Wife of Moon by Margaret Coel Page A

and vehicles were still turning onto Circle Drive, headlights flashing through the cottonwoods. He and Father Damien took turns saying the six o’clock Mass each morning. This morning was Father John’s turn. He felt the familiar sense of peace as he walked down the aisle. The warmth of the church washed over him. It was like coming home. Elders and grandmothers in the front rows, rosaries slipping through curled fingers, Leonard Bizzel behind the altar, large, brown hands smoothing the cloth, the faint odor of burning wax from the candles that glowed at either side of the sanctuary, and the stilled atmosphere of prayer.
    He’d tossed and turned all night, trying to push back the images that ran through his mind like the continuous loop of a motion picture. Christine Nelson walking out of the museum and disappearinginto the night. Denise Painted Horse’s inert body on the bedroom floor. Homicide. The moccasin telegraph had been busy into the late evening, probably a dozen calls to the mission, the voices on the other end numb with shock. “Fed says somebody shot her, Father. You don’t think it could’ve been T.J., do you, Father? T.J. don’t seem like a murderer. Maybe he got mad at her or something . . .”
    â€œT.J. was working late at the office,” he’d said over and over. Let that go out over the telegraph.
    He genuflected in front of the tabernacle—the miniature tipi that the grandmothers had made from tanned deerskin—and went into the sacristy. So much to pray for, he thought, taking the chasuble from the hanger in the closet. He would offer the Mass for Denise’s soul, and for T.J. and all of the relatives, and for Christine. He would pray that she was safe. You can’t pray too much, Father, he remembered the elders telling him when he’d first come to St. Francis.
    He pulled the chasuble over his plaid shirt and blue jeans, and it came to him again that this was not a job. Not something he did, being a priest. It was who he was, a man called out from other men for reasons he had given up trying to understand. Or was it that he’d been pushed out when he hadn’t wanted to go? “Not me, Lord. Call somebody else.” He’d had plans. He was heading toward a doctorate in American history, a teaching position in a small New England college, a wife and a couple of kids. He’d barely heard of the Arapahos. Out West someplace. One of the Plains Indian tribes? And yet, there were times now when it seemed as if all of his plans had been leading him here, that this was the place where he’d always been heading.
    â€œPeople are sure upset about Denise getting shot.” The sound of Leonard’s voice surprised him, breaking into his thoughts. The Indian walked over to the cabinet and began taking out the Mass books. “Everybody liked Denise. She was a good woman. No call for somebody to kill her. We’ve been worrying about Christine, too, the wife and me. Maybe somebody’s gone and shot her.”
    â€œI hope not,” Father John said. Another image now: Christine’s house, the upended furniture and broken glass, the violence. It hung like a shadow at the edges of his mind.
    â€œWife’d like to get on with her own work, Father. What with making sure a lot of Arapahos show up for Senator Evans’s visit, she’s got a lot to do. Father Damien wants a big crowd cheering real loud, ’cause the senator wants to bring jobs to the rez, unlike some people on the business council.” Leonard backed toward the door, holding the Mass books out like an offering.
    Father John took the chalice from the cabinet and followed Leonard out to the altar. I will go into the altar of God. To God, the joy of my youth. He glanced out at the brown faces turned up at him, worry locked in the dark eyes. Another homicide on the rez, a white woman missing, and the FBI and police fanning out, asking questions,