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College Night - Every Monday and Tuesday Night
•75# Draws *$3.25 Pitchers *$1.25 Wells & Longnecks
Wednesday Nights-Pay What You Weight, lc per pound 1st Pitcher
11435'O'Street 474-21661
You and Your Guests Are
Cordially Invited to Attend
Fantasia’s Eleventh Annual
Weddinj 'air
Sunday, January 17,1993
11 a.m. to 5 p.m.
Comhusker Hotel Ballroom
■ Free Admission
■ Lincoln's largest Wedding Event
■ Door Prizes ■ Free Samples ■ Fashion Shows
■ Over 40 Merchants Provide Displays
■ For the Entire Wedding Partv!
I STgJt^Cyy twi*z'<s*cns*.ilAAV-Vl ’-tv • ^ iW^y-VA!_(
■
'
GET BACK INTO THE
SWING
OF THINGS
THURSDAY, JANUARY 14,1993
8.00 PM - MIDNIGHT
NEBRASKA EAST UNION
UNL STUDENTS WITH ID $2.00
NON STUDENTS $3.00
SPONSORED BY: UPC EAST VOICES COMMITTEE
University Program Council
Story begins with memories, rain
MILAGRO
Part one of a serial
tale
By Mark Baldridge
It was a dark and stormy night.
The open sewers of Villa
Niguna overflowed, a rancid river
in thestreel. Rain Hew in the face
of Father Able Sanchez, blinding
him.
"Hell of a night to do your
dying in,” he shouted to himself.
Shouted to hear himself over the
open mouthed roaring of the
wind. And he swore an oath
against Don MilagroFuentes who
had chosen this, of all nights to
die.
“Never, never!” I'he padre
shouted again, meaning there
had never been such a storm in
all his long memory of Villa
Niguna — hot rain, almost hiss
ing on the ancient flagstones of
the plaza, riding a cold north
wind. Steam rose everywhere,
from the very dust.
Soon everything had been re
duced to mud. Father Sanchez
on his bicycle was driven by the
wind from the muddy road into
the muddy fields lime and again
as he made his way to the rancho
where Milagro F'uentes lay dy
ing, possibly dead.
Extreme Unction, last rites,
usually the padre’s favorite func
tion, grew odious at times like
these — when the weather made
all his bones ache, even by the
firedrinkingchocolale, and when
the dying man was someone as
despised as Don Milagro.
"I will have a cold," he mut
tered to himself, not caring if he
heard, "I will have water in my
ears as well, no doubt . A devil of
a business!”
’At least he will be no further
trouble,” he thought, giving up
speech entirely.
As he’d grown old the padre
had come to dwell more and
more upon the past. Finally he’d
grown old enough to see his
memories clearly, like a motion
picture — or so he imagined He
had never seen a motion picture
himself, though he harbored a
secret dream to do so. I lc wished
it with all his heart.
This wa s t he only vice left him
as his body declined: this wish to
see a motion picture. Old age
had made him almost a saint,
who had once been so young
and full of fire. Temptations that
had burned in him like a brand
now held no power over his
withered flesh; a fact which he
resented bitterly.
And so he held in secret to
this, his last remaining unraveled
strand of hubris. He thought
about it constantly.
And now he let his memories
Clay as a distraction from the
itter night and his own discom
fort on his wav.
Father Sanchez remembered
well the day of Milagro Puentes’
christening, now more than forty
years ago: a child who seemed
more beautiful than others, like
an angel on the earth.
The boy’s parents were the
wealthy heirs of one of the great
old families of the region. They
had moved to the tiny village and
taken up residence in the ancient
rancho under doctor’s orders.
The young mother, still a girl,
was taken sometimes by myste
rious fits in which she shut her
self up alone in her room and
spoke to no one. At such times
she went naked, it was said, and
thedoctors believed that lifea way
from the city would alleviatethcse
symptoms of what her husband
referred to as her “condition”.
A sudden gust took l ather
Sanchez by su rpri se and k noc k ed
him into the muddy bank of the
river that had this-morning been
a pleasant lane.
He swore like a priest, priests
being a notorious repositories of
oaths.
The child he had christened,
who now lay in his death bed,
had had the blue Spanish eyes
and red hair.
His body was smooth and
perfect as a plaster saint’s except
for one small flaw, almost unno
ticed. 11c had six pink fingers on
his left hand.
Six fingers on his hand!
The holy water had been cool
and oily to the touch The father’s
memory served him even here.
F fe felt again the silk of baby skin
as he prayed and anointed. F’clt
again thesudden fever in the liny
body. A fever so great he almost
dropped the child in alarm. The
water evaporated quickly from
• thesmoothuntroubledbrowand
left a scent like pomegranates.
A r\ s 4 «m /K* 11 r-\r o wnrc wmr**
done and the strange and private
parents gone, Father Sanchez
went back into the cool dark of
the church and found the basin
of holy water had been turned, it
seemed, to milk. It gave off such
a strong smell of cream that the
pastor nad to dispose of it, not
knowing, in truth, whether he
had witnessed a miracle or the
action of some unholy spirit in
the boy.
. Finally Father Sanchez reached
the great doorway of the rancho,
struck the brass and ivory
knocker.
The door opened a nd a fright
ened serving girl lead him in.
"Oh Father,” she moaned and
fawned on him almost in terror
-r-in a way at least that led the
Cricst to believe that Don Milagro
ad already died
"Oh no, Father! He is sitting
up in bed demanding breakfast!”
