Shadows Under the Palms
Chapter 34
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NOTE: This story contains some harsh language and mature themes that might be upsetting to some readers.
Want to start at the beginning? Welcome to Shadows Under the Palms!
I must have dozed off in the chair, because I awoke to find myself slumped in the chair, a small blanket draped over me, and a large cup of water on the table next to me. I could hear the sounds of movement and quiet working from inside, and the morning sounds of birds and insects in the area. The sky was clear, and the air was much cooler than the calendar would suggest. That post-hurricane temperature drop was always a relief after a storm.
I stood up and stretched, feeling the stiffness in my back and legs. I could smell food being cooked, wafting out from the kitchen. Fresh-baked bread. Grains of some kind, probably a porridge. And coffee. As if on cue, a habit-covered head popped out from the doorway. A smiling young face beamed at me.
“¡Buenos días señor!” My god, she was chipper for a nun. “The Reverend Mother said you would want some coffee when you woke, so I will have it right out for you. Did you sleep okay?”
I glanced back at the chair and winced. “Probably would have if I had gone inside. But thanks.”
She giggled. “I put the blanket on you this morning. I didn’t want to wake you.”
“I appreciate it, Sister.”
“Angelica. And you are Señor Duffy, yes?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
She giggled again. “Why do you say this?”
I gave her a tired smile. “Getting old is hard work, Sister. Even harder when you are out running around in a hurricane in the middle of the night and sleeping outside on a chair in a convent.”
She cocked her head and laughed. “You are a funny man, Señor Duffy.” She disappeared back into the doorway. I fumbled through my pockets and found the pack of cigarettes the Reverend Mother had given me and lit one, stretching again. My back cracked, and I groaned audibly. Another nun appeared, this one slightly older than the cheerful kid from before.
“Señor Duffy, your clothes are clean and drying in the line now. They should be ready for you soon. We will have breakfast for you in the refectory.” She glanced at the cigarette in my hand with a slight, disapproving scowl. “And please no smoking in the church.”
Sister Angelica scurried out, ducking past her older colleague, carrying a steaming mug of coffee in her hands. Her fresh, smiling face seemed even younger somehow when she looked up at me. “I do hope you enjoy, Señor Duffy.” She bobbed her head, giggled again, and hurried back inside under the glower of the other nun.
“Please excuse Sister Angelica,” she said gruffly. “She is still new and has yet to fully appreciate the importance of the meaning of being ‘contemplative’.”
“Youth is wasted on the young, right?” She didn’t smile.
“You may join us when you are ready.” She disappeared back inside.
I finished my smoke, crushed it out in the ashtray, folded up the blanket and placed it on the chair, and went inside. It was dark, dimly lit by a few oil lamps; the electricity would be a while coming back. I paused at the washbin in the pantry and splashed some cold water on my face, and attempted to smooth out my hair. It wasn’t a sink, exactly. More like a small basin with a drain, and a pitcher of water. The mirror above the bowl was old but clean, and I stopped for a moment to look at the visage before me. I looked even older and more exhausted than I felt. In the flickering lamp light, shadows played over my face. It felt like a reminder of something yet to come.
The refectory was a long, sparsely furnished room with a pair of long wooden tables and benches running down the middle. The friars and nuns sat separately, quietly eating the simple fare of what looked like eggs, fruit, and some kind of cereal or oatmeal. As they ate, one of the friars, a middle-aged Cuban man with a friendly round face, read from scripture in Spanish.
“Has sido refugio para los pobres, refugio para los necesitados en su angustia, amparo contra la tormenta y sombra contra el calor. Porque el aliento del cruel es como una tormenta que arremete contra un muro. Isaiah 25:4”
You have been a refuge for the poor, a refuge for the needy in their distress, a shelter from the storm and a shade from the heat. For the breath of the ruthless is like a storm driving against a wall.
I wondered if he had stayed up late looking that one up. One of the friars noticed me in the doorway and gave a slight nod, indicating I should come sit next to him on the bench. I joined the men in their brown robes, settling at the end of the bench. My young chipper nun friend hurried over with a plate of food and a cup of steaming coffee. She must have gotten a stern talking-to, because she kept her head down and her smile was gone.
