I kept thinking about her all morning, though, and the more I thought, the more I began to waver. It had been pretty early after all when I’d spotted her, and maybe I wasn’t really wide awake yet and my eyes had played tricks on me. And it had all happened so fast that it was possible that the little drunk hadn’t been bleeding as bad as I thought. I got so wimpy that I almost decided that Marcie was right. Maybe it was all just about blood coagulating and a dirt stain or some paint slapped on by vandals, and there wasn’t anything more to it than that. But I knew for sure that Chewy had seen Mary’s face too, because she’d told me so right after we’d gotten to school that morning. And you could generally trust Chewy, a lot more than Marcie anyway.
Then during afternoon recess some big kid with eyes that looked like the bruised pears Mom was always buying at the value store asked if I’d really seen the Mother of God on an old concrete slab next to the dirty bookstore down along Main Street. I didn’t pay any attention to him at first because I thought he was just trying to make fun of me. But when he kept nagging I lost my temper and told him I’d seen Mary’s face if that was what he was getting at. Then I asked him if he wanted to make something out of it.
Right away other kids started bugging me about her too, until finally I figured out that Marcie had been blabbing all over school that the Virgin Mary had just shown up in Millridge City, which was what they still called our town even though the mills had all shut down. Then just before school let out the principal, Mr. Jones, who had a face like a starving weasel and was always picking on me for no good reason, yanked me out of Mr. O’Connor’s science class and hauled me off to his office.
I was asking him what I’d done wrong this time when he sat me down across a table from this pale, skinny guy in a white shirt with smelly sweat marks under his armpits. Right away he started asking me a bunch of questions about Mary. It turned out that he was a reporter from the local paper, and he wanted to know when I’d first seen the “Weeping Mary,” as he was calling her, and how I knew it was her, and what I thought about her and simple stuff like that.
I told him pretty much everything I knew, including about Mary patching up the little drunk’s head. The only part I left out was Chewy leading me there. I wasn’t so much afraid that Chewy would get the credit, I just didn’t want Mom getting on my case again for making up things and then dragging me off to that doctor.
“I bet I was the first person to see her too. Mary’s probably the best thing that’s ever happened to this crummy little town, don’t you think?”
I knew Chewy wouldn’t mind my bragging a little. And I didn’t really care what that nasty little drunk thought about me taking the credit for having seen Mary first. After he finished scribbling down my story, the reporter grinned and then cracked some bubble gum he was chewing on. It gave off a wet fruity smell that turned my stomach a little.
“Well, you better get your fill of her fast, kid. In a few weeks the town’s going to bulldoze the concrete down there and put in a parking garage with state and federal money. It’ll be a three-story garage too, and it’ll take plenty of workers to build. We need new jobs here in Millridge, and we’ll take them any way we can get them.”
The news stung me so fierce that at first I couldn’t breathe, much less talk. But after a few seconds the words seemed to swirl together inside my skull all on their own before flying out my mouth like a swarm of angry bees. It was a good thing too, because otherwise I wouldn’t have had a clue what to say.
“Well, maybe Mary can bring in new jobs here to Millridge too, a lot more jobs than some stupid old parking garage. Maybe that’s why she came, or at least one of the reasons.”
The reporter’s dusty little eyes burned at me for a few seconds before turning hard and bright, like glassy marbles almost. He bent down toward me so close that his nose wasn’t five inches from mine. I could even smell the ham sandwich with brown mustard and horseradish he must have eaten for lunch.
“How old are you, kid?”
“Almost twelve.”
“You’re old enough then to know better than to buy into all this religious propaganda.”
“I’m telling you the truth. I saw what I saw.”
The reporter stood up and grunted out a little laugh, like Dad used to do before making something up to bawl me out about.
“There’s no magic in this town, kid. In a few days everybody’s gonna forget about you and all this Mary silliness. But I guess I can’t blame you for wanting to be the center of attention.”
Then he took my picture and promised that it would appear on the front page of tomorrow’s paper.
“Above the fold, too,” he said, cracking his gum again. “People always love a quirky human interest story, especially when there’s a little religion mixed in.”
I got real mad at him all of a sudden, madder than I’d ever remembered being, because it seemed like he was making fun of Mary, and by making fun of Mary he was making fun of me too. But I didn’t mouth off at him or anything, what with that rat-nosed principal standing right there tossing me dirty looks.
I was so mad I forgot to ask the reporter why he’d called her the Weeping Mary. But after I thought about it a while, I figured it probably had something to do with him wanting to juice up his story a little. He’d told me that with any luck the story might get picked up by other newspapers and shoot around the whole world on the Internet. Then he said he’d have something to brag about when he tried to get a job with the big paper down in Pittsburgh, because he said with the economy being so lousy it was harder than ever to land a newspaper job. I didn’t know how Mary would take to being used like that, and I was going to try and remember to ask her about it the next time I saw her.
