The Vicar of Bisbee

Vicar picks up the story of Father Jerry Hanning and his parishioners in Bisbee and Tombstone, Arizona, and the challenges that confront them on the U.S.-Mexico border. As in Flying to Tombstone, contemporary life in this border region mixes with examination of the spiritual life within a progressive Christian framework. Jerry's interrupted romance with Maddie Gronek resumes as the narrative follows also the lives of Tombstone café owner, Brenda Litz, and her friend and shop operator in the fabled "Town Too Tough To Die," Ike Clanton McWarder. Both of these Tombstone Episcopalians explore their mystical spirituality and struggle to apply their sexuality and relationship-needs in today's small town church. Issues addressed include the theological struggle between fundamentalism and mainline Christianity, human greed and thirst for power and the force of "natural evil" as represented in summer wildfires in the Sonoran Desert.

 

Chapter One

I should like to begin at the beginning, patiently, like a weaver at his loom. I should like to say, "This is the place to start; there can be no other." But there are a hundred places to start for there are a hundred names. — Beryl Markham

 

Forces of nature rarely distress Jerry Hanning. But this fire is different. It feels personal. And there isn't much he can do about it. If only those gray afternoon clouds would turn to the black of a first-class monsoon storm. Instead, the second week of August has come and still no rain in this part of the Sonoran Desert. The sapphire sky gleams. Dusty soil seems to languish, awaiting serious rain-filled clouds.

"We'll be right back with more fire coverage after this break," says the TV anchorman, ending that segment of the morning news. Jerry pushes the mute button on the remote and picks up his discarded Arizona Daily Star from the kitchen table, returning to the story he had been reading. Friendly breakfast smells of fried eggs, bacon and toast linger in the air. He shakes his head and runs his fingers through hair still damp from the shower. Curly brown locks jump to attention like coil springs.

"Why can't they just put out the fires, Daddy?" asks ten-year-old Sadie Hanning, breaking into her father's concentration from across the table. A copy of the latest and final Harry Potter book sits beside her plate. Her face has painted on it the outrage of youth confronted by forces beyond human management. "Can't they do something?" She pushes her plate away and sips her orange juice. Her pale blue eyes glisten. Strawberry-blonde hair and tanned freckled skin create a shimmering aura in the bright morning light.

Sadie's coloring matches their kitchen's southwestern look. They decorated the little flat-roofed stucco themselves last year, their first in Tucson. Yellow and cobalt-blue painted surfaces set off the deep red of the terracotta floor. The house has already weathered nearly eighty blistering summers on that quiet central Tucson street. It has no intention of giving in to the sun this year. Outside, that fiery ball has already begun its daily campaign against the swamp cooler. But it hasn't won, at least not yet. Sadie shivers in the blast of cool air.

"I don't get it, Daddy. The fires just burn and burn."

"I don't either, Sweetheart."

The small TV on the kitchen counter switches from a string of commercials back to the newsman and the local fires. Jerry listens,  "Another five-hundred acres and three more ranch homes have been lost to the ravages of the Miner's Shaft Fire, ignited  by a lighting strike near an abandoned mine excavation west of Bisbee." A serious expression on the face of the live cam reporter is framed by a blackened smoking section of what had once been lush Sonoran Desert. The camera shifts to the anchorman, "And now in other news, both state and federal governments continue to search for ways of limiting illegal immigration and solutions for dealing with the twelve million undocumented people who are already believed to be in this country. An impasse has been reached over the word amnesty. Some insist that anything that permits illegal entrants to remain is a form of amnesty. Others disagree and offer alternative solutions to the deadlock, including eventual access to citizenship. No real solution is in sight."

"What about the migrants?" Sadie asks. "All those people trying to cross the desert in the heat? What's going to happen to them?"

