“Dad?”
“Yeah, sweetheart? How’s my girl?”
“Dad! The rooms are beautiful! I can’t thank you enough.”
“Well, that’s good, baby. That’s good. Hey, I got something to tell you that ain’t such great news.”
“What?” My heart dropped. “Is it Nonna? Is she okay?”
“Who? Nonna? Oh, no, she’s fine. It’s Marianne. She and your brother got in a little car accident and she broke off her front teeth. I tell them all the time to buckle their seat belts. But she had to sit next to him on the console of the truck, and that’s what happens. His truck hit a pothole, she hit the rearview mirror, and pow! Broke ’em right in half. It’s a sin, I’ll tell you! A sin.”
“God, Daddy, that’s awful!”
“Yep. And your brother got a black eye to boot.”
“How?”
“When she bounced back, she creamed him with her elbow. A real shiner he’s got!”
“Oh, Dad! That’s just terrible! Well, listen, give them my best.”
Okay, you know I couldn’t wait to hang up so I could laugh my guts out, which was not a very auspicious beginning for the leader of a religious pilgrimage. When we did say good-bye, I stretched out across my bed and thought about divine justice. I thought about Marianne freaking out, rushing to the emergency room and then to a cosmetic dentist or someone who took care of disasters like that. Marianne was probably in bed, in a lavender negligee with mint trim, living on Valium, painkillers and Tazo chai. Nicky was probably wearing sunglasses indoors and falling over furniture. It was too much fun to consider all the possibilities. I would have to call Mom and get the complete details of their pain and suffering. Oh, so big deal—I’d gladly do a little time in purgatory for the pleasure of a good cat session. If the rest of the trip would lift my spirits so well, I might consider staying in Mexico forever.
At about five-fifteen, I went down to the lobby to wait for the group in the Bar Caviar and ordered a glass of wine. No one was there yet. I sent an e-mail from my BlackBerry to Bomze to let him know we had arrived safely.
There were still faint streams of daylight pouring in through the large glass windows and I thought for a moment that back in New Jersey it was probably snowing like mad and black as pitch. I got a little homesick for the smells of wood fires burning, the feeling of freezing fingers in January and how the lights of New York twinkled and seemed like billions of diamonds. I remembered being very little and riding up to the top of Eagle Rock Reservation with my parents to look at the Empire State Building and how Dad lifted me up and pointed it out to me in the distance. Maybe if we could get Michael to survive another round of his treatments, I would take us there and show him the old neighborhood where I grew up. I was weary from the trip and weariness seemed to open the door to nostalgia.
“Are we the only two here so far?”
I looked around to see Father John smiling and signaling for the bartender.
“Looks like it. How’s your room?”
“Just fine. In fact, much nicer than I expected. I have a view of the Chapultepec Castle. You’ll have to thank your father for me one more time. And Mr. Bomze.”
“What will it be, Father?” the bartender said.
“Oh, white wine would be fine.”
“Put it on my tab,” I said.
“Oh, Grace, you can’t keep doing that!”
“I’m buying time off in the flames,” I said with a smile.
“Well, a glass of white wine is good for five days, but a great single malt? A year. Easy, a year.” His eyes twinkled with merriment. “Uh, Grace, I hope I didn’t bombard you with a lot of lecturing on the trip here.”
“Oh, no, Father, not at all. Actually, you happen to be the first and only priest I have ever talked to about what’s up at the Vatican since I made my confirmation. It’s been a while. I mean, your attitude isn’t really that far away from what I think anyway. The right-to-choose thing is a tough one for you, I know, but—”
“Aha! Let me ask you this, Grace. If you conceived Michael’s child right now and you weren’t married, and you knew what it would do to your parents, could you abort that child?”
“Of course not! But let me ask you this. If I was a thirteen-year-old child with Down syndrome and the father of that child was a raving-lunatic, HIV-positive homicidal escapee from a maximum-security prison who beat the tar out of me, completely violated and traumatized me and left me for dead, does God want me to have that child?”
