Harvestland

TWENTY-FIVE

Late night turned into early morning as Noah lay with his head down on the desk, books and notepaper strewn all around him. The radio was on, a droning preacher in monotone.

A sudden rise in the preacher's voice jerked him awake. He sat up, rubbing a hand over his scruffy face and his buzzed head. He looked at the books and papers in front of him and then at the digital clock that read 3:08.

He tugged at the corner of one sheet that was situated beneath some other paperwork. It was the drawing. He stared at bloody little Sofia, crying because of the knife in her throat, her mother and father smiling next to her, everyone standing in front of a crude depiction of a house, the sun in the corner beating down its yellow rays.

He turned it over, stared again at the row of numbers in simple black crayon.

319506773428

He sighed, tossed the paper aside. It fell off the desk and floated to the floor. He turned the dial on the radio, scanning a few radio stations. For a moment the tuner rested on a smooth jazz station.

It came back in tidal waves. The Collins Mall. He and Charlee sharing their first kiss on the bench afterhours. Making love there—

No. No—

He shut the radio off and breathed slowly, closing his eyes tight. He was able to steady himself for a few seconds before he shot up, shoved all the books and papers off his desk, and kicked the chair over on its side. He stood there awhile breathing heavy.

Finally he righted the chair and collected the papers and books from the floor. He organized them neatly back on his desk, shoving the drawing into his messenger bag.

He thought about going to bed. But he didn't feel tired anymore. He stretched, working the kinks out from the uncomfortable position he had fallen asleep in.

He sat back at his desk and fingered the rosary beads that were slung over a figurine of San Judas Tadeo. He picked the saint up, studying the staff he held at his side, a hatchet affixed to the top of it. He looked at the gold medallion around the saint's neck that bore the image of Jesus. Noah smiled wearily, thinking, patron saint of desperate times. He had brought it from home, but it reminded him of street shrines he had seen on many a corner in Mexico. It was believed that San Judas Tadeo heard the petitions of both the good and the bad and came to help in difficult situations.

"There are no better believers in the world than us Mexicans," his mother liked to say. "We're not always good Catholics, but we believe harder than anyone else." What she was talking about of course was the not always equally yoked but nonetheless passionate marriage of orthodox Catholicism and Mexican saint folklore. He had seen it rampant in the streets this summer, recognized saints like Judas Tadeo sharing reverence with scoundrels like Jesus Malverde, patron saint of drug trafficking, and Santa Muerte, the patron saint of death.

He set the figurine back down and removed the beads. He prayed the rosary on his knees and decided to take his run a little early. The cold air hit him hard as he ran through the darkness, but it was crisp and fresh and helped clear his mind. He came back, did a few sets of push-ups and sit-ups, then showered.

When it opened that morning, he got some coffee and a breakfast sandwich at the campus center café. He brought some homework down with him in his bag and took a few notes as the coffee kicked in and more students joined him at the surrounding tables.

His eye caught something on one of his class papers and he paused. The professor had given everyone a list of potential resources for a research project and included several libraries throughout Iowa with good Catholic archives that did inter-library loans with the college.