Sandra nodded.
"Jesus."
"I know this isn't the most logical thing in the world, Mike, but I'm beyond logic now. I want some hope. And for the first time since the accident I have it. I don't know why Erin is performing miracles all of a sudden. But if there is a God, and this is His way of telling us that Erin is special to Him, then why can't I believe that He'll find a way to heal her? Why is she any less important than Tiffany O'Doul and her acne?"
Mike took a long swig of his beer. "If you start this," he said, "you may not be able to stop it, whether or not the pope comes through."
"I know. But our lives will never get back to normal anyway. Too many people know. Too many people want help."
Mike tossed his beer can into the trash and stood up, shaking his head. Sandra suddenly became very frightened. She hadn't seen this look, this tension on his face before. "You want hope," he said. "I can understand that. But I just want a rest. I know you've worked harder and given up more than me, but I've been affected, too. I'm the one who has to figure out how to get the money to pay for everything, who has to worry about how we're ever going to retire and how Erin's going to be cared for when we're dead. I'm the one who has to worry about layoffs and health insurance. And yeah, I'm the one who's had to give up his dream of having another baby because we're too scared that something bad will happen again. And now you want to turn our lives into some kind of, I don't know, roadside attraction, just to get the attention of the pope, with the dream that he can perform some magic that the doctors at Mass General couldn't. What are the odds the pope is going to be interested in Erin? What are the odds he has the magic you want? It's just too hard, Sandra. It's just too hard."
"Ope," Erin said.
Sandra burst into tears. She had expected resistance, but not this. Not... anguish. Not Mike baring his soul. She couldn't stand that. She needed him, needed his strength, too much. "The... statue... bled," she gasped. "My... baby." She put her head on the table and sobbed, unable to say anything more.
There was an unbearable pause, and then his arms were around her, where they belonged. "It's okay, honey," he crooned. "It's okay. We'll figure it out."
He rocked her gently back and forth, and it felt so good. And Sandra knew he would help, because that's the way he was. Maybe it didn't make any sense, but they had to try, didn't they?
The statue bled.
The pope was coming. He worked miracles, just like her baby.
Erin was special. Everyone was right about that. God had a plan for her, and Sandra was going to do her best to carry it out.
Chapter 9
"Caller, we sure have a race problem in this city, but I'm not the cause of it," Ed McAllister said. "I don't belong to a street gang. I don't sell drugs to school kids. I don't rape and murder white girls and carve gang symbols on their corpses, and then get released for lack of evidence."
"Now what a minute," the caller protested, "it's just this kind of hate-mongering that fans the—"
"No, you wait a minute. Blacks rape and murder whites, and if anyone complains about it, that's hate-mongering? Should we ignore it because talking about it might offend rich liberals in Newton and the People's Republic of Cambridge? Will Jesse Jackson threaten to boycott us? Let him. Will the pope punish us by going to New York instead? I'm really scared now. Black-on-white crime is a big problem and I want to talk about it, because everyone else in Boston seems to be afraid to."
"But statistics show—"
"Show your statistics to Caitlin Morgan's parents. I'm sure they'll find them very consoling while they mourn the murder of their daughter and wonder why her killer is walking the streets of Boston. It's all right, dear, it's just a statistical anomaly, after all. That'll take the sting out of it. I think we have time for one final call. Jack from West Roxbury, you're next with Ed McAllister."
"Hi Ed, great show. Listen, I heard you talking about the pope a little bit, and I'm beginning to think it's a really bad idea, him coming and all."
McAllister paused for a beat. "Now, Jack," he said, "you've obviously got a bad attitude. Don't you think it's so nice of him to come over here and tell us what we're doing wrong? He wants to educate us. He's been doing that for a long time now, and I guess we're just slow learners here in America."
