"No one's going to—"
"Wanna bet?"
The phone rang. Mike winced, as if he had received another blow. He sighed, transferred Erin to Sandra's lap, then went over and picked up the receiver. "Hello? Oh hi, wait a sec. Your mom," he told Sandra, not bothering to hide his relief. He passed her the receiver, then went to take the tuna casserole out of the oven.
"Hi mom," Sandra said, tension already knotting her stomach.
"Oh hi, dear." Why did she always have to sound surprised, as if she hadn't really expected her daughter to talk to her? "How are you? How was your day?"
"Great. Fine." Her mother always took the long way round to her point, like a sadist toying with her victim.
"And how's my darling Erin?"
"Erin's fine too, mom."
Mike ladled out the casserole, then poured her a Diet Coke. She closed her eyes with gratitude when he kissed the top of her head. Sometimes he knew absolutely the right thing to do.
"Oh, that's wonderful. She's such a sweet girl."
"I know. Erin's the best." She tried the casserole to make sure it wasn't too hot, then fed Erin a bite.
"Yes, she certainly is. Now, the thing is—do you know Claire Kenneally? She's in the Ladies Sodality with me, and it turns out she's Nancy O'Doul's mother. Do you know Nancy O'Doul, Sandra?"
Sandra closed her eyes. "Mom," she said, "of course I do. And I know about her cousin in New Hampshire with the eczema."
"Oh, darling, I know about that, but I wanted to talk about the daughter—Tiffany. Is it true? Claire says you were there, that you saw it. Did Erin really cure her?"
Sandra hadn't had time to consider this aspect of her doom, but now it seemed as inevitable as all the others. Her mother prayed to Saint Jude when she lost an earring, had a photo of the Shroud of Turin hanging in her bedroom, was saving up for a trip to Lourdes. Miracles were an everyday part of her life. Sandra wiped Erin's chin and fed her another bite. "I didn't see anything," she said. "Tiffany's acne is gone. She thinks Erin had something to do with it. That's nonsense, of course."
"But why, dear? You know there's something special about Erin, and I'm not saying that just because she's my granddaughter. I've felt it. Everyone's felt it."
"Mom, she's a little girl with brain damage, with extremely limited cognitive functioning. She's a little girl who can't speak complete sentences, who can barely control her bowel movements. She doesn't cure skin diseases. And don't go telling your friends in the Sodality that she does."
Her mother was silent. Shit, thought Sandra. It'll be on the six o'clock news by tomorrow. "You don't have to be a genius to be touched by God," her mother said softly.
"And why does God have to be part of this picture?" Sandra shot back.
"Darling, miracles don't just happen," her mother replied.
"It wasn't a miracle. I don't want anything to do with miracles—or with God," Sandra said.
"But dear, God might not give you anything to say about it."
Sandra hung up, passed Erin back to Mike, grabbed her cigarettes, and went out into the backyard. It was freezing outside, but she didn't care. She sat on the edge of the deck, stared at the outline of the swing set, and lit up, feeling the smoke fill her lungs, willing herself to calm down. Didn't she have enough in her life without this? She heard the phone ring again, and Mike answering it. Mike never blew up, never raged at the unfairness of it all. But he felt it. He had to feel it, when he changed Erin's diaper or wiped the food off her perfect face or read her a bedtime story that she didn't understand. So where did those feelings go?
After a while he came outside, sat down next to her, and put his arm around her. Sandra looked inside. "She's watching TV," Mike said. "She'll be okay for a few minutes."
Sandra stubbed out her cigarette and leaned her head against his chest.
"Let's look at the big picture," he said. "First of all, either it was a miracle or it wasn't."
"It wasn't a—"
"Okay, okay. Just hear me out. Let's assume it wasn't anything—just a coincidence or whatever. What we have to do is convince the world this is true, so we can get your mother and Nancy O'Doul's cousin and everyone off our backs."
"But how can we do that?"
