Don Milagro story ends with suspense
Father Sanchez gets lost in a madman's house, tries to escape something unknown
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The finale
By Mark Baldridge
“Ah,” said Don Milagro, touch
ing the bruise on his forehead,
“Home is where the heart is, no?”
They were seated before the fire.
_Don Milagro was toweling his hair
dry, wrapped in a fresh cloth robe.
The old priest was left to drip dry by
the fire. It did not occur to him to be
insulted by this. It didn’t occur to
him to be anything but curious
about the mad Milagro and his
dreams, fascinated even.
I le questioned the younger man
but received no straight answers.
“My father, my real father was
phosphorus," he seemed to be say
ing.
“Phosphorus?"
“Yes,” nodding slowly, “ Might
bringing’, you know the Latin?”
Aservantappeared, “You called,
Don Milagro?"
The priest had noticed nothing,
no call to servants.
“Yes, set up the viewing room.
And bring more chocolate for the
good Father here."
The priest stifled a yawn.
“Oh, I’ve been remiss, you’re
tired! You must stay here the night,
I’ll arrange it. And in the morning
my carriage will help you home!
The least I can do for the priest who
brings me last rites, eh?” And here
he laughed loudly.
“I do not think so, Don Milagro,”
the priest was not eager to sleep in
thenouseofamadman. Hesensed
something terrible behind this
strange behavior. _._
“We are spirit, pure spirit you
know," the young man was saying,
“the body is but the soft outer edge,
as it were, of a spiritual entity —
invisible and powerful,” he spoke
of power as il licking his lips.
“Look into the fire,” he said,
pointing, “look!”
Father Sanchez fol lowed his ges
ture. The flames leapt up. Asalways
they made grotesque shapes.
“The body is temporal, existing
in time — trapped like an ant in
amber. But thesoul!The soul moves
backward and forward, at oblique
angles, free!"
The sha pes i n the fla mes look on
almost human form, dancing bod
ies intertwined, an orgy of flame.
Father Sanchez fell drowsy, warm.
“Look at your hands,” came the
voice, soft for the first time, of the
Don Milagro.
Theold man looked at his hands.
Beforehis eyes they smoothed over,
as if the skin were filling up, the
wrinkles and spots fading, the yel
low nails becoming clear and white
as horn.
“You could go back. Revisit the
world of memory, now so painfully
intense for you. You could —”
“What? Be young again?” Even
his own voice seemed far away
now.
Milagro’s voice came slithering
toward him.
Suddenly the old man jumped,
upsetting a cup of hot chocolate.
“I’m on fire!” And indeed he was;
his pants smoldered where they’d
come too close to the flames.
Don Milagro upturned a vase
over his lap — cool water and
flowers fell into it.
The priest leapttohisfeet. “What
a way to treat a priest!” He danced
in rage. “Call uponmeinthemiddle
of the night, drench me and then
set me on fire. You are a madman,
Milagro, and this is a madhouse!”
He stalked out the door.
Immediately he became lost in
the hallways and side rooms of the
great house.
He turned, tried to retrace his
steps. The house seemed aban
doned. Milagro was nowhere to be
found.
After more than five minutes
spent trying to decide if he’d been
going in circles, he called out, bleat
ing like a sheep, “I’ll be happy to
leave in my huff if you’ll direct me
to the door now."
Almost as if this was a signal, the
lights went out beyond tne half
open doors at the end of the corri
dor_ _^ __
He stood irrcsolulcT
Then a light began to flicker
inside that room —- a strange me
chanical black and white flicker
accompanied by ticking like a com
plicated bomb.
The old man stumbled toward
the door.
Inside were plush seats, a minia
ture theater and something like
he’d never seen before: people
projected on a screen!
“What is it?” he croaked.
“A movie,” came a voice from
somewhere in the silent ticking
twilight.
The priest recognized this from
descriptions; he had never seen
anything like it.
“A movie, delightful!”
“You like it?”
“It’s charming! I’d thought it
would be. . . in color. And the
sounds and smells are missing, of
course. It’s nothing like I though it
would be,” and he turned toward
the dim outline of the younger
man. "Now.ifyou’lldirectmetomy
bicycle —"
“Isn’t it fascinating? Don’t you
think?”
“What, the movie?” he turned
L>aci\ IU IdtL UIWJVIW**- • -— "
now fell large upon it.
“Yes, rather. But I thought it
would be more like memory. 1 can
remember things that actually hap
pened in the distant past, tell myself
stories," the priest seemed to be
dreaming, faraway. “ButI recall the
scent and smell, the flavor of the
thing. This is clearly just a projec
tion, isn’t it? Transparencies before
a light? Lenses, shadows."
Milagro stood, lurched to his
feet. “You don’t find it mesmeriz
ing, seductive? CANT TEAR YOUR
EYES FROM IT!?"
And he stumbled over a chair in
the dark, clutched at the padre’s
clothes.
They were propelled out the
door and into tne light.
Father Sanchez, saw with horror
that the young man had aged a
decade— his hair going white, his
features pale.
With claws tangled in the priest’s
clothes he shrieked, “Have you no
imagination, man?" and fell in a
heap at the old man’s feel.
Father Sanchez knew then that
he had narrowly escaped some
thing, but what exactly?
He stood a long time in thought.
Before he hunted down the exit
and his bicycle and carefully made
his way home in the still dripping
night he did what he had come for:
whispered the words that might
accompany Milagro to heaven, if he
was going any such place.
Student deals with
racism, eyes opened
by UNL experience
When I first stepped foot on
UNL’s campus in August of 1990,1
stepped into a world far different
from my own. This world was full
of hate for blacks — this world
didn’t care about me nor my people.
1 graduated from high school in
Omaha. I never really thought of
my life in Omaha as sheltered — I
used to tell others that their lives
were sheltered.
My roommate and l used to drive
to Omaha almost every weekend
when we were freshmen. We knew
we were in Omaha when we saw a
black motorist drive past us on the
interstate.
Entering Omaha transformed us
— we glowed — we hung with
friends — we escaped much rac
ism.
Although racism did exist in
Omaha, I was surrounded by my
family and black friends most of the
time. And while drowning in the
aroma of blackness, 1 was far away
from the harsh reality of how racist
our nation really was.
My roommate and I came back
to that reality quickly.
Upon seeing the University of
Nebraska-Lincoln interstate sign
Sunday afternoons driving back
from Omaha, we were awakened
from our dreams.
After a few months of the racism
here, we couldn’t take it anymore.
We called home and told our par
ents and grandparents that we were
coming back to Omaha — to stay.
I tried to prepare myself for the
disappointment 1 knew my parents
and grandparents would have. But
they had no qualms and they un
derstood. At that time 1 hadn’t even
considered that they understood
because they went through the
same thing — only worse.
I went to the University of Ne
braska at Omaha to enroll for next
semester classes. 1 was happy. 1 was
excited. I couldn’t wait to get out of
Lincoln for good.
But it wasn’t that easy. Upon
finding out about my roommate
and myselPs preparation to leave,
Jimmi Smith, director of the Multi
cultural Affairs Office, talked to us
and kind of pumped UNL up. He
didn’t lie to us. He told us that we
would face racism no matter where
we went.
And since my roommate and I
wereboth journalism majors,Jimmi
told us that it would be beneficial
for us to regain. So we stayed. I
knew UNO didn’t have a journal
ism college, but I felt that if 1 had to
go there to escape this racism, then
See SCHOOL on 11