Robbing a Priest

The only thing Pablo could see were a pair of outstretched hands.

-Tell him to turn slowly, Concho said.

-He speaks Spanish.

-Turn.

The priest’s black garb rose and spread and fell and he turned. The lights of San Esteban were behind him and to Pablo he looked like a part of a starry sky with no stars. Concho motioned toward the priest with his lips, like a kiss in the air, and Pablo put the pistol into the waistline of his shorts. It had been tucked away there for hours while they waited, but now, in returning it, it felt very heavy and cold against his skin.

-Empty your pockets.

-Don’t turn around, Concho added.

-I don’t have much money, the priest said in English.

-Put what you have on the ground. Then walk to San Esteban.

-What did he say?

-You understand English, the priest said to Pablo. That’s good.

Concho took a step forward.

-What did he say?

Concho’s angular nose and feminine lips pointed at the back of the priest as he addressed him in a gentle voice.

-I am not as young as my friend, Father. Tell me what do you say to my friend?

The priest did not answer and Concho allowed the shotgun stock to fall from his shoulder into his hand.

-He was praying, Pablo said quickly. That we might not hurt him.
Concho nodded.

-Take thee home, Father.

Then the priest was down the hill and onto the road, passing through the shimmering leaves of the Munoz family banana plantation. Pablo did the math; in five minutes he would pass under the light of the farmacia. In ten minutes he would turn and begin the hill to San Esteban. In fifteen minutes he would walk past Pablo’s front door. He might look at it, or even knock on the door for help, but he would not see his house. Not in the way he should.

-What does Mayachusett mean? Concho asked. He was sifting through the wallet.

-It’s the name of a state.

-Yames Pahtreek Carney? Concho laughed. What does that mean?  

-His name. Let me see?

-Maybe I could sell it for something.

-It’s not a visa. It doesn’t do anything.

-Then you keep it.

Pablo handed Concho the pistol.

-I’m going home.

They walked down the road. At the farmacia Concho pulled a bill out of the wallet and held it up to the light.

-It’s a shame to think we stole from poor people, he said, but at least it was already stolen.

-It was your idea Concho.

-Possibly this is your mom’s lempira. You can return it to her.

He held out the bill. The road was empty and still. The scattered lights on the hills above San Esteban looked like stars or lamps on docked fishing boats.

-Oh, let up.

-Forget it. She’d only give it back to him. We’d have to keep it in a safe place. It wants to go back, but we mustn't let it.

-You’re crazy.

-Sure. So you should keep it. Or give it to your sister—no, I’ll give it to your sister.

-She’d ask you where you got it.

-I’ll say your mother gave it to me.

Pablo started into the tracks of the priest.

-See you later, Concho.

-Already?

-Because my mother and sister are waiting for me.

Concho mumbled something that Pablo did not hear. Then he called out.

-Pablo!

-What? What is it?

-Feliz año nuevo.

-Happy new year, Concho.

-Let’s split the money now.

-Tomorrow.

-Tomorrow then. Go make your resolutions.

Pablo reached the bend in the road and when he looked back toward Concho, he was under the light shaking his head and looking at his hands. Pablo let his eyes adjust and saw that he was really just counting the money, passing the bills from one hand to the other. Concho looked up, saw Pablo was watching, then turned and walked down the road to the orphanage.