Ghosts of Infinity: and Nine More Stories of the Supernatural Read Online Free PDF Page A

“minimal” fee to cover my board and lodging. Completely broke, frightened, and too impatient to await the fulfillment of a lawyer friend’s vague promise to help, I called my mother. She hurried over on the soonest flight, on fare raised by the church with the purpose of setting my paths right.
    We weren’t a few steps out of the jail when she started imploring me to give some thought to the survival of my soul when it departed my body. I hadn’t seen her in two years; she looked older, but had an air of lightness around her. She attributed this to her steadily growing faith. “I feel more serene than I ever have in my life,” she said, adding that her only agony was that I had turned out to be an utter prodigal after my promising beginnings, and I laughed at this flash of the old her.
    After the jail incident, I had no more interest in anything other than lying in bed unwashed for weeks, to my mother’s exasperation. I had long since abandoned my classes at the university in favor of street teach-ins, and now I began to slip into a dark contemplation, turning questions over and over in my head until the words jumbled into nonsense. My mother stayed and hovered around with her placid monk’s face, laying her hand on my head twice a day, praying aloud and invoking the blood of Christ in a singsong.
    One day I went out of my room to find her outside in the sun, hanging my clothes on my landlady’s clothesline. “Madre de Dios,” she blurted, the first mention of the forgotten Virgin in years, “look at you. You look worse than a ghost.”
    Over the first real meal I had taken in days, she persuaded me to come back to Jaro with her, and give my strange activities a break. Come to church was what she was really saying, but I felt that I had seen too much to go back to the blind faith I associated with childhood, and told her so in a world-weary voice. “But at least show your face to those generous people who gave money so you wouldn’t rot in jail,” my mother countered, the old sly mother I knew, using the guilt card, knowing without even turning from the stove that I would return with her on the next flight.
    My coming home coincided with the last few days of the old house—the new owners had deemed that year the ripe time to plant an office building on its sacred grounds. Slacking at home and watching TV, I trampled down the buds of curiosity that broke to the surface. I wanted to avoid seeing the house altogether. Nothing in the town was the same anymore, the grand old Spanish houses which had been so beautiful now looked pitifully worn-down and out-of-place. The carefully landscaped garden in the plaza had been dug out to accommodate giant plastic playground sets that easily accumulated dirt and soon resembled abandoned playthings. On Lopez-Jaena, a row of banks had replaced the sweetshops of my childhood. All my former playmates were inviting me to watering holes near the airport that featured live bands playing reggae music and wearing cheap, silk-screened Che Guevara shirts.
    Only Lola Concha hadn’t changed, as I discovered one afternoon when I stopped by the church to see Pastor Gerry at my mother’s insistence. The church seemed empty; all mellow shadow and warm from the afternoon sun. I sighed and sat down on a pew, staring up at the purple-robed cross.
    “You just go ahead and pray there,” said a soft voice by my ear. I turned around; Lola Concha sat in the pew behind me, hands folded on her lap, a heap of crochet crumpled beside her. She was dressed in her usual matching blouse and pants, this time patterned with red hibiscus flowers. Her face held more lines than ever; they deepened as she smiled. I was young, but felt old and tired.
    We were silent for a while. The heady scent of vintage perfume lifted off Lola Concha, filling my nose. An eruption of giggles from the street—some children had passed by. She moved to my side and sat down. Her face was lit up with what I feared was the