The Maldonado Miracle by Theodore Taylor Page A

back, Jose passed him the glue and motioned for him to try it.
    "Who taught you that?" the boy asked. "I've never seen that before."
    Jose thought he understood but didn't know how to explain. There weren't many things to do at Cabo Colnett, so you invented things that cost little money. Hies were free. Glue wasn't much. If you were careful, a glider lasted hundreds of flights.
    "I'm Michael. Mike," the boy said.
    That translated to Miguel, Jose was certain.
    Jose tapped his chest. "Jose Maldonado. Joe."
    The boy examined the raging flies.
    Jose said, "You, Miguel. Fly. Fly." He made an airplane motion with his hands.
    They made eight more flights and then fixed the bike chain. Finally they went inside. Jose had never been in an
americano
house. No one else was home. The kitchen was dazzling white and full of machinery.
    They went up to Michaels room. He had his own bed; books, games, a train, even a radio. Jose sat on the edge of the bed, smiling and nodding, touching something now and then, yet not wanting to let the red-hair know he'd never seen a boy's room so full of things.
    In late afternoon, he went back to Cabin 6 to tell Giron about it, the words rushing out. He told him everything except the fact that he now thought he'd like to have white skin and red hair like Miguel. Speak English and live in a house like that.
    Sunday morning, Jose dressed for mass, putting on a fresh shirt and clean pants, getting his black boots out of tissue paper beneath the bunk. Giron had reluctantly agreed to take him in, and they locked Sanchez in the cabin.
    On the way, Jose said, "I think I should go to confession soon."
    "Certainly," Giron replied. "I'll have to check the priest's schedule."
    "Should I tell the priest about the fence? Where I'm from?"
    Giron looked over. "You don't need to go that far. No one has ever told a priest absolutely everything."
    Jose laughed. That's what Enrique had said, too.
    They didn't have to walk all the way. One of the flatbeds chugged past them and stopped. They brushed the field dirt off and leaped up to the rough boards.
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    M ISSION S AN R AMON had been periodically rebuilt since the early 1900s and was constructed in the familiar square-fort form, a Moorish-style, bell-towered church dominating the southwest corner. Inside the square were the gardens, a patio, and a walkway, which were usually occupied by swarms of white pigeons. Some of the early friars and their Indian converts were buried in the gardens, spaced around the Fourteen Stations of the Cross.
    On the other three sides of the square were the original workshops, storerooms, and kitchen. From the end of the church and sacristy, under thick, vine-wrapped arches, were the old padre and guest rooms. They now housed Father Lebeon, the mission priest, his brother monks, and his staff. Two storerooms had been converted into a museum, displaying ancient Bibles, books on medicine, Indian paintings, branding irons for the mission cattle, old vestments, and prayer books.
    Jose and Giron strolled around until eleven and then went into the church. The padre was a compact, dark-haired man. His cheeks were pale, with a spot of color near each cheekbone.
    Jose whispered to Giron, "He looks very tough."
    Like his father, he had always been afraid of priests. They represented great authority.
    Giron nodded.
    After a while, Father Lebeon began delivering his sermon in English, which was of little satisfaction to Jose. He'd always been bored by sermons, anyway, even in Baja. He liked the ceremony, the music, the stained-glass windows, the statues, but never the sermons.
    Yet this was a beautiful church, quite unlike any he'd ever seen. It was by far the oldest church he'd been in. It was not as fancy as the big one in Ensenada; not half the size, either. But there was something very peaceful about it.
    When the mass was over, the noon Angelus was rung by one of the Franciscan brothers. As they went out into the bright sunshine, to the tolling of the