The Daughter of Juan Simón

"Where's this girl's husband?"

"She doesn't have one, Constable Calzadilla."

"Then, where is her family?"

"I've never met them nor seen them. I've only talked to her in passing."

"Well, hell, Ignacio, did she ever mention anything regarding her kith or kin?"

"I believe her parents live across town."

"Well, how about you go out and find them."

"Find them? But, sir, I'm just a milkman. I only knew to get you because she hadn't put her milk bottles out. I can't deliver such a message."

"Then who am I to send? Survivors of the plague have already left, which is about half of the town, and I can't afford to hire a deputy. So I implore you to do your civic duty and find them. It's a dead girl, for Christ's sake!"

"Alright, alright. I'll go look for them, but what should I say?"

"Let them know their daughter is ... is with God now. I'll go and fetch the undertaker. We can't let this body rot any longer."

"Perhaps you should fetch a priest first."

"It's a bit late for that, isn't it?"

"It's never too late to render blessings for those who have passed."

"Very well then: You find her parents, I'll find the gravedigger and Father Urbano. Is that fine by you?"

"Yes, sir. I'll be back this afternoon."

"Hello! Is anyone there? Hello!"

"Pardon me, sir."

"Yes? Who are you?"

"I beg your pardon. My name is Álvaro. May I ask who you are?"

"I am Ignacio."

"Well, Ignacio, may I also inquire as to why you are banging on Don Simón's door?"

"So this is Don Simón’s home! Do you know him?"

"I do."

"Do you know his whereabouts? I have a serious matter to discuss with him."

"I'm afraid you won't find him here."

"Why not? Is this not his house?"

"Tis his house, but he has been in jail. Robbery and theft, you see. He's asked me to mind his home during his absence."

"Robbery and theft? What for?"

"He broke into an apothecary's shop to steal some herbs and medicine for his wife—she had the plague, of course."

"How strange that he didn't know."

"Who didn't know?"

"Never mind. Um, where is she, then?"

"I'm afraid Lita has been dead these past few months. Succumbed to the plague, you see. Her husband barely had time to bury her before the authorities hauled him off to jail."

"Ah. That is—That is terrible news."

"Pray tell, what news you have for him? His sentence will not end for some time. Perhaps I can deliver him whatever it is you wish to tell him."

"No. No, if he is truly in jail, I must speak only with the constable regarding this matter. Thank you."

"Father Urbano!"

"Constable Calzadilla, good day. What brings you to the house of God on this fine Tuesday?"

"I'm afraid I come with some unpleasant business."

"Unpleasant business? It seems unpleasantness is the only business of this town. What has befallen, dear Constable?"

"A girl has passed away quietly in her home."

"Oh, that is terrible news. I imagine it was the plague."

"I believe not, for she did not bear the sores or swells akin to those marred by the plague's mortal wake. It appeared to be something else—something internal."

"Truly? That is strange. Who was this unfortunate soul?"

"Her name is ... well, actually, I don't recall her name. I forgot to ask the bloody milkman."

"Ignacio?"

"Yes, him! He is currently fetching the girl's parents, I hope. Which reminds me, do you happen to know where the undertaker is?"

"Juan? Well, I have yet to see him in Mass as of late. Perhaps he is still grieving or left town like many of His Almighty's flock."

"Juan ... That name sounds familiar."

"Doesn't interment fall under your purview with the absence of an undertaker, Constable?"

"Um, why, uh, yes, it does, unfortunately. However, I do not have the constitution to handle such matters regarding death and dirt."

"I see."

"If you don't mind administering last rites for her, we should leave presently."

"A child of God is with her Maker now; I must make funerary preparations on her behalf as well. If it is alright with you, Constable, may I meet you at your county house after I complete such arrangements?"

"That will be fine. From there, we will go to the girl's house."

"I'll see you anon, then."

"Yes. Take care."

"God be with you."

"Bye."

"Good afternoon, dear Constable."

"Hello again, Father Urbano. Please, come in."

