For the better part of a year, the fighting went unchecked. Any semblance of rough justice the Garzas used to administer was gone. Danny and Rosa’s men waited in alleys to ambush one another, scouted out each other’s secret meeting establishments, and staged raids, abused each other’s women.
At the church, it meant long lines at the clinic to stitch wounds and set broken bones. The clinic stayed open long hours seven days a week, manned six out of seven by an exhausted Sister Martha. Every other day, there was a burial. Lessons were held on a catch-as-catch-can basis. All of the kids lent a hand in any way they could.
If nothing else, Loup was good at digging graves.
The shared work drew them all closer together. Then, too, there was an odd backlash of resentment from the townsfolk of Outpost, forced to choose sides in the endless turf war. They resented the fact the church remained neutral, that everyone there was safe within its walls and no one was forced to choose sides in the endless, pointless turf war. The town’s school closed its doors and bands of aimless teens cruised the street outside the church, yelling taunts.
“Hey, santitos! Hey, little saints! You wetting your pants in there?”
It was mostly boys, but some girls, too—sharp-tongued and cutting. The Garzas’ supporters sported dun camouflage handkerchiefs from some stash bartered from the PX, either as do-rags or tied around an ankle or arm. Rosa Salamanca’s followers wore vests, mostly shirts with the arms torn off, with a crude salamander painted on the back. Sometimes they’d get into fights with one another or hassle the parishioners waiting nervously for a free lunch or a visit to the clinic, but for the most part there seemed to be a tacit agreement that the street was a neutral zone designated for the purpose of taunting the little saints of Santa Olivia.
It bothered Loup more than anything since her mother’s death, because she couldn’t understand it.
“Why do they do it?” she asked Sister Martha. “All we do is help you and Father Ramon, and all you do is help people.”
“Sweetheart, that’s a tough one.” Sister Martha sighed. “There’s a little piece of goodness in most people, enough so that when they’re doing bad things, somewhere deep inside, they know it and feel guilty. It’s like a thorn in their heart. When they see people doing good things, it drives the thorn a little deeper. That makes them hurt and angry.”
“But it’s not our fault!” Loup protested.
“No, of course not.” Sister Martha laid a hand on Loup’s cheek. “But it’s a lot easier to blame someone else than accept blame for your own failings. Don’t be too hard on them. They’re young and it’s pretty bad out there right now. They see you kids as having the one thing they can’t have. Safety, security. They resent you for it. Does that make sense?”
“I guess.” Loup paused. “Is it true about you and Father Ramon?”
Sister Martha smiled wryly. “Which part?”
“That you’re not what you pretend to be.”
“Yes.” Sister Martha didn’t hesitate. “It’s never been a real secret. We pretended to be what Outpost needed us to be.”
“Why?” Loup asked.
“Because there was no one else,” the nun-who-wasn’t-a-nun said simply. She unbuttoned the plain gray jacket she wore over her clothing and loosened the white collar at her throat, blue eyes gazing into the past. “I was fourteen when everything fell apart. When the first epidemic hit, I was here with my parents on vacation. My father liked to golf. They both died in the first wave.”
“And you ended up here?”
“Yes.” Sister Martha’s gaze returned. “Along with hundreds of others. I was one of the survivors. As I grew older, I felt it was my duty to help. That’s how I met Ramon. It was bad, Loup. Worse than you could imagine. So many people died. Then the army came and some things were better, but it was worse in a different way.”
“It went away so fast,” Loup murmured, remembering her mother’s words. “And people just let it happen.”
“Most did,” Sister Martha agreed. “Others, like the Garzas and Salamancas, grabbed for the biggest piece of what was left. And some, like poor old Father Gabriel, lost their wits.” She flexed her fingers, regarded her worn, cramped hands. “People need hope, symbols. After Father Gabriel died, Ramon and I tried to give that to them.”
“You do,” Loup said. “But why doesn’t everyone?”
“Oh, honey!” Her face softened. “That’s one of God’s biggest goddamned mysteries, isn’t it? And if I ever meet the mother-fucker, I’ll be sure to ask.” She patted Loup’s cheek again, then rose. “I’ve got to get a letter off to the chaplain begging for more splints and dressings. You okay?”
Loup thought about it. “Yeah.”
If there was one other place in Outpost that was a haven from the fighting, it was the gym. Even with Miguel Garza’s presence, the invisible mantle of the general’s sponsorship kept Rosa Salamanca’s men at bay.
