. “I truly don’t. It all depends on how the judges score it.”
The judges took forever to deliberate, tallying and retallying the points. The crowd on both sides grew restless, booing and shouting catcalls.
At last the decision was announced. It was a split decision and it was close, very, very close.
Miguel lost.
FORTY
A pall settled over Outpost.
It wasn’t as bad as Tommy’s death, when hope had been raised so high then dashed so low, but it was bad. Miguel Garza went on a weeklong bender, drunk and belligerent. He got in a number of fights and broke one guy’s jaw. When a couple of soldiers heckled him at Salamanca’s nightclub, he went after them. It took four bouncers to hold him back, and if he hadn’t been a Garza, he would have been detained and charged with assault.