Jerry puts down the newspaper, a New York Times feature reprinted in the Tucson daily, trying to shake off the disturbing story about the trafficking of young girls and boys across the Arizona border as sex slaves,. It is Jerry's turn to shiver. He looks at his daughter, the center of his life since the death of his wife nearly three years ago. He tries not to imagine somebody forcing his little girl into a life of sexual slavery. The idea scares him. He shifts his thoughts to her question: the plight of illegal immigrants, migrant workers mostly. Thousands of them every month. "I worry about them, too, Sadie. It's especially dangerous in the summer when it's so hot and dry."

"Why are people so cruel?"

"My goodness you are full of questions this morning." He laughs lightly. "Good questions, though. Mostly I think people treat each other badly out of greed or fear. The problem of the migrants seems to contain more than a full measure of both."

The way Jerry sees it both government policies and popular arguments keep undocumented laborers in a legal limbo. Even those who appear to support the workers and seem to be arguing their cause point out how the migrants do jobs American citizens won't do, or so the argument goes. Jerry is a student of American History. It is clear to him that a racially defined economic system that depends upon a cheap and powerless labor force, one largely outside legal protection, has much in common with the African-American slavery of the Old South—a sobering notion to contemplate.

Jerry shakes his head, picks up the remote and turns off the TV. The talking head vanishes. "We've seen that story."  He stands up and fastens his clerical collar to his short-sleeved blue oxford cloth clergy shirt. Tucking his shirttails into his khakis, he says, "What a hard summer! And here it is August." He shakes his head again and adds his coffee cup to other dirty dishes in the under-counter dishwasher. "Sometimes I swear I'm going to take a vacation from the news." He laughs at himself, trying to change the mood.

Sadie's face still wears a serious expression. "It scares me for you to be flying to Bisbee today, Daddy."

"I won't be in any danger. Either from the fire or the migrants." He laughs again, something he does easily.

"I know. But the fire scares me. I'm afraid of it."

Jerry shares Sadie's concern—not for them personally. They're safe enough living in Tucson. His worry is for his friends and parishioners at St. Peter's Church in Bisbee, a former mining town a hundred miles southeast of Tucson. As close to the Mexican Border as a flee to a dog, to quote his friend Ike McWarder, New Jersey-born-and-bred Wild West cowboy and Tombstone shopkeeper. Jerry fears for century-old St. Peter's Church. It has been less than a year since he became the part-time vicar there. Already he has developed a fondness for the old place. Even more, he worries about its people and their homes, ranches and businesses. He shakes his head for a third time. This is a morning for head shaking.

"I've got to be getting to the airport, Sweetheart," he says and picks up one last piece of crisp bacon and pops it into his mouth. The serving plate goes into the dishwasher. "I'm expected at the church well before noon, and I have a few things to do at the flight office. No students today, just paper work. Let's get you over to the Lopezes'."  He gathers up the remaining plates and glasses and stows them with the others.

"I'm glad that Carmen and Lizzie are here with their grandparents and not in Bisbee with their mom," she says. "At least they're safe from the fire."

"I'm glad, too." Ginger Vega is certain to be there today when he celebrates the special intention Eucharist for firefighters and those whose homes are lost or threatened. Ginger is a new church member at St. Peter's and a friend of Jerry's. Her recent rediscovery of the church has helped to change her life and turn the Latina painter and caricature artist into a devoted parishioner. She is a woman who has come to recognize and embrace her vivid spiritual life.

"Tell her that we're going to that movie today."

"What movie is that?"

"Oh, you know the third Spiderman movie. It's at the dollar theater."

"Didn't you already see that?"

"Well, yeah. It's not the same. We love that movie."

"Okay, I guess. Drink water and use lots of sun screen."

"For inside the movie theater?"

"You know what I mean." Jerry looks away and grins. He locks the door behind them. Sadie scampers to the house next door while he stands watching her go, choking down his usual wash of affection. Sadie waves as she goes inside the house. He climbs into his white Corolla, turns over the engine and begins the thirty-minute drive to Ryan Field. That airport is where Jerry has his day job as a CFI—Certified Flight Instructor. There he will trade the car for his Cessna 172 and make the forty-minute flight to Bisbee.