"Well, we can't do anything about Tiffany. But if we let everyone else come and try to get themselves cured, and none of them—"
"Wait a minute. If you think I'm going to let—"
"Hear me out, honey. What if we just do it all in one day—a weekend afternoon, maybe? You don't even have to be here. We can let your mother run everything; she'd be thrilled. We march the people through here—say, ten or fifteen, we can cut it off if it starts looking like a circus. Erin won't mind meeting the people, she enjoys company. They hold Erin's hand, your mother says a prayer, but nothing happens. And guess what? Our problem is solved. Sure, we'll still get calls, but we won't hear from every kid with acne at Waltham High. And to the people who do call we can just say —no, I'm sorry, we let people meet Erin and it didn't work. We don't know what was up with Tiffany, but it didn't have anything to do with our child."
Sandra shook her head. "I don't see why we have to do any of this. We've got enough to deal with, without having to have an open house for people with skin diseases."
"Well, I think we'll have a lot more to deal with if we don't stop this before it gets out of hand."
Sandra abruptly got up and went inside. She was cold. Mike worked in technical support at a computer company, and it was hard to argue with him when he got into his troubleshooting mode; it was male logic carried to an impossible extreme. The phone rang; she ignored it.
Erin was still watching TV in the family room. When she saw Sandra, she made her vague, cheerful noise that Sandra interpreted as "Mommy." Sandra smiled at her and kissed the top of her head. "Bedtime, Sugarplum," she said.
Mike came in behind her.
"This stinks," she said.
"Can't argue with you."
"How do you stand it? How do you make it through a single day?"
"I love you guys. How else could I do it?"
She grimaced. "You and my mother have to handle everything," she said. "Anyone calls from now on, I'm gonna sic 'em on you. And one afternoon for the thing, that's all. I'm not going to let my baby be pawed over by strangers for the rest of her life. Got it?"
Mike nodded. "I'm not happy about this either," he said. "But I think it'll work."
"It better." She picked Erin up and held her in her arms. "It better."
* * *
Michael scheduled it for Sunday afternoon. When the time came, Sandra went to the movies. She had relented a little bit and cleaned the house, but she couldn't bear to be present for the actual event. So it was up to Mike and his mother-in-law to run things.
To Mike, it looked like the party after an Irish funeral: trays of cold cuts, casseroles baked by helpful friends from the Sodality, a case of Coors for any men who happened to show up, home-baked oatmeal cookies and brownies for the kids. But there were a couple of other touches, as well, and Mike was glad Sandra was not around to see them. Mrs. Clooney had brought a crucifix, which she hung on a nail in the family room where the people would be meeting Erin, and on the toy chest next to her wheelchair she placed candles and a statue of the Virgin Mary in her blue-and-white robes, eyes downcast in modesty and holiness, her slippered foot firmly upon the serpent of Evil.
Mike considered asking his mother-in-law to remove them, but it didn't seem worth the effort. "It's just for the mood," she explained as she bustled about. "I think the mood matters, don't you?"
He didn't have the heart to discuss it with her. She was as convinced as her daughter was skeptical. It all made perfect sense to her, and nobody was going to talk her out of her belief.
Anyway, Erin kept looking at the statue. She seemed to like it.
And finally the guests started arriving, the lucky ones who had called before Mike decided there were enough for his little test and had started
turning people down. Tiffany O'Doul came with her mother, and Mike had to admit her skin looked much better. And there was her relative from New Hampshire, so nervous she was giggling uncontrollably, and a few kids from the high school, arriving in a pack, and one of Mrs. Clooney's friends whose arthritis was crippling her.... Sandra's mom made them all gather for a prayer first in the living room. Mike stayed with Erin. He was starting to get nervous. What did he want to happen? Now that the moment had arrived, he found himself half-hoping that Sandra's mom was right. Not that he wanted the grief this would entail, but for Erin's sake. Wouldn't it be great if the doctors were wrong and there actually was something going on in that scarred and shattered brain? Everyone said she was special. Well, what if that was something more than a euphemism for brain-damaged?
After the prayer Mrs. Clooney came in, lit the candles, and shut the blinds. Tiffany followed and sat on the floor next to Erin, as if to help recreate the circumstances of the first miracle. Mike stood off in a corner. "Don't let her out of your sight for a minute. Don't let them do anything to her" were Sandra's repeated instructions.
