Grace is reading an article in the newspaper. The article states that a human rights group is protesting the fact that so many child molesters are being released to the border area: “One activist angrily stated, ‘There is nothing to keep these men from venturing into Mexico. There is no protocol in place. These men are released to the border and perpetrating their crimes against the children of Juárez with impunity. It is like setting loose a big game hunter in the middle of a game preserve.’ Such views are overstated, says an official with the federal prison system. ‘Alarmist viewpoints do nothing to help develop a public policy that is in the best interests of the general public.’” Grace puts down the newspaper and thinks of Andrés Segovia. She thinks of Mister. She thinks to herself that she might have killed any man who would have ever touched her son. She looks at the crucifix hanging on her wall. For a moment, she understands that Christianity is an impossible religion. What does it mean to forgive?
Dave is sitting in a musty attic in Louisiana. The space is dark and damp, and having lived in the desert all his life, he is uncomfortable with the unfamiliar smells. He has already decided that the South is too gothic for his tastes. He has decided that Rosemary Hart Benson is a tortured soul. She hates no one comfortably—a curse she no doubt acquired from her devout Catholic mother. That is what he has decided. “Take what you want, and will you please throw the rest away.” He is looking through the third box—and it is here that he finds what he is looking for (though he did really know exactly what he might find). In this box, he finds photographs of boys. He does not know how many photographs there are—perhaps a hundred. Perhaps less than a hundred. In each photograph, a boy is sitting and looking at the camera. Some of them smile. Some of them look sad. Some of them have no expression at all. He looks at each photograph. The boys seem to range in age from seven or eight to fourteen. It’s difficult to tell. All the boys are clothed. And then he understands. He has taken a photograph of each boy before he touched him. They are, in the photographs of this sick and twisted soul, images of untouched boys. As he goes through each photograph, he wants to throw up. He wants to scream. He wants to curse. He takes a deep breath. This. This is what he came for. He knows there is a sad story behind each picture. He looks away, then continues to go through the photographs. He cannot turn back. He is here. He must finish. He keeps looking at the faces of the boys, and that is when he finds himself staring at a photograph of Andrés Segovia. At twelve, he was very much still a child. Some boys were already on their way to becoming men at twelve. But not this boy, perhaps the most beautiful boy he has ever seen. He is as sad as he is beautiful. He wants to hold Andrés in his arms and tell him no harm will come to him. But he knows that harm has already come. He hopes it has not come to stay.