Chapter 2
Mom worked nights at the hospital that week, and when I got home from school she was already busy chopping up carrots for supper and told me to wash my hands and to use soap this time. Our town being so cramped and closed in, she must have already heard about Mary showing up down along Main Street, because she didn’t seem too surprised by it, even when I told her I’d been the first one to spot her. All she asked was if I wanted beets or cucumbers. I told her cucumbers, because that red vinegar in the beets always churned up my stomach.
“You should have seen how she closed up that big gash in the drunk’s head. I still don’t really know how she did it. Do you think it was magic or something?”
Mom shook her head so quick and sharp that her curly brown bangs bounced off her forehead a couple times.
“Don’t believe in superstitions, Nathan. I’m sure it’s just a water stain. It rained awfully hard last night, you know.”
“But it looks just like her.”
Mom whirled around and studied me real close, sort of the way she’d done right after Mr. Grimes called her up about me talking to Chewy. Then she shook her head, but a lot slower this time so that her bangs barely jiggled. Finally she started beating the mashed potatoes with this giant fork that she used to wave at Dad when he got too close.
“And how do you know what she looks like? She lived two thousand years ago, after all.”
It was just like Mom to ask such a dumb question.
“They have a big statue of her up on the playground at St. Sebastian’s. Everybody knows what Mary looks like.”
Mom grinned down at me like she finally had me cornered. One thing that folks seemed to like about Mom was that big smile of hers, what with all those shiny white teeth. I must have inherited my smile from Mom, because I never remembered Dad smiling much.
“And how do the people at St. Sebastian’s know what she looked like? They didn’t have cameras back when she was alive and walking the earth.”
I couldn’t believe that Mom had stumped me so easy, so I tramped upstairs to wash my hands and think it over a little more. When I came back down I told her that all the old Catholic ladies at St. Sebastian’s, like Mrs. Marcella from up our street, were always bragging abo
ut how much they loved the Virgin Mary, and I didn’t see how they’d ever put up a statue of her that wasn’t right. I said that they probably had some ancient secret picture of her stored away in the basement of the church that they were copying from. Then Mom laughed a little, and as usual when Mom started laughing I didn’t see what was so funny.
“I’m sure that in a few days it’ll all blow over. Anyway, I thought I told you to stay out of that part of town. There are far too many unsavory characters lurking about down there, what with all those awful bars.”
I didn’t want her getting me off track, since that was one of her tricks. So I told her that on the way home from school I saw a whole crowd of people pressing around the concrete steps trying to get a peek at Mary.
“We can’t all be seeing things.”
Mom stopped smiling, I guess because she was straining her wrists a little trying to scrape the mashed potatoes out of the pan and onto my plate without spilling any.
“Don’t get carried away with this Mary business, Nathan. You’ll just end up being disappointed when they put up that parking garage.”
All of a sudden I got this scared feeling rippling all around deep inside me, like sometimes when Dad used to throw his “little temper tantrums,” as Mom always called them. “I can’t believe they’d tear Mary down to put up some dumb parking garage, even if it is three stories high and they’re getting state money to pay for it. Nobody ever comes to visit this dumpy old town anyway, except for maybe some drunks up from Florida for the summer and a few relatives at Christmas and the Fourth of July.”
Mom tilted her head sideways and gave me a real soft look, like she did whenever I bashed up my knees or something.
“Don’t be upset if someone scrapes her face off the wall. There’s a lot of vandalism down there.”
I hadn’t thought about some drunk rubbing Mary’s face off the concrete, and I didn’t sleep too well that night. The next morning I was so nervous and excited that I headed straight for Mary’s lot. But nothing bad must have happened, because Mrs. Marcella and some other old chunky woman from our street were already kneeling on the bottom step right below Mary’s face. They had these black handkerchiefs wrapped over their heads that were so skimpy you could see right through them. And they were rubbing some kind of beads in their hands and praying, although I couldn’t tell what they were saying exactly because they were mostly mumbling.
I circled around to the side of the steps to get a better view and noticed that Mary had what looked like a tear on her right cheek, like she’d started crying overnight or something. At first I thought it was just a little yellow bug, because I didn’t remember any tear being there the day before. But when I reached over and tried to flick it off with my fingers, it just stayed on. Then I tried rubbing it off with my thumb, but when that didn’t work, I leaned over a little farther and studied it some more. It was just this tiny yellow speck, and there was another one under her left eye. I decided that I’d probably just missed them, being that Mary’s face there on the concrete was so new to me and all.
“That’s probably why that smart-aleck reporter called her the Weeping Mary,” I whispered to Chewy, who was sniffing Mrs. Marcella’s toes. Now that she was invisible, Chewy could get away with pretty much anything.
Mrs. Marcella cranked herself up onto her feet, sort of creaking and groaning the way old people do, and then she gave me this aren’t-you-so-cute-in your-little-blue-shorts sort of look. I backed away a step or two so she couldn’t reach out and pat me on the head.
“I’m glad to see that there is at least one young person in this God-forsaken town that appreciates sacred icons.”
