"It was as if the ashes fell from a superior height--from an unseen source, but a high one," Edward Bonshaw would later describe what happened. "And the ashes went on falling--as if there were more ashes than could possibly have been contained in that coffee can." At this point, the Iowan always paused before saying: "I hesitate to say this. I truly do. But the way those ashes wouldn't stop falling made the moment seem to last forever. Time--time itself, all sense of time--stopped."
In the ensuing weeks--for months, Brother Pepe would maintain--those worshipers who'd arrived early for the first morning Mass continued to call the ashes falling in the shafts of light "an event." Yet those ashes that appeared to bathe the towering Virgin Mary in a radiant but gray-brown cloud were not heralded as a divine occurrence by everyone arriving at the Jesuit temple for morning Mass.
The two old priests Father Alfonso and Father Octavio were annoyed by what a mess the ashes had made: the first ten rows of pews were coated with ashes; a film of ash clung to the Communion railing, which was curiously sticky to touch. The big Virgin Mary looked soiled; she was definitely darkened, as if by soot. The dirt-brown, death-gray ashes were everywhere.
"The children wanted to scatter their mother's ashes," Edward Bonshaw started to explain.
"In the temple, Edward?" Father Alfonso asked the Iowan.
"All this was a scattering!" Father Octavio exclaimed. He tripped on something, unintentionally kicking it--the empty coffee can, which was rattling around underfoot. Senor Eduardo picked up the can.
"I didn't know they were going to scatter the entire contents," the Iowan admitted.
"That coffee can was full?" Fa
ther Alfonso asked.
"It was not just our mother's ashes," Juan Diego told the two old priests.
"Do tell," Father Octavio said. Edward Bonshaw stared into the empty can, as if he hoped it possessed oracular powers.
"The good gringo--may he rest in peace," Lupe began. "My dog--a small one." She stopped, as if waiting for Juan Diego to translate this much, before she continued. Or else Lupe stopped because she was wondering if she should tell the two priests about the Mary Monster's missing nose.
"You remember the American hippie--the draft dodger, the boy who died," Juan Diego said to Father Alfonso and Father Octavio.
"Yes, yes--of course," Father Alfonso said. "A lost soul--a tragically self-destructive one."
"A terrible tragedy--such a waste," Father Octavio said.
"And my sister's little dog died--the dog was in the fire," Juan Diego went on. "And the dead hippie."
"It's all coming back--we did know this," Father Alfonso said. Father Octavio nodded grimly.
"Yes, please stop--that's enough. Most distasteful. We remember, Juan Diego," Father Octavio said.
Lupe didn't speak; the two priests wouldn't have understood her, anyway. Lupe just cleared her throat, as if she were going to say something.
"Don't," Juan Diego said, but it was too late. Lupe pointed to the noseless face of the giant Virgin Mary, touching her little nose with the index finger of her other hand.
It took Father Alfonso and Father Octavio a few seconds to catch on: the Mary Monster was still without a nose; the incomprehensible child from the dump was indicating that her own small nose was intact; there'd been a fire at the basurero, an infernal burning of human and canine bodies.
"The Virgin Mary's nose was in that hellish fire?" Father Alfonso asked Lupe; she vigorously nodded her head, as if she were trying to dislodge her teeth or make her eyes fall out.
"Merciful Mother of--" Father Octavio started to say.
The falling coffee can made a startling clatter. It's not likely that Edward Bonshaw had intentionally dropped the coffee can, which he quickly retrieved. Senor Eduardo may have lost his grip; he might have realized that the news he was continuing to withhold from Father Alfonso and Father Octavio (namely, his vow-ending love for Flor) would soon come as a greater shock to those two old priests than the burning of an inanimate statue's nose.
Because he'd seen the Mary Monster cast a most disapproving glance at his mother's cleavage--because Juan Diego was aware of how animated the Virgin Mary could be, at least in the area of condemning looks and withering glares--Juan Diego would have questioned anyone's supposition that the towering statue (or her lost nose) was inanimate. Hadn't the Mary Monster's nose made a spitting sound, and hadn't a blue flame erupted from the funeral pyre? Hadn't Juan Diego seen the Virgin Mary blink when the coffee can had struck her forehead?
And when Edward Bonshaw clumsily dropped and retrieved the coffee can, hadn't the resounding clatter drawn a fiery flash of frightful loathing from the all-seeing eyes of the menacing Virgin Mary?
Juan Diego wasn't a Mary worshiper, but he knew better than to treat the dirtied giantess with less than the utmost respect. "Lo siento, Mother," Juan Diego quietly said to the big Virgin Mary, pointing to his forehead. "I didn't mean to hit you with the can. I was just trying to reach you."
"These ashes have a foreign smell--I would like to know what else was in that can," Father Alfonso said.
"Dump stuff, I suppose, but here comes the dump boss--we should ask him," Father Octavio said.
Speaking of Mary worshipers, Rivera strode down the center aisle toward the towering statue; it was as if the dump boss had his own business to attend to with the Mary Monster; Pepe's mission, to go fetch el jefe from Guerrero, may have been merely coincidental. Yet it was clear that Pepe had interrupted Rivera in the middle of something--"a small project, the fine-tuning part," was all the dump boss would say about it.