The Most Reverend Father Charles Huckle, known to most as Father Chase, was the president of the college. But despite his position, he was more like a father to me and Peter, rather than our boss. Anytime he wanted to see us we usually spoke in passing, or he told us to come by his office later that day. This secretive letter, informing us to tell no one about the meeting, was more than unusual.
The next morning, we woke early, while darkness still blanketed the campus. A burst of chilly air struck us as we opened the front door of our house. The grounds were empty since most of the students with early classes didn’t go to breakfast until seven.
When we made it to the rectory hall where Father Chase’s office was, we saw that his secretary was not yet in, but his office light flooded the outside waiting room. We also heard music. A peaceful symphony flowed through his door and into the lobby, music we associated with our college president and told us he was already in his office. We glanced through the doorway and saw Father Chase sitting behind his desk in his faded, lavender chair, appearing like he may have been sleeping.
“Father Chase?” Peter said with a slight knock on the door, trying his best not to disturb him.
The elderly priest opened his eyes.
“Come on in, you two.” He reached across the mahogany desk and turned off his stereo. “Were you waiting long?”
“Oh, no,” Peter replied. “We just walked in.”
“Please, sit down.”
Peter and I took our places in the two wooden seats sitting opposite his desk. A large crucifix hung on the wall behind him, while the two side walls were lined with books. A small cot sat in the back corner of the office resting under a painting of a guardian angel. The cot was not normally there; I wondered how busy Father Chase had been these last few days.
“How are you two doing?”
I glanced at Peter. “We’re fine,” he answered for the both of us. I nodded in agreement, knowing for sure now that Peter had not mentioned his intention of leaving the priesthood to anyone other than me. It also let me know that I clearly had no idea what this meeting was about.
“Well,” Father Chase began, “I won’t waste anyone’s time. It’s early and I don’t want you to miss breakfast. Something has come up, and the Bishop has a request for us, or rather, a Bishop from a neighboring diocese has requested our help.”
“Are we being transferred?” I interrupted.
“No, no. This matter will probably be a short one. Perhaps only a day or two.” His words trailed off at the end of his sentences, as if he was unsure of how to finish them.
“What is it then?” Peter asked.
“There has been a supposed apparition of sorts, involving a statue of the Virgin Mary, at a church in Jamestown, Rhode Island.”
“What sort of happening?” I asked.
“Where is Jamestown?” Peter added.
He sat up and folded his hands. “Jamestown is a very small, harbor town located on Conanicut Island. It’s just outside Newport and south of Providence. From what I hear it has a quaint downtown area that hosts tourists from time-to-time, but the Catholic Church is further out in a remote area, sitting on the cliffs overlooking Mackerel Cove. It’s called Our Lady of the Sea, a very small parish with only a couple hundred parishioners. Have either of you ever been to Rhode Island?”
Both of us shook our heads.
“So what has happened with this statue?” Peter asked.
“Well, first let me tell you something that I’m sure you already know. The Church is very careful about how they handle these situations. There are a lot of people in the world and not all can be trusted. It’s unfortunate to have to say this, but the Vatican very rarely recognizes these types of events. They have to be careful in how they handle these claims, following a strict set of rules at all times. They can’t just accept every supposed miracle on a whim, as much as we would want those miracles to be true.”
“Of course,” I said. “We teach a section in our classes about Marian apparitions. We know all about the procedures the Church takes.”
“I know you do, and that’s part of the reason you’ve been chosen for this. You weren’t the first choice, mind you, but I’ll get into that in a bit.”
“Father,” Peter said with a crack in his voice, “you still haven’t told us what has happened with the statue.”
Father Chase took a heavy breath. “It’s giving off heat.”
“What?” I asked.
“How much heat?” Peter added.
“Good question. A statue giving off heat is strange enough, but it’s the amount of heat that has people worried. At first it was only a slight warmth, apparently like standing near a heat vent in your house. The local priest ignored it; said he thought it was his imagination. But as the days went on the statue got hotter and hotter. At this point, they say entering the church feels like walking into an oven.”
“Are they sure the statue is the source of the heat?” Peter asked.
“Well as I mentioned, the local priest said he felt the statue getting warmer in the days leading up to all this. But also, there’s a parishioner there who’s a part of the local fire department. He went inside the church with some kind of gadget, and his little meters and scales apparently went haywire when he approached it.”
“Of course I find this amazing,” I said, “but what are we supposed to do? And what did you say about us not being the first choice?”
“I was getting to that. You see, an odd chain of events has led to this meeting. The local priest in Jamestown called the Bishop of Rhode Island when all this started happening. The Bishop there is a good friend of our Bishop Robert in Boston, and after much discussion the two of them decided they would contact Father Timothy Wilson to do an investigation, because of his expertise on such matters. I know you both know Father Timothy, especially you, Paul.”