 

Jerry followed his usual route that August morning across metropolitan Tucson to Benson, then south at Apache Peak and over the little Mormon town of St. David where a nearby fifty-foot-high Celtic cross marks the site of a Roman Catholic Benedictine monastery. Jerry often went to Holy Trinity Monastery to see his spiritual director, Father Benedict. The next landmark was Tombstone, the site of the infamous Shootout at the OK Corral and the home of several of his parishioners and friends. From there he could see the stubby peaks of ore-rich Mule Mountains, the self-contained little range that climbs an average of three thousand feet above the rolling hills below. Bisbee nestles in the canyons and ravines of those mountains. Flying that morning gave him a sick feeling, one that had little to do with the gusty rough air. Rather, it came from a tan cloud hanging suspended over Mule Mountains. Produce of the range fire. From his eight-thousand-foot altitude the mountaintops peeked above the appalling haze like scuba divers coming up for breaths of fresh air. The site of the historic town looked like a firetrap. A dramatic "pyrocumulus" cloud, a cruel joke of nature, rose above the smoke, towered over the mountains, and gave a false promise of much-needed rain. But there was no rain in that fraudulent cloud, only smoke and burned particles of cactus, mesquite and creosote bushes. The clear blue skies of Cochise County were ashamed of that awful brown haze and lying cloud. The Miner's Shaft Fire threatened Bisbee's very existence.

Wind direction was everything. If it shifted just enough and the fire got started in the wooded canyons that normally sheltered the town the flames would be sucked right into its center. The old mining town could disappear in minutes. Only tailings and silent iron mining machinery would remain. The charm of its narrow twisting streets, left behind by the miners and taken up by artists and new residents, would all be gone. If the wind-driven fire held its current course the few ranches and homes in the western and northern foothills of Mule Mountains would likewise vanish. Though he cared very much about Bisbee and its fate Jerry's more pressing concern just now was for Maddie Gronek's Twisted-K Ranch. Its danger was immediate.

Maddie, a petite bundle of energy in her late thirties, was Jerry's friend. More than a friend. Both Jerry and Maddie were widowed. Their mutual attraction and availability had thus far not led very far, but he intended and hoped for that soon to be mended.

BLM aircraft dropping millions of gallons of fire retardant and water had so far made little difference to the fierce Cochise County blaze, partly because of the rugged terrain and the inaccessibility of much of the remote area. Human ingenuity and technology were puny in the face of nature's ferocity. Several years of drought followed by a rainy spring had encouraged the germination of billions upon billions of dormant seeds. The dry summer had then made the desert a tinderbox. This fire and a host of others throughout the West this season had left trained firefighters and resources spread far too thin to cope. The Aspen fire in the Santa Catalina Mountains north of Tucson earlier in the draught had been the largest, most expensive and most destructive fire in the state's history. Would the Miner's Shaft Fire rival that? It would if it reached Bisbee. As long as the hot dry summer wind continued to blow and the monsoon flow of rain-filled clouds refused to come north from the Gulf of Mexico the flames would continue their greedy progress. Perhaps today they would destroy Maddie's Twisted-K and other ranches in the area. Despite his hopeful nature, Jerry feared that all would be lost.

He reached forward to the instrument panel and punched up the preset radio frequency for the combined tower of Libby Air Force Base and the city of Sierra Vista. Fort Huachuca, originally built to protect settlers against Apaches, also shared that airspace. "Libby, this is Cessna 8758 Bravo, Ryan Field to Bisbee. Five-Eight Bravo."

"Roger, 8758 Bravo. We have you."

