Dusk, in the living room of a rambling, country-style house in Texas, where three women and two men are about to mark an important occasion. It’s the second anniversary of the US invasion of Iraq, and while in urban places people are commemorating the day with antiwar marches and demonstrations, in this small Hill Country town these five folks are about to hold a peace vigil.
“I’ve put together a litany for peace,” says Bob, a serious-looking, blond-haired man. Light from the corner floor lamp reflects off his steel-rimmed glasses, making his pale blue eyes almost invisible from where he sits in an easy chair. A transplant from Minnesota, Bob is in his mid-thirties and already set in his methodical, bachelor ways. His dark blue suit and tie seem to emphasize his soberness. “I’ve included excerpts from the Mennonites, the Reformed Church, the Presbyterians, the Franciscans and the National Council of Churches,” Bob explains.
“Sounds very ecumenical,” says Mary, the hostess, carrying in a tray of matches, unlit candles and ceramic bowls, which she places on a table. A Texas-born craft artist in her late forties, she tends toward an agreeable, bosomy plumpness. She wears hooped earrings, a full-skirted multicolored dress and a crocheted shawl, all made by her own hands. Adjusting still to her recent divorce — “clearing cobwebs from my mind,” she describes it — childless and living alone with her beloved white cat, Oscar, she’s delighted that three of her best friends and even a stranger have responded to her call for a vigil. She hopes that Eduardo and his family will show up too. Nowadays, she likes people around her all the time.
Mary distributes the items on the tray. Then she settles down on a floor cushion in the center of the room. “Let’s make memorial lamps y’all,” she tells the group; and murmurs of assent are followed by a busy silence, as each person lights a candle wick, holds the burning taper over a clay vessel and uses the hot dripping wax to lodge the base of the candle firmly into its container. Five instant “lanterns” glow and cast shadows on the walls and ceiling. The aroma of perfumed smoke fills the room.
“I’ll pass around copies,” Bob announces. He extracts them from his briefcase and hands each person several stapled-together pages.
“Are you a minister?” Ruth asks Bob. A newcomer to the Hill Country from California, Ruth has met the others this evening for the first time, having gotten word of the event from an announcement on an Internet blog. Ruth is an ummarried, pretty, dark-haired woman in her early twenties, who lives in a small nearby city and works as a secretary. She wears a simple knitted grey dress and sweater and sits at one end of the sofa with Oscar, who has snuggled onto her lap. She doesn’t encourage the cat by petting him, but she doesn’t push him away. She reasons that the feline, a contrarian by nature, has selected her because of her allergy to its hair and dander. Already, Ruth feels her nose itching.
“No, a lowly accountant, I’m afraid,” Bob tells Ruth.
“Bob is too modest,” says Edith, an attractive, well-off widow in her early sixties, who sits in perfect posture on a straight-back chair opposite Ruth. Edith has applied her makeup skillfully, and her stylish pinstriped pantsuit makes her appear thinner than she is. Like Bob and Ruth, Edith is a Texan by choice, having come to the Lone Star State from Massachusetts as a young bride years ago. A grandmother now, she prides herself on looking ten years younger than her actual age.
“I want you to know,” Edith says to Ruth, “that Bob prepares all the spiritual stuff for the nondenominational prayer circle he and Mary and I belong to.”
At this moment, Bruce, who reclines at the other end of the sofa, waves some sheets of paper in the air. “Folks, I’ve got me some copies here of a humdinger responsorial by a Rose Marie Berger, hot off the Internet.' Bruce, who owns a thirty-acre pecan ranch, is slim, loose-jowled and rugged in blue jeans, sports jacket and the cowboy hat he always wears, even indoors. A friend of Mary’s from school days, and for a brief period a long time ago her lover, he finds himself, now twice divorced, drifting back into Mary’s emotional orbit.
Two rival litanies have been proffered, and the women aren’t sure how to respond. After all, fragile masculine egos are at stake.
“My, my, we’re certainly blessed with offerings,” Mary laughs. “Does anyone object to using them both?” Nobody does.
“So, pass around your copies, Bruce,” says Mary.
Scanning the two readings, Ruth decides that Bob’s is more general and more religious, while Bruce’s is full of facts and figures. Ruth, who considers herself an agnostic freethinker, prefers the more secular one, but of course doesn’t say this.
“Do y’all want to vigil in here or outside?” Mary asks.
“Oh, outside,” Edith says, “So people can see us.”
“Yes, outside,” Ruth seconds. So my nose won’t itch, she thinks.
With lanterns and litanies in hand they file out through the front doorway. Oscar exits at their feet.
Outside, it has grown dark and street lights have come on. From the yard, a gentle March breeze wafts over the five vigilers, who stand in a circle on the neatly painted planks of the wide front porch, their heads bowed. Neither cars nor pedestrians pass by. The only sounds are the rumble of an 18-wheeler on Texas 27 and the close-by whirring of wings. A pair of swallows has made a nest between the rafters and the eaves, and they flutter into the porch and out again, afraid to get on their nest while humans are so near. Oscar squats and watches the birds, his tail twitching, his pupils narrow slits.