"Did you find our undertaker?"

"I'm afraid not. Also, do you mind closing the door?"

"If you could spare a moment, I'm holding it open for Ignacio the Milkman, who appears to be coming this way now."

"Oh good, he's back! Is he with the girl's parents?"

"I'm afraid he traverses alone, sir."

"Dammit! Useless dairy hawker! Can't perform the simplest of tasks outside of delivering milk."

"Father Urbano. Constable."

"Hello, child of God."

"Ignacio! Where is the damn girl's parents?"

"Sir, having visited the house of her parents, I've come to a rather confounding discovery."

"Well, go on. Out with it."

"From what I understand, her father is under your charge."

"Under my charge?! Who?"

"One Don Simón."

"Don Simón? I know of no such man."

"Do you mean Juan? Juan Simón the Gravedigger?"

"Yes, Father. If that be the name and trade of Don Simón, whose abode is on the other side of town."

"It is."

"Juan Simón the cad! I knew I recognized that name from somewhere. I saw it in the jailbook log."

"In jail?! Why is he in jail?"

"He robbed a pharmacy a while back. We tracked him down in a pub, blubbering in a stupor. A pitiful man. Serves him right for stealing during this town's hour of woe and hardship."

"I believe he had lost his wife then, sir."

"Spare me sympathies addressed to cowards, Ignacio. We all lost somebody from the plague. It doesn't give one the right to steal."

"Perhaps a little compassion then for the poor man. If this is the same person you and Ignacio speak of, then he has not only lost a wife but now a child."

"Like I said, the plague has taken many of our townspeople. He'll know the same compassion I show everyone else."

"Constable."

"Yes, Father?”

"I am going to ask you something. Something quite serious and a testament to your character."

"What is it?"

"Considering his time served and pending further grief from the loss of his loved ones, I ask you to release Señor Simón."

"I beg your pardon."

"Release Juan Simón from jail."

"Are you off your head, Father? I am the constable of this town. I will not compromise my principles on the pretext of compassion."

"I know Señor Simón to be of moral character; his base actions must've been ones born of desperation. He has suffered greatly and will soon suffer more when he learns that he must bury his own daughter."

"Well, Señor Simón should have considered that when he decided to break the law!"

"Don't be so unmoving, Constable, for we are all sinners in the eyes of God."

"And we are all citizens in the eyes of the State, Father. A State with laws by which we are governed. Have I not read, 'Let every person be subject to the governing authorities; for there is no authority except from God, and those authorities that exist have been instituted by God. Therefore, whoever resists authority resists what God has appointed, and those who resist will incur judgment.’? I believe that is Romans 13:1-2. What do you say to that, Father?"

"I say very well, Constable. You tell the undertaker about his dearly departed daughter, and you bury her yourself."

"I will do no such ... It is beneath my ..."

"Oh, come now, dear Constable. I'm sure you can recite more scripture to a priest. If this be a pillar of your principle, keeping a petty thief and widower from burying his only daughter, then stand by it."

"I ... Well ... I ... Ignacio, dear lad, you bury her."

"I will not."

"To hell with you, then, you feckless, miserable—"

"Constable!"

"What, Father?!"

"Again, I beseech you: Do what is right."

"F—Fine! Then, Father, you come with me."

"Juan Simón!"

"Yes?"

"You're free to go."

"I—I am?"

"Did I stammer? Yes. Now get out of my jail."

"This is strange. What did I do to deserve this?"

"Juan, is that you?"

"Father Urbano? What are you doing here? Are you the one I am to thank for freeing me from this wretched place?"

"No. It is by the grace of God and his righteous servant, Constable Calzadilla, that you are unshackled. I've simply come to collect you."

"Oh, why—why thank you, Constable."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now go!"

"God bless you, Constable."

"I've had enough of Him, frankly, Father."

"I appreciate you coming for me, Father, but I know my way from here."

"Where are you going, Juan? Why don't you come to my rectory? We shall get you some good food, cleaned up, and into some new clothes?"