“Good grief!”
“I wanted a worst-case scenario.”
“Wow! You sure got one!” He took a deep breath and a big sip. “Look. I think the family would be shattered over the violence. I would listen to them and try to comfort them as much as I could.”
It was a very good answer. His role was not to perform the abortion himself. His role was to counsel, advise, ask for forgiveness on their behalf and to listen. I had not asked him if abortion was all right in that situation. I had asked him where the Church stood and what he thought.
“It would be a terrible decision to have to make,” I said.
“Yes, it would.”
“We are saved by the gang!” I motioned to the bartender for the check and quickly signed it to my room. “Let’s go.”
Dinner was delicious and Miguel had been right on the money about the festive atmosphere. After we paid the bill, we walked around the plaza. People were everywhere and live mariachi and salsa music spilled out of the various restaurants and bars in the area. There was one fellow with a plump, bright yellow bird in a cage and for a mere five pesos, the bird would pick a fortune for you from a basket of small folded papers. In the square, there were Indians in full costumes of feathered headdresses, breastplates and leggings who danced nonstop. And there was a priest of some unknown faith with a pack of boa constrictors encouraging people to touch them.
“Snake handler! Holy cow! I thought they were all in the backwoods of Appalachia or something!” I said.
“Apparently not,” Father John said, and chuckled.
As I stood by the door of the bus with Father John, helping each of our travelers up the few steps, I glanced back at the basilica.
“I wish it was open,” I said, hardly believing my own words. “I can’t wait to see the image on Juan Diego’s poncho or serape or whatever you call it.”
“Tilma. You’d better watch yourself,” he said.
“Why?”
He smiled and looked into my eyes. “For several reasons. One, the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe is the most profound proof of Mary’s reality in the world. Second, her mission is to save lives and to convert millions.”
“What do you mean, save lives? You mean souls, don’t you?”
“Both. She’s pregnant in the image. So you figure it out.”
He waited for me to board the bus, but I was having a little trouble closing my jaw and moving along.
Of course the group was very tired and anxious to turn in early. So while we rode back to our hotel I gave them the plans for the morning. My hands shook as I held the itinerary and tried to read it over to make sure I hadn’t left anything out.
“Beginning at eight o’clock tomorrow, we have a complimentary continental breakfast available in the Café Royal, overlooking the Paseo de la Reforma. If you want anything more, it will be added to your bill, as will any other expenses you incur in the hotel gift shop, the bar or the minibar in your rooms. At ten sharp, we board the bus for Tlaxcala to visit the shrine of Our Lady of Ocotlán…”
I went on with my announcements, watching Father John from the corner of my eye. He was thoroughly amused because he knew that in his pragmatic way, without spouting any dogma or judgments, he had knocked at least one leg out from under the riser of doubt that held my soapbox so high in my clever world of skepticism.
Although it was only nine-thirty when we arrived back at our hotel, our body clocks read after midnight. We all squashed ourselves into one elevator, and when Fath
er John got out, he turned to me.
“You’ll have to decide for yourself, Grace. Good night, everyone.”
“I wonder what he meant by that?” someone said.
“We can talk about it tomorrow,” I said. “Here’s my floor. See you in the morning!”
I closed my hotel door behind me and leaned against it, my mind in a bit of a swirl. It should come as no surprise that I wasn’t exactly poised for conversion. I would freely admit that all the conversations I’d had with Father John were stimulating, but they only resulted in a brief visit to my positions on things. It was interesting to be in a place believed to pulsate with some unique spiritual significance. But I wasn’t on the diving board for full-time anything.
I would have said that perhaps my issues with Rome and my family were not the same as my issues with the existence of God. I just couldn’t figure out what God was. Yes, I sneaked in the occasional prayer on the off chance that somebody, some higher power, might actually be listening and forgive me for this or help me with that. If help came through, I was grateful, but you would probably never catch me in a church in Sardinia spending my last dollar to light a candle in thanksgiving. Mostly I just went on with life and didn’t think about all this sin and redemption business too much. Now suddenly I found my flippant agnostic self on a trip with a dozen devout grandparents without a single complaint and the coolest priest I had ever met. If Rome found out about Father John, they’d probably kick him out.
