Between Before and After

by Maureen Doyle McQuerry

  “All I did, Molly, was pray. I didn’t even give it much thought. Then God did something big. He made one of my student’s tumors go away.” He was quiet for a minute. “Completely away.” And he shook his head. “What it means is that the church is going to investigate to see if this is a real miracle. You might hear things that are confusing, things about me.”

  “What kind of things?” I asked.

  But Uncle Stephen kept on talking as if I hadn’t said a word. “The important part to remember is that Robert is healed.” Then he deflated as if he was a helium balloon that had run out of air, and sat down abruptly on his teaching stool.

  “But will you be doing more miracles?” I dearly wanted to see him do something miraculous right in front of us.

  “We don’t choose when or how miracles happen. God does. Period.” I felt rebuked enough to keep my mouth shut for the next few seconds.

  “How do they prove it?” Angus looked up for the first time. His red eyebrows were furrowed in the way that told me he was working something out in his head and had been listening all along.

  Uncle Stephen cleared his throat again. His long, bony hands hung over the edge of his knees. “The verification of miracles includes some pretty specific rules. There are investigators who certify that something inexplicable took place, and then the case goes on to a panel of bishops and cardinals, the Roman Congregation.” He checked to make sure we were following along. I nodded my head like any good student would.

  “Here’s the part you’re interested in, Angus—it must be scientifically inexplicable. A healing miracle requires that the person couldn’t have survived otherwise. The prognosis prior to the event has to be fatal.”

  Angus looked as if he understood exactly what Uncle Stephen meant. But despite my nods, all that I could think about was Uncle Stephen telling me that good stories, the ones that really mattered most, leave room for miracles. Did he know that a miracle would change the story of his life? This miracle was also changing Robert Crater’s life. It seemed to me that a miracle changed the trajectory of any story it touched. And then I thought again about levitation and invisibility cloaks. Surely those were miracles too, changing what was possible? The more I thought, the more tangled up I got.

  “Does it include breaking natural laws like gravity?” Angus had that gleam he got when he was on to something.

  Outside the window I could see a lemonade stand across the street with a cardboard sign and two little kids. For those kids, it was an ordinary summer day. But we had left ordinary territory far behind.

  “Well, remember that a miracle has to be something totally outside our ability to produce or contrary to the way nature usually acts. It breaks the natural laws because God has interfered.”

  Angus persisted with his gravity questions. “Like a man flying, without an airplane.”

  Uncle Stephen stared at him for a minute, like he didn’t know what to say.

  “I guess if a person flew without any kind of aircraft, it might be miraculous. Not all miracles have to do with healing people. Remember Saint Paul on the road to Tarsus?”

  I did, because Uncle Stephen had told me the story at least a dozen times.

  “Molly, Angus, the reason I’m telling you all this is because I may have people asking me questions, and it’s possible they could ask you questions too.” He shook his head again.

  “What kind of questions?” He hadn’t answered the last time I asked. This time I wasn’t going to let it go.

  “Things about our family, about me or your mother. You’re not required to give anyone information. In fact, it would be better if you didn’t.”

  “I don’t see what that has to do with whether or not it was a real miracle.” I knew my uncle Stephen never lied. If he claimed the boy was healed, we didn’t need any investigators to prove it.

  “I’m not sure I understand it all myself.”

  I thought about the blue car that watched our house. Maybe it was one of the miracle investigators Uncle Stephen talked about. I was ready to ask, but there was another question that needed answering first.

  “And you’ll be making more trips to New York?” I tried to keep my voice as neutral as I could, but I was thinking about my unanswered ad in the Times and about his promise to take me with him next time.

  Uncle Stephen looked at me strangely.

  “Now, it’s funny you should mention that. I thought I would have to go back to the diocese where I was confirmed, but I was told a few minutes ago that all the investigations can happen right here, for now.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “But what do people in a place like San Jose know about miracles? There aren’t any miracle investigators in San Jose!” I realized my voice had gotten louder, but somehow I couldn’t stop.

  My trip to New York—the one place where Mom’s secrets were hidden, where my own future as a writer might begin—was slipping away before it even got started. I knew I was acting younger than Angus, but the wave of disappointment was so strong it towed me right under.

  “Molly, that’s enough.” Uncle Stephen’s hand was on my shoulder and even Angus was staring at me with an incredulous expression.

  I couldn’t help it; tears leaked from my eyes.

  “Molly, you’re spoiling everything!” Angus’s voice shook.

  I watched through gummy eyes as he turned to Uncle Stephen and asked, “Do you think performing miracles might run in families?”

  Chapter Twenty

  A LIBRARY JOB

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA—JULY 1955

  Molly

  The investigation started the first week in July. It was the same week Uncle Stephen was politely told to move out of his apartment by his landlord. Just ’til this blows over, the landlord said, not quite meeting my uncle’s eyes. Can’t have the other tenants disturbed. Miracles make people uncomfortable.

  How he discovered news of the investigation, we never knew. My uncle took up residence on our couch. I could tell by the set of Mom’s face that she was worried, but he was her brother; she would never say no to him.

