The Miracle Stealer

by Neil Connelly

I remembered what Jeff said about my being scared, but I kept that to myself. “Maybe I’ve got nutsophobia. I heard some of these folks are bathing in the lake.”

  Leo nodded. “I’ve seen them.”

  “But it’s only lake water,” I said. “It can’t do anything.”

  “It can make them clean.”

  I couldn’t tell if he was trying to be sarcastic or profound. “Okay,” I said. “But do you think the water can perform miracles?”

  Once again he paused before answering, plucking out those same three rising notes. “Only God can perform miracles. But people are weak, Anderson. Life beats them down and makes them forget what they knew as children, the joy and wonder of hope. Of discovery beyond their comprehension. Tragedy and misery find us all. Hearts harden and souls close like fists to the notion of God’s grace. I believe that some things, things right here on earth, have the potential to make us reconsider the real possibility that God can touch us.”

  “And you’ve decided that my brother is one of these things?”

  “I think he may well be. And for those who come to the conclusion that he is, I believe they need that hope like we need air to breathe and water to drink and warmth from fire to fight back the cold. You’re young, Anderson. But you hardly seem naïve. Nobody gets through life without being wounded. I know you know what I mean. People can see my scars, but the fact is, I feel worse for those who are wounded inside. Outwardly, they may seem fine, but in their hearts they suffer from sin or loss or regret. Those that bear a secret pain bear that pain alone.”

  He stared at me then, stared into me, and the fire’s touch on my cheek went from warm to hot. “I have to go,” I said as I rose to my feet.

  Leo stood too. “I know you’re confused. I can sense your turmoil. Calm yourself and pray with me now. Let your heart be still and give God a chance to come back into your life.”

  I felt it then, the temptation to close my eyes and fold my hands and sink into prayer. But I pushed it away. “You really think that will help?”

  “I can’t guarantee anything. God decides these things, not me. But I would go this far—I’m sure that praying might help you.”

  “Might? That’s a heck of a word to base your life on.”

  He shrugged. “Nothing wrong with ‘might.’ Nothing wrong with ‘maybe.’ At some point, I decided faith couldn’t be proven. Faith is about believing more than what the evidence around you shows. Faith is accepting possibilities, not absolutes.”

  I looked into his ravaged face, those clear eyes so desperate to give me something. And sure, I felt tempted to drop to my knees and join him, but I knew I wouldn’t. Not then. Still, he was giving me something important to him, sharing something he considered sacred, and I wanted to give him something back. “My mom is bringing Daniel to the festival on Friday.”

  He smiled. “Come with them. At least give yourself a chance.”

  I left his invitation unanswered and decided not to stick around. For one night, I’d been tempted enough. “Thanks for letting me share your fire.”

  Leo said, “Anderson, I can’t read minds. I won’t pretend to know you more than I do. But whatever it is, I know it still hurts.”

  I remembered my dad dragging those suitcases up the incline. But I clung to my rage and shook my head as if Leo Castille were a fool.

  As I walked off into the darkness, I heard him speak behind me. “It doesn’t have to be this way,” he said. “Properly perceived, every wound can be a gift.”

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  On the Thursday before Paradise Days officially began, Gayle called just to check in and update me on the latest miraculous rumors: Harry Peterson’s ulcer had stopped burning; a green sapling had sprung from the rotten sycamore stump in Misty Jennings’ front yard; Daniel had been seen hovering over an Amtrak wreck in south Jersey. From the way she was mocking the Pilgrims, I knew how she’d react if I told her that I’d been awake all night, thinking of Leo and what he’d said, so I laughed along with her. After I hung up, I realized how desperately I wanted to tell somebody about meeting Leo. But when I’d called Jeff late the night before, his mom had answered and said he was tending to his father, who wasn’t feeling very well. Plus I knew they all had to make final preparations for Paradise Days. So I kept my visit with Leo to myself, and I plotted out the finishing touches of the Anti-Miracle Plan in secret. Alone in the shed, I tested little bits of the stolen prop blood on my skin and my clothes. Though the stuff smelled awful, it dried a dark red that would fool anybody, at least for a little while.