"I think he just wants to stir up trouble," Jack said. "I was raised a Catholic and it hurts me to say this, but he's gonna make things a hell of a lot worse than they already are. The blacks are gonna get the message that us whites are responsible for all their problems, and things are gonna end up like they were back when busing started in the seventies."
"See, there you go again, Jack," McAllister responded. "You won't admit that you are responsible for their problems. You're the one forcing them to get pregnant when they're teenagers, you're the one who's telling the fathers not to take any responsibility for their children, you're the one convincing the teenagers they should play basketball and do drugs instead of studying. Jack, you've gotta listen to the pope when he comes. You've gotta see the error of your ways.
"But meanwhile we're out of time. Thanks for joining me on Talk Radio 580. Hope it was as good for you as it was for me. Stay tuned after the news for more great talk with Len Quilty. I'll see you again tomorrow at four. This is Ed McAllister. Have a great night, and drive safely."
McAllister cued the closing theme, took his headphones off, and rubbed his eyes. His producer gave him a thumbs-up, but he didn't respond. He left the studio and returned to his cramped office, where he wasted a few minutes glancing through his mail. Fan letters. Invitations to events he wouldn't dream of attending. Newsletters written by semi-literate nutcases who made him look like Ted Kennedy. It was all garbage. He stared at the phone for a while, then looked away.
He needed to turn his brain off. But that was getting harder and harder to do. Talk talk talk. Endless conversations looping through his synapses. Clever quips, devastating putdowns, airtight arguments that left his adversary speechless. Talk talk talk. As if any of it mattered—the voices in his head, the voices on the airwaves. Couldn't bring Caitlin Morgan back from the dead. Couldn't make the world a better place. Couldn't do anything except confirm people's own prejudices, make them feel smart because a smart guy had articulated their prejudices better than they ever could, convinced them that their prejudices were the only reasonable opinions to have.
After a while he tossed the mail aside, put on his leather jacket, and left the radio station. No one bugged him on the elevator ride down to the lobby, no one bugged him as he walked out into the spring night. Someday, maybe soon, he thought, he was going to lose control, he was going to deck some cretin who insisted on speaking to him off the air, who believed that because they had heard him on the radio they had some sort of relationship that made it okay to intrude on his privacy.
Bandini.
Someday, maybe soon, there was going to be some sort of scandal, and it would be bad enough that the station would have no choice but to fire him, no matter how good his ratings were. And the executives wouldn't mind, really. Because deep down they hated him as much as he hated them; they liked the ad revenue he pulled in but didn't want their names associated with his, the hypocritical bastards.
Hypocritical bastards. Well, yes, he supposed he was one of them himself. If people really knew... and, he supposed, someday they would, someday some enterprising reporter would get a tawdry little scoop and think he had accomplished something, think he had made the world a better place. Well, good luck to him.
He walked along Boylston Street, feeling the thirst building in him. Drown the damn voices. A middle-aged man eyed him quizzically: Don't I know you? Aren't you somebody famous? McAllister hurried past. He reached the restaurant and went inside.
They left him alone here, that was the main thing. He tipped Doug the bartender well, and Doug did his best to head off trouble. His stool was waiting for him at the end of the bar, and Doug had his first drink poured by the time he had reached the stoo
l. Doug gave him the briefest of nods and then turned away. Good man. McAllister settled onto his seat and took a long swig of his Scotch, almost sighing with relief as the liquid seeped into his system.
The voices faded, and in a few moments he found himself thinking about touch football. There, that was better—the past instead of the unbearable present. Four on four most of the time, although sometimes they got more kids to play. He was fast, so he was usually a receiver. And what was better than streaking past the defender and watching the ball descend out of the crisp October sky into your hands, and then nothing but daylight as you head for the goal-line marked off by stolen traffic cones?
Nice catch, Edzo!
Edzo heads for the end zone!
They wanted him to go out for football in high school, but he refused. It wasn't the same if you were doing it for the grownups, with rules and schedules and coaches yelling at you. His parents were upset that he wouldn't play, but that was the least of their problems with him. Heck, they were probably grateful he didn't become a drug addict.