  Two miracle investigators—Fathers Rickard and Pasquali—arrived by car after flying into San Francisco. Uncle Stephen greeted them at our front door. They wore dark suits and white shirts with clerical collars. Rickard was very tall and had a long neck like a giraffe. Pasquali was wide and dark like a penguin. That’s how I’d think of them, Giraffe and Penguin.

  We collected in a curious knot right inside the front door: Mom, Angus—in his bathing suit because it was Wednesday and on Wednesday he had swimming lessons—me, and Uncle Stephen.

  “It’s an honor to meet Stephen’s family.” Penguin extended a short, thick arm. I tried not to think of flippers.

  Mom took his hand and nodded.

  “Are you going to question my uncle now?” Angus, as I have mentioned, had no discretion.

  Giraffe tipped forward so that his face bobbed over Angus. “We’ll spend the day with your uncle discussing certain events. Tomorrow we will meet with the family of the boy.”

  Mom thrust her sunglasses on her face. I was sure I heard a snort. “We have to be going.” She opened the door.

  “If you’re going to do any more miracles, can you wait until I get back?” Angus threw Uncle Stephen a pleading look as Mom dragged him out the door.

  Penguin turned to me. “Molly, we especially look forward to chatting with you.”

  An alarm pinged inside me, and I cast Uncle Stephen a look that was supposed to say, “Help me out here,” but he merely nodded and followed the investigators to the shiny rental in the driveway. Two things bothered me: When Penguin smiled, he wasn’t very penguin-like at all. He was more like a she lion stalking her prey. And Uncle Stephen hadn’t smiled once all morning. That was something that had never happened before.

  It was almost nine o’clock, and I had the house to myself for a good hour. I’d taken swimming lessons too when I was Angus’s age, but Mom had given up on me pretty fast. No
matter how hard I tried, I could never get comfortable putting my face in the water and turning my head side to side to breathe. Angus took to the water much better than I did. Today, I was glad to be left behind. I went to my bedroom, collected the cigar box from under my bed, and opened it. The notes I’d written were right on top. To the paltry list of clues about my mom’s life I’d added two significant pieces of information: her brother is a miracle worker (because he healed a boy dying of a tumor) and Wallabout Market.

  It wasn’t enough to have random clues. They had to add up to useful information. Or better yet, a story that would explain how everything was connected. There was still no response from my classified ad, so I picked up the photo of the newspaper headline for Woodward School. If I couldn’t go to New York myself, I would start from this. But the research was a library job. Not the pink San Jose Public Library bookmobile that showed up on the corner of our street once a month, but the main library downtown that used to be the San Jose post office.

  The phone jangled me from my thoughts. I dashed to the kitchen. It was Ari, back from her trip.

  “Come over?” she asked. That was all it took; I was on my way.

  I opened her screen door a crack and knocked on the front door, not too loudly because her father was working nights that week and sleeping during the day. She must have been waiting for me right on the other side, because the door swung open as soon as I was done knocking. Ari sashayed out on to the porch. I gaped. Her straight black hair had been cut to her shoulders and was a mass of curls. And then she flashed a smile. Her teeth were white, naked, and perfectly straight. For once, I was speechless.

  “Well, what do you think, chica?” She laughed. “Got my braces off yesterday, and when we were in Mexico, my auntie Irena gave me a perm.”

  I wasn’t sure what I thought. Her legs were deeply tanned beneath rolled jeans that were cinched in tight at the waist, and I suspected there might be extra padding in that bra of hers. My best friend looked at least sixteen.

  “You look great,” I said, even though her new image made me feel kind of lonely inside.

  We wandered to the front lawn and sat in the grass under the shade of the cherry tree. She told me all about her vacation, and a cute boy, Paulo, she’d met at Chapultepec Park, then unfolded a scrap of paper where he’d written his phone number. “He’s sixteen, almost seventeen. He might come visit next summer.” She blew a large bubble and it popped, sticking in a pink ring from her nose to her chin.

  This was more like the Ari knew.

  “What did your mom say when she saw your report card?” Ari said.

  “She hasn’t yet. It’s in my closet.”

  “She’s gonna ask for it sometime, and it won’t be pretty when she does.”

  The funny thing was, I almost wished she would ask, no matter what the consequences, because it would mean she was paying attention.

  Next, Ari asked the exact question I was hoping for.

  “What else have you found for the box?”

  I told her about clues three and five: Wallabout Market and Uncle Stephen claiming my mom had left him alone. But I was careful not to mention number four: my uncle might be a miracle worker.

  “So, how do you think we find out about Woodward School in New York?” I included the “we” because I wanted to remind her that she was part of the investigation. Besides, I needed another resource she could provide.

  Ari stretched out on her back in the grass. “That’s a library job.”

  I was glad our thoughts were still in sync. “That’s what I thought, but we have to figure out a way to get over there.” I pulled up a few blades of grass and twisted them around my fingers.

  “We can ask Jesse. He wants any excuse to drive and the library’s a good one.”

  Exactly the response I’d hoped for. The hardest part would be persuading Mom to let me go with him in the car. This reminded me of the blue car I’d seen loitering in the neighborhood.

