The Miracle Stealer

by Neil Connelly

  “What do you need a car for?” he asked.

  He was anxious, no doubt, concerned that this might be the first step in my fledgling career as a kidnapper. But the question was inevitable, one my mother would surely ask too, so I had a lie ready. “Getting back and forth to Lock Haven. I’ll come home some weekends, help out around the compound.”

  There was a pause while Jeff decided whether or not to believe me. “Can’t do much on a Sunday,” he said. “Nobody’s open. How about tomorrow?”

  “You’re not too busy getting set for Paradise Days?” Opening festivities were scheduled for the end of the week.

  “My dad can do without me for a few hours.”

  Jeff said he’d come by for me about ten and we hung up. I know as much about cars as Jeff does, probably more. If he had guessed that I was lying about needing his help or my reason for wanting a car, I couldn’t tell. The truth of course was that any car I did get had no chance of ever making it to Lock Haven, or anywhere else other than McGinley’s Cove. As far as Jeff goes, I just wanted to see him.

  Monday morning when Jeff pulled in, Daniel and I were on the front porch, studying a spiderweb we’d found in the railing.

  “There’s a fly all wrapped up,” Daniel told Jeff. “But we can’t find the spider.”

  “Maybe he’s taking a walk.”

  My mother came out, holding her third cup of coffee with two hands and blowing across the top of it. Jeff snatched off his Penn State baseball cap and nodded earnestly. “Morning, Mrs. Grant.”

  “Hello, Jeff. It’s good to see you again.” Her voice was sincere, and I could tell she was pleased that Jeff, a stabilizing force in the life of her erratic daughter, had reappeared on the scene.

  “Don’t buy anything today,” my mother said to me. “I may be able to help you out.”

  “I don’t need any money,” I told her. Over the last few years, between my time at the Gazetteer and handyman jobs around town, I’d saved up nearly a thousand dollars, plenty for a car with the minimal requirements I needed.

  “Have you thought about the insurance?” she asked. “You’ll have to pay that every month.”

  Daniel scooted down the steps, away from the tension, and Jeff flopped his hat back on his head as he followed. I hadn’t considered insurance because I wouldn’t need the car for more than a week, and given my true intentions, I was pretty sure taking out insurance would be fraud. But I couldn’t tell her that. “I’ll get a part-time job up at school,” I said.

  “You should focus on your classes,” my mother said. “You buy the car. I’ll pay for the insurance.”

  I cocked a sideways glance at her, wondering what she was up to. The night before, she’d tried to talk me out of the whole thing, telling me I should save the money, that she and Daniel could drive up and get me whenever I wanted. Now she seemed eager to help. I didn’t say no, but we both understood my silence to mean I accepted her offer. Staring over my shoulder and holding her coffee, my mother smiled. I turned and together we watched Daniel and Jeff peeling bark from a fallen branch, searching for signs of life.

  As we rolled north on Roosevelt Road, Jeff suggested that we drive up to Hawley or even the Auto Mile over by the mall in Scranton. I explained that dealerships are rip-offs, then unfolded a week-old Gazetteer classifieds page from my back pocket. I’d highlighted a half dozen cars for sale, all local, and already called to get the addresses. Jeff kept his eyes on the road and was quiet, and I realized only then that I might have hurt his feelings. Guys, I’ve figured out, like to be the ones who make decisions. Maybe he’d had some bigger plan, like getting something to eat at the Applebee’s in Hawley. We’d driven there once during my sophomore year, just after Jeff got his license.

  “How about we just hit a few of these first?” I offered. “Then get some lunch and go from there?”

  Nobody but me would have noticed the slight smile this brought out, but I could tell that, indeed, he saw our time together as a kind of date, and if I’m to be honest, I guess I did too. “Sounds good,” he said. “Where to?”

  The first two addresses were both busts. Fred Shoemaker’s Volvo, hiding sheepishly in his garage, needed headlights and a brake job. At the second stop, Marty Kipplewick showed us his mom’s Ford, in pristine condition except for the huge V in the front bumper. Mrs. Kipplewick was slowly losing her eyesight to macular degeneration, and she apparently hadn’t seen a fire hydrant when she went to park on the grass at a garage sale. While Jeff and I inspected her car, she stood in a window on the second floor of her home, looking down on us with a neck brace and no expression. I wondered if she could see us at all.

