Chapter 8: Moving On / A Supplication

Chapter 8: Moving On / A Supplication

Caterina Padilla died at eight fifty-two that Saturday evening. Esperanza, barely able to speak into the trembling telephone, called my father at around nine o’clock, who, after briefly discussing the news with my mother, informed J. Padilla fifteen minutes later. Esperanza came into my room ten minutes before the police arrived to question her. She immediately flicked on the light switch as she entered my dark bedroom. It was the first and only time when she had intentionally disturbed me. My initial annoyance was so great that my wrath abruptly ceased, instantly inverting into an opposing emotion: concern.

“What happened?” I inquired without further hesitation, leaping out of bed, “Are you alright? Esperanza, tell me what happened!” My china, failing to find the words, broke into tears and embraced me, holding me tightly in her arms as if I were still a child.

The police arrived at ten minutes past nine. They questioned Esperanza, who was the sole witness to Cati’s death, urging her to describe the series of events and their precise times of occurrence in order to fill out a report. Esperanza, conforming to the customs of her social class, told them everything—either because she did not recognize the difference between irrelevant and relevant facts, or because she feared herself suspect and sought to remove herself from suspicion, or even, perhaps, as an attempt to calm her nerves—relating an hour-long story, expounding on each of her thoughts and actions not only spanning from the time she had awoken at five-thirty that morning to their arrival in our house, but included in her narration the notions and impressions she had formed of Cati from the time she had first met her years ago.

The detectives, although certainly aware that her lengthy account was anything but germane, did not try stopping her for a moment, but instead listened patiently and intently—not being an exception to the rule: that all Nicaraguans appreciate a good story—save to interrupt her in order to have her elaborate upon certain aspects of the night which they found intriguing. It was due to Esperanza’s quick recollection that the story of Cati Padilla’s suicide could be recorded with such precision with regards to time and place—a rare benefit in comparison to the murky story of J. Padilla’s exile—with only Cati’s exact final thoughts missing from the tale.    

 J. Padilla arrived on the scene at midnight, after having left Consuelita with her aunts. He was visibly distraught and looked feeble and pale. When he spoke, it seemed as if he directed his speech to the floor, seldom lifting his face to the officers whose queries he was reacting to. When asked why he had allowed his wife to stay at home, knowing that she was not well, he responded dejectedly, “It was like a civil war in that house. I just couldn’t stay there. I had to get out.”

The funeral was held the following Sunday. Padilla’s choice of graveyard for his deceased wife’s burial was based on proximity. It was just on the other side of San Ramón’s hill. Despite its relative elevation, the region, an area which went by the name of Colinas de Paz, was far-removed enough to be devoid of a city view. The cemetery consisted of an expansive wavy pasture which looked pale green under the thick morning mist. At that time, there could not have been more than two or three gravestones erected there, and it was startling to discover upon returning years later, at least a hundred sullen stones where there had previously been a handful.

It was early and still somewhat dark out. As we waited for the ceremony to begin, the sun was gradually emerging blanched from the distant, unseen lake, like a sphere of fixed flash emitted from a camera, coloring the morning sky a ghastly white, as if God had wrapped up the globe in a clean sheet of paper.

Father Hammond was not late. We sat waiting for J. Padilla, who was the last person to arrive. Emerging from a large funerary vehicle dressed in a jet-black suit and his hair disheveled, he took hold of his daughter’s hand and silently walked over to the chairs reserved for them at the front, between the poker players and my family, and, by removing the sunglasses from his eyes, non-verbally indicated to Father Hammond that he could commence.

  “Dear, Heavenly Father,” he began, “We are gathered here this morning, to pray for the soul of Caterina Amadís de Padilla, a caring mother, a faithful wife and loving friend. I had the opportunity of knowing Caterina, and I can say with great confidence that she was unusually virtuous. We all mourn her death.”

“Lord, we pray for your forgiveness and your divine mercy. We should not despair for the eternal salvation of persons who have taken their own lives. By ways known to him alone, God can provide the opportunity for salutary repentance, even after death. Although it may appear to us that Doña Caterina took her own life, and even though we can never truly know for certain, for divine justice is beyond us, I believe her life was taken from her, not by her. All suffering stems from God’s compassion. The death of our dear friend teaches us that we should never stray from His path.”