The lanterns, set high on a wooden ledge, flicker but keep burning. Together with the porch light, they give the vigilers enough light to see the pages they hold in front of them.
The opening prayer in Bob’s litany is read first, with Bob speaking the leader’s part. “We gather to proclaim and hear Jesus’s message of peace, and like him we will seek to do good and heal all who are oppressed by evil, poverty, war and injustice, by the power of God, who is judge of the living and the dead. Amen.”
The others respond in unison, “Merciful God, in Your gracious presence we confess our sin and the sin of this world. You show us the way to peace in Jesus, you call us to love one another, but we are a people divided against each other in our pursuits of power, control and security. We stray from Your intentions. Neighbor turns against neighbor in anger. Nation clashes with nation in war. Lord, have mercy upon us, heal and forgive us. In Jesus Christ we pray. Amen.”
Standing in the circle, Ruth feels uncomfortable. She attributes this feeling to the time she was in grade school and sang Christmas carols in class. Her father, Jewish and secular, instructed her not to sing the word “Christ,” for if she did she would be giving lip service to the belief that Jesus was more than a great human being, that he was Divine. She could sing the other words in the carols, but when it came to that one, she must keep mute. Her mother, a fallen-away Catholic, supported this edict. Every Christmas Ruth refused to voice the forbidden word. And now the childhood taboo makes her wince as she intones “Christ.” She fights her unease, saying to herself, “I’m voicing this word in an important cause and the message is right.”
Proceeding to the intercession, Bob says, “In the terrible context in which Jesus offered a different vision for life, in an era which included the need to confront the Roman Empire that threatened the world at that time, he opened his mouth and said, ‘Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.’”
The others recite, “In the terrible context in which the church and the world confront the empire that threatens today’s world, we open our mouths and say, ‘Blessed are the innocent poor in Iraq, for theirs is the support of the faithful.’”
Bob: “Jesus said, ‘Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.’”
The others: “We say today, ‘Blessed are those who mourn the loss of their beloved in this war, for they will be comforted.’”
Bob: “Jesus said, ‘Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.’”
The others: “We say today, ‘Blessed are the peace marchers and the human shields, for they will be called children of peace and children of God.’”
Together, all five read aloud the closing Benediction, “And may God bless us with enough foolishness to believe that we can make a difference in this world, so that we can do what others claim cannot be done. Amen.”
The vigilers place their papers on the floor and clasp hands. A stillness descends over the circle. The candles flicker and glow. The swallows cease fluttering and settle down, despite the human presence. Feigning loss of interest in the birds, Oscar tongues himself clean. His neck twists halfway around and his leg points straight over one shoulder. A feline contortion that would make a yogi weep, thinks Ruth.
A boy from the neighborhood, about 14, saunters past the house, whistling. He glances at the vigilers with mild curiosity, stops whistling but doesn’t slow his pace. What a pity, thinks Edith, that more of Mary’s neighbors aren’t aware of what we’re doing. They should be out here with us, she thinks, instead of glued to their boob tubes, getting brainwashed.
“It’s time for Bruce’s offering,” Mary tells the group, breaking the silence. Bruce grins at Mary in gratitude, thinking how attractive Mary looks and how glad he is that she’s free and that he’s back in her life again.
Bruce reads, “Sergeant Christopher A. Wagoner, age 24, from Fairview Heights, Illinois, killed when his convoy hit a land mine. Sergeant Kenneth Conde, Junior, age 23, from Orlando, Florida, died from injuries received during enemy action. Lance Corporal Timothy R. Creager, age 21, from Millington, Tennessee, died in hostile action. Staff Sergeant Stephen G. Martin, age 39, from Rhinelander, Wisconsin, died at Walter Reed Army Medical Center from injuries sustained the previous week in a car bomb explosion.”
Edith reads, “The week the thousandth U.S. soldier was killed in Iraq, Christian Peacemaker Team member Greg Rollins wrote in his diary, ‘The explosion shook me, made my ears ring and made time unstable. I turned around and twenty meters away a wall of dust enveloped the street, where the concrete median had been blown to pieces. The next thing I noticed was that the explosion left everyone around me dazed — children and adults alike. You could see it on their faces. Some people yelled. Others said nothing, but stared. Somewhere behind all this, two Iraqi men ran, carrying a wounded third.’”
Ruth recites the names, ages and hometowns of more soldiers killed in action.
Mary reads another passage from the diary, “I watched all this shock around me through my own shock. Time sped up and slowed down. The light was too bright and people moved too fast, and I watched a middle-aged Iraqi man crying as his friend led him by the arm down the street.”
Bob announces more dead soldiers’ names, ages and hometowns.
They continue round the circle, alternating between the diary and the roll call of the dead — whose names by now seem legion — until they reach the end of the responsorial and intone in unison, “Amen.”
Ruth feels deeply moved. The others, too, seem strongly affected by the readings. With a feeling of shared accomplishment in the air, they are about to gather up their things and go inside, when a car pulls up in front of the house. A man, a woman and a little girl of about five get out of the car, walk up the stone footpath and onto the edge of the porch, where they hesitate, smiling shyly at everyone. The woman, whose black hair reaches to her waist, wears a blue dress with a bright floral design on it. The girl’s dress is almost identical, and bow ribbons adorn the ends of her braids. The man’s dress trousers and green guayabera shirt make an odd contrast to the furrows in his face and the calluses on his hands, which attest to a harsh outdoor life.