Jerry imagined the blip he represented on the radar screen and went back to studying the smoke, struggling to keep the plane straight and level in the heat and unsteady wind. Reaching beside him with his right hand, he adjusted the Cessna's trim tab to ease the pressure on the wheel. Then he banked Five-Eight Bravo left to begin making a tight circle around Mule Mountains. The Bisbee airport is on the flatland south and east of the town. The still roar of the Cessna's engine was his only companion as he came around Mule Mountains with Bisbee below him and spreading to the west in the canyons. Beyond the mountains and across the green pastureland and scattered homesteads he could see the ugly black line of the iron wall built along the Mexican border by the US Border Patrol. He could also see where the wall ended and unimpeded desert resumed. The official theory had been that if the easy points of entry were closed, especially border crossings at towns, then the fierceness of the desert would stop illegal entrants. The failure of that plan and the uninformed reasoning behind it was legendary. How many migrant workers would skirt the wall and cross illegally today despite the increased presence of Border Patrol agents and National Guardsmen? How many would die from thirst and exposure in the Arizona desert?

Jerry banked his Cessna to the right and looked off toward the west. The fire seemed insignificant from eight-thousand feet and about five miles outside the advancing thin line of orange-golden light. Hardly a threat at all. But the scent of burning vegetation penetrating the cockpit of Five-Eight Bravo for some minutes by then announced the reality of the fire and its destructive power. From that angle he could not see Maddie Gronek's ranch on the west side of Mule Mountains. The last week-and-a-half had taught him not to make too much out of the fire's erratic behavior, blown as it was by the shifting winds. But he noticed that the smoke in the air and therefore the direction of the fire's movement pointed north along the foothills of Mule Mountains. Directly toward the Twisted-K.

 

Jerry had last talked with Maddie Gronek the evening before.

"I'd hoped you would call," she said.

"You could always call me. Are you feeling okay?"

"Well, as long as I don't have to do morning sickness again, I think I can get through anything—even pregnancy." Her laugh was full-throated and natural. "But I still don't have much energy."

Jerry had had some difficulty adjusting to Maddie's pregnancy and the fact that it was the great joy in her life. Her years spent unsuccessfully trying to conceive during her marriage had ended abruptly when her husband became ill. His death left her bereft, lonely and hungry for a new relationship. Jerry's great regret was that he hadn't been that person. After so many years of apparent barrenness it never occurred to her that she might become pregnant, so she had been neglectful of sensible precautions—"like some dumb kid," she had said to Jerry. The prospective father, a Bisbee metal sculptor named Cord, didn't even know of his impending parenthood and had moved out of the area. That short affair had resulted in her having something new and surprising to celebrate life for—the child now growing inside her.

"I'm worried about the Twisted-K," Jerry said.

"I am, too. I've talked to Refugio, and he's ready to set the animals loose and evacuate his family and his helper. I don't know what I'd do without him to run the place. I certainly wouldn't know how to operate a ranch, let alone deal with this. I've been thinking that I should get down there tomorrow and gather up a few personal things, records and papers, my research, even the rest of my books. Just in case. I already have most of my clothes. My mother's going to love me packing more of my junk into her house." She paused for a moment. "Oh, I don't think I told you. I just learned myself. I've gotten a one-year teaching job at the University of Arizona as an emergency fill-in. It just came up. I'm really excited."

"So you're going to put that Berkeley Ph.D. to work? Congratulations. The UA folks okay with you being laid up around your delivery time?"

"They didn't think it was a big deal. Just like a bunch of men." She pretended to snicker. "With luck it will all happen over the Christmas break, and the way they see it I shouldn't have to miss a day. After all, peasant women have always given birth in ditches and then gone right back to work in the fields." She punctuated her sarcasm with yet one more laugh. "The guy scheduled to teach the classes had a heart attack and needs to take the year off. Made me Maddie-on-the-spot."

"Will you be teaching in your field?"

"Some. The University of Arizona doesn't offer a lot of French medieval history. I do get one seminar. In the spring."