  “Maybe it’s a boy who has a crush on you.” She squinted over at me, and looked me up and down with a critical eye. “Well, maybe an old pervert or something.”

  I could always count on her to boost my ego.

  Jesse agreed to drive us after work. It was one of those perfect San Jose summer evenings when the air is like a gentle breath on the back of your neck. We rode with all the windows down, Ari shotgun and me behind Jesse, admiring the way his hair was just a little too long and curled over the edge of his collar.

  “What’s up with you two, going to the library in summer?”

  “Research project,” Ari said.

  “Who does research when it’s not homework? Sure you’re not meeting some guys?”

  “And if we were?” she shot back.

  “Don’t get all frosted on me. Two good-looking girls like you.”

  His eyes met mine in the rearview mirror. My face flamed. He laughed. Then like I had imagined, he cranked up the Platters singing “Only You,” and the three of us let our arms trail out the open windows as we sailed through the warm California dusk.

  The main library had a sandstone clock tower, a turret, and arches over the entry. Whenever I came here I felt like I was entering a castle. This time I entered with a faint fluttering in my ribcage. I was about to connect one of the pieces of my mother’s past. Jesse let us go in first, whether that was because he didn’t want to be seen with us or because he wanted to let “Rock Around the Clock” play out, I wasn’t sure.

  During the drive I mentally rehearsed what I’d ask the reference librarian.

  The librarian would say: “Why don’t you ask your mother where she went to school?” I would reply: “I’m planning a surprise, a kind of This Is Your Life surprise,” which was a very popular TV show she was sure to have heard about.

  The librarian would smile, give me a wink, and retrieve all the information I wanted.

  Still, I approached the desk with trepidation. But Ari began the conversation before I said a word. “My friend, Molly, needs some information.”

  The librarian looked up, smiling. “How can I help you?” She was a pretty woman, with a freckled nose and thick black hair.

  I took a deep breath. “I want to find out about Woodward School in New York, in the 1920s. My mother went to school there and I’m making a surprise for her birthday.”

  “I see.” Her eyebrows were thickly penciled arches and a mechanical pencil was stuck behind one ear. “Well, let’s see what we can find. Follow me.” She crossed to a set of large volumes with gold letters on the spine that read History of New York State. She reached for the volume that read 1800–1940 and flipped to the back. “First, I check the index.” She talked us all the way through the process as if she were teaching a class. “Do you know what city she lived in?”

  “Brooklyn.”

  The first volume didn’t seem to have anything that was helpful. “Let’s look under education, private.” The librarian’s voice was full of never-ending good cheer as she muttered and flipped through the pages. Then she stopped, a slight crease appearing between those arched brows. Finally, she turned to us. “I’m sorry, but there doesn’t seem to be anything in the public or private school system listed as Woodward School. The closest thing I can find is a reference to a Woodward Home.” And here she paused and looked away. That strange fluttering began below my ribs again. “A place for girls in need of guidance,” she concluded.

  She spread the book out on the top shelf. I stood next to her shoulder as she tapped on the entry with her pencil. Woodward House was established as a Residence in 1845 to help delinquent girls in New York City rebuild their lives.

  There was obviously some mistake. I looked at Ari. Her eyes narrowed. My voice was stuck somewhere deep inside. Finally, it squeaked out.

  “That must not be the right Woodward. She went to a boarding school.” I had pictured girls in uniforms all in a line like the Madeline book I read when I babysat the neighbor’s twins.

  I remembered to add thank y
ou before we walked away.

  “What if your mother was a delinquent?” Ari bumped my shoulder. “That would explain why she never talks about her past. What if she did something really awful?”

  For one moment I looked at my best friend and imagined strangling her on the library floor. “She had a job and a rich lady paid for her to go to a private school.” Inside me the fluttering had grown to a flapping, as if a large bird had roosted in my rib cage and was beating its wings.

  Jesse was checking out the latest detective novels, so I had a few extra minutes. While Ari flipped through a movie star magazine, I looked up the word delinquent to see if there was any definition I wasn’t familiar with. But the dictionary confirmed my worst fears: a tendency to commit crime, particularly minor crime. I thought about the hair ring.

  What had my mother done?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  DOPE

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA—JULY 1955

  Molly

  Angus’s bedroom door was closed when I got home, but even from the outside there was a curious odor. I pushed open the door. Even at the best of times, Angus’s room was a laboratory of his latest experiments, a collision of smells to assault the senses. This was not the best of times. Angus was painting a clear substance across a piece of beige canvas cloth. I recognized the fabric as something from the scrap bag Mom kept in the laundry room. I pinched my nose.

  “Angus, that stinks! What are you doing?”

  “Dope.”

  “Don’t call me a dope when you’re the one about to asphyxiate us!”

  He looked up. An infuriating smile twitched his lips. “I’m spreading airplane dope on this to make it stiff.”

  I came closer. Crude sketches of wings, wings of all shapes and sizes, littered the floor. The da Vinci book lay face down, pages spread wide like a fallen bird. I picked it up and crossed the room to open the window. As fresh air poured in, I noticed Angus had left the book open at an illustration of wings.