Keeping Faith by Cindy Bradford (serial 46)
Chapter 17 Part II
Cindy Bradford
Arriving back at the room after a glass of wine in the bar, Patrick called room service. Like two kids, they sat on the bed eating and watching television. While Patrick was putting the tray outside the door, he laughed loudly, remembering an incident from many years previous.
“What is so funny?” Carol called as she stepped from the shower.
“One time I was at a fancy hotel in France, the only fancy one I ever stayed in, and I called up breakfast room service. I was only in my undershorts, and I stepped out to put the tray by the door. Before I realized it, the door shut and locked. There I was, standing in the hall in my shorts, no key and speaking very little French.”
Holding her robe around her, Carol was shaking with laughter, picturing the scene, “So what did you do?”
“I just stood there looking stupid for what seemed like hours although I know it probably was not more than ten minutes. I thought I might have to go down the steps three floors but I didn’t know what I was going to do when I got to the lobby. Finally, this robust woman, who looked at least eighty years old, came out of her room down the hall. When she turned and saw me she immediately looked frightened. I guess she thought I was a serial rapist who had lost his pants. I was more horrified than she was, but fortunately she knew enough English to know what I said. She laughed until I was afraid she was going to have a heart attack, and then I thought if that happened I certainly wouldn’t be able to explain. She told me she would send a bellman to rescue me. In about five minutes, this very reserved old gentleman came up with a pass key. He was not laughing.”
Carol continued to laugh. “No wonder they call us crazy Americans,” as she crawled into bed and cuddled up next to him. Kissing her, Patrick held her tightly in his arms, until Carol realized that he was fast asleep. Smiling, she turned off the television, still seeing Patrick the priest-in-training standing half naked in the hall of a fancy hotel.
The next morning, Patrick said, “Why did you let me go to sleep?”
“You needed the rest, dear. I know what you were thinking, but there are plenty of nights for that.”
“Now, how did you know what I was thinking?”
“You’re a man.”
Loading the car, Patrick was careful to put the portfolio in the back seat where nothing would be bent or damaged. “Let’s get back to the sticks,” he told Carol.
“I have never heard that expression. I am not sure what that means.”
“That is a hold-over from my two years in East Texas. People who live outside town always say they live in the sticks.”
“Then, I guess it fits,” Carol agreed.
Driving out of Boston, Patrick said, “Now tell me about this portfolio.”
“It is a long story. Are you sure you are interested?”
“I am interested in anything involving you.”
Carol paused, and then began, “Well, a little more than a year before I left New York, Richard had a friend who was editor of People and Places Magazine, and this friend wanted to do a series on Women and Religion. So Richard told him about me, and the editor called and asked if I were interested. He told me he wanted a variety of photos of women from different religions and the role they played. I was really interested, although it meant extensive travel for about two months which would take me away from the city. Looking back, I think that was Richard’s plan, a way to gradually wean me away so he could break it off when I returned, and that is exactly what happened.
“Anyway, I met with Henry and he told me he wanted a photo essay that would include two Baptist missionary women working in a remote area of Mexico, not too far from Guanajuato. He wanted some cloistered Catholic nuns from the God’s Blessing Convent in Laurel, Wisconsin, and a middle-aged Latter Day Saints woman who served a calling as the Relief Society President in Salt Lake City. She was the younger daughter of a polygamist in an off-shoot revised LDS group who had escaped from his clutches when she realized he was going to marry her off at fourteen.
“Henry had the story planned out and said he would send a writer with me or I could take the photos and let him know if I had enough information from talking with the subjects myself to write a short piece about each woman. He wanted to use the two Baptists, at least three nuns and the Mormon lady, and he had already made these contacts. The story was to be titled Women of God. It turned out to be one of the most interesting eye-opening experiences of my life and I wouldn’t trade it for anything.”
“So, continue,” Patrick prodded.
“My first subjects were two middle-class Baptist school teachers who decided to help the poor in Mexico. They had gone to several remote places on their summer vacations for six years, using their own money and taking children books and clothes and toiletry items. Basically they taught the children about sanitation and hygiene at first and then began teaching some of the children about God, salvation and so forth. After asking their church if they would provide tracts, it wasn’t long before the church was sending money and other donations. The women talked about how much more progress they could make if they could stay throughout the year, instead of just summers, because in terms of much of their work, the missionaries felt as though they were starting over every summer, seeing how much the people regressed when they were gone. Linda, the oldest, was a widow and her one daughter was grown, and Gayle was a divorced mother of a boy in college. They decided to approach their pastor for help in sponsoring them full-time. Very positive and supportive, he gave them a list of other churches and ministers that they could contact. Soon, they had enough pledges to quit their teaching jobs. That was ten years ago. Now they have a school and a small church in this poorest of poorest places you will ever see, no electricity, no running water. These women are happier, they say, than they have ever been. They feel they have a purpose and are changing lives. One of the boys in their school is actually going to go to college on a scholarship provided by the sponsoring churches. I cannot remember which university, but it’s somewhere in Arizona, I think.
“I stayed with them for about a week. I was supposed to stay longer but the conditions were dire at best. I never was much of one who thought I would like to camp out, and although it was not exactly like that, their house was quite primitive. Remember, there was no electricity, no sewer system, and no running water. But I got great photos and a story I was not soon to forget. I often wished for a command of the Spanish language. My French did not exactly come in handy,” Carol laughed.
“My Spanish wasn’t very good, but the women interpreted my conversations with many of the people. Some of the younger ones even spoke some English, compliments of the missionaries, especially Jorge, the young boy going to college. I called Henry and told him I thought I was finished unless he needed to send me back after he saw my work. The women were very interested in my art background and suggested I visit San Miguel de Allende which was only about an hour and a half away. I asked Henry about that, too. He agreed I was ahead of schedule so I could take two to three days. I’m glad I did.
“San Miguel was full of international artists and Americans; some of whom were retired, some just wanting to get away from everything. Of course, they could live there for less money than in the States. The town was a really pretty place, a Spanish colonial type city with a beautiful plaza. The architecture of the old buildings and churches reminded me of Europe. It seemed that almost everyone spoke English. The town itself may be an artist’s haven, but it is surrounded by poverty. Anyway, the artist part was an extra perk that had nothing to do with my assignment.
“After that I flew out of León to Dallas and then on to Salt Lake City, making it quite a long trip. My photo subject, Emily had offered to pick me up and had described the car she would be in and what she would be wearing. It was late when I arrived, but she was waiting right out front of the terminal. An attractive woman, about forty years old, her clothes and new Volvo spoke of money. She dropped me at Hotel Utah, close to Temple Square, with a promise to pick me up at 10:30 the next morning. Have you been to Salt Lake City, Patrick?”
“No, I haven’t. I really don’t know much about it, either. Believe it or not, I haven’t even studied much about the Mormon doctrine.”
Continuing, Carol said, “Am I rambling too much?”
“No, no, this is great,” Patrick said, encouraging her.