"That's great. We need to celebrate. What do you say we have dinner tomorrow night? You can tell me all about it. I have to go down to Bisbee to take care of a couple of things, and then..."

"The prayer vigil?"

"That's one. People are really pitching in to do it. Isn't it odd the way they're willing to pray in common about the fire, while they're at each other's throats in most other ways." It had only been a little over year since the bishop had closed the Tombstone church and combined the two towns' congregations in Bisbee. And that wasn't all. The people of St. Peter have disagreed over a number of other issues, illegal entrants from Mexico topping the list.

"They'll get over it. They're all good people."

"I know, I know. But sometimes I get impatient with what seems like such petty conflicts." He changed subjects. "I also have some legal stuff with Hank Tucker. This is one of those times when the vicar and senior warden both have to show up."

"Alex Cloud? How very odd that seems."

The dead pilot had named St. Peter's as his residual beneficiary.

"Odd is the word. I don't really feel good about it."

"You mean because of the way we tried to trap him?"

"It did lead directly to his death."

"Don't forget he was being a jerk at the time. A racist jerk."

"True." 

"The residue of his will? What do you suppose that means?"

"I suspect some small bank account balance—the usual kind of thing when someone dies suddenly." He dismissed the speculation with a laugh and went on, "So how about dinner? Don't you think you've avoided me long enough? It's been nearly a month since I've seen you. I can be back in Tucson in time to pick you up."

"Don't exaggerate. It's not quite three weeks. I don't really want you to see me this way. You know, as a fat little Jewish girl. Or am I a fat Episcopalian? I don't know what to call myself these days. Going to Temple on Saturdays and to St. Julian's in Tucson on Sundays the way I do. Am I an Episcopalian Jew or a Jewish Episcopalian?" She giggled a little. "I do miss all my friends at St. Peter's, though."

"I keep telling you that I like fat little Jewish girls—even Episcopalian ones."

"Instead of having dinner in Tucson what if I fly to the ranch and gather up those things I need. Then I'll drive over to Bisbee in the pickup for an early supper. How would that be?"

"Can I help you with your stuff at the ranch?"

The line seemed to go dead. Then she said, "Sure, I'd appreciate a hand. I'm just not myself these days. Or should I say, 'not just myself?'" She laughed again. Maddie had been in a very good mood.

Jerry tried to contain his excitement and pleasure at the prospect of being with her. Despite the impending threat to her ranch, perhaps partly because of that.

"It's a deal. I'll hop on over from Bisbee when I finish with the lawyer. What time do you think you'll get there?"

"Probably about noon," she said. "But I've changed my mind. Okay if I rustle up something for us at the ranch instead? I'm a little shy of going out in Bisbee like this—showing and all. I'd rather not have word get back to Cord. At least not just yet. I don't want him turning up and playing the dutiful father."

"I understand. But don't take any chances with the fire."

 

The anticipated handful of people showed up for the noon service. The main thing was to start the prayer vigil, and they had done that. Tombstone restaurant owner, Brenda Litz, was the first solitary vigil-keeper. Jerry noticed that she had her Book of Common Prayer, a Bible and some other reading to help her focus.

Would the prayer vigil make any difference? Jerry's theology was in such a state of flux that he remained unsure about that. And about much else assumed in the traditional understanding of his priestly vocation. The fire and its wreckage had to be well known to God without anybody pointing out that fact. So why bother? Why conduct a vigil? Those were good questions, and Jerry's answers to them ranged from, "It can't hurt," to "It's what we do in faith." The vigil just felt like the right thing to do. He really had no convincing explanation either for himself or for anybody else. It was a puzzling spiritual place for a priest to be in, but it was where Jerry lived his life and did his work just then. Perhaps he would never again resume the smug assurance that had accompanied him through seminary and back in Ohio in the early years of his work as a parish priest. But that was an innocent time, before the death of his wife and the attendant shattering of his shallow but confident belief system. These days Jerry learned to live with ambiguity.

