Tricksters and Angels

Chapter 1-2

Myriam St. Eves read the text on her iPhone a second time. “i'm at the shrine. see u in 30. jonathan.”

Asking Jonathan Ramsey for help put Myriam on edge. She hated feeling beholden to him. But she couldn’t refuse the request of the man she hoped to marry. Her partner Hiram had specifically asked for Ramsey. So she stood on the steps of the Café Rio waiting for the encounter she thought would never happen.

The mellow scent of sage hung in the air, the morning was now clear and crisp with no hint of being overcast, and all around her were the old western Hispanic buildings of the town of Rio Chama. The place was one of those Wild West mining towns that had survived as the center of commerce for outlying ranchers until recently, when the Milagro Shrine brought in people by the thousands from across the country and the world. The influx had made the town’s local businesses prosperous. Two new motels had sprung up at the edge of town as well as a modern Safeway, a 24-Hour Fitness Center, and a movie theater. Bank of America had built a small office complex on Main Street, its glass, steel, and concrete clashing with the wood buildings of the courthouse on one side and the James Brothers Mercantile Store on the other.

Just three months ago the Milagro Shrine was a must stop in north-central New Mexico along with Taos, Santa Fe, Georgia O'Keefe's Ghost Ranch, and the nearby mission ruins. But the shrine’s pull was mysteriously fading. A large “Office Space for Lease” sign hung in the bank’s front window, and the mercantile store had gone back to its original hours of 10 to 4, three days a week.

Feeling the cold especially in her right leg, Myriam climbed up the wide steps and inside the Café Rio to its atrium. Painted in the dark reds, sharp blues, and fire orange of a New Mexico sunset, it stretched half the length of the building. Pueblo pottery and ornate masks were everywhere, and in the center a round fireplace took away the chill with a mesquite-log fire. Once crowded at all hours with pilgrims and curiosity seekers, this morning the place was nearly empty. Rosa Cisneros, the Café’s owner, was talking with Raphael Núnez, Rio Chama’s only real estate agent and chairman of the Board for the Friends of the Shrine. From the way she stood with her fists planted on her hips, and the way Raphael spread his hands supplicating, palms up as if asking for forgiveness, the conversation didn’t look to be a happy one.

Myriam crossed the tiled floor, seating herself at a table near the windows with a view of the street. She glanced at the time of Ramsey’s text to her. It came in thirty-five minutes ago. She tapped her turquoise-colored nails on the Mexican-tile tabletop, and idly arranged the blue and orange salt-and-pepper shakers on different squares. She rubbed her right calf where it ached. The recent doctor’s diagnosis troubled her and added to the anxiety surrounding her meeting with Jonathan. She couldn’t shake the feeling that her former student was going to turn her request down. Yet he made the trip here, which is more than I could’ve hoped for.

“Myriam.”

Startled, she looked up. Rosa set a carafe and a small pitcher on the table. “Decaf, skim milk, no cream.” She pulled out a small notebook and pen and began writing. “The usual?”

“Somebody is joining me. I'll order then.” The darkness in Rosa’s eyes made Myriam shiver. “Anything wrong?”

Rosa shrugged. “I'm fine … it’s just business.”

“I'm sorry, so many good times here.”

“I keep asking myself, did I do something wrong? God blessed me and then he took it away. I don't understand. What can I do to bring the shrine’s power back? I pray every night.”

A shaft of ice shot through Myriam’s stomach. “Has the cancer returned?”

Rosa kissed the cross hanging around her neck. “No, I'm fine. I've been so fortunate.” A smile came over her face.

“Is something else going on?”

“I don't want to jinx it. I'll tell you later.”

Myriam studied the Hispanic woman as she walked toward the kitchen. What does she mean by “I don't want to jinx it”?

Her gaze drifted across the empty street to the weathered Rio Chama Hotel, its white-painted clapboard siding faded from the sun. Its second-story balcony made it look like a building out of an old Western movie. She remembered how she had said those exact same words ten years ago to her lifelong friend Nancy Bloomberg in that hotel when they visited the shrine for the first time. It had been on their thirtieth “girls’ trip.”