He motioned to Doug, who silently refilled his glass.
There were a few regulars here, but mostly it was yuppies waiting for tables. White wine and Evian. Talking about the stock market and fitness plans and the best place to get your BMW repaired. There was always someone to feel superior to.
He could remember moments of such pure happiness, hanging out with the guys, talking about sports and TV shows and rock 'n' roll. Talk talk talk. But that was good talk, innocent and free. Never gave a thought to their futures, that he could tell. All they wanted was to be cool. Strange that, if you just counted dollars and fame, he was by far the most successful of them all.
Strange that some of them ended up having no desire to be successful at all.
He swallowed his drink. Why do you have to grow up? Why can't you be young and stupid and happy forever?
Doug refilled his glass without waiting to be asked.
McAllister stared at the glass, and suddenly he didn't want to drink anymore. Now there was an interesting feeling. He fished his cell phone from his shirt pocket, then fumbled through his wallet to find a number he had obtained a few days ago, but couldn't find the nerve to call. Did he have the nerve now? He put the crumpled piece of paper on the bar, smoothed it out, and stared at it. He thought of the football, its perfect spiral, his hands reaching up to pluck it out of the blue sky.
He shook his head, then turned dialed the number. No answer, of course. He waited for the voicemail system, then cleared his throat. "Hey there, it's Edzo. I heard about your new job. Congratulations, I think. Bet you didn't expect to hear from me. Listen, I don't want to butt in, but don't let him come, okay? Don't let him come. Call me and we can talk about it, okay? And maybe we could, you know, throw the football around, like the old days. Anyway, that's it. All right. Bye." He turned off the phone and closed his eyes. There, was that so hard?
Well, yes. Jesus, it was one of the hardest things he'd ever done, because now he would have to deal with the consequences. But he felt better for it. He put the slip of paper with the phone number on it back into his wallet, took out a couple of twenties, and laid them on the bar. Doug raised an eyebrow. Leaving already?
"Keep the change," McAllister said.
He pushed through the crowded bar and made his way out into the night. It had started to rain, and the cool drops refreshed him. His brain was quiet for a change. He took that as a good sign.
"Excuse me, aren't you Ed McAllister?" a voice said.
He looked over at a nervous middle-aged woman, who stood next to a parking meter gaping at him.
"How nice of you to recognize me," he said with a smile. He gave her his autograph, and then he started to walk home in the spring rain.
When the shadow fell over him, he was too happy to notice at first. And when he finally did notice, it was too late, and the happiness counted for nothing.
Chapter 10
Father Joe Hurley had come on board.
It wasn't so bad, really, he had decided after a few weeks on the job. If its satisfactions were not as intense as those of parish work, there were a lot fewer frustrations, as well. And of course the papal visit was keeping everyone on high alert.
Today, as usual, he greeted folks cheerily when he arrived at archdiocesan headquarters in Brighton. He had put on a charm offensive when he started the job, and the secretaries doted on him. He wasn't so sure about some of the priests, who probably sensed that he was poised to sprint past them in his career. After he had gotten a cup of coffee and reached his office, he sat behind his desk, swiveled in his chair, and admired the view for a minute before beginning work.
He could have been an executive in a major corporation, he thought. Well, in a way he was. An archdiocese was a large business unit of a huge multinational entity. It wasn't very uplifting to think of the Church in those terms, but that was the reality of it. The archdiocese had budgets to create, payrolls to meet, assets to maintain... and if the people in charge didn't do their jobs right, employees would be laid off, parishes and hospitals and social welfare agencies would close, programs would be cut back, and people would suffer. So okay, Doyle was right. The desk jobs mattered, too.
He swiveled around again and quickly checked his email. Nothing much. Then onto his voicemail, just like a busy executive.
And he heard a too-familiar voice that made him forget about being an executive or a priest, that pulled him back to another part of his life entirely.