Erin seemed to like the candlelight. Her eyes went to it, and then to the statue of the Blessed Virgin. "Hot," said Mike, when he thought he saw her moving toward the candles. "Don't touch." But she didn't have enough strength in her arms to reach them.
She smiled at the statue.
Then Sandra's mom led in the first guest. It was a friend of Tiffany's, a painfully thin girl named Samantha with spiky blonde hair, a ring in her nose, and the usual bad teenage complexion. She looked frightened. When she saw Mike she gave him a quick, nervous nod. Mike, too, felt oddly nervous.
Tiffany introduced Samantha to Erin, who stared at her for a moment, and then went dull-eyed and slack-jawed. Samantha looked at Tiffany for guidance. "Hey, Erin," Tiffany said, "wanna play patty-cake with Samantha?"
Tiffany motioned to Samantha, who squatted in front of Erin and held up her hands. Erin didn't move. Her eyes went back to the statue.
"Maybe she'll let you hold her hands?" Tiffany suggested.
Samantha reached out and gently grasped Erin's little hands in hers. Erin looked at her again, but without much interest. "If you can help with my acne," Samantha said softly, "that'd really be great. I know you helped Tiffany and, you know, I just wish—"
Tiffany went over next to Samantha. "Hon?" she said to Erin. "Sweetie? Can you help Sam?"
Erin smiled at Tiffany. The darkened room was silent. Nothing happened. Nothing electric. Nothing "special." Just two teenagers and a little girl with a damaged brain. Mike started to feel sorry for Samantha. There would be a lot of disappointed people this afternoon, he figured. The girls prodded Erin a bit for a response, then finally gave up.
They stood. "Anything happen?" Samantha asked, feeling her face with wan hope.
Tiffany shook her head. "I'm sorry, Sam. She just doesn't seem—interested."
Samantha looked as though she were about to cry. She departed after some words of comfort from Tiffany, and a moment later the next guest was ushered in.
And so it went. Much as Mike had expected: a parade of people looking for something they didn't, couldn't, find. The one thing he hadn't anticipated was the pity he felt for them. They wanted so much for his daughter to be something she wasn't. They wanted so much for the laws of nature to be somehow overruled, for some higher power to counteract the fundamental unfairness of what was wrong with their bodies. He wished that he could help them. He wished that Erin could help them. He knew that no one could.
After about a dozen disappointments Mike finally left the family room to get a Budweiser and a sandwich. He was tired and depressed. He needed to pee. He needed a break.
Quite a few people were still hanging around the kitchen and living room. They looked subdued, uncertain. Were any of them still waiting to see Erin? All the guests were starting to blend together in his mind into a single, pitiful supplicant.
He went to the bathroom, then got his beer. None of the cans had been touched—there were no men here, he realized. He went to the living room, grabbed a couple of the tiny ham sandwiches, and sat next to one of Mrs. Clooney's friends, a fat woman enveloped in a cloud of old-lady perfume. He couldn't remember her name.
"Oh, you're so good to do all this," she said to him. "Erin's such a sweet little child."
Mike nodded uncomfortably as he chewed his sandwich. Erin was probably hungry too, he thought. He really hadn't taken very good care of her; Sandra would be mad at him. Erin liked ham. He should bring her a sandwich and a glass of ginger ale.
"I think some people are disappointed," the fat lady went on, "but they shouldn't be. It's such a blessing just to meet a girl like her. See how brave she is, poor thing."
What bravery? Sandra would demand, Mike knew. Bravery required a choice, didn't it? Fight or flight. What choice did Erin have? Mike supposed Sandra was right. He smiled and nodded at the woman. "She's a wonderful little girl," he said. "If you'll excuse me, I have to bring her a snack."
And that's when he heard the scream. Afterwards, he couldn't remember going anywhere. One instant he had been in the living room, reaching over to grab another sandwich, and the next he was standing in the candlelit family room, trying to figure out what was going on.
It was Tiffany who had screamed. She was pointing, but not at Erin. Erin sat in her wheelchair, her eyes glowing.
She was staring at the statue.
Tiffany was pointing at the statue.
Mike moved closer. Had someone done something to it?