  About midmorning, I wandered up to the house and found Daniel on the front porch, playing Legos with that spaceship, apparently attacking a parking lot of Matchbox cars. I sat with him and tried to listen to his explanation of the epic battle, but my eyes kept turning to the traffic on Roosevelt Road. It was thicker than normal. In the flow of tractor trailers, RVs, vans, and cars, some vehicles slowed as they passed, kind of the way people do when they see an accident and can’t help rubbernecking. Once or twice the snout of a camera poked out from a rolled-down window. I decided to take Daniel for a hike, mostly just to get him away from that road. So without even telling my mother, we took off on the trails. Together we searched for ancient arrowheads, chased lizards beneath mossy rocks, peeled birch bark and floated it on the lake, found mysterious indentations in the mud that we pretended were claw prints left behind by Samson the bear.

  But when we returned home, we found something even more dangerous waiting for us. Mayor Wheeler and Sylvia Volpe sat on the porch, talking with my mother. I froze in my tracks and dropped a hand onto Daniel’s shoulder, the same way I would’ve if we had come across a cougar on the trail. Wheeler and Volpe both looked startled, but they quickly turned their attention back to my mother, acted as if they didn’t just want to stare at Daniel. I knew better.

  Daniel charged up the stone steps, eager to show off the weathered turtle shell he’d discovered along the shoreline. The three of them listened to him intently, clearly abandoning whatever conversation they’d been having. My mother inspected the shell and wrinkled her nose at its muddy stench.

  “Andi says we could clean it,” Daniel explained.

  “What’ll you do with it then?” my mother asked.

  Daniel shrugged. “I dunno. Make it a fort for Lego men? Why can’t I keep it if I want to keep it?”

  Volpe and Wheeler avoided eye contact with me as I leaned onto the railing at the bottom of the steps. By way of greeting I simply said, “Mayor, Ms. Volpe.”

  They both nodded in my general direction. Volpe said, “Congratulations on your new car.”

  “It’s used,” I said.

  “New to you,” the mayor offered.

  My mother passed the shell to the mayor, who turned it over in his hands, then gave it to Volpe. My mother coughed once. “We were all just talking,” she said. “About the festival.”

  Volpe bent to a knee next to Daniel, cradling the shell in her hands like a holy relic. “Do you know that it starts tomorrow?”

  Daniel could hear the weird tone in their voices, and he looked down at me, still standing below the porch.

  The mayor said, “There’s going to be arts and crafts and games. Even a balloon ride.”

  I knew that they all expected me to be opposed to this, to start arguing with them like this was the worst idea ever. But I’d decided that a visit to Paradise Days wouldn’t necessarily endanger the Anti-Miracle Plan. It might even help it. Besides, I wanted to see Leo again. I needed to see that rock.

  So I smiled and said in my most cheerful voice, “Hey, Little Man, doesn’t that sound like great fun?”

  I thought Volpe was going to choke. My mother’s eyebrows arched high on her forehead. Daniel beamed. “Heck, yeah. Are you gonna come?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” I said. I told Daniel to go into the laundry room and get the bottle of bleach, then meet me out back by the hose with the shell.

  Once he was gone, the th
ree of them regarded me suspiciously. The mayor said, “Your mother told us you’d expressed reservations about this. When did you decide it was a good idea?”

  “I didn’t. But you’d have brought him anyway. If you want me in on this, which you know would be better for Daniel, I’ve got one demand. And you’re going to give it to me.”

  Volpe looked at my mother, and Wheeler crossed his arms, realizing that just about whatever I asked for now, they’d have to give me.

  And so on the overcast Friday that Paradise Days officially began, Chief Bundower pulled down our driveway in his bulky squad car, our own official escort and bodyguard. The Chief’s presence would keep any undesirables from getting too friendly, though I knew he might also draw extra attention to our little group. I kind of cringed when he brought the cruiser to a stop and boomed through the loudspeaker, “Your chariot awaits.”

  The three of us had been waiting for him together, and we went outside in a cloud of excitement and anxiety. The Chief got out of his car to politely open the front door for my mother, and I noticed his wild mustache had been trimmed neat. He let Daniel and me into the back, where the criminals would go if our town ever had any. An earthy scent radiated from the cushions, and strange smudges of sweat and mucus smeared the window’s glass. Next to me, Daniel had a hard time figuring out the two pieces of the old-style seat belt. I turned to help, and found the mechanism stuffed with tufts of wispy gray hair I had to pinch free. I imagined Pinkerton pressing his wet nose against the window, eager to pick up a new scent and begin another chase.

