The doctor in the church pulled Julie away from Father Romy. The doctor asked him where he was, what the date was, what his name was, but he would just grunt. Then he became completely unconscious.
“He’s dead,” said one man. “No point going to the hospital,” said another. But the doctor insisted on calling an ambulance. The ambulance came, but was delayed because of the traffic.
Romy did not regain consciousness until he was in the Emergency Room. He saw that they were all around the bed – Julie, his cousin Gerry, his sister Yoly, and six doctors all shouting orders to three nurses scampering like terrorized schoolchildren in the background.
Julie was hysterical. “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry,” she kept repeating.
There’s a pulse, said one doctor. He’s alive, said another.
Julie hugged him. “I’m sorry, darling,” she kept whispering.
It took a week before Romy could speak. The stab wounds still hurt, but he could now move his limbs.
All that time, Julie stayed by his bedside. Romy could not speak, but he could hear her talk about not seeing another man ever again.
On the television set, there was news about an unidentified man being killed by two men riding in tandem. Julie hardly looked up.
Six months later, Romy and Julie went on the pilgrimage they had been talking about for years. It was really more of a honeymoon than a pilgrimage.
They would spend the day on their knees in some church or other in Santiago de Compostela. At night, they would spend hours making love. Julie could not believe that Romy was even more vigorous than Frankie.
Soon, Julie forgot about Frankie. She also forgot about the troubles in her school. In fact, she forgot everything else except this reignited love for her husband.
The angels resumed their work, happy that everything was as it should be in heaven and on earth, with people dying when they were supposed to.