"You look deep in thought, Father," said St. Peter's senior warden, Hank Tucker, interrupting his reverie.

"Oh, I was just doing a little theological speculation." He didn't think Hank needed to hear about his uncertainties.

"Let's grab a quick bite of lunch and then get over to Irving MacGregor's office. Settle that Alex Cloud estate stuff."

Alex had been a member of St. Peter's, if not a very faithful one. And an avowed racist, particularly where Latino immigrants were concerned. Jerry remembered his surprise and twinge of guilt when he oppened the letter from the Bisbee attorney telling of Alex's bequest to the church of his classic 1949 Studebaker. The car had been Alex's most prized possession. Jerry suspected it was his only real asset. Any residue remaining in Alex's estate once his debts and the small bequest to his sister had been paid also came to the church. Alex had worked for years as foreman for Hank Tucker on his Sulphur Springs Valley ranch. He had lived where he worked and seemed to own few things. Most ranch hands spent everything they earned, and Jerry doubted that Alex had been any different. Still, St. Peter's would receive the Studebaker, which itself would probably bring several thousand dollars. That would be an enormous boon to a small congregation like St. Peter's.

"I wonder how the congregation will respond to a windfall from such a quarter."

"Don't fret, Father. There probably won't be all that much anyhow," Hank pronounced. It was his manner. "Besides, I'd say there's some real justice in this. Maybe we should use whatever money there is to help the migrants." Hank's rumbling ironic laugh seemed oddly callus. Jerry had never thought of Hank as a callus man. Conservative, yes. Callus, no. Hank also had little time for sentimentality. His conservatism was the old-fashioned kind. He could be counted on to resist innovation and at the same time to oppose anything he saw as unethical. Hank had been horrified to learn about the violent acts perpetrated against people of color by his foreman. Hank was a life-long border resident. He had a deep respect for and comfort with Latino people and culture. Indeed, his new wife was a successful Bisbee Latina businesswoman.

"Let's get that lunch. I'm starved."

 

"I—I don't know what to say." Jerry was sitting across the desk from Irving MacGregor in the Bisbee law offices of Candwright, MacGregor and Rosenberg. He had just been presented with a final accounting of the estate of Alex Cloud. Somehow the dark wood, maroon carpet and extravagant bookcase filled with leather-bound legal tomes, amplified by the lemony scent of furniture polish, were appropriate to the kind of information Jerry had just received.

"That's it, said the lawyer, stroking his handlebar mustache. "I was surprised, too. Apparently Alex was a thrifty man."

"But a quarter of a million dollars! Who would ever have thunk it," Hank said, slouching his lanky figure in the expensive straight chair. A hat line creased his full head of gray hair.

"That takes a lot of getting used to," Jerry agreed. His head spun as he tried to adjust to this new information and to imagine the many creative ways St. Peter's might find for using that much money. What a blessing. Careful thinking and a lot of conversation would be needed to use this bequest wisely and well. A real opportunity. Jerry could barely contain his excitement.

"I have the papers right here, Father. And the title to the Studebaker." MacGregor put down a file folder in front of Jerry. On top of it all he laid a ring holding two small worn brass keys. "If you will just sign right here." Jerry complied. "And here." Again Jerry signed on the designated line. "Martha," Mr. MacGregor called through the open office door. "Will you come in with the notary stuff?" Then he gathered up the papers and smiled broadly. "It pleases me to be part of something that's so clearly a happy ending to an unhappy event. You can expect that rather large check in a couple of months. I'll take care of it all." He handed over the papers for his secretary to stamp and endorse and stood up as a signal that the appointment had ended.

Jerry and Hank also stood and began to move toward the door. "Thank you so much Mr. MacGregor, Mrs. Malting," Jerry said.

