Note: This is an excerpt from Sage Vogel’s new book of stories, Dichos en Nichos. It was made possible by the author and the book’s publisher, University of New Mexico Press. The book is now available.

La comunión del chisme/Talk of the Town

By Sage Vogel | Artwork by Jim and Christen Vogel

This is an excerpt from Sage Vogel’s new book of stories, Dichos en Nichos. It was made possible by the author and the book’s publisher, University of New Mexico Press. The book is now available.

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“Pick up your feet, Elique,” Guadalupe Fernández told her son, pulling him by the hand toward the church. “I don’t want you getting your shoes all covered in dust. You need to look presentable.”

“Ay mamá, I won’t get them dirty. Let me go, suéltame,” Elique said, struggling to pull himself free.

“If you don’t start behaving I’m going to have you spend another Saturday with Padre Pablo,” she said, holding firm.

“Leave the boy alone, Lupe,” Guadalupe’s husband Ramón told her, his tone leaving no room for debate. She let go of their son, who promptly ran off, kicking up as much dust as he could as he went. Ramón had been walking a few steps ahead of them, observing the townsfolk as they made their way toward the church’s open doors. His eyes swept back and forth over the other churchgoers.

The sounds of a welcoming hymn, with a guitar, double bass and organ accompaniment, were wafting out from the interior of the church. Father Pablo, round, bald, and smiling, stood outside the entrance, nodding to every member of his congregation and shaking hands with the men as they went inside.

Jim Vogel, Talk of the Town, 2020, six oil on canvas panel vignettes, 17 x 6 in. Antique lantern frame by Christen Vogel, 33½ x 16 in

“Look, Lupe,” Ramón suddenly hissed at his wife, reaching back to take her arm and pull her closer. “There’s that Anglo who’s been buying up all those plots in el cañoncito.”

“How do you know that’s him? He could be just another tourist.”

“No, I saw him up there the other day. He had a crew. He’s building a house right off the river. A big, ugly thing.”

Lupe nodded, then tilted her head and squinted at her husband.

“And what were you doing up there?”

Ramón let go of his wife’s arm and began walking toward the church again.

“Ándale, we’re going to be late,” he said over his shoulder. “Where’s Elique? I told you to watch him.”

Guadalupe glared at her husband’s back for a moment before spotting one of her peers, María Rosabel, and morphing her face into a huge, toothy smile.

“Rosabelita! ¿Cómo estás?” Guadalupe said with exaggerated enthusiasm, earning a similar response.

“¡Bien, bien, Lupita! Ven, let’s find a pew near the front and sit together.”

Soon the congregation was all gathered inside. The doors were shut and mass began. From outside, the muffled sounds of music, prayer, and sermon were mostly unintelligible, aside from the occasional collective “amen.” A lone figure shuffled down the street, Premitivo Baca, looking especially disheveled today. He almost looked relieved when he saw the church’s closed doors. He slumped down in the shade of an old tree nearby and pulled a brown bottle from his pocket. This wasn’t the first time he’d attended service from a distance.

Premitivo did his best to say “amen” in time with the others, and even planned on sipping his personal sacrament when it was time, but after about fifteen minutes he fell asleep and had to commune directly with God in his dreams instead. A mockingbird roosting in the canopy above his head began to mimic the sound of his snoring.

When mass had concluded and the congregation exited the church, the next phase of Sunday rituals began: La comunión del chisme, The Communion of Gossip.

Some observers of this ritual returned to their homes to partake in private, but others found it more convenient and productive to loiter near the church in small, semi-isolated huddles. Ramón and Guadalupe were of this latter group, and this week they’d found a most advantageous spot. They positioned themselves near the tree where Premitivo still slept, for just around the corner was the home of Alcarita Romero, known by many to be the matriarch and most-esteemed elder of this time-honored, talk-of-the-town tradition.

Every Sunday after mass Alcarita would hurry inside her home and take her customary position leaning out of its only southern window. There, in her makeshift oratory, she awaited her communicants. Her most pious devotee, Oralia López, was almost always the first to approach, and this week she had hurried over even quicker than usual. Guadalupe and Ramón leaned against the wall together and listened in.

“…Está loco, totalmente loco, puro zafado. Encuera’o en la called otra vez,” Oralia was saying. “That old drunk’s not right in the head. He’s dangerous.”

Alcarita offered a dismissive yawn and muttered, “Anyways…”

“Anyways… I saw a man sneaking by my house on Thursday night,” Oralia said, trying a fresh topic.

“Dime todo,” Alcarita hissed, leaning closer.

“It was very late. I couldn’t sleep because of mi rodilla, you know,” Oralia began.