  The route to the third house brought us alongside one edge of Roosevelt Park, and through the pines I could make out plenty of activity on the great lawn. In the far parking lot, by the hookups for the RVs, that white school bus sat like a sphinx. I felt the urge to tell Jeff about the reverend with the hiking boots and the full extent of my plans. But he was the one who spoke. Apparently noticing where my attention was focused, he said, “Folks around town are calling them Pilgrims.”

  I turned to him. “Calling who Pilgrims?”

  “The ones living in the park.”

  He looked at me and I stared back.

  “I figured you’d heard about this. At first, everybody thought they were just the usual early bird potheads in town for the festival, or some of the New Agers who can’t get enough of the fairy fort. But that’s not the case, according to the crowd up at the Dog Bar last night.”

  “Spit it out, would you?”

  “A lot of those people camped out in the park, the Pilgrims—they came here on account of Daniel.”

  I whispered, “Shit,” and looked back at the field, though now it was far behind us. “How many are there?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Some say a hundred. They’re going into the lake, Andi. Baptizing themselves.”

  “Hang on now. Who’s saying all this?”

  “Candace Hoffstetler. And Tommy.”

  In high school, Candace started a rumor that she was pregnant just to get some attention. As for Tommy Wirkus, if he was at the Dog Bar, he was drinking and probably trying to hit on Candace. “Sounds like a bunch of crap to me. Freaking Pilgrims.”

  “Tommy heard it from Volpe. She’s been down there to the park and talked to them.”

  I scratched my forehead. Maybe kidnapping Volpe would solve my problems. “Now I believe this story even less.”

  “Don’t snap at me. I’m just telling you what I heard.”

  I told Jeff I just wanted to get on to the next car.

  Frank Dettweiller, a semiretired plumber, was riding his red lawn mower back and forth across his lawn when we pulled up. He wore a white paper mask for his allergies. When he saw us, he cut the engine and pulled the white mask down off his face, so it hung like a weird necklace. “Hey there, hey there!” he shouted as he waved.

  Jeff and I walked up the hill through the freshly cut grass and the clippings clung to our sneakers.

  “Looking for some wheels, huh?” Mr. Dettweiller said to us.

  “Like I said on the phone,” I told him.

  He led us around the side of his house, and when I saw the car parked in the driveway, I knew our search was over. It was a blue Buick Skylark, huge and square and ugly, the last of the gas-guzzler armada from the mid-eighties. The right front quarter panel was green and the hubcaps were mismatched. Frank said, “She’s got a hundred and eighty thousand miles on her and the AC is busted. The radio only gets AM and the clutch is a bit finicky.”

  “I hope those aren’t the good points,” Jeff said.

  I ran my hand along the side of the car, sensing her pride and strength. The front was a massive grille with a bumper big enough to sit on. This car was exactly what I needed, a battering ram on wheels.

  Jeff popped the hood and began inspecting the engine. “Where’d this relic come from?”

  Frank wiped the gathering sweat from his forehea
d. “She was my big brother’s, lived down in Bethlehem. Damn cirrhosis finally caught up to him. She was sitting in his garage for years, and I’ve got no use for her. Runs pretty good.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” Jeff said, and he and Frank exchanged solemn nods.

  I opened the front door and settled in behind a steering wheel that looked swiped from a pirate ship. Jeff slammed the hood and shrugged, suggesting he’d seen nothing that concerned him. Frank gave me a thumbs-up and I reached for the single key in the ignition. The engine roared to life like an airplane’s, and the seat beneath me rattled. The car felt alive, and eager.

  Jeff, still acting like he was in charge, must have seen the shine in my eyes and asked Mr. Dettweiller what he wanted for it. The old man wiped the sweat from his brow, shrugged. “Say, eight hundred dollars.”

  Jeff didn’t say anything. I just gripped the wheel and pictured the steep stretch of road that leads down to the Lookout over McGinley’s Cove. Mr. Dettweiller said, “That price is negotiable, but she’s a solid car.”

  Through the open window, I asked if we could take it out for a test drive. Before he could answer, Mr. Dettweiller sneezed and pulled a handkerchief from his pocket. While he wiped at his nose, Jeff said, “Before we could make an offer, we’d want Lute to take a look at it too, give it a once-over.”