Every year after graduating college the two of them had taken a week away from husbands and children to explore some new place. The trip ten years ago was supposed to be their last, as Nancy's MS was growing progressively worse, but she insisted on one more trip before she became wheelchair-bound. The night before they went to the shrine, Nancy had begun to shake, the tremors starting in her delicately boned hands and spreading until she fell onto the hotel room’s double bed unable to stand any longer. Her frantic weeping and pleas for help made no difference. Myriam had held her until after midnight when the shaking stopped. By then Nancy’s bubbly personality was replaced by a dull, confused look. They had slept in each other’s arms until almost checkout time.

Dressing slowly the next morning, each movement registering in a spasm of pain on her face, Nancy had said quietly, “Myriam, do you believe in miracles … a higher intelligent healing power that we can access?”

At the time she had smiled. Nancy was a born-again Christian and Myriam did not want to deflate her friend’s hope. So she responded, “I don't want to jinx it.”

Myriam fell out of her reverie just for a moment as a car drove along Rio Chama’s deserted main street in front of the Café Rio. Dust spun in tiny whirlwinds from its tires. I didn't believe in any of that miraculous healing stuff back then. How wrong I was.

In the morning the two women had driven to the shrine. The day was overcast and a light rain fell. The grass and piñon pine glittered bright green. The air smelled of burned copper, though no lightning crisscrossed the dull gray clouds.

The only other car in the lot was a gray Toyota pickup with New Mexico plates. Myriam had parked across from it and got out first, helping Nancy to stand. In town at the Mercantile they had bought a cane. Nancy grasped the handle but also leaned on Myriam for support.

Passing through the adobe archway, they had stopped at the base of the hill. “Are you sure you want to climb all the way up there?” Myriam had asked her friend, more afraid of the walk down than the hike up.

Her face set in a determined grimace, Nancy answered. “I need to.”

She had just put her foot on the first step when a man came out of the Visitor Center. He was tall and muscular with graying red hair. A broad smile spread across his weathered face. He introduced himself, his voice a strong baritone. “I’m Adam Gwillt. I’m sort of a caretaker here. Do you need some help?”

“Do you know what I’m supposed to do?” Nancy had asked.

It seemed as if the caretaker understood what they needed. Making warm inviting eye contact, he answered, “You made the journey. That is often enough.”

Nancy instinctively took his arm and he led them around the back of the Center to a small bench sheltered from the weather by a large mesquite tree. The rain flicked off the grass all around them and splattered the rock path but none hit the bench where they sat.

“You can see the cottonwood from here.” He pointed to the top of the hill where the giant tree swayed gently in the breeze. “And beside it is the Christ Chapel. Local artisan’s are volunteering their time and labor to build it. It’ll be magnificent when it’s finished.”

Myriam and her friend had sat for hours, chatting sometimes or sitting in silence, always watching the tree. Adam checked on them twice, each time gently touching Nancy on her shoulder. By noon the shrine was bustling with tourists and the first of many busloads of pilgrims. The clouds had parted and the sun had come out. A shaft of soft golden light lit up the cottonwood.

Later that afternoon Adam had stopped by again. He studied the two of them. “I suspect that you are finding what you came for,” he said knowingly and walked away.

Myriam looked at Nancy. “Is he right?”

Nancy nodded. “I’m tired, but something has changed.” She paused; a smile came over her face. “I’m no longer afraid. It’s as though Jesus has reached inside my heart and given me new life and hope.”

Being at the shrine had done nothing for Myriam, and she thought Nancy looked worse after they returned to the hotel. However, each day for the rest of the week Nancy insisted on visiting the shrine and sitting on the bench, gazing at the cottonwood.

A month after returning home, Myriam had received a phone call. The caller I.D. said it was from Nancy’s husband, Sid. Myriam steeled her nerves against the worst, but when she answered, Sid’s shout of joy echoed from the phone through the room. “Nancy's symptoms are going away, the doctors say it’s a miracle.”