“Yes, of course,” I said, thinking back on my old teacher from seminary. Father Timothy may not have been known to the general public, but in Catholic circles he was a renowned and well respected scholar who had spent many years studying and teaching Church practices. He was the author of several books, including a best seller written about the most famous Marian apparitions of the past few centuries. I had developed a close friendship with him after my years studying under him. That friendship had opened up doors for me in the past, and apparently was continuing to do so today.
“Unfortunately, Father Timothy has fallen ill,” Father Chase went on. “We don’t think it’s anything serious, but he cannot make the journey from New York to Rhode Island. After hearing about this supposed happening, he recommended that you be contacted, Paul, to go in his stead and conduct an investigation. Your former teacher thinks very highly of you and has plenty of confidence that you’ll be able to do what we ask.”
Peter fidgeted in his seat next to me.
“But I don’t want Paul going alone on this. I know you two are friends and work well together, so I’d like you to go with him, Peter.” Peter nodded but avoided eye contact with both me and Father Chase. “Now, all we want from you is to determine the validity of the claim. The Church will not waste time on this if it turns out to be a hoax of some kind, which it very well could be. The small-town community is terrified by this and the local priest is overwhelmed, so when you get there, assure the people you’re doing what you can to make sense of it all. But mostly, get yourself in front of that statue and report back to me about it. Of course if the opportunity presents itself, ask questions and speak with the parishioners. Even though this is only a preliminary examination, I want to be able to tell the Bishops as much as we can. After we’ve done our part, they’ll decide if Cardinal Hargrove should be contacted, and it will then be his decision on whether or not to get the Vatican involved. I hope you don’t get down there and discover the statue is perfectly normal and the parish has gone mad, or that this is all a big hoax, but you never know.”
Peter and I didn’t speak for a few seconds as we let every
thing sink in.
“I wouldn’t agree to send you down there if I didn’t feel this deserved our attention. I myself would love to go, and I’m sure both the Bishops would love to check it out for themselves, but we have too many pressing matters that demand our attention. If you get down there and find this to be of the utmost importance for the Church, I’m sure we’ll all be taking a visit to this little harbor town eventually. Is this something you think you can handle?”
“Of course,” I said. “When do we leave?”
“We want you on the Boston Commuter Rail which can get you to the train station in time to catch the nine o’clock to Providence. Once there, someone will pick you up and drive you to Jamestown, one of the local parishioners, I think.”
“Why have we not heard about this on CNN or something?” Peter asked.
“Ah, yes, well, there are a few reasons for that, I suppose. For one, this has only been going on for about a week, but as I said, Jamestown is a very small town. I know there are good people there but they tend to keep to themselves. I don’t think they would care much for national reporters invading their quaint town, so they may be choosing to keep quiet on their own. But I also don’t think many people outside the Catholic parish know about it yet. The Bishop of Rhode Island advised the local priest to keep his people quiet until we do an investigation, an investigation that doesn’t get tainted or distracted by the news media. Now you know why I was so secretive about our meeting, with my letter and all. I would’ve just popped in your office last night to meet with you but I had a previous obligation, so I got a student employee to drop off the letter. And speaking of your students, I’ll have to tell them you’re on a mission assignment for a few days and we’ll get you some substitutes.”
We shook hands with Father Chase and thanked him again for the opportunity. It took us about thirty minutes to eat a quick breakfast and get back to our house where we packed a small bag. I rambled all the way to the commuter rail station, asking countless questions, most of which Peter ignored. I could tell I was annoying him but I couldn’t contain my enthusiasm. In all my studies, I couldn’t recall a statue of Mary giving off heat. I had heard about tears of blood streaming from the eyes of statues, I had read about statues giving off the smell of roses, and I remembered stories of statues falling over for no apparent reason, but never anything like what we were journeying to witness today.
We boarded the commuter rail that would carry us over the suburban neighborhoods and deliver us into Boston in a half hour. Once seated, I decided to take advantage of this opportunity where Peter could not get away from me.
“Are you still going to leave?”
“I’m not sure,” he answered without looking at me. He reached out and rubbed a piece of fuzz off the seat in front of us. “I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t intrigued by this supposed phenomenon, but that doesn’t mean anything has changed from how I felt last week. This heated statue won’t change anything in my life. You heard Father Chase; I wasn’t even supposed to be making this trip. I’m just coming to keep you company, to be your chaperone. I’ll do this out of respect for Father Chase. After that, I’ll try and make a concrete decision about my future.”
5
WHEN I went to bed after our argument, I felt that Walt had behaved like a jerk, and there was no other way to say it. But when I awoke the next day and replayed the hazy memory, I realized I was probably overstepping my boundaries with a little help from the alcohol. A sober Buck Washington would’ve dropped the issue when it was clear Walt didn’t want to discuss his morning ritual.
Still, I was a stubborn old man, and I wasn’t going to apologize. I saw Walt coming and going from his house and he saw me, but other than a few stolen glances there wasn’t much communication between us. Even Sam was ignoring me, which I didn’t know dogs could do. I began to wonder if Walt and I would ever speak again.
