Bone Dance by Joan Boswell

cover with an elastic. Once I’d rewrapped and reburied the parcel I went for a walk and disposed of the tell-tale pages of the Missal in a public waste bin. Back home, because every woman in the square wore one, I made myself a white headscarf.
    On Thursday, dressed in nondescript clothes, I hooked a shopping bag containing the Missal and white scarf over my arm and rode the subway to the Plaza. When I arrived, I crossed to the Cathedral and mixed with the throngs of worshippers who flowed in and out throughout the day. Kneeling in a pew, I prayed that the Church would intercede on the people’s behalf—a request unlikely to be answered as, so far, the Church had supported the Generals.
    Outside, with the white scarf in place, I wandered over to the Plaza and stood with other onlookers as I scrutinized the placards. A woman of my mother’s age with dark blonde hair tucked under her white scarf and blue eyes reflecting deep sadness walked past carrying a sign with a graduation picture of a serious, dark-haired girl and underneath, printed in bold, black ink, “Where Is Alexandria Michielsen”. I slipped into the slow-flowing stream of women and caught up with her.
    With my head bent to prevent the curious from noticing that I was talking—the vigil was done in silence—I said in a low voice, “I have information about your daughter and other young women who’ve disappeared.”
    The woman stopped as if I’d shot her.
    â€œAlexandria, you know about Alexandria,” she said in a thin high voice.
    â€œI think we should continue to walk,” I murmured and, indeed, several soldiers stationed on the edge of the Plaza had glanced our way.
    â€œYes, yes, of course. Is she alive?”
    Impossible to say the terrible words; I remained silent.
    â€œOh, my God. In my heart I thought she was dead, but unless you know for sure, you have hope.”
    â€œAlexandria had a baby, a son.”
    Her mother clutched my arm and sagged against me. I supported her as well as I could, but our staggering lurching gait was sure to draw the soldiers’ attention. Out of the corner of my eye I saw another woman size up the situation and quicken her step to join us. With each of us holding an arm, the Samaritan whispered, “We must keep going.”
    After we’d made a complete circle of the square, Alexandria’s mother thanked the unknown woman, removed her supporting arm and, still clinging to me, walked on.
    â€œWhat happened to my grandson?”
    â€œHe’s been adopted.”
    â€œHow do you know this?”
    â€œI have lists written by my father, who was an army officer himself. They killed him because they suspected he’d made a record. I’ve hidden the lists of women and their babies inside a Missal. In two hours come into the Cathedral. I’ll be on the right in the fourth pew from the front. The Missal will be on the seat next to me.”
    I stopped whispering as we walked past a phalanx of soldiers.
    â€œPlease move the information along quickly. If they pick me up, I don’t know how brave I’ll be.”
    â€œThank you for doing this.”
    â€œPray for me and for my family.” Only God could help my father, but prayer might miraculously protect my mother from the wrath of the Generals.
    I gently detached the woman’s arm, increased my pace and drew ahead of her. After four more turns around the square Idrifted to a street leading away from the plaza. With my white scarf tucked in my shopping bag, I wandered along studying displays in shop windows.
    One hundred and twenty minutes later, after I’d visited a dozen stores, bought a pair of gloves, checked at least fifteen times to assure myself no one was following me, I walked to the Cathedral. In the fourth pew, I knelt and prayed for the safety and health of my mother, for the souls of the women and for my father.
    Surely he wouldn’t go to hell when he’d