Don Rogelio sat in the nicho by the great old mesquite doors to the ancient mission church. His thin hairless legs pulled up to his chest, two tamales wrapped in newsprint, left over from the recent Noche Buena, under his left thigh. He has sat there every night, except two, since he was a much younger man. He was ninety-one years old. His Tio, Don Raimundo Salazar, sat in the nicho for thirty-six years before him. Because it was a very small parish, the church did not have a resident priest. No one lived inside.
Don Rogelio would sit each night in the bitter cold of winter and the hot nights of summer, with a skin of watered-down wine and an armadillo shell rattle, on guard against a visit by the devil. The nicho was carved into the thick adobe wall. It was just large enough to accommodate a sitting man. The devil had only come twice in all the years. Don Rogelio rattled and whistled him away both times. Don Raimundo claimed to have had ten run-ins with the devil. Once the devil made it into the church, but Don Raimundo was able to chase him away with his kerchief soaked in holy water.
Don Rogelio prayed every night that he would be healthy one more day. His godson José was in line to take his place when he could no longer sit in the nicho. Jose was off fighting the Japanese on islands in the Pacific. Don Rogelio prayed he would be home soon.
One night Don Rogelio was not feeling well. The watered-down wine did not help. He fought off sleep the best he could and finally succumbed. He was abruptly awakened by a low, deep ringing in his ears and the realization that he felt great heat against his face, even though it was a cold night. Looking out towards the large mesquite doors he noticed they were ajar. He went to climb from the nicho to see if it was a neighbor in prayer or mischievous children, but he could not move. It was if his body had hardened like the adobe surrounding him. He tried to call out, but no sound came from him.
Then, he heard the sound of an armadillo shell rattle coming ever closer. He could not feel to see if his was still beside him. Suddenly a sickening red light came tumbling through the great mesquite doors and following after it was his godson, José, chasing the devil from the church with the armadillo shell rattle. The devil screeching and turning the corner, disappearing into the graveyard.
José lifted his godfather from the nicho and carried him towards the village.
The following day José ’s mother received a visit from two men in uniform. They informed her that her son had been killed on an island called Iwo Jima, that he was a hero, handing her a folded American flag and two shiny medals.
On the day after the two soldiers brought the very sad news, José’s mother placed the two shiny medals on top of Don Rogelio’s casket. Young Tonio Aguado shook the armadillo shell rattle as men from the village lowered the rough wooden box into the hole, small clouds of dust rising and obscuring the feet of those closest to the new grave. . . (From “Don Rogelio and the Devil by Franklin Cincinnatus)
(Kevin Tully is an artist, gallerist, woodworker, and writer. He has been a golf columnist and an all-around agitator. Kevin has a figment of his imagination, Franklin Cincinnatus, who dictates short stories ostensibly representing larger bodies of work. Kevin writes them down. [email protected] )