I didn’t know if she was talking to me or not, so I looked behind me but didn’t see anybody. Then her friend, who had more ruts in her cheeks than any person I’d ever seen, came over and before I knew it she’d made the sign of the cross right over my chest, like Catholics are always doing to themselves. I wondered if she was putting some secret jinx on me and started wiping my hands over my chest to get it off me. But then Mrs. Marcella smiled, as sweet as an old hag like her could smile, and said that I must have found “favor with the Lord,” and that there was no telling what great things might end up happening to me. If I hadn’t been so creeped out by all those suffocating layers of perfume peeling off her and her friend and landing on my nose, I might have asked her what exactly she had in mind. Then they shuffled off, clacking at each other about one of their friends who’d just had two hip replacements right in a row, and how it was maybe the worst thing in the world.
After they were out of earshot I was about to ask Mary if she’d had those two tears yesterday, or whether something had happened overnight to upset her. But just then these dried-up old guys from St. Sebastian’s came marching down the sidewalk wheeling an old rusty metal cart, which they steered into the lot through all the weeds and shoved right up next to the steps. Then they started laying cut flowers on top of the cart and lighting candles there too, red, blue, orange and plenty of white ones. Some of the candles were fat and squat and sort of cheesy, and others were tall and tapered and kind of expensive looking for a bunch of old farts from St. Sebastian’s to be carting them around. But after stepping back and surveying the scene, I had to admit that it all looked kind of pretty if you forgot about the beer cans and gum wrappers and the other garbage lying around.
I decided to come back after school when I was hoping there wouldn’t be such a crowd. But that afternoon it was even worse. There were folks actually lining up to see her now, all the way past the chiropractic center almost to the old Laundromat that had just closed up. Some of the ones in front had cameras and were snapping pictures of their friends and relatives standing next to Mary. Others were busy fingering these little metal crosses wrapped in strings of fancy beads, sort of like the ones Mrs. Marcella had been rubbing that morning. A few people were even looking up at the sky and moaning and squealing like they had knives rolling around in their bellies, although I didn’t figure they were on drugs or anything because they were dressed too respectable for that. And instead of just some scraggly flowers lying on the cart, there were bunches of red and yellow roses and white lilies and purple and orange mums spread out all over the place, like the town was getting ready for some big funeral.
I didn’t recognize hardly any of the folks lining up to see her, and I thought they were dressed a little too fancy to all be from Millridge. One person there I knew was Carlos, who was always standing right outside St. Sebastian’s every Sunday morning greeting the people coming in. I’d see him when Mom and me drove by on the way to our church, which was about a mile farther out right where the woods took over from the town, and it was a little far for Mom to walk. I asked her once why we didn’t go to St. Sebastian’s because it was so much closer and we could save money on gas, since Mom was always griping about the bills. But she said she’d tried it one time and that it wasn’t her thing.
“Too much structure,” was about all she said.
I asked her what she’d meant by structure, and I guess she couldn’t really explain it because she told me to mind my own business. Anyway, Carlos was sitting behind a card table set up about ten feet off to the side of the concrete steps. On the table were crosses and beads and other Catholic-looking stuff that he was selling to people as they walked by. He’d take their money and drop it into this big gray tin box he had sitting right next to him, and then he’d get them to sign this long sheet of paper.
I almost went up and asked him if he was still working in the church office over at St. Sebastian’s for Father Tom, but he looked kind of busy and I didn’t want to bug him. Then he spotted me and waved me over. He smiled at me real bright too, which made me feel kind of special. According to Mom nearly everybody in town thought pretty highly of Carlos on account of the good he was always doing, helping old ladies across the street and refereeing dodge ball games on the playground and stuff like that. Then he shoved the paper at me and
handed me a pen.
“You, Nate, of all people should definitely sign the petition. If it weren’t for you, we might never have known that our Blessed Mother had deigned to pay us a visit.”
I scratched out my full name as best I could on the only blank line left on the page, handed him his pen back, and then tried to rub the blue ink off my fingers because the pen was leaking a little. I didn’t even bother reading what the petition said, because I figured Carlos knew what he was doing and wouldn’t ask me to sign anything I shouldn’t.
“You’re the chosen instrument of God’s holy purpose, Nate. How does that make you feel?”
I wasn’t too sure what he was talking about, so I just shrugged and shoved the paper back to him. Carlos laid it inside a dusty leather briefcase he had stashed under his chair, and then he pulled out another page and set it on the desk for other people to sign. Carlos seemed pretty pleased with how it was all going too, judging by how he was grunting a little and grinning and patting his belly.
“We’re trying to keep the town from putting up a parking garage and desecrating this holy spot,” he said. “I think we have a decent shot at it too, although it’ll probably take more than just a petition to save Mary. There’s money involved, after all, and that always warps people’s minds a little.”
Then he told me that I was a sharp little guy for spotting Mary and that I’d go far some day. I decided I’d try and remember to tell that to Mom, because she was always saying how if I didn’t straighten up and fly right I’d grow up to be just like Dad. Then Carlos leaned over the table, eyed me real close for a few seconds, and finally began talking so low and hushed that he was almost whispering.
“You don’t happen to remember who that little drunk was or where he went after Mary fixed him up?”
An Imperfect Miracle Page 2
