The Moths and Other Stories by Helena María Viramontes

and light, ounceless.

The Broken Web

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The Broken Web
I
    His quick-paced footsteps sounded throughout the hollowness of the church and grew louder as he approached the pew where she sat, cold and chaste as the stone shapes of the holy family. Her eyes had followed the silent figure of a shriveled woman performing the ritual of candlelighting before her ears became aware of his footsteps. The black-robed priest passed her, and soon the footsteps dissolved into the distance. He disappeared inside the dark vacuum of the confessional booth.
    He entered the middle booth and waited for the first sign of early morning’s sinners. The door to his left opened and closed. Leaning his ear near the small black-screened window, the priest waited until he heard the protesting creak the leather made when the heaviness of the sinner’s knee rested against it before opening its panes.
    â€œBless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been four days since…”
    It was always the same monotonous whisper; man and girl and boy and woman—no real difference. They came to him seeking redemption; they had stepped into the realm of sin; they had all slapped his walls with hideous, ridiculously funny and often imaginary sins—and they all expected him to erase their sins, to ease their souls so that they could, with the innocence of a pure heart, enter into sin once again. The whispering tune of secrets hidden and finally banished.
    â€œThe dream, Father, I am still having that bad dream.”
    â€œAre you dreaming unnatural acts?” He drummed his fingers on his knees.
    â€œI think so. At least it is to me, Father.”
    â€œIs it anything sexual?”
    â€œNo.” He wasn’t listening, was he? “No,” she repeated. “It’s like a nightmare. I close my eyes and there is darkness. I think I’m asleep, then…”
    He heard movement.
    â€œâ€¦then, my eyelids become one black screen. I anticipate a movie or something. While I am waiting, I begin to hear voices. It’s my father, talking loud, his words loud and slurred. They’re arguing about something. Something having to do with my mother, then…No. Something having to do with my father. I still see the screen before my eyes, but I’m so sleepy. Yreina, you know her, Father, my younger sister, begs me to pray to God to make the voices stop. But you see, Father, I can’t because I’m asleep, and when you’re asleep, you don’t know what’s going on. Everything is not real, and so the voices aren’t real and I wanted it that way. By morning, I would open my eyes with no memory, nothing. So I wasn’t supposed to know what was happening.”
    She stopped there, and again he heard movement.
    â€œGo on,” he heard himself say.
    â€œI’m asleep; I see a speck on the screen. A faraway speck coming closer and bigger and bigger and closer and soon the speck shapes into a statue. Our Lord with His hands outstretched. I feel comforted, even if He is only a statue in the living room. I don’t hear voices. Good. I’m asleep.”
    Again there was silence. He hadn’t had breakfast yet and his stomach gurgled in anger. She continued.
    â€œThere He stands. Solid. But what happened next I will never understand. I will never be able to forgive myself for letting it happen. I heard something, something loud. A bullet sound. It rang. The ringing visualized into a tail connected to the bullet sound. I saw it pierce the image, burst like a firecracker. Sparks. Pierce it into little pieces before my eyes, flashing light on the screen. I think I know what happened, but it’s a dream. I’m asleep, you see.”
    He’s on the couch. Please, my God, he’s full of blood. Wake up, Martha, quick, pleaseohmygod
…Someone broke a statue of Jesus—the one with His hands outstretched, and now he’s bleeding on the couch. I heard the crash and the bones