He, too, stared at the statue. No. His stomach lurched. Impossible.
The Virgin Mary was weeping blood-red tears from her painted eyes. The tears moved slowly down her face and streaked her robes. Oh, God, he thought. Oh, God.
People were crowding around him now. Some knelt when they saw the statue; others started to weep themselves.
His mother-in-law was by his side. "It's a miracle," she whispered solemnly, triumphantly.
The others murmured their agreement. Mike looked from the statue back to Erin, her own face transformed as she gazed at the Virgin. My baby.
And finally all he could think was: What am I going to tell Sandra?
Chapter 4
Father Joe Hurley knew he was in trouble when he saw Monsignor Larry Doyle sitting on the front steps of the rectory. Hurley had just spent forty-five minutes jogging through the streets of Dorchester, and he was feeling oxygenated and virtuous. Now he slowed to a walk as he approached the rectory. "Looking for Monsignor Flynn?" he asked hopefully.
Doyle shook his head. "Looking for you," he said, smiling. He was an oversized middle-aged man who had probably never run more than fifty yards in his life. He had thinning gray hair and a broad red face. He was very smart and very persuasive.
It was cold out, but Hurley was sweating from the exertion. He wiped his face on his sleeve and sat down next to Doyle. "I detect a certain stubbornness here," he said.
"Tenacity," Doyle corrected him. "Singleness of purpose. Important when you're doing the Lord's work."
"How can you be so sure it's the Lord's work?"
"Because I outrank you. Now can we please go inside like civilized people in the winter and have a cup of coffee?"
Hurley got up with a groan and led the way into the rectory. Monsignor Flynn was out visiting the nursing home, Hurley recalled. Just as well. Billy Flynn got extremely nervous when anyone from headquarters showed up, certain that they were going to close his parish on him. There was half a pot of coffee left on the counter in the dilapidated kitchen.
"You guys ever think of buying a new refrigerator?" Doyle asked, getting the milk out.
Hurley rolled his eyes. "The archdiocese ever think of giving us the money?"
Doyle didn't respond. He stirred three spoonfuls of sugar into his coffee and sat down at the kitchen table, looking content. Hurley leaned against a counter. "I like it here," he said. "Bad refrigerator and all. And people like me. I t
hink I'm doing some good. This is why I entered the priesthood."
Doyle nodded. "Admirable. Simply admirable," he replied. "But you're a smart guy—which is why I'm here. You're smart enough to know that this can't last. It's time for your next assignment. Even if it weren't, your job would be at risk. Saint Jerome's just isn't big enough anymore to justify a second curate. And it's not like we have plenty of curates to spare."
"Billy can't handle everything by himself," Hurley pointed out.
"Billy will make do, the way lots of pastors are making do in failing parishes. That's life in the modern Church. Joe, I know folks here need you, but I need you, too. Cardinal Monroe needs you. The archdiocese of Boston needs you."
Hurley stared out the window at his old Corolla parked in the driveway. Doyle had been one of his teachers at North American College in Rome, the prestigious seminary Hurley had attended. Doyle had been impressive—an articulate and rigorous teacher who was also at home in the day-to-day workings of the Church, since he also held a position in the Vatican, working for Bishop Thomas Monroe. When the old pope had shocked everyone by naming Monroe Archbishop of Boston, Monroe had made Doyle his Vicar General. One of the few smart things Monroe has done, Hurley reflected. Now Doyle wanted Hurley to become his assistant, and he wasn't taking no for an answer.
"We need youth, we need enthusiasm, we need intelligence," Doyle went on. "We need someone who isn't a bureaucrat. We've got the bureaucratic stuff down cold. It's everything else we're weak on."
"I want to help people," Hurley said. "I don't see how I'm helping people sitting behind a desk."
"That's a failure of imagination, Joe," Doyle replied. "Take the long view. You've proved you're good at parish work. Now you go to local headquarters, make some connections there. Then maybe we send you back to Rome for graduate studies, so you can make some connections at world headquarters. That'll put you on the fast track to the episcopate. Bishop by forty, pope of America by fifty. Think of all the people you can help when you really have some power.
Pontiff (A Thriller) Page 3