I knew better than to attempt conversation during the meal, and I didn’t want to interrupt our lector. The eggs were cooked perfectly, and the fruit was fresh and sliced neatly into small bites. A chunk of still-warm bread was lightly buttered, and the oatmeal was plain but filling. A small portion of fried plantains reminded me of my mother’s kitchen as a child. The coffee was strong, bitter, and perfect. We all ate in silence, listening to the friar continue reading from Isaiah.
“Is not this the fast that I have chosen? To loose the bands of wickedness, to undo the heavy burdens, and to let the oppressed go free, and that ye break every yoke? Is it not to deal thy bread to the hungry, and that thou bring the poor that are cast out to thy house? When thou seest the naked, that thou cover him; and that thou hide not thyself from thine own flesh?” He was really getting into it. I liked him.
“Then shall thy light break forth as the morning, and thine health shall spring forth speedily: and thy righteousness shall go before thee; the glory of the Lord shall be thy reward.” He paused, looking up from the large bible he was reading from, and smiled. “Escucha la palabra de Dios. Hear the Word of the Lord. Amen.”
“Amen,” came the reply from everyone, myself included, the old instinct still very much alive. There was a shuffling and murmuring as the friars and nuns finished their meals and began to disperse to their daily routine. Several of the men touched my shoulder as they passed, saying, “Cristo esté contigo. Christ be with you.” I appreciated the sentiment. Soon I was alone in the refectory, with just the reader left behind. Sister Angelica had brought him a plate and a coffee when he finished and he joined me at the table.
“Welcome, Señor Duffy,” he said. “I understand you came in late last night from the storm.”
I nodded. “I was very fortunate that the Reverend Mother took mercy on me. And the sisters have been very hospitable.”
“I am Padre Tomás Cabrera, at your service. I am the prior here.”
“Nice to meet you, Padre. I do apologize for the interruption and any disruption my presence may have caused.”
He chuckled. “Not at all, my son. Is this not what the church is here for? To harbor lost souls?”
“Am I a lost soul?”
“I suppose only you can answer that. Well, you and God.”
“What do you plan to do now?” He didn’t look up from his meal, but I knew the real question was When are you leaving?
“I’ll be getting out of your hair shortly. I need to find my friend. We got separated last night before the storm hit. I need to make sure she is safe.”
“Ah, a lady friend.”
“Not like that. But she is important to me, and I have to find her.”
“I understand. I do not expect the power company to make any progress for a few weeks at least. It’s a mess out there. And the roads will not be in any condition to drive, I don’t think.”
“That’s fine. It’s not too far back to the hotel, and I can walk.”
“Be careful out there, Señor Duffy. It may be daylight, but the criminals will still be out there. I don’t think the police are going to be much help for a bit.”
I laughed. “I appreciate the concern. I think I’ll be all right, though.”
He studied me for a moment. Then he stood up. “Wait here.”
I was just finishing the last of my plantains when he returned. He had something wrapped in a cloth in his hands. He handed it to me and said, “Just to be sure.”
I didn’t have to unfold the fabric to know there was a revolver inside. A big one, at that. I raised an eyebrow. He smiled again.
“We are a peaceful order. We protect the poor and downtrodden, feed the hungry, heal the sick, and so on. But we are not naive. I grew up on these very streets. I know how dangerous they can be, especially in times like these. I pray that it can stay in your pocket and you will not need it… or the six rounds that are in it.”
I shook my head. “Thank you, Padre. I appreciate the offer. But I can’t take this.” I set the bundle down on the table in front of him.
“Please, I insist.”
“See, the thing is, if I take this, I might be inclined to use it. I don’t want to have to do that. And I don’t want it on my conscience - or yours - that someone’s son is dead because I got nervous. I was a soldier in Europe. I’ve seen enough to know I don’t want to see any more. I’ll be okay, I promise you. You have done more than enough for me. Just maybe an extra ‘Hail Mary’ for me, eh?” I stood up and offered my hand.
He stood as well and returned the handshake. “Be safe, my son. And Christ be with you.”
“And also with you.”
I left the refectory and found my clothes folded neatly in the pantry. I changed, leaving the borrowed items on the cot. I tucked the lighter and cigarettes under them, but kept the flask as a memento. Making my way to the front of the church, I stole a glance over my shoulder and caught a glimpse of Father Tomás, the Reverend Mother, and Sister Angelica peeking out from behind a doorway. I stepped out into the sun and the storm-ravaged streets of Havana.
