by John White

Created on: August 01, 2010

Prayer Offerings

Chapter 7

Paula Velasquez did not come two thousand miles from Colombia to be treated like a dog. She’d had enough of Javier’s temper. She thought she had left that behind when she arrived in America, to a place where women have the same rights as men.

No, nothing had changed. Javier had lied when he said America had made him into a different man. The only difference was the ground under his feet. Paula walked briskly on the sidewalk, her six month old, Lily, cradled in her arms. She didn’t know where she was going. She just wanted to get away from him, away from the lazy, cruel bastard who hit her.

She touched the red welt on her cheek. No one had ever struck her before. Not her father, mother, or any of her brothers. No one, until him. She glanced at the convenience store and wished she had brought her purse. Both she and Lily were thirsty.

A vision of Javier rummaging through her purse back at the house made her even angrier. She didn’t see the SUV as she crossed the intersection, but jumped back when she heard the screeching tires. The driver blared his horn and gestured wildly at her.

“Jesus, Maria y Jose,” she prayed quietly and rushed past the stopped SUV to the other side of the street.

Two young girls ate ice cream outside a store. Paula would have liked a nice cup for herself. She wondered if Lily was ready to try the treat. It was very hot outside. Perhaps the boy behind the counter would trust her for the money.

She contemplated for a moment and then decided instead to go see a priest.

* * *

Walter ‘Smitty’ Smith was in a good mood. Hell—he was in a great mood. For the first time in fifty-eight years, he could emphatically say everything was perfect.

The tip of the joint glowed red as he sucked and held the sweet smoke in his lungs until they felt like they’d burst. He blew it out his nostrils, a trick he’d learned in Vietnam where the pot knocked you on your ass, especially if you blew the smoke slowly out your nose.

The blue haze twisted into a thin vortex that seeped through the well-tinted window of his ’61 Bel Air. The dark tint would prevent any nosy Abiaka county deputy sheriff from spoiling his extraordinarily good mood by busting him for a lousy nickel bag of weed.

He loved driving down State Road 47 with his baby blue Bel Air, the joint enhancing the relaxed drive. The Sunday morning excursion reminded him of the times his father would prop him up

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