Lightning and love are created in very similar ways. There is some debate over how both lightning and love form, but most experts agree that both require the presence of complementary opposites. A towering thundercloud is full of opposites: ice and positive charge at its uppermost point, water and negative charge at its base. In electricity and in love, opposites attract, and so as these opposites begin to interact, an electrical field develops. In a cloud, this field eventually grows so powerful that it must burst from the cloud in the form of lightning, visible from miles away. It is essentially the same in a love affair.
The night that Marisita agreed to finish her interview, the air felt remarkably charged, prepared for either lightning or love. The wind was full of words not yet said, miracles not yet performed, and electricity not yet discharged. All of this interfered with the station’s signal. A test signal from their new broadcasting site—Bicho Raro—had traveled poorly, and even when they retried it closer to where they ordinarily broadcast, the signal remained weak. The atmosphere was simply too uncertain.
Beatriz sat in the back of the box truck, the doors open wide, looking out at the familiar sight of Bicho Raro at sundown. The truck was parked beside the stage Pete had built. Wires snaked to the ground poles and to the antenna fixed to the truck’s roof. Another cable led to where a microphone sat in the middle of the stage. Beatriz could see several Sorias from where she sat, and well beyond them, several pilgrims, including Tony’s towering form. Very few people enjoy trying to solve a problem with an audience, and Beatriz was no exception. Moreover, the instability of the atmosphere seemed to be mirrored inside her. This was because her self-inflicted puzzles had previously had no time limit and no stakes, and this puzzle had both in spades. It was also because she had seen Marisita return with Daniel’s bag, and she knew as well as Marisita what the loss of it meant for her cousin.
Her thoughts were as turbulent as the air. Ideas refused to come.
“There’s no point broadcasting into a void,” Joaquin said. He sounded dramatic, but it felt warranted. There seemed little reason to encourage Marisita’s confession if Daniel had no chance of intercepting it.
Pete, as ever the willing go-between, told Joaquin, “Tony said that you need height. For your antenna.”
“Height!” Joaquin said. “Yeah!”
But this information was not useful to Beatriz. She had known from the beginning of the radio project that she needed height; it was the simplest way to improve reception. This is why professional radio antennae soar hundreds of feet in the air and require blinking lights to prevent aircraft from having unexpected trysts with them. Their antenna had never posed any such threat to aviation. Beatriz explained to Pete that she had reached the extent of her antenna-building capacity and did not know how to improve it, although she was willing to hear suggestions.
“Hold tight,” Pete replied, and jogged back to where the pilgrims loitered. The mood there, gathered around the radio and fire pit, leaned closer to anticipatory than fearful. With the twins healed and Jennie well on her way, it felt as if the spiritual weather was finally breaking. Theldon had not picked up a paperback novel all day, and Jennie had listened to the radio and cooked in Marisita’s kitchen while she was out. The resulting casserole was unimpressive in comparison to Marisita’s elegant creations, but the enthusiasm in it tasted plenty savory for the pilgrims, and Jennie had added several new songs to her repertoire.
For his part, Tony found himself filled with the satisfaction that comes from seeing someone else do well—or, in this case, hearing them do well. Joaquin had done far more with his suggestions than he had hoped, and now Tony’s vicarious ambition ran ahead of him. He imagined inviting Joaquin back east, getting him in front of microphones, watching his star rise. In this bright future, Tony imagined Diablo Diablo doing well enough that Tony could quietly retreat from the public eye and produce for him instead. It was an appealing image.
So it was a Tony Triumph full of philanthropy who told Pete, “I can hold the antenna. I’ll stand on that dish and hold it like Lady Liberty.”
This might not have been such a relevant suggestion if Tony hadn’t been a giant, but he was, making him fourteen feet more useful than anyone else in Bicho Raro.
“That’ll do it?” Pete asked.
“Kid, me plus that dish will get that station heard through this whole valley,” Tony said. “That saint of theirs won’t be able to avoid us unless he got in a car.”
Or died, thought Marisita, but she did not say it out loud.
Since she had returned, she had watched the occupants of Bicho Raro prepare for the broadcast that night with growing anxiety. She attempted to pray in the Shrine, but it only made her more overwhelmed. She tried to cook some dessert to follow Jennie’s casserole, thinking the routine would settle her, but her hands would not cease shaking enough to hold the instruments of cooking.
“Marisita,” Padre Jiminez said as the sky turned full black. “Come with me.”
She followed the coyote-headed priest. She expected him to give her priestly wisdom, something about believing in herself because our father and savior did. Instead, he led her silently to the edge of Bicho Raro and there, in the dark, he simply embraced her. Marisita had been held only once in recent memory, and before then, not for months, and so the force of simply being held was enormous. She stood quivering in Padre Jiminez’s arms until she stilled, and Padre Jiminez tried unsuccessfully to not enjoy the embrace as much as he did. Perhaps that does not take away from the original intention of the embrace, as Marisita accepted the offering as first presented.
“Gracias, Padre,” she said.
“Of course, Marisita,” he said, and licked his lips over his sharp teeth as he said her name. “Are you ready?”
Marisita looked to the stage. It was decorated as if for a birthday celebration, with flags and lights strung between the upright stands. A small umbrella protected the microphone from her stormy presence. It would have been a fine setting for the beginning of a love affair, or for the reunion of a couple long separated. But she supposed it was also a fine setting for a night supplying comfort to a dying young man. She smoothed her hair, cast her eyes over the watching owls, and tried not to think about all the saints who were listening.
“Yes,” she said.