  A crisscrossing metal grate fenced off the backseat, and hanging across the front side was a rifle. I’ve never learned much about guns, and I wondered if it was a real one or just one that shot paintballs. Around town, some said Bundower kept that rifle just for show.

  My mother turned around and looked at us through the metal grate. “All set?” she asked.

  I finally got the buckle clean and strapped it across Daniel’s lap. He looked around and said, “I’m supposed to have a booster seat.”

  From behind the steering wheel, Bundower eyed us in the rearview mirror. “That’s all right,” he said. “I know the local sheriff.”

  Daniel was thrilled. As we turned north on Roosevelt Road, he asked, “Can you make the sirens go?”

  Bundower reflexively snapped a switch and blue lights strobed above us. The high cry of danger wailed so loud it made me a bit dizzy. Maybe following instinct, Bundower accelerated until he was going almost seventy around curves on the road that dipped and swayed like a roller coaster. Daniel whooped.

  “Earl,” my mother said. “Please.”

  The Chief slowed the car and reached for the dashboard. The sirens cut out, but the lights kept flashing. “Just trying to lighten the mood, Nancy. No need for everybody to be so tense. Look here now. This is going to go smooth and easy.”

  When we got to the parking lot, Bundower waved at Lute Moody instead of giving him the five dollars he held a hand out for. The Chief maneuvered the cruiser up through some RVs and other cars, finally finding a spot near Leo’s funky white school bus. Faded blue spray paint on the side declared, PROUD TO BE A JESUS FREAK!

  My mother got out on her own but the Chief had to open the door for Daniel and me. A few tourists passed by and seemed curious, but I had the feeling it was because a family emerging from a police car just looks strange, not because anybody recognized Daniel. My mother took his hand and they scooted ahead, toward the gap in the forest that leads to the field.

  “Okay,” I said to Bundower, alone with him for the first time. “So what’s gonna be our secret signal?”

  “Secret signal?”

  “Right. Have we got a code or something in case there’s trouble?” I was only half kidding, but now that we were there, I didn’t know what to expect from the Pilgrims.

  “Sure,” Bundower said, “the secret code. You shout my name as loud as you can. Sound good?”

  He fanned his fingers across his pistol, which as far as I knew had never come out of its holster, let alone been fired. I wondered if he even had bullets. But there was a little iron in the Chief’s voice that I hadn’t heard before, and I nodded. “Nancy,” he hollered, “don’t go getting too far ahead.”

  My mother slowed and we joined them. I took Daniel’s other hand, and Bundower led the way. We mixed in with the crowd of tourists funneling through the entrance, beneath the same ratty banner I’d run under the night of the Abernathy baby’s birth. The colors seemed even more faded, and the CELEBRATE PARADISE DAYS! struck me as mostly a stupid joke.

  We crossed through the forest, only a thin patch at that spot, and stepped into the field, where the festival spread out before us.

  “Whoa!” Daniel shouted, startled by the hot air balloon, bright red and suspended in the dull gray sky. It hung in the middle of the park like the centerpiece on a dining room table. From a hundred feet up, two people I didn’t recognize waved down at the crowd.

  “Can we go in the balloon?” Daniel wanted to know.

  “No,” my mother answered. “That’s not a ride for kids.”

  “Let the boy have some fun, Nancy,” Bundower said over his shoulder.

  “We’ll see,” my mother said, glaring at the back of the Chief’s head.

  I imagined being in the balloon with Daniel. We’d float over the lake and over the mountains and drift east, toward the Atlantic. I pictured us coming down in a faraway land with sand dunes and camels, where they’d never heard of Paradise or the Miracle Boy who was saved from certain death.

  It was just after noon, and the festival wasn’t nearly as packed as I’d expected. Scattered across the huge field were a few hundred people, give or take. Most of the thin crowd flowed to our right, up a long alley of booths, merchant tents, and boxy concession trailers. Below us, on the beach, a couple kids tossed a Frisbee, and somebody was flying a Chinese dragon kite. I also caught sight of a dozen Jet Skis beached in the sand. I didn’t see Jeff or his dad.