I got ready for bed with the next day’s journey running through my head and reminded myself to be respectful of the beliefs of the others. I would keep the skepticism well hidden and let my group enjoy the day. I decided it would be more gratifying to help old people visit a shrine than to cart a gaggle of women with too much money to a designer shopping area. But they all paid the bills and they were all basically nice, so I shouldn’t judge anyone too harshly. Besides, I liked to shop myself. Who was I kidding?
The next morning was bright and my group was just bubbling with excitement as they boarded the bus. Father John spoke to everyone as we crossed the mountains.
“I thought I would tell you a little about Our Lady of Ocotlán and the shrine of San Miguel del Milagro. Milagro is the Spanish word for ‘miracle’ and today we will visit the site of two very important miracles. In the spring of 1541, this poor native Indian, Juan Diego Bernardino, was going to get water from the Zahuapan River. The people of Tlaxcala were dying from smallpox—in fact, nine out of ten of them—and they believed the water of that river could cure their illness. So who does he run in to? A beautiful lady, who directed him to a ravine at the bottom of the hill…”
“The Blessed Mother?” one of the older ladies said.
“Who else?” Father John laughed and threw his hands in the air. “Anyway, sure enough, there’s a spring there and she tells Juan Diego to tell everyone to drink the water and they will be restored to perfect health. She also asked him to tell the Franciscans that they would find an image of her in the area.”
Father John went on to say that everyone who drank the water was cured instantly. And, of course, Juan Diego delivered the message to the friars and naturally they didn’t believe him.
“The Franciscans don’t trust anyone! Especially their household help!” Father John said, and laughed.
Priestly humor would never cut it on Leno, I thought.
“Anyway, they didn’t want the villagers to see them, so the friars sneaked out that night with Juan Diego and followed him to the ravine in the woods, and what did they find?”
No one knew, so Father John continued.
“There was one oak tree, completely ablaze from top to bottom. No other oaks, just this one tree. They marked the tree and went home to scratch their heads. The next day, a crowd followed them as they made their way back. The marked tree had shrunk but had not burned to cinders as you might expect. Juan Diego chopped it down, and inside the trunk was a statue of the Blessed Mother!”
“Get out of town!” I said. I couldn’t help it. It just slipped out.
Father John laughed at me. “Miss Russo? For your further edification, you should know that ocoti-ocote means ‘oak’ and tlatla-arder means ‘to burn,’ so Ocotlán means ‘the oak that burned.’”
“No way!” I said.
“Yes,” said Father John.
“There’s a statue of Mary in the tree? Come on!”
“Yes! In the tree! Inside the trunk of the tree.” He stared at me. I said nothing. “A full-blown statue of Mary.”
“Is this the same Juan Diego of Guadalupe? If it is, he sure did get around.”
“Different Juan Diego,” Father John said, and laughed so hard I thought he might strain something.
The whole group laughed now, delighted by my impudence. What was so funny? Did they think that this statue was undeniable, miraculous proof of Mary’s visit to this poor Indian? I was in for a ride to Religion Shock City?
“Grace? You had better brace yourself because you are in the Land of Milagro!”
“Father’s right!” someone said.
“You’ll see,” someone else said.
Consumed with resistance and belligerence, I stared out the window until we got there, and what can I tell you? If it wasn’t the Land of Miracles, it certainly was bizarre. I was told that the statue perspired and that its complexion changed from pale to deep rose. On occasion her expression changed, it was claimed. I thought it was all crazy. Then I saw the statue myself. Every hair on my body stood on end and I shivered. It was unlike anything I had ever seen.
