Dr. Brinkley's Tower Read Online Free PDF

mouths. Also seated at the table was Francisco’s abuela, Doña Susana, who grinned at her eldest grandchild, recalling the awkwardness of her own first exercises in romance. Francisco’s brothers, meanwhile, sensed that something of uncomfortable importance was about to occur, and though they had no idea what it was, they nonetheless giggled.
    Francisco’s father rose and approached his eldest son. — Mijo, he said. — You are a fine young man. Malfil Cruz will see this.
    â€” Sí, echoed Francisco’s grandmother. — Don’t worry.
    â€” I’ll try.
    â€” And always remember, said Francisco’s father. — Determination and an honesty of intent will get you just about anything in this world.
    â€” I know, Papi. You have told me this a million times.
    â€” It is something worth saying a million times.
    Francisco then enacted a ritual performed every time he left the house. He walked over to the windowsill and picked up the picture of his mother, immortalized forever in a chipped plastic frame. He kissed her image, reliving the warmth he had once felt in her arms. He then replaced the photo and set out, careful to walk slowly so that he didn’t raise too much dust from the avenue; in this way he maintained the polish he’d given his boots the night before. He discreetly crossed himself as he passed the doorway of the town’s ravaged church, at which point he realized that what he really needed was a quick, fortifying visit to Father Alvarez. He doubled back through the plaza and reached the house of theman who’d both presided over Francisco’s Communion and blessed his arrival on this earth.
    He knocked. A moment later Alvarez was peering at him, a sliver of light reflecting off his naked scalp.
    â€” So, he grunted. — Francisco Ramirez. Is there a funeral today nobody told me about?
    â€” No, Father, said Francisco.
    â€” Well then, what is it? My head’s killing me.
    â€” I’m going to the house of Malfil Cruz. There I will ask for permission to spend time with her daughter.
    â€” And you’d like a blessing to up your odds?
    â€” If I could, Father.
    â€” Francisco, you know this isn’t a matchmaking service. Besides, I got kicked out of the business, remember?
    Francisco nodded in sympathy. Thanks to the communist theory that had spawned the revolution in the first place, it was still a punishable offence to practise religion in public, to wear religious garb outside one’s home, to publicly swear allegiance to Jesus, to hail Mary within earshot of a neighbour, to hang any sort of cross above a residence doorway … The list was so long and thorough it was doubtful that the country’s latest president had memorized it himself. What was certain is that a brigade called the Red Shirts still rode around trying to enforce the country’s anti-religionist laws, its principal targets being priests, nuns, seminary students, and any person sufficiently impertinent to be seen in public on bended knees.
    Consequently, Father Alvarez no longer gave Sunday lectures, did not hear confession, and dressed in the manner of an ordinary norteño male. Yet it was equally true that, during moments of extreme personal crisis, Alvarez could be urgedto re-don his ecclesiastical cap, if only metaphorically, and stealthily grant a blessing or two.
    â€” Por favor, Francisco said in a lowered voice. — I need all the help I can get.
    Alvarez took a long, exasperated breath. — Then again, our existence as a race does depend on procreation. I suppose you might as well come in.
    Francisco followed Alvarez into his small, dark abode. As in most houses, a hammock stretched along one wall and the kitchen extended into the open air from the back of the house, where it was topped by a lattice of huizache branches. Francisco watched as Alvarez opened the top drawer of a large oak desk beneath the room’s northern