"Yes, much obliged, Irving. Come on, Father Jerry, let's get a cup of coffee and see what we can make of this."

They walked out of Candwright, MacGregor and Rosenberg into the hot dry August sunshine. Not even the normal cloud buildup against the mountains, mixed with the smoke from the fire, seemed to offer any real relief from the heat. Suddenly Jerry noticed how strong the smell of burning vegetation had become, how the faint smokiness in the air had become more marked. That change had happened in the time they met with the lawyer. The wind now seemed to be coming from the southwest. That could mean a serious threat to Maddie's ranch. Suddenly Jerry felt very anxious to be away.

"I think I'll pass on the coffee, Hank," Jerry said. "I need to stop by the church for a minute. Then I have to be going." He cast a furtive glance at the horizon, half expecting to see actual flames topping the brow of the hill and racing toward the town. He saw no such thing.

"Shall we keep this bequest to ourselves until we've had a chance to think about it some?" Hank Tucker said as he pulled his Stetson down over his eyes as a shield against the bright sunlight.

"Sure Hank. I'll call you."

Jerry walked up the steps onto the front porch of St. Peter's, wondering as he went if even the bricks of the building would withstand a fire if it came. The open beam ceiling and the roof above it would be gone immediately. It made him sad to think of the old building being ravaged by the flames. Looking around at the town, at historic landmarks and the many charming storefronts, Jerry felt a pang of anticipated regret. Had he become some kind of fatalist?

Inside the church Mrs. Elspeth Findlay was just relieving Brenda Litz as keeper of the vigil. Ancient, wiry and opinionated Mrs. Findlay was the head of the church altar guild and perhaps the longest member of the parish. Some people described her as the tyrant of the sacristy. Nobody knew exactly how old she was, but everyone agreed that she had to be at least eighty. Her long career teaching English at Bisbee High left her as something of a legend throughout the county. Grown men still acted in her presence as if they expected her to rap their knuckles. Nobody actually thought she would do them physical harm any more than she ever had, but they all remembered how she had kept her unruly students in line with one of her famous glares. Nobody wanted to be the recipient of one of those. Jerry himself sometimes earned one and knew exactly how her grownup former students must still feel.

"Afternoon, Father," she said, fitting an unruly strand of gray hair into the bun at the back of her head.

"Mrs. Findlay," he said. They shook hands, expressions of due solemnity on their faces. Then they both grinned. Jerry liked and respected her, and he suspected that she reciprocated.

Brenda—or Brenda-Nellie, as she was generally known both at work and at church—was one of the partners in Nellie Cashman's Café in Tombstone. The original Nellie Cashman had founded that battered old eatery more than a century ago, back in the town's heyday. Known as the angel of the mining camps, Nellie's virtuous reputation stemmed from her rebuff of male companions and the pleasures of the town. She even refused to go into her own saloon during business hours. But like Brenda-Nellie, Nellie Cashman had a woman companion. Just like Tombstone itself, Nellie Cashman's Café had proved to be "too tough to die." Now it featured burgers to-die-for and some of the best pies in the region

"Got a minute, Fr. Jerry?" Brenda asked.

"Sure, Nellie." He relished the name joke that had both of the proprietors simply calling each other "Nellie." This was enduringly confusing to tourists and had become one of those running gags that never seemed to lose its punch. "Maybe you wouldn't mind driving me to the airport. Save me from having to ride my bike in the heat? Maddie's expecting me at her ranch to help her get some things out of there before... before, well, you know. Just in case."

"Sure, let's go. I thought you were going to get a motorcycle or something."

"I have. A Vespa scooter. It's sitting back in Tucson. I just need to get it down here."

They left the church. Jerry threw his bike into the back of her pickup. It felt like 150° inside the cab. It probably was.

"Now, I hope this isn't going to be a problem for you," she said, starting the engine and turning on the AC, "But do you remember how I told you that I'd wanted to be a deacon? When you first came here as vicar in December."