Later on I was most certainly in some kind of a daze. Against my better judgment, I bought two bottles to fill with water from the spring and put them in my tote bag, thinking I would give one to Nonna. Then I bought two medals, two rosaries and six holy cards. Then I had the local priest bless Nonna’s rosary. I took pictures of everyone in front of the basilica for good measure and they took one of me with Father John. I took a deep breath. Something very weird was in the air. The only way to describe the feeling was that I felt safe and peaceful and less like a doubting Thomas than ever. I wasn’t sure of anything, but I liked the atmosphere very much.
When we arrived back at the hotel, the surprise of my life was waiting in the lobby. Michael. I ran up to him and threw my arms around him.
“Hey! What are you doing here now?”
“Some fancy travel agent you are! My ticket was for today and there were no other flights until next week without a huge penalty, so I came today.”
“Wait, what are you saying? That your ticket was made out for today? No, it wasn’t. I did it myself. I’m sure of it.” I was certain beyond a doubt that I had booked it correctly because this was one mistake I had never made. How could this be…
Father John walked up to us and said, “Is this the famous Michael?”
“Yes, it is!” I was grinning from ear to ear and holding his arm.
They exchanged greetings and I noticed that Michael’s luggage was on the floor next to the chair where he had been sitting.
“You didn’t check in?”
“Um, they wouldn’t give me a key to your room without you being here to okay it. I wasn’t expected for a few more days and it changes the rate and—”
“Give me your passport and driver’s license,” I said. “I’ll take care of that right now.” I looked at Father John and back at Michael. Their faces were sheepish and I could read their minds. None of us wanted to start a scandal in a place where you could feel the breath of sinners and saints on the back of your neck. “I’ll see if they have a room for you. I’m sure they will.”
Father John covered his mouth with his hand to hide his amusement and Michael blushed, staring up at the high ceiling.
“Come on, Michael. I’ll buy you a Coke while Grace works this out. Something tells me there won’t be a problem.”
“Why? Is the hotel not all that busy?”
“No, Michael, because there are no coincidences.”
“I’ll be right back,” I said, and picked up Michael’s suitcase. “I’ll meet you in the bar.”
Sure enough, there was a room available for Michael, and the reception manager gave him the group rate, for which I was grateful. I left his bag with the bell captain to deliver to Michael’s separate room and found him and Father John in the bar. They were talking a mile a minute about medical research and I devoured most of the peanuts in the bowl in front of us.
We had an early dinner with the group, and back in the bar later on, Michael and I had time to talk. He was exhausted; I could see it all over his face. It had been a long flight; I knew that. He was drinking a scotch on the rocks and I was sipping a glass of wine.
“So how are you feeling, babe?”
“Like crap,” he said. “My head’s killing me. I find that when I get overtired, I get headaches. And I ate way too much. But I’m glad to see you. How’s the trip going? Where did y’all go today?”
“Wait till I tell you this freaking story,” I said.
I gave Michael the full report on Our Lady of Ocotlán. He was incredulous.
“So what do you think?”
“Well, I’m not sure.”
Michael suppressed a large burp and said, “Where’s the men’s room?”
“Over there? You feel sick?”
He rolled his eyes, stood up and hurried away.
His cancer was definitely back. I was sure of it. I started getting upset and felt my eyes fill with tears. In the last six months I had turned into a fountain. I reached into my tote bag for a tissue and my hand hit the bottle of water from the shrine. I pulled it out and looked at it. It was just a plastic bottle in the shape of the Virgin Mary filled with allegedly miraculous curative waters. I thought about it for a moment and said to myself, Well, if it can cure a village of Indians with smallpox, one lousy case of cancer shouldn’t be too much to ask for. I unscrewed the crown from the top of her head and poured a small amount into Michael’s scotch, quickly replacing it in my bag. A few minutes later Michael reappeared looking pale and weak.
“Montezuma’s revenge?” I said.
“Yeah. Big-time. I’m gonna turn in. You got my key?”
Full of Grace Page 27