"No, thank you, Father. I would like to see mi corazónita—my daughter— first. She didn't pay me a visit this past week, which is unlike her. It pains her to see me locked away and shamed, you know? She told me as much. Told me it was breaking her heart. When she lost her mother, she wasn't there to say goodbye to her, you know? That's why she rents a little place on this side of town—to ensure her papá is alright. What a wonderful surprise it will be for her to see me bearded, gaunt, and free!"

"Juan."

"Yes, Father?”

"Do you mind taking a seat?"

"Why? What is it? What's the matter?"

"Just have a seat first."

"Alright, I'm sitting. What is the matter? Father, you look pale."

"Juan, there is no easy way to put this, but your daughter she has crossed over. She is with God now."

"I—I am sorry. What did you say?"

"Your daughter is at peace, Juan. She has passed."

"That's ... that's impossible. She can't be."

"Juan, please, sit still. Come with me to the church first, and—"

"Where is she? Where is my daughter?!"

"Her body lies peacefully at her home. Now, Juan, first, come with me to—"

"No. I must see her. I don't believe you!"

Juan! Wait, stop! Come back! Juan! Juan!"

"Hello? Juan, is that you? I've come with oils and acolytes to administer last rites unto your daughter. How are you?"

"How did she die, Father?"

"I—I don't know."

"Then why did she die?"

"The Lord works in mysterious ways, dear Juan. We may have many questions, but only God has answers."

"Are you not the mouthpiece for God? Pray tell, is it just for this plague to take so many, all of whom I have put into the earth? Is it His mercy to cast me behind bars, only to emerge to discover that my only child is gone? Is it His love to take my soul, Lita, first and now my heart second? What is left of a man if he has not either? Is he not as good as dead?! I do not feel God's love anymore, Father. I do not feel His warmth, just as I do not feel it in this cold hand of my beloved child."

"Do not stray, lamb of God. Like her mother, she lives in eternal glory with our Lord."

"But why me, Father?! Why has God chosen me to suffer this mortal toil?!"

"God has many plans for us. Search your heart for peace."

"Well, I don't have one. It lies here before us—dead and gone!"

"Juan Simón, do not let your emotions get the—"

"Take me, Father! Take me, oh mighty God! Why did you not ask me before you took my wife?! Why did you not ask me before you took my girl?! Take me in their stead! My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?!"

"He has not forsaken you. He has delivered—"

"Enough, priest! I'm in no state to humor your pious anodynes any longer. You lay your oils upon my girl, cast your words, and get out! Do you hear me?"

"Juan, I know you are—"

"My word is my bond, Father, and if you stray from the administration of my daughter's last rites, then I will personally strangle you by your collar! Do you understand me?!"

"Alright, Juan, alright. In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Loving and merciful God, we entrust our sister to your mercy. You loved her greatly in this life; now that she is freed from all its cares, give her happiness and peace forever. Welcome her now into paradise, where there will be no more sorrow, no more weeping or pain, but only peace and joy with Jesus, your son. Amen."

"Amen. Now leave."

"Juan, I must really—"

"Leave!"

"Very well then. God be with you, Juan, if that truly be His will."

"Don Simón! Juan! Juan Simón! Wait up! It's me Álvaro!"

"Oh, hello Álvaro."

"Don Simón, you are back so soon! I watched over your home, you see, just like you asked."

"Thank you, Álvaro."

"Twas nothing, Don Simón."

"By the way, may I ask something more of you?"

"Why certainly! What is it?"

"You wouldn't happen to have some ... some, um, sturdy rope I could make use of?"

"As a matter of fact, I do! I keep some for tying down my things when I travel, you see."

"Good. Thank you, Álvaro. You're most kind to allow a man to free himself from his troubles. I will collect it from you shortly if that is permissible."

"But of course! Say, you're all dirty, and what are you doing with that shovel and mattock? From where are you coming, Juan Simón?"

"Álvaro, you know what I am. I'm a gravedigger, and I come from burying my heart."