That changed nine months into the turf war, when a half dozen of them armed with pipes and chains jumped Miguel as he was leaving with a couple of his boys.
“You should of seen it, Loup!” Tommy told her, his voice awed. “A bunch of us, me and Kevin and Javier, were gonna go help… I know Mig’s a pig, but he’s kind of our pig, you know? But Coach says, ‘Step aside, boys.’ And he comes out of the back with this gun…” He held his hands apart. “This big. Walks outside, cool as can be, and fires one shot into the air, then aims it at the guy beating on Mig and tells him he’s got three seconds to disappear.”
Loup’s eyes widened. “No!”
“Oh, yeah!” Tommy nodded, grinning. “Should of guessed Coach would be the one guy in Outpost allowed to carry a gun.”
She whistled. “They run?”
“Better believe it.”
It heralded a tipping point in the turf wars. The rumor in Outpost, which not even Tommy could confirm, was that Floyd Roberts went to General Argyle and told him that if he didn’t do something about the situation, there would be no more monthly boxing matches. It was true that the fights were canceled for three months running, and it was true that the general chose that time to crack down on security in town. Suddenly, there was a stricter new curfew. Suddenly, there was a brand-new office where Outposters could apply for permits to be out after curfew. Suddenly, there were armed soldiers patrolling the streets at all hours, enforcing a new ban against brawling in public.
It worked, mostly.
A large number of the worst violators were detained in the army brig. A handful of them never came back. At the end of three months of steady attrition, Danny Garza and Rosa Salamanca met under the supervisory gaze of a bored lieutenant and hashed out terms of a stalemate that very much resembled the arrangement their fathers had established twenty-some years ago. The violence and antagonism didn’t disappear, but it went deeper underground.
The monthly prize matches resumed.
The curfew and the ban and the soldiers stayed.
FIFTEEN
They keep tightening the screws!” Jaime said bitterly, his shoulders hunching. “Jesus! The fucking army owns us. Don’t you feel it?”
“Yeah,” Mack said in a reasonable tone. “But what do you expect us to do, man? We’re just kids.”
Jaime glared at him. “I don’t know!”
“Hey, c’mon, c’mon!” C.C. bounced lightly on the balls of his feet. “Pax Olivia, huh? We’re kids, so let’s be kids.” He waggled a broomstick. “Chores are done and the street’s empty,” he said invitingly. “And dinner’s not for an hour.”
“I’ll play,” Loup offered.
“No batting,” C.C. warned her. They had a fairly good supply of old tennis balls that some enterprising soul had stolen from the country club before the army had occupied it, but long before the turf war, they’d found out that letting Loup bat was a sure way of causing their supply to dwindle alarmingly.
“I’ll play outfield and keep lookout,” she agreed.
“Cool.”
The gangs of taunting teens were less frequent since the army patrols had begun, but they still came sometimes. Father Ramon had uttered a strict injunction against engaging them, which meant they had to abandon the street if a gang was spotted. But today the street was clear. Loup took a post at the north end of the street, on the corner between a bodega and the long-abandoned post office. Any ball that got past her would be judged a home run. Any ball that landed on a roof to either side was also a homer. T.Y., Jaime, and Jane took up positions between her and C.C., marking first, second, and third bases.
Everyone had come out, whether to play or not. It was still a luxury to be out on the street. Diego and Maria sat on the curb, holding hands and whispering. Katya sat beside them, looking bored. Mack was tinkering with an old skateboard while Dondi waited impatiently.
“Play ball!” C.C. shouted, tossing a tennis ball in the air. He swung solidly and connected. Jane, positioned at second base, jumped for it and missed. T.Y. scooped up the ball on the bounce and lobbed it back. “Second base!” C.C. called. “I’m bringing it home!”
This time he hit a solid line drive at Jaime, who caught it with a surprised grunt, then yelled, “You’re out!”
They all shifted places except for Loup. Jaime whiffed and missed the ball completely to the accompaniment of derision and catcalls. Jane got a first base hit, then went out on a pop-up that C.C. caught easily. On the curb, Mack put away his screwdriver and handed the skateboard to Dondi, who rolled happily away. And then T.Y. scored a mighty hit that ricocheted off the cement wall beside the bodega and veered away at a sharp angle.
It was the kind of shot Loup loved. The instant the stick connected with the ball, she could tell how hard a hit it was; and the instant the ball left the stick, she knew where it was going. Unless they went way over her head, fly balls were easy. Ricochets were fun, because she had to guess the ball’s next trajectory and get in motion before it hit. She guessed right more often than not, but not always.