"Yes, of course I remember. You were disappointed that you hadn't heard from the Commission on Ministry or the bishop about your application and interview."

"Well, I've heard." An enormous smile broke out on Brenda's round face. A mop of henna hair framed her head like a dark red mien. "It seems they had misfiled all my materials with some of the papers from our old Tombstone church. You know, after the bishop closed it last year and then had all the files gathered up. Everything was sitting in a stack, ready to be put in the archives, and... and somebody found my stuff. Anyhow, I'm in. They said I should plan to join the two-year formation class starting in September."

"Brenda, that's great news." He reached over and squeezed her shoulder. "I guess that makes me your sponsoring priest, now, doesn't it?"

She grinned a response.

"Well, I'm delighted."

"Thanks. I do have a form for you to sign... and... and also for the members of the vestry."

"Super. I'll put it on the agenda for the next meeting." Jerry beamed, thinking about the on-going frustration of dealing with the elected representatives of the parish: technically a bishop's committee, though everybody used the universal name of vestry for it. He went on to imagine what it would be like to have an ordained deacon in Tombstone. It would give the members there a clear rallying point that wasn't divisive the way the closed church building continued to be. Closed, that is, except for being visited by tourists. It was an historic building with great charm, built by the founder of Groton School, Endicott Peabody, in one of his youthful efforts. Yes, it would be good to have a resident deacon in Tombstone. Jerry couldn't help but think how ideal it might be also to have a deacon in Bisbee as well, sort of looking after things while he went about the rest of his life in Tucson. He began to muse over who might be a likely candidate. That would take some thought. In the meantime Brenda's education and formation as a deacon would be a way of helping bring the scattered members of St. Peter's together—scattered, that is, both in geography and in loyalties. Perhaps that would help alleviate tensions between Bisbee and Tombstone residents in the small church. He could only hope that it might.

"Where do I sign?" he asked, leaving her in no doubt about his enthusiasm for her desire to be a deacon.

Brenda pointed her truck, now beginning to cool down some, toward the Bisbee airport. "But what about the vestry, Jerry? Remember, my original approval was in Tombstone, before the church was closed and the bishop invited us," she laughed with irony at the word, repeating it with emphasis, "invited us all to come over to Bisbee for church."

"I don't see why that should be a—a," Jerry began to say, when suddenly he got it. What had been worrying her.

She confirmed what he feared. "Not everybody thinks people like me, you know, queers, should be ordained, do they? The whole church seems to be coming apart at the seams over that right now. Over us."

"I don't see why it should be a problem, not really. Our bishop is supportive. But I take your point. Small towns tend to be pretty conservative. Especially about sexuality stuff." He paused. "Carrying a label isn't very comfortable, is it?"

She shook her head.

"Is this why you said that you hoped it wouldn't be a problem for me? With the vestry, I mean."

"Yes."

"You let me worry about the vestry. I'm as pleased as I can be." He sat there mentally ticking off the membership of the congregation's governing board, knowing instantly what troubled her. Of the nine elected members, at least one, Silas Ruhl, a retired Phoenix businessman, might be a real problem. And Silas wasn't known to hold his tongue. Perhaps others would be difficult, too. He didn't even know where Hank Tucker might stand on this issue. Small town congregations seldom found themselves in the forefront of the Church's thinking on anything, and issues over the ordination of homosexuals and celebrating same-sex unions continued bitterly to divide large sections of the church, both in the United States and around the world.

But Jerry wouldn't worry about that right now. He had no doubt that Brenda would make a fine deacon. Her good nature, high spirits, deep spirituality and solid common sense would be a real boon to the congregation in an ordained role. And to Jerry personally. And she certainly had loads of charisma. Added to the sudden wealth that had fallen into the parish's lap, the training of such a talented new deacon left much to think about and to plan for.

But first things first. That fire was still there, and its implications scared Jerry.