  Given my intentions, it never occurred to me to have the car inspected. But I couldn’t explain that to Jeff. Mr. Dettweiller came around and stuffed the hanky back in his pocket. He knelt down in the dirt, bringing his face level with mine. “Of course, of course. Whatever you guys need. Take her for a spin, get the old girl out on the road. No rush at all. Truth is, nobody else has even called about her.”

  “I appreciate the favor.”

  “It’s no trouble, Anderson,” he said. And here he reached through the window, patted me on the shoulder. “Anything for you and your family.” I turned and looked into those red-rimmed eyes and I remembered seeing Mr. Dettweiller up at the UCP, squeezing his eyes tight in prayer.

  Fifteen minutes later, I swung the Skylark into the parking lot of Victorio’s and parked beside Jeff. “How’s she ride?” he asked me when I got out.

  I told him the truth. “That clutch is a bitch. But the brakes are good and she hugs the asphalt pretty tight, especially on the curves.”

  “Hard for something this big not to. That sucker’s half tank. Probably gets three gallons to the mile.”

  I laughed and we headed inside. When we pushed through the double glass doors, a few heads turned and a sort of hush seemed to come over the place. Some people stared right at us. Just about everybody in town knew Jeff and I had once been a kind of couple. At the counter, Jeff ordered two plain slices. I got a Caesar salad. While they started on our food, we took a booth in the back. Jeff asked, “You want to run it by Lute’s, see if he can’t kick the tires?”

  I noticed our table hadn’t been wiped down and pinched some napkins from the mirrored dispenser. “I guess so.”

  “It’s not worth eight hundred dollars.”

  “Mr. Dettweiller’ll take six.” The way the old man looked at me back in that driveway, I didn’t doubt that he would take even less, but I didn’t feel good about trading on Daniel’s reputation.

  “Probably so. Just be sure that it’ll get from Lock Haven back to Paradise. Lots of steep hills between here and there.”

  The table was clean now, but I kept pushing the napkins around in slow circles. I wondered how far it was from Penn State to Lock Haven, if Jeff would like me to drive over and visit him some weekends. Then I caught myself and realized that my mind was slipping. I was indulging my own cover story, imagining the car beyond the next week. I was about to ask Jeff if I should take twelve credits or fifteen my first semester when a large figure came up beside our table. “Tell me something good,” Gayle said.

  From the grin on her face, I could tell she was pleased to have caught Jeff and me together. She held a white paper bag, and I knew she’d called ahead for lunch like she always did. I wondered what the grease stain on the bottom meant for her diet.

  “What’s happening?” Jeff asked.

  “The usual this time of year. I’m already sick of Paradise Days and the damn thing didn’t even start yet,” she said. “College filling your head with radical ideas?”

  He nodded. “Just like it’s supposed to.” He excused himself to go fetch our food.

  After a brief silence, Gayle turned to me. “Daniel doing okay?”

  “For now.” I looked over at Jeff, who was behind a guy arguing about his order. “Did you hear this B.S. about Pilgrims down in the park?”

  Gayle shifted the bag from one hand to the other. “I saw a bunch of out-of-towners heading into the woods the other day, up by the fairy fort. Albert Crawford told me some of them have come to be made whole.”

  “Made whole?”

  “That’s the term Albert says they’re using.”

  I ripped my napkin in half without realizing I was tugging on it. “Any chance these Pilgrims came in with a wacko in a white bus?”

  Gayle shook her head. “Bus belongs to Leonardo Castille. Went by the name Reverend Castle, the Fortress of Christ, when he ran the fire-and-brimstone circuit in western P.A. and Ohio long time back. In his prime, he was a certified Bible-thumper, but apparently he’s mellowed with age. I thought I might track him down for an interview, but I’m swamped. You interested?”

  Jeff returned, carrying a red tray.

  “No,” I told Gayle. “I’m steering clear of crazy people.”

  Gayle smiled. “Girl, you’re in the wrong town for that.”

  Jeff laughed and set out our plates and drinks. “Come sit with us,” he said to Gayle.

  For a second, she and I looked at each other, then she said, “No, I’ve got to get back. I’m a bit shorthanded these days.”