  “So which way?” Bundower asked.

  My mother shrugged and looked at me.

  Jeff was likely along the beach, but above us was the forest and the rock, probably Leo. “Let’s do the loop,” I said, knowing that the alley of vendors curved around the rim of the entire field. It would bring us around to the beach eventually.

  So off we went, the four of us walking along like anybody else. We passed a black tent where a man with a huge beard lined his table with leather belts, leather purses, leather wallets, even leather Bible covers with the words LIFE’S INSTRUCTION MANUAL branded on the front. Bundower held up a black leather hat and raised his eyebrows at me, but I told him I was fine with my baseball cap. We passed a sizzling metal cart with a guy frying Twinkies and Snickers and Oreos. Farther up, a middle-aged couple—maybe man and wife, maybe brother and sister—were selling swings crafted from recycled rubber tires. Kids were crawling all over a shiny new medical helicopter from St. Jude’s on display by a fire engine. Some were flat on the ground nearby, pretending to be mortally wounded.

  I’m not sure if I’d just expected everybody to stop what they were doing and stare at Daniel or what, but nobody seemed to be noticing us all that much. As we zigzagged up the alley, I found myself hoping that maybe all the stories had been simply blown out of proportion. Maybe there were only a handful of Pilgrims and they were like Leo, kind and harmless. Sure, a few people nodded and smiled at Daniel, but these were locals from town just being friendly. As a whole, the crowd seemed a lot more interested in buying corn dogs and tie-dyed T-shirts.

  My mother pulled us into the back of a group watching a man with a chain saw carving away at a wooden stump. He’d touch the spinning teeth to the block and sawdust would spit out. Tiny shreds flecked his red beard, and the red hair on his arms was coated with fine dust. I thought at first he was making an eagle. The wings were pretty clear. Daniel couldn’t see, so Bundower hoisted him up on his shoulders. When the man paused from his work to wipe the swe
at from his forehead, the chain saw fell silent and Daniel said, “That’s gonna be a angel.”

  The lumberjack artist smiled at Daniel and gave a thumbs-up. A few in the crowd turned to us and it occurred to me that anybody from outside Paradise might mistake the four of us for a family, just a mother and father and two kids out for a day at the local festival.

  Up near the picnic pavilions, an area was set off for the “Garden of Eden” bobbing-for-forbidden-apples contest, a corny contest to have in a place called Paradise. At the horseshoe pit, the competitors were practicing. Three-time champ Thurman Griggs lofted a horseshoe in a soft arc and it rotated slowly, floating above the heads of the spectators before dropping from my sight. Metal clanked on metal. The warm smell of Jennifer Newman’s peach cobbler lured people into her tent, licking their lips. Beneath a makeshift sign that read PARADISE PIES, she was selling slices for a dollar and whole pies for five. My mother turned to Daniel and asked, “Cobbler now or wait for funnel cake?”

  From Bundower’s shoulders, he said, “Cake.”

  We paused at a booth with a guy trying to sell stones shaped like famous people. My mother liked the one of George Washington, but Bundower said it looked like Bob Hope. Daniel lingered by a face painter working a brush over the cheeks of a five-year-old, who was either a scary clown or a goofy-looking lion.

  We hiked up the incline a bit farther, and Daniel, riding again on Bundower’s shoulders, pointed a finger toward a tent beneath the shade of a sprawling maple. Inside, a woman made wax candles in the shapes of dragons and wizards. She wore a red cone hat with white stars on it, as if she were a sorceress. Her hands warmed a piece of wax over a tender blue flame and her fingers pushed and twisted, shaping. Bundower put Daniel down and lifted up a wax damsel who resembled Sleeping Beauty. Daniel held a rounded green knight wielding a sword straight over his head. A wick poked from the tip of his blade. Daniel turned to my mother and said, “I’d never ever light it.”

  My mother started talking about the hazards of a fire, but Bundower gave her a look and she reached into her purse. The sorceress woman carefully wrapped the knight in butcher paper before stashing it in a plastic bag.