Chapter Five
Like many Kansans, Rodger’s parents had occasionally sought relief during summer in the mountains of Colorado. These trips featured certain stops, repeated over the years as much for the memory as the event. The state line was one such, and Rodger had renewed this rite with Mike on their prior trip west.
Now, however, Rodger felt inclined to drive through. His violent intent towards the men in Lakin pained him. Simultaneously embarrassed and relieved, he felt it better to leave the state. But just a mile from the border, Mike looked up from the back seat. Seeing the approaching signs, he climbed excitedly into the front.
Rodger knew they had to stop. Pulling off between the “Leaving Kansas” and “Entering Colorado” signs, Rodger let his son stand astride the presumed state line. “Look, dad, I’m standing in both states!” Rodger remembered doing, and saying, the identical thing as a boy.
After paying obeisance to the political boundary, the two drove on. Still preoccupied with Lakin, Rodger wondered if he should say something. He was unsure exactly what the men had done, and he feared his son was frightened by their acts and his precipitous reaction. Characteristically, however, Rodger could not fathom directly addressing the issue. He decided to say what he planned to do.
Rodger knew Mike had gone to confession at least once, before his first communion. But the sacrament was performed during school, and Rodger had never taken Mike along to his own confessions. Rodger nevertheless had mentioned to his son that he had gone, a fact of greater significance than Rodger knew. Hearing his father say confession was a good thing deeply impressed the boy.
“Mike,” Rodger started in, “I think I’ll go to confession in La Junta.” Rodger’s statement turned Mike’s attention from the scenery to the glovebox, which he began tracing with his finger. Rodger continued: “There is a Catholic church there. I have something I need to tell God.” “Did I do something wrong?” Mike asked.
Rodger regretted saying anything; this was the sort of problem caused by talking. After pausing for a moment, he said: “No, you didn’t. You didn’t get in the van with them. That was good.” Mike started weeping, which dismayed Rodger further. He could only say: “They won’t bother you. I’ll make sure of that.”
Breaking a personal rule against eating while driving, Rodger stopped at a drive-through burger stand in Lamar. The two ate lunch while crossing the Colorado plains, Mike with fries arrayed on a napkin spread over his lap, and Rodger repeatedly reaching into the paper sack set between them. The wrappers were then collected in the sack, and it emitted odors of lunch all the way to La Junta.
St. Patrick’s Church was in traditional form: rectangular footprint, red bricks, pitched roof, and stained-glass windows. Smaller than the church back home, it nevertheless reminded Rodger of St. Theresa’s. Rodger’s parents had usually spent the night in La Junta, and his family would attend Mass in this church before driving on.
Rodger did not know when confessions were held, but he expected some luck in arriving on time. It seemed to work that way on trips, especially for Sunday mass. They got to the church at 3:30 p.m., and the sign said confessions were “Sat. 3:00-4:00.” Rodger hoped the priest interpreted this to mean an hour in the box, not a variable term beginning at 3:00 p.m. and ending with the first pause in penitents.
As he and Mike entered the church, Rodger was pleased to see a red light over the priest’s station though no one waited in line. Resisting his fear that the priest would turn off the light and step from the box, Rodger knelt to make an examination of conscience. He knew what he wanted to say, but he also wanted God to have a chance to work him over. The church was very quiet, with hued light from the windows and a single red candle near the altar. Mike sat beside him.
Rodger eventually entered the confessional, which was small but featured a frosted window. Rodger heard the kneeler creak as it bore his weight. The panel on the other side of the grill slid open.
“Forgive me Father, I have sinned,” Rodger began. “It has been six months since my last confession.” Rodger explained his murderous thoughts and the steps he took in that direction. The priest quietly listened and then asked a few questions to clarify Rodger’s intent. The priest also asked if the boy was okay, and whether Rodger had reported the incident to the authorities.
After receiving absolution, Rodger returned to the pew to make his penance. Mike sat looking at his father, then at the confessional, then back at his father. He next looked at the tabernacle and, after a while, decided he would go too.
As he entered the confessional, Mike suddenly wondered whether things were the same in Colorado as in Kansas. He decided they must be, since his teacher had told them Catholicism was the true religion. He saw no reason why things would be true in Kansas but not in Colorado. So he knelt down, confessed his childish sins, and added that he had gone close to a van he was not supposed to get into.
Without mentioning the event, the priest told Mike about guardian angels. He said everyone has a guardian angel, a messenger from God sent to help us. “They will protect you,” the priest said, “so for your penance I want you to say the guardian angel prayer three times.” Mike returned to the pew and said his prayers.
Leaving church, Rodger told Mike there was a town a few miles west called Rocky Ford. Fruit stands there sold the best cantaloupe he had ever tasted. Rodger said they would not drive that way on Sunday because they were heading southwest from La Junta. But they could drive there now and buy some things for supper.
The sun was still high, and a haze had formed to the west. As the sun angled towards it, the light reflected gold off the dry terrain. The air was still and had taken on that mildness possible with low humidity and little vegetation. The high plains were paying some compensation for the frequently harsh conditions.
Upon reaching Rocky Ford, Rodger pulled into one of the fruit stands. Really fronts for large farming concerns, the stands were large, low buildings of various sorts, most designed to open only in summer. The exterior walls, to the extent they existed, were mere wooden sheets lifted up to form awnings. Pillars supported the interior, usually a shallow area separated from a more ample storage space by an equally unsubstantial interior wall. Like other fruit stands in the area, the establishment Rodger chose was covered with bunting and flags.
When Mike stepped from the Chevelle, he first noticed the large bins of cantaloupes. But as he walked about, he found fruits and vegetables of all sorts, and also prepared items like honey and pies. The plains soil had responded favorably to irrigation, most taken from the Arkansas River, which was thereby reduced to a dry channel in western Kansas.
Mike and his father selected two particularly heavy and sweet-smelling cantaloupes, a head of lettuce, a number of Colorado peaches (actually from the Western Slope, many miles away), carrots, pickles, and a large jar of comb honey. Back in town, they stopped by a grocery store and bought bread, milk, baloney, and paper plates. Rodger found a motel run by local proprietors, with a clean appearance and potted flowers along the doors. After supper, he filled a cooler with ice from the motel’s machine and stowed away their remaining food. They would fast before Mass in the morning.