I woke up late one Sunday morning about ten o’clock. I was eating a bowl of cereal on my back porch when I heard Walt’s pickup truck pull in on the front side of his house. I knew he was returning from church. He went every Sunday to the early service at the local Catholic church, where he had been head of the choir for many years. His devotion to church attendance always found a way to make me feel guilty. I had been meaning to find the local AME Church every week since I’d moved to Edisto, but it was no real surprise that I hadn’t got around to it yet. I kept telling myself I would do it the following Monday. When Monday came, I said I’d do it Tuesday, and so on and so forth. But I never took note of my procrastination until I saw Walt come home from his own service each Sunday.
Just as I finished scooping up the last soggy flakes of my cereal, I heard the slam of my neighbor’s screen door. I looked over and saw Walt holding his fishing poles and tackle box. I pretended I didn’t notice him. But not a minute later I heard a familiar question.
“Want to go fishin’?”
I turned around and there stood Walt and Sam.
“Sure.”
We walked down the beach, this time to a public dock stretching out into the creek side of the island. It went about fifty yards into the water, past the saw grass and muddy sand dwellings of the hermit crabs. We sat on the edge of the dock and cast our lines as the smell of saltwater and plough mud mixed together, giving off that unique, low country aroma I’d grown accustomed to liking even though it wasn’t the most pleasing smell. I was amazed at how we could act as if nothing had happened. It didn’t take long for us to get engrossed in a sports conversation. I had truly forgotten about our heated moment from the week before, but suddenly, Walt interrupted me.
“I’m sorry I was so rude the other night.”
He’d caught me off guard, but I replied, “No, no. I was at fault.”
“I think maybe we both were a little. But I overreacted.”
I waited to see if he wanted to say more, but I continued when he seemed to be finished. “I shouldn’t have pried like that.”
“Well, you asked a pretty fair question. It’s not normal for a grown man to play the violin on the beach each morning.” I didn’t know what to say back to that. It wasn’t normal. “I’m just a private man, Buck. It took a lot for me to come over and ask you to go fishing that one day, but I felt I should since you were the first person to move into that house in years. I felt like that was the neighborly thing to do, and I’m glad I did ’cause you’re probably the closest thing I’ve had to a friend in the last ten years.”
“I’m like that myself. I want to be alone most of the time, but I enjoy you and Sam’s company. I’m glad you came over.”
Sam perked his head up at hearing his name, but quickly returned to his midday nap. He was in no mood to listen to this conversation between old men.
Walt sighed. “I play for my wife.”
“Your wife?”
“She’s passed on.”
“Oh, gosh, I’m sorry, Walt.” He looked out over the wandering see for nearly a minute without saying anything. I wondered if that was the end of this. “You want to talk about it anymore?”
He rubbed at the scruff on his face.
“She grew up in my hometown, friends since childhood. Our families lived down the street from one another, with only two houses separating us. You could argue we were together since the first day we met, runnin’ around as little kids and getting into trouble, but we didn’t officially start dating until high school.”
“High school sweethearts, huh?”
He nodded. “Our story was a typical, American romance—she was the head cheerleader and I was the star quarterback, with everything and anything you could ever ask for. After high school real life set in a little, like it always does, but we were still happy. We both got jobs; I worked on a dairy farm and she started working as a part-time nurse. We were set to get married when I got drafted for the war; almost rushed through a ceremony, but decided to wait. Thankfully, I survived my time overseas and we were married when I got back.”
“What
was her name?”
“Olivia. Olivia Wade Henderson.”
“Tell me more about her. What’d she look like?”
Walt closed his eyes briefly, as if he were trying to find her behind his eyelids.
“Her hair was long and dark,” he finally said, reopening his eyes, “almost down to her waist and perfectly straight. She was real tiny, only five-foot, two-inches, and not much more’n a hundred pounds. But it was her eyes that everyone loved about her. They were a light hazel color and as deep as the ocean. Of course I’m biased in saying she was pretty, but you’ll have to trust me when I say everyone loved her eyes.”
“Maybe you could show me a picture of her when we get back.”
“Why wait?” Walt leaned to his side and pulled a picture from his wallet. His description of Olivia had been spot on.
“You weren’t lying about those eyes,” I agreed.
I returned the picture to him and he placed it back in his wallet. “She’s been gone almost thirty-five years now, but every day feels like I just lost her the day before.”
After a short pause, I said, “So, you play for her when you’re out on the beach?”
“My mother passed away shortly after Olivia and I were married. Mom left me her old violin, the one she’d taught me lessons on when I was younger. I surprisingly had a knack for it, and Olivia loved to hear me play. I bought some music books at the local store and did some practicing. I played every morning for her before we went to work; got better with each passing month. My favorite part of playing was watching her face as she listened to my songs. That’s the face I see when I go out there each morning.”
“You’ve been doing this for over thirty years?” He nodded. “You sure you ain’t missed one day in all those years?”
“Never.”
“That sure does take some kind a’ dedication.”
“If you knew her, you’d know why I do it.”
“I’ve never been that way with a woman. Then again, I don’t know if I could get one to be that devoted to me.”
Two Statues Page 3