Mary greets the newcomers with a wide smile and big hugs. “I’m so happy y’all got here,” she tells them. “We were just fixin’ to go inside and have coffee and oatmeal cookies.”
Eduardo smiles humbly “I apologize for my lateness,” he says. “My poor English must have made me misunderstand the hour of the get-together.”
“Well, you’re here now is what counts,” Mary says.
Mary ushers them further into the porch, where the child spies Oscar. With a squeal of delight, she dashes over to the cat and fondles him. Ruth can tell that the animal barely tolerates this sudden, unwanted attention. His tail flicks erratically and he appears on the verge of scampering off.
“This is Eduardo, Josefina and their beautiful daughter, Carmelita, recently from El Salvador,” Mary tells the others. Bob, Bruce, Edith and Ruth dutifully introduce themselves, and the adults shake hands all around. “I met them only last month, when Eduardo planted some trees for me. And by the way, Eduardo’s a wonderful landscaper, in case any of you need one.”
“I’m looking for a reliable yard man,” Edith says. “I’ll get his phone number later, Mary.”
Mary longs to draw Eduardo and Josefina into the vigil and now she thinks of a way to do it.
“Eduardo, before we go indoors, would you lead us in a final prayer?”
“Alright,” Eduardo says, “I will do my best.”
Josefina calls Carmelita over. The circle is reformed, eight heads are bowed and all is hushed.
“Oh merciful SeΖor,” Eduardo intones, “Whose only Son, Jesus Christ, suffered, bled and died on the cross to wash away our sins. We beg you, wise Father and Savior, to guide President Bush in his great war for Peace and against Evil and Terror in the world. We beseech you, SeΖor, to lead the brave troops to a glorious victory in Iraq. Amen.”
No chorus of amens follows Eduardo’s — only a faint amen murmured by Josefina and then a fainter one by Carmelita. After an interval of stunned speechlessness, Mary says, “Thank you, Eduardo.”
Ruth’s good feelings of a moment before, dissipated by Eduardo’s prayer, are replaced by a surge of outrage. She hears herself cry out, “This isn’t what our vigil is for.”
Eduardo looks bewildered.
“I’m sure Eduardo means well,” Mary says.
“He probably thinks we wanted him to say those things,” Edith says.
Ruth isn’t assuaged. To Eduardo she says, “Do you think Bush is bringing peace by making war on a country that never threatened the United States? Do you think bombing people brings peace?”
Eduardo answers, “Yes. Sometimes bombing brings peace, when you fight against evil terrorists. Do you not support the troops?”
“I support them by demanding that they be brought home,” Ruth says.
Now Eduardo, too, grows angry. He turns to Mary and says, “What do you and your friends want from me? My family and I visit your house. I make a prayer for you, as you asked me to do. Yet, you are not pleased with me. You let this crazy woman shout at me.”
“Eduardo, I don’t let her,” Mary says. “We have free speech in this country.”
“I wasn’t shouting,” Ruth says, and sneezes. “I would never allow Josefina to talk to a man that way in my house,” Eduardo says.
“‘Allow Josefina!’ Listen to Mr. Macho Man,” Josefina says.
Everyone stares at her. Other than the few Spanish words spoken to Carmelita and the amen murmured after Eduardo’s prayer, this is the first time Josefina has said anything. Josefina smiles at everyone, shy again. Eduardo glowers. He seems on the verge of grabbing Josefina and Carmelita and stomping away. Carmelita puts her thumb in her mouth.
The agitation has stirred up the swallows, who flit in and out of the porch again. Stealthily, Oscar slinks towards the birds, in what Ruth takes to be the classic predator-on-the-prowl-stalking pose. When he realizes they are beyond reach, he stops, licks his chops and gazes wistfully up at them, plotting his next move.
“Now folks, everyone be calm,” Bruce says, adjusting his hat. “Just hold your horses and keep your hats on.” No one reacts to him except Mary, who pats him fondly on the back.
Carmelita dreads the tension between her parents. Taking her thumb out of her mouth, she reaches one small hand out to her father and the other to her mother and forms a link between them.
Bob gets an idea. “Listen, good people,” Bob says. “We have gathered here for a peace vigil, have we not? Let us, then, be peaceful, and like Carmelita let us join our hands in reverential meditation.”
For the third time that night, a circle is formed, hands are joined and heads are bowed. In the stillness that ensues, the swallows return to their nest. Ruth, holding Eduardo’s warm, rough hand, feels her anger begin to recede. Bruce squeezes Mary’s hand and feels her hand squeeze his. Edith, clasping Bob’s smooth, cool hand, vows to talk him into studying for the ministry. Eduardo, with Carmelita’s moist little hand in his, decides to stay for oatmeal cookies — for Carmelita’s sake. Josefina senses a growing self-confidence. Oscar sits, wraps his tail around himself and closes his eyes, resigned to catching swallows in his dreams.
