Sofia’s home was an apartment above a café and an art gallery. Her balcony overlooked the square and the orphanage gates beyond. The apartment belonged to Harold. He had bought it at the end of his first mission trip. Before returning to America he had wanted to anchor himself here. It was a move typical of Harold, planning for the future in concrete ways. By that point Harold knew this was where he had been called to spend his remaining days. The apartment was his way of not allowing the pressures of the outside world to change his mind.
Harold had offered her the place while she was still in university in El Paso. He had hoped it would be a way for her to maintain her connection, and he also wanted to heal the wounds caused by her departure and all the struggles that had preceded the move north.
Sofia carried her morning coffee and her Bible out to the balcony. Dawn spread out over the quiet plaza. Doves filled the trees that lined the square and filled the morning with their soft calls. She read a passage and prayed and reflected on her past. All while she was growing up, missionaries had visited from the U.S. Some came with church groups for a week, they worked around the orphanage, then they left. Others came with college mission groups or as couples on temporary assignment, stayed for a month or so, and then eventually they left as well. Sofia had gotten on well enough with most of them. But in her secret heart she had resented them. They had come and then they had left. They had abandoned her. Just like her parents.
The couple that had taken her north had been different. They had both retired from academic posts, and they knew and loved Harold and believed in his work. They returned every winter and taught for three months. They had recognized something more in Sofia, so they helped her apply for a stipend at their alma mater and helped her with the government forms for a student visa. Then one day she had simply packed her bag and walked across the Rio Grande and entered a new life.
For her, entering university had been like spreading her wings. When she returned the first time, full of trepidation and dread, Harold had welcomed her with open arms. For Sofia, his understanding and forgiveness had been the clearest answer to prayer she had ever known. Harold had never been one for quarrels. And he could see how happy and hopeful she had become. The arguments had been with Pedro. Her brother had felt bitterly disappointed. Her returns from university had been painful, for Pedro had silently accused her of abandoning him. Just like she had accused others.
She had no problem with Pedro’s dream of running the orphanage. People defined personal success in different ways, that was one of Harold’s central precepts. Pedro had been born with a compassionate heart and a desire to serve. It was what made him so good at his job for the city. The people of Ojinaga trusted him. He was the kindly side of the local government, the human face of Enrique’s push for change and growth. He would be ideal as the orphanage director once Harold stepped down.
What Pedro had not understood, what he had refused to accept, was that she had wanted more. But for her, having more did not mean giving up the orphanage.
Her attention was drawn back to the present by the orphanage bell. She sipped from her coffee, which had grown cold, and watched as Juan swung the gates open. The big doors caught the morning sun and turned the color of frozen honey. Juan grinned and waved at her. This was her favorite time of day.
Then Simon Orwell crossed the orphanage courtyard and entered the chapel.
Simon told himself he was only doing what his scientific training had taught him. Take whatever opportunity was available. Observe carefully and objectively. Analyze the results. Make necessary adjustments. Repeat or select an alternative. And above all else was the simple edict to move forward. Search for data. Analyze. Apply. But as Simon entered the chapel’s shaded interior, he sensed he was doing the right thing. Faith had meant so much to Vasquez.
Simon slipped into the rear pew, as close to the exit as he could get and stay inside the sanctuary. Pedro came in soon after. He started up the aisle. Then he stopped. And turned around. And smiled.
Pedro slipped into the pew beside him. “Is this seat taken?”
“Knock yourself out.”
“You already did that, amigo. Seeing you here.”
Simon was still searching for a comeback when he heard the swift footsteps across the stones outside the chapel. He knew it was Sofia before she stepped inside. He also knew she was going to glare at him.
What he didn’t know, what he couldn’t have suspected, was Pedro’s reaction. He leaned forward from Simon’s other side, and he glared at Sofia. Really shot her the stink eye. Sofia winced and faltered slightly. Then she gathered herself and continued up the aisle.