"Hey there, it's Edzo..." the voice said, against a background of laughter and conversation.
Jesus. He listened intently to the strange message.
"I don't want to butt in, but don't let him come, okay? Don't let him come."
Let who come? Before Hurley knew it the message was over. He pressed rewind and listened to it again.
Ed McAllister. Edzo. How long had it been? Before the seminary, anyway. Hurley's family had moved away when he was in high school, and he had gradually lost touch with his childhood friend. He had tried phoning once in a while, but Edzo wasn't good about returning calls. Strange that he now made his living talking to people on the phone. When they both ended up back in Boston, Hurley had thought about calling yet again, but never did. Edzo's program was too hateful. What could they possibly talk about? McAllister had personally set back race relations in the city by generations, pounding away at perceived injustices against whites, until his ever-growing audience was convinced that blacks were at the root of all their problems.
What really sent his ratings sky-high was a sensational case in which a black teenager was accused of raping and murdering a young white girl; the kid's subsequent acquittal due to lack of evidence had become a flashpoint for the city, and McAllister had exploited it for all it was worth.
Hurley had puzzled over why Edzo had turned out this way. He certainly hadn't shown much interest in politics or social issues when he was a kid. The only thing Hurley could point to was Edzo's stubborn perversity. Whatever an authority figure told him to do, Edzo would more than likely do the exact opposite. Hurley was no saint in those days himself, but he could never understand what inner demons provoked his friend to be so contrary. It surely didn't seem like a recipe for getting ahead in life. But as a talk show host who thumbed his nose at the powers-that-be and their conventional pieties, Edzo had found a way to turn his perversity into a perversely successful career.
And now, out of the blue, he was calling his old friend to congratulate him—and warn him.
Don't let him come.
What was that supposed to mean? Don't let who come?
Hurley supposed he knew.
But why?
He supposed he knew the answer to that, as well. He'd heard that McAllister, not surprisingly, had been attacking the pope's visit. So maybe he was just carrying on his crusade off the air by calling up his old friend and telling him to keep the pope away.
Except...
Except he didn't sound as if
he was doing that. He didn't sound like a rabble-rousing talk-show host out to score points—and what points could he score by calling up Joe Hurley? If anything, he sounded like the old Edzo.
He wanted to talk. Throw the football around—boy, did that bring back the good old days. Hurley thought there was almost a plaintive quality to his voice, as if he were begging his old friend for a favor. Strange.
Wouldn't hurt to give him a call. It might even do some good—maybe Edzo needed an old friend. Maybe he had seen the error of his ways, and was casting about for someone to guide him along the path of righteousness. Not likely, but worth a phone call to find out.
"Father, would you care to join us?"
He looked up, and saw Monsignor Doyle standing in his doorway wearing a patient smile. With a start, Hurley realized he was late for Doyle's morning staff meeting. "Um, sorry," he said, and he quickly rose from his chair.
"Not to worry," Doyle replied amiably. They headed down the hall to the conference room. "Things are looking brighter this morning," Doyle remarked, "thanks to our friend Ed McAllister."
What? Hurley felt his head spin. He couldn't have heard right. His brain was still focused on that phone message. "I'm sorry," he said. "What did you say?"
"Didn't you hear? Ed McAllister—the guy on the radio?—went and got himself murdered last night. Now things will be a lot more pleasant in this city—as long as some black didn't do it, in which case I don't want to think what might happen."
Hurley still felt as if his brain wasn't functioning right. "McAllister? Dead?" he managed to say.
"Stabbed to death in an alley. Back Bay, I think. May he rest in peace, although I imagine God has other plans."
Hurley stopped outside the conference room. "Larry, McAllister was a friend of mine," he said softly. "He called me yesterday. I was just listening to the voicemail he left."
It was Doyle's turn to look as if he weren't hearing right. "You know Ed McAllister?"
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