“I know, pobrecita,” Alcarita sympathized.

“And I saw him from my window, all hunched over, like a little coyote, muy vergonzoso. I was afraid for my life. So, very quietly, I went out on my porch to get a better look.”

“Who was it?”

“I can’t be sure. He was wearing a big hat. He was a strange-looking man with an odd way of walking. I can’t think of who it might be.”

Alcarita tutted, clearly disappointed.

“Pero, he didn’t go far. He cut across the old Gallegos place—”

“I heard Clemencia is going to sell it, a final,” Alcarita interjected.

“To who?”

“That young pareja. Ese Arturo, the joven with the job on the hill, and his esposita que está encinta.”

“Yyy, well that’s nice. Better than more land going to that frastero from who knows where.”

“Anyways.”

“Anyways, I lost sight of him, but then he came back. Acompaña’o.”

“Who was he with?”

Oralia inhaled to generate some suspense. Then said, “María Rosabel.”

Around the corner Ramón covered Guadalupe’s mouth to stifle an involuntary gasp.

“Cornelio and Catarina’s youngest,” Alcarita verified.

“That’s the one. I had to sneak into el huerto to watch them. I hid behind the tomatoes. Alcarita, no me vas a creer, you won’t believe this.”

“Dime amiga.”

“Oh, it’s disgraceful.”

“Don’t worry, Oralia, I won’t tell a soul.”

Oralia crossed herself before she continued.

“I saw them… kissing. Just out there on the porch, desgracia’os.” “And then?”

“Oh, Alcarita, it felt wrong to watch, but I was in shock and could not look away, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Well… They began to…Acariciarse, all over.”

“¡Que vergüenza! Did he undress her and have his way with her?”

Oralia fanned her hands at the beads of sweat popping up on her forehead.

“No, not completely, he lifted her dress y, y, y la tocó—he touched her, and he—oh, it was so horrible, he defiled her, con la boca, Alcarita. God forgive me for saying such things. And on a Sunday!”

“He does, Oralia. God forgives you. You’ve done nothing wrong.”

“Ay, no sé. I didn’t move, I was afraid they would hear me. And it went on for such a long time, I couldn’t believe it.”

The women paused for a moment to recover, reflect, and relish. Two of Alcarita’s chickens wandered over, clucking to one another about similarly semiprivate affairs.

On the other side of the house, Ramón and Guadalupe were having a hushed but intense conversation.

“Rosabel is seeing a man in secret!” Guadalupe said. “And sinning with him!”

Ramón shook his head, his face a smiling mask of prideful contempt.

“I never would have thought Rosabel was una hombrera,” Guadalupe said truthfully. “I can’t believe she didn’t tell me. We’re such good friends,” she lied.

“Rosabel’s a what?” Elique asked loudly as he walked up to his parents.

“Shhh!” They hissed at him in unison, worried Oralia and Alcarita might hear them.

“Quítate, Elique, your father and I are speaking about something important,” Guadalupe said, waving her son away.

Elique shrugged and turned around, spotting Premitivo in the shade of the old tree nearby. A devilish smirk swept over his young, innocent-looking face. Ramón and Guadalupe continued.

“I could have told you that,” Ramón boasted. “All women have this potential to sin. It’s in the Bible, it started with Eve.”

Guadalupe’s expression switched in an instant from disbelief to anger. “Oh, ¿sí? Eve or Evelinda, Ramón?”

Ramón huffed, shrugged, and looked away. “What are you even talking about?”

Guadalupe poked her husband in the chest and took a step closer to him.

“You know what I’m talking about. Pendejo.”

“I really don’t, Lupita,” he said, holding his hands up and taking a step back.

“Then what were you doing up in the cañon, mentiroso? Let me guess, just picking flowers? Pues, where are my flowers?”

“Lupita, please, you’re acting crazy.”

Guadalupe took another step forward and gave Ramón another poke in the chest, pushing him another step back.

“What’s crazy is I’m still married to you after all you’ve put me through,” Guadalupe’s voice rose. “You think you’re so sneaky, running around with that mancornadora. Well I’m sick of it.” She poked him again. “You sinvergüenza vicioso.” Poke. “No vale verga.” Poke. “Borracho, malcri’o, mujeriego.” Poke, poke, poke, then she pushed him with both hands. “¡Hijo de puta!”

For a moment there was silence. Ramón and Guadalupe realized at the same time that they had strayed from their hiding place around the corner and were suddenly in full view of Alcarita and Oralia. They froze in place as they processed the inevitable consequences of having a marital quarrel witnessed by the village’s biggest gossips. —