Chapter 36 – Stand By Me

Hotel Baque.
Fresno.

Aunt Carmen had a full Spanish Breakfast ready the moment the girls cleaned up and descended the stairs in their autumn clothes. Zara had on her usual love of dresses with a large overcoat, while Eppie layered up in her gifted frocks, looking eclectic.

After more chorizos than was good for her, Uncle Paco pulled up in front of the hotel and told them it was time to go, that Father Parson was waiting.

“Wait just a second,” Carmen informed them. The proprietress returned with a cardboard box that could barely contain the delicious smell of rich, spiced sausages and other delicacies. On top, there was a freshly baked loaf of sourdough. In another bag, there were plastic containers of sealed soup.

Are we going to a refugee shelter? Eppie salivated at the sheer volume of food, then castigated herself for thinking so carelessly of Mio’s circumstances.

“This is for Mio’s family,” Carmen said carefully. “But you should give it personally to Mio, if you can. If Father Parson takes it, tell him that it’s for the familia. He will know what to do.”

“Thank you so much,” Eppie replied, feeling guilty that she had brought nothing.

“Sí, sí.” the matron gave her a pat on the head, futily taming her wild hair. “Give the girl our wishes.”

They loaded the gifts into Uncle Paco’s car.

Paco drove the exact car that Eppie expected a Spanish guitarist as cool as Paco to drive, a vintage Ford F-250. It was a diesel in dark red, well-worn and wreathed in chrome. Inside, the massive cab smelled of tobacco and tacos, coffee and hay. Zara sat in the back row, holding the soup containers, while Eppie sat shotgun beside Paco.

The engine roared, she texted Eric, and then they were on their way.

There was nothing to see on the way, because they were beset by the infamous Tule fog in every direction. This late in November, the San Joaquin Valley carpeted its mornings with a mist that rolled on like thick wool, swallowing the farmland. A part of it was natural, but most of it was man-made from the sheer volume of irrigated fields carved into the old Indian tablelands.

The 99 South was eaten up by the F-250 without slowing. Eppie rode with her heart in her throat and a hand on her bosom, both legs straining against panic. Uncle Paco drove with complete nonchalance, his eyes scanning into the fog as though the vapours were no impediment. Incredibly, he avoided potholes before they appeared, hailing trucks as they passed.

There was no music, so Zara hummed. Paco joined in, and the trio performed a rendition of “In the Pines”. The tune felt different from the bleakness of last night, for they were going somewhere now. They were taking action.

Eppie watched the fog, her chest resonating with the tune.

“Father Parson has been the Reedley Parish priest for the last thirty years,” Paco said suddenly. “He buried generations of people living here, including us Arriagas.”

Eppie wasn’t sure if this was a conversation, so she let the man talk.

“He is a good man. Dedicated. A good Christian,” Paco said. “He will keep your girl safe.”

Eppie expressed her gratitude for the assurance.

Behind them, a car had been following them since Fresno.

“That’s Eric,” Eppie informed Paco.

“Good,” Paco said stoically. “He is also a good man.”

It took them over forty minutes to get to Reedley in the fog, which barely thinned as they exited the 99 and dropped onto Main St. The town appeared through the thick white vapours like a video game rendering in real time. First, a grain elevator, then the silos, then the barns, then the water tower. On Thanksgiving, there was no one at work.

They pulled up close to the church, a modest, missionary-era construct with white plaster walls, dark timber and a few stained pieces of glass filtering the light into its interior.

By the time Eppie and Zara were out with their Aunt Carmen Uber delivery, Eric had parked.

Uncle Paco and Eric approached one another. Two men, both in flannels and jeans, walking toward one another like a scene from Tombstone. They met in the middle of the parking lot without so much as a preamble, their silhouettes fuzzy on a fog-strewn Thanksgiving morning.

They shook hands in the way of men who understood each other implicitly.

“Francisco Arriaga, call me Paco,” said Uncle Paco. “You are the Newfoundland.”

“Eric Lee, they call me Lee,” said Eric. “Eppie told me about you.”

Eppie watched the men smile and exchange hands again. They were apparently friends now, for life.

From inside the church, they could hear the voice of hymns and speech, and collective “Amens”.

This novel’s true home is a different platform. Support the author by finding it there.

It was Mass in progress.
They were here a little earlier than expected.

“You ready?” Eric asked her, his voice bouncing off the frosty tarmac.