Simon stood and sat with the others. When the singing started, Pedro walked forward and was greeted with huge smiles from all the children. Simon listened to the singing and observed how Pedro managed to make the music both a joy and a game.
The song ended and Pedro started to dismiss the children. Then he shot Simon what could only be described as an impish grin. “Who wants to hear the angel sing this morning?”
The kids erupted in delight.
“It’s been too long since the angel joined us, don’t you agree?”
Even the villagers smiled and clapped this time. It took a while for a translation to be passed among the locals, as many of them clearly did not speak English. But the longer Pedro stood, hands on hips, waiting, the louder their applause grew. By this point the kids were jumping up and down in glee.
Finally Sofia called out crossly, “What if the angel doesn’t want to sing?”
Pedro merely squatted by two of the youngest children and whispered. The kids raced over and took hold of Sofia’s hands and pulled her up to the stage.
Sofia began to sing with the children’s choir in harmony. Pedro exaggerated his movements, miming as though he wound a great wheel, trying to accelerate their tempo. He bounced on his toes to reach the highest notes. The children loved this. All the while, Sofia stood slightly apart, as though permanently separated. She sang with angelic purity.
The sound pierced Simon’s heart. His entire being felt caught by her beauty and her voice. When it was over, Simon joined the congregation in applauding. He wished there were some way to tell her what it had meant, how much he wished he could sit here all day long. Separated from the world and his burdens by the slender silver thread of her voice.
It was during that moment, the brief respite before the beginning of Harold’s message, that the idea came to him. He would never be able to apologize to Vasquez. So Simon should do something for him, here, in his adopted home. Make an act of contrition. Such words had never meant anything to him before this moment. Now they filled his entire being. They forged a legacy the professor would have approved of. They gave feet to his apology and made it live.
Simon was partly aware that Pedro returned to the seat next to him. He said something, but Simon couldn’t focus on anything other than his new thought. Part of him watched as Harold walked down the aisle and hugged Sofia, and the woman scarcely responded. Harold approached the podium and called Juan forward. Simon saw all this. But at the same time, he remained captivated by the idea.
Harold put his arm around the grinning youth. “This is not Juan you see here. This is a baby elephant.”
The children shouted their laughter. Harold waited until they quieted, then translated the words for those adults who spoke no English. Then he bent over and fastened a heavy chain around Juan’s ankle. Harold slipped easily from one language to the other as he continued, “When the elephant is still very young, it has a chain attached to its hind leg. The chain is then bolted to a heavy concrete block. What do you think happens?”
A dozen young voices called back. Harold nodded vigorously. “That is absolutely right. The baby elephant is trapped. It can’t move. It is imprisoned by this chain. Now watch.”
On its face, Simon knew his idea was so simple, really. But the tendrils rose like a stop-motion photograph of a plant exploding from the earth and bursting into bloom. This was not just about an apology. This was not just in response to one wrong deed. This was an attempt to make up for all the mistakes that culminated in that one final night.
Up front, Harold bent over Juan’s leg and replaced the chain with a length of twine. “I hope everyone is paying careful attention because this is very important. The elephant learns early on that it can’t move, so when it grows up, it will be held in place with just this thin bit of string. The elephant believes that it can’t break free if there is anything tied to its leg.”
Simon nodded slowly, drawing Harold’s attention. The words from the podium only hastened the growth of his internal idea. Simon needed to do a penance. Not for Vasquez. The professor was gone. It was too late to say the words. But not too late to do the deeds. And heal the rift he had opened up. Within himself. And whatever future he might have.
Despite the heat, Simon shivered.
He turned to Pedro and whispered, “Can I borrow your pen?”
Pedro slipped it from his shirt pocket. Simon unfolded the sheet of paper and flattened it on the seat next to him. After the number three, he wrote: Do something for the orphanage.
He started to hand back the pen, then stopped and added: Something big.