Two Statues

by Kevin Kennelly

We fished in silence for a few minutes.

  “Did you and Olivia live here in Edisto?”

  “No, we lived in Aiken over by the Georgia border, where we grew up. I moved here a few months after she died. I planned on it being temporary; just wanted to get away for a while and clear my head. But one day I decided to go out on the beach for an early walk. I saw the sun coming up, warming the water and dabbing the sky, and knew I had to play. I ran and got my violin and I’ve lived here ever since. For some reason, being close to the water makes me feel closer to her.”

  “That makes sense,” I replied. At first I thought I was just being polite, but that really did make sense. Heaven always seemed to be just on the other side of an oceanic horizon. Sometimes I wish I were a better swimmer.

  Just then I felt a tug on my line. I stood up and began to reel it in. Walt stood up too and encouraged me.

  “Come on, man!” he yelled. “Bring that sucker in! I know you’re stronger than that!”

  The moment was a perfect break from the somber feel that had come over us. After about three minutes, I had lifted a sizable, ten-pound trout out of the sea. That might not be big to some, but for my old bones it was quite a catch. We threw it in our cooler and headed back home. As we walked down the beach, the seagulls swirled above us, hoping we’d leave them a meal on the sand.

  The day had reached the point where a nap would be real suitable. I couldn’t wait to go inside, throw the fish in the freezer and throw myself into bed. I told Walt to come over in a couple hours so he could help me prepare our dinner and listen to some jazz music I’d wanted him to hear.

  “So you don’t mind, right?” Walt asked before we went into our separate homes.

  “Mind what?”

  “Me playing in the morning.”

  “Are you kiddin’? Your violin is the best alarm clock a man could have.”

  “I don’t want to wake you up; maybe I’ll start going farther down the beach. No one has lived in that house for years so I never considered how you could hear me.”

  “I enjoy hearing you play each morning, Walt. Besides, I can fall back asleep as easy as baby.” I held out my hand. “All right?”

  “Sure,” he replied, accepting the handshake. We began to walk away from each other, but Walt called me back. “Oh, and Buck.” He jogged over to me. “Thought you might want this based on somethin’ you said the other day.”

  He reached into his pocket and handed me a folded-up sheet of paper. Before I could open it he turned around and returned to his house. I placed the cooler on the ground and unfolded the paper.

  I smiled when I read it:

  St. James AME Church

  202 W. Atlantic St.

  Edisto Island, SC 29438

  6

  AFTER OUR ride into Providence, we stepped off the train and entered the station, not knowing who would be waiting for us. But it wasn’t long before we spotted a middle-aged woman with pale, snow-white skin shouting our names.

  “Father Paul! Father Peter! Is that you? Oh, of course it’s you. Two traveling priests aren’t common in this train station.” She scurried up to us and shook our hands. “My name is Juliet O’Day. It’s so nice to meet you.”

  She was a small lady, dressed very plainly, like she may have been a librarian, in flat brown shoes, an ankle-length, brown wool dress and a white blouse that fluffed up to her chin and hung beyond her wrists.

  After our greetings, she took my arm and said, “Come on out this way. I’m parked over here.”

  We followed Mrs. O’Day into the asphalt parking lot as she went on about the cold weather they’d been having this week. It was rather chilly out, but no different than the fall weather we were used to in Massachusetts. Eventually she stopped in front of a two-door car that appeared more like a go-cart, royal blue and not much longer than my wingspan. “Good thing you boys don’t own much, huh?” she joked.

  Peter and I threw our bags in the miniature trunk and had a staring contest to determine who would have to sit in the back. I lost. I climbed in first and compressed my body crossways in the back seat.

  We left the train station in Providence and went south on a highway curving between green hills and grassy pastures. Off both sides of the road, rundown barns dotted the landscape, along with the occasional windmill spinning its sails in the wind. The leaves of the trees were in the midst of their autumn transformation, blending together to form the picturesque hollows of the New England countryside.

  As she drove, Mrs. O’Day gave us a history about her state, at times more concerned with her dialog then her driving, which made me nervous enough to recite a prayer. When her lesson hit a lull, I waited to see if Peter would bring up the reason why we were there, but he didn’t, so I did.

  “So Mrs. O’Day,” I said from the back seat, “what can you tell us about this statue?”

  “Oh, yes,” she said with a sigh, “the statue. It has brought so much fear and controversy to our little parish. No one knows what’s happening, but people all have their opinions. Some claim we simply have a busted heat system, others claim it’s a sign of the apocalypse. I’m so glad you two were able to come down to straighten this all out.”

  “Please don’t think we’ll have a quick answer for you,” I said. “There’s no handbook to refer to on these things.”

  “But you two are experts, right?”

  Peter glanced over his shoulder at me. “We’ve both spent time studying these types of things,” he answered her. “But just as Father Paul said, there’s never a clear answer for why these things happen. Now what can you tell us about all this?” Peter took out a pad and paper.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “When did the statue first start to give off heat? Who noticed it? When was the last time you stood before the statue?”

  “Well, I believe it was Father Powell who first noticed the heat.”

  “Your local priest?” Peter asked.

  “Yes, he’s been with us about five years, I think. It was just before the Sunday Mass at nine-thirty, almost two weeks ago. Father Powell made a joke about it in his homily. He said he thought he had noticed our statue of the Virgin Mother giving off heat before everyone arrived for Mass. He said she must be trying to warm us up before the really cold weather arrives. We can sometimes get the coldest winters here. Have either of you ever been to Rhode Island before?”

  “So about two weeks ago, you said?” Peter asked as he jotted things down in his notebook.

  “Oh, yes, I’m sorry. After Mass, some of us approached the statue out of curiosity. I thought I felt a little warmth coming from it, but others disagreed and said it was only Father Powell’s imagination. No one thought much of it at first.”

  “Where is the statue located in the church?” I asked.

  “Why does that matter?”

  “It probably doesn’t. We’re just trying to get all the information we can.”

  “It’s at the front of the church,” she replied returning her eyes to the road, “on the left side of the altar, in a little alcove of sorts.”

  “So after that first Sunday,” Peter said, “how long was it before people started to really take notice of the heat?”

  “Like I said, you should talk to Father Powell.”

  “We will,” I assured her, “but we want to hear from more than just him.”

  She scrunched her face as she searched her memory. “I remember Molly Dinkins mentioning something to me first. She’s an older friend of mine who goes to daily Mass just about every day. Deaf as a doorknob, but never met a better Bridge player in all my life.”

  I steered her back to topic. “And what did Ms. Dinkins say?”

  “Oh, something about it getting hotter. I usually go with her to daily Mass, but I was very busy that day. I didn’t really believe Molly until I went to Mass the next Sunday. I heard people murmuring about it in the narthex. Some said it was too hot to go inside, while others said it wasn’t so bad and people were just overrea
cting. But I went in, convinced not to miss my Sunday obligation. And boys, I will tell you, it was hotter than fire in there. Some parishioners didn’t make it through the first reading. By the end of Mass, there weren’t but ten people in the church. But things didn’t get really scary until this week. I showed up for daily Mass on Tuesday, and Father Powell was standing out front looking horrified. He had locked the doors of the church and said it was too hot for anyone to enter. He said it was dangerous.” She turned to Peter with wide eyes, startled with the memory. “Do you know how strange that sounds? To have your priest tell you it’s too dangerous to enter your own church?”

  “I can’t imagine how that made you feel,” Peter said as he continued to write down things in his notepad.

  “Anyway,” she went on, “Father Powell held a meeting at a parishioner’s house that night. He told us he would contact the Bishop and see how to handle this, but to not speak of the statue around town until we could figure out what