Good Morning everyone! Today's tour is FIRST SECOND COMING and it's by Jeff Pollak. Enjoy!
EXCERPT:
Chapter 32, Church (Part of Someone):
“A
good afternoon greeting isn’t appropriate on this saddest Christmas Day in Los
Angeles’ history. I’m Ram Forrester. In the absence of Jack Allenby, who’s
under the weather, I’m here to anchor this special newscast.”
Jack’s had too much eggnog, but that’s
nothing new. “A historic local church, an important institution beloved by the
Latino community since the city’s founding, has been destroyed. We don’t have
numbers yet, but the loss of life is considerable. No one’s claimed
responsibility.”
It’s impossible to hide my dismay,
though I try. The NITWIT caller said he had ‘bigger fish to fry.’ He must’ve
meant this. How’d they pull it off? If they can accomplish this, they’re a much
more serious threat than I thought.
“Brendali
Santamaria is with us from Olvera Street. Fill us in, Brendali.”
The camera catches the somber look in
her eyes. She stays silent long enough for me to suspect she didn’t hear the
cue. When she does speak her cadence is slow, soft and melancholic.
“I’m
near La Reina de Los Ángeles Iglesia—The
Queen of the Angels Church.” She raises a hand to cover her mouth. We hear a
heavy sigh.
“This
morning’s Christmas church service held an overflow crowd. They showed up not
only to celebrate our sacred holiday, but to attend a special sermon given by
Mexico City’s beloved bishop, Cuauhtemoc Olin. His body hasn’t been found yet.
The explosion occurred—uhh, excuse me.” She turns away, flicks a finger against
her cheek and gathers herself.
“The
injuries, the fatalities—dozens of each. Men, women, little ones.” Her voice
cracks. “I’m heartbroken.” Her eyes close.
Before I decide to end the report, she
speaks with a firmer voice. “Let me finish, Ram, please.” Her next breath is so
deep her entire upper body heaves. “I walked past this blood-smeared Maria doll
lying on the ground earlier.” She holds the bloody doll against her white
blouse for the camera.
“For
those who don’t know, these doll figures are indigenous children dressed in
their tribe’s styles. This one’s a girl from my tribe, Nahua, dressed in a
tiny huipil.” She puts the
doll in a baggy without appearing to realize her top is smeared with blood.
Ken’s voice rings in my ear buds from
the control room. “Pull her. Brendali’s not giving us a report. All we’re
getting is emotion.”
Bren’s hard at work despite hurting so
much. I’ll damn well let her finish. With the screen focused on her, I
emphatically shake my head to refuse his order.
“I thought about the cute little niná who brought this doll to church, dressed in her holiday
best. Is the doll’s blood hers? Is she gone, so soon? Who took her life? Are
her parents grieving, hurt or dead?”
She puts a hand over her eyes and goes
silent. “We expect to hear from Archbishop Delmonico soon. As compassionate as
he is, we must ask him how God could let this happen to these innocents on the
day we celebrate Jesus’ birth. We need an explanation.”
With no signoff she walks away. The
camera gives us an unobstructed view of a ruined church reduced to a mess of
wood, pipes and plaster. The building, built in the mid-1860’s, is leveled. We
segue to a commercial as the image fades from view, but not from our memory.
The victims share Bren’s faith and
culture. She would’ve been among them if she’d arrived fifteen minutes earlier.
Did NITWIT mean to kill her? I don’t want to bring up that idea—she’ll feel
guilty, that all the victims died for her. I remember our first show, her
evident pride when she walked on stage in that stunning white huipil. The doll must’ve triggered
that memory and others, too—childhood, her cousin Lilia, the funeral her folks
didn’t attend.
I need to comfort her, not sit here
with my heart breaking.
$25 Starbucks Gift Card,
choice of Paperback or ebook of First Second Coming
– 1 winner each!
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