  Jeff said it was good to see her, and Gayle turned to go. But then she stopped and looked back. “Take care of yourself, Andi.”

  “You too,” I said. Then I stabbed a straw into my soda and looked away, not wanting to see her go.

  Jeff said, “Something wrong with Gayle?”

  I just started eating.

  Jeff and I returned to Mr. Dettweiller’s to tell him about the inspection Lute had done, which gave the car a relatively clean bill of health. Mr. Dettweiller shrugged and said, “So you interested?”

  “Probably so,” I told him. “But I need to sleep on it. Could I keep her till tomorrow?”

  Jeff’s head swung left and he stared at me. Eager to please, Mr. Dettweiller agreed and said he’d see me in the morning. “Take good care of her,” he said, then swabbed his red, tearing eyes.

  As Jeff and I walked back toward the cars, he said under his breath, “What do you need with that car overnight?”

  “Nothing in particular,” I said. “Just something I felt like doing.”

  Jeff stopped walking. “It’s not much fun being lied to, you know?”

  Of course, I hadn’t been truthful with Jeff about a lot of things that day, so I couldn’t blame him. But I also couldn’t think of how to start explaining. We stood there without talking for a minute, then Jeff said, “Catch you later,” and climbed into his car. He left me there in Mr. Dettweiller’s driveway, feeling bad for lying to him and worse because I couldn’t follow. But now that I had a likely vehicle for my Anti-Miracle Plan, I was ready to get to work on the other ingredient of my hoax: a pint or two of blood.

  When I left Cohler’s, holding a plastic bag sagging with supplies, I didn’t head straight home. Instead I found myself cruising the lake on Roosevelt Road, pretending that the Skylark was mine and contemplating the places I could go. I found a decent country station on the AM and cranked the windows down, let the wind work through my hair. Over at the Abernathys’, I saw my mother’s truck and a dozen other vehicles, some with out-of-state plates. A small crowd had gathered under the Grandfather Elm. Since I didn’t slow down, I couldn’t say for sure
how many I could or couldn’t recognize, but that didn’t mean they were Pilgrims.

  I passed the country club, then crossed beneath the dam and turned north. Ten minutes later I slowed to navigate the hairpin curve over McGinley’s Cove, then downshifted to encourage the Skylark up the steep incline that leads to the highest point in Paradise. At the apex I paused, but I couldn’t do what I needed to do next in broad daylight. Besides, I didn’t have a hacksaw.

  I thought about driving all the way down into Roosevelt Park, confronting the black-booted Reverend Castle and the Pilgrims and whoever else wanted to make Daniel a small god. Maybe I’d even ask around about a thin, skinny guy with a perpetual itch. But I had a solid plan and I needed to stick to it. So I returned to the compound, knowing I could make good use of the time alone. I was pretty sure my mother would be home by dinner.

  When I was a child, I remember being afraid of the toolshed. It sits off by itself in a corner of our property, leaning slightly under the weight of years. Pine needles cover the roof. It looks like a fine place for a witch to live, especially if you’re a little girl. As I got older, my dad and I spent many hours in it as he taught me how to handle the tools, how to sharpen a mower blade and clean a paint-brush by spinning it in your hands. Together we built birdhouses and a swing for Daniel and even the Adirondack chairs on the front porch. Now I carried my plastic Cohler’s bag to the shed, wondering for a moment what he’d think of my latest project.

  Inside the shed, the naked lightbulb that hung from the ceiling was dead. I made do with the dingy sunlight forcing itself through the dirty windows, which barely reached the cobwebbed corners. I shuffled past the riding mower and the busted ten-speed bike, then cleared a space on my dad’s worktable, shoving aside the mechanical guts of a leaf blower I’d taken apart but never reassembled. Before me, I laid out the contents from the bag: a tiny bottle of red dye, a couple cans of tomato paste, and barbecue sauce. For pure gross factor, I’d even bought a jar of raspberry jelly. From the rickety shelves behind the shovels and rakes, I dug out a box of dried blood that we used to ward skunks away from a strawberry garden that never took hold. Having no luck finding anything like a bowl, I dumped the rusty nails from a Folgers coffee can. Remarkably, it didn’t leak when I poured in some water, and I began experimenting with different recipes, stirring my concoctions. Really, it seemed like I should be adding in lizards and bat wings.