“If it is love that you seek: look to God. His love is infinite, exclusive and all-inclusive. If it is wealth or power you strive for: acquire it only as a means to help the less fortunate. If it be friendship: be honest to your neighbor and he will be honest to you. If you desire a better life for your children: teach them the Gospel and send them away into the hands of God, for he is every child’s father, and all children are his children. If it is solitude you seek: find it in nature—that which is most far removed from God and yet provided by Him for us, for our consolation—it is in the beauty of the natural world where we can most clearly discern the awe-inspiring compassionate hand of our Creator. If it is retribution from those who have trespassed against you that you find yourself yearning for: redirect your anger! Despise your sins and avenge your soul. If you require certainty and are looking to find refuge from chance, doubt or instability, if you desire symmetry in all things: abandon your quest immediately!  For our fate is in the hands of God and beyond our control. ‘The Lord giveth and the lord taketh.’ And surely it was He who took our Caterina from us, and although we cannot profess to know why, we must be assuaged by the fact that it was for a reason, a divine purpose, regardless if we discover the meaning of her death in this life, or the next.”

At this point, the guitarists began playing a hopeful tune and the priest crossed himself exclaiming “Lord, we ask for your divine mercy,” and we echoed in chorus, “Lord, we ask for your divine mercy.” Then he repeated the phrase a little louder “Lord, we ask for your divine mercy!” and we duplicated the same phrase again, matching his fervor “Lord, we ask for your divine mercy!” and this went on until the coffin containing the body of J. Padilla’s wife was brought out from the black funeral car and placed into the earth.

As we continued to echo the phrase of the priest, the sight of his wife’s coffin as it lowered into the ground caused Padilla to start violently weeping into his hands. In order to hide his anguish and guilt, Padilla put his sunglasses back on and grabbing a hold of his daughter’s hand began walking away careful to avoid making eye-contact with anymore. But as he was making his way through the crowd of mourners which parted for him as if he were Moses crossing the Red Sea, his movement came to an abrupt halt as he crashed into two imposing bodies which obstructed his path. Baffled and disoriented his glasses fell to the ground and looking up to discern who these people were which had not parted for him, he encountered the twin countenances of his stepbrothers: two blonde heads with two pairs of blue eyes, four flushed cheeks moist with tears. Both “Germans” embraced their youngest brother for several minutes, unable to express the emotions which had overcome them, incapable of uttering a single perceivable sentence in a fit of sobs and kisses.  

Esperanza, taking advantage of this propitious moment, grasped my wrist and dragged me into the orgy of emotion. Taking Padilla aside, she placed a small golden band in his clenched hand. After moving away from his brothers whose presence had proved too overwhelming for him, Padilla sat down and released his grip on the mysterious object, revealing a gleaming blue jewel which he instantly recognized as his wife’s sapphire engagement ring, shining just as it always had. He ceased weeping at the sight of it, and, frantically springing from his chair, began a crazed hunt for Esperanza.

Finally getting a hold of her, he hugged her passionately and then knelt down on the ground in front of me so we would be at the same height. Sternly grabbing my shoulders his deranged stare penetrated deep into my turquoise eyes and he adamantly advised “Forgive! Always forgive! If you can’t forgive, the artist inside of you will die! You hear me? Stan by the people you love, the things you love, the places you love. Never leave! You must always forgive! Do you understand? Do you really?” and my father, noticing my obvious discomfort picked his old friend up from the ground and guided him to his car where Consuelita was waiting for him. Utterly dumbfounded, I looked around to see who else had witness that display of lunacy and caught the brown, gentle eyes of Father Hammond gazing back at me, every aspect of his brow seemingly indicating a heartrending concurrence. With his eyes, the priest had been saying to me, “He’s right, you know.”

My parents left with one of my uncles to his house, where he was holding a reception. The priest went home with me. The car ride was silent to the point of awkwardness, and the Father Hammond seemed lost in thought. It would not surprise me to learn that was the first occasion that Óscar would have liked to turn on the radio, for the silence was nearly unbearable. Doña Cati had killed herself, and we were going home, back to our normal lives. What was there to say?

The priest was looking down at his wristwatch. I felt the need to say something, something wise and profound. “That’s a nice watch you have there. Where did you get it?” I asked, realizing the banality of my inquiry only after I had uttered it.

He looked up at me and smiled. “It was my grandfather’s. My mother gave it to me before she died in bilwi. You see, I come from a place which is unknown to most Nicaraguans…”