* * *
THE SKY WAS SO gray it could smother a soul.
Elsa sat with Ant in the back of the wagon, bundled up in quilts. Loreda sat by herself, wrapped in blankets, her cheeks pink and chapped from the unseasonable cold. She had become increasingly silent and distant since Rafe had left. Elsa was surprised to realize that she preferred her daughter’s loud anger to this quiet depression. Rose and Tony sat up front, with Tony handling the reins. All of them were dressed in what tattered clothes could be called their Sunday best.
Lonesome Tree was quiet on this late-November day. Quiet in the way of a dying town. Snow covered everything.
The Catholic church looked lonely. Half of the roof had been torn away last month, and the spire had been broken. One more good wind and it would be gone.
Tony parked the wagon out front, tied the horse to the hitching post. He hauled a bucket over to the pump, filled it, and left it for Milo.
Elsa tugged a felt cloche down over her braided hair and gathered her children close. Together, they climbed the creaking steps and walked into the church. Several broken windows had been repaired with plywood, making the altar dark.
In good years there hadn’t been many Catholics in town, and these were far from good years. Every Sunday fewer came. The Irish Catholics had their own church, over in Dalhart, and the Mexicans worshipped in churches that had been built hundreds of years ago. But they were all losing members. Every church in the county was. More and more postcards and letters had begun to land in mailboxes in the Great Plains, containing notes from people in California and Oregon and Washington who had found jobs and were encouraging their kin to follow.
Elsa heard people coming in behind them. Unlike the old days, there was no gathering of women to gossip about recipes and no clot of men arguing about the weather. Even the children were quiet. The sound of hacking coughs rose above the squeaking of wooden pews.
In time, Father Michael stood before the altar and looked out at his much-diminished flock.
“We are being tested.” He looked as tired as Elsa felt. As tired as they all felt. “Let us pray this snow means rain to come. Crops to come.”
“God’s no help,” Loreda grumbled.
Rose elbowed Loreda hard.
“Tested does not mean forgotten,” Father Michael said, peering through his small round glasses at Loreda. “Let us pray.”
Elsa bowed her head. God help us, she thought but wasn’t certain it was exactly a prayer. More of a desperate plea.
They prayed and sang and prayed some more and then filed up for Communion.
When it was over, they looked at their remaining friends and neighbors. No one made eye contact for long. Each was remembering the food and fellowship that used to grace their Sundays.
Outside, the Carrio family stood by the frosted water pump.
Mr. Carrio broke free of his family and strode toward them, his face shuttered tightly. No one wanted to show too much emotion these days, afraid a little could become too much in an instant.
“Tony,” he said, pushing the hair back from his cold-reddened face. He was a shriveled, sinewy man, with a bulwark of a jaw and a thin nose.
Papa removed his hat, shook his friend’s hand. “Where are the Cirillos?”
“Ray got a letter from his sister in Los Angeles,” he said in a thick Italian accent. “Seems she’s heeled. Got herself a good job. Him and Andrea and the kids are fixin’ to head out that way, too. Says there ain’t no reason to stay.”
A silence followed.
“Wish we’d left already,” Mr. Carrio said. “No money for gas now. You heard from your boy? He found work?”
“Not yet,” Tony said tightly. None of them had told anyone the truth of Rafe’s desertion. The idea of his betrayal and weakness becoming public was more than they could bear.
“Too bad,” Mr. Carrio said. “Seems you’re stuck.”
“I’d never leave my land,” Tony said.
Mr. Carrio’s face darkened. “Ain’t you figured it out, Tony? This land don’
t want us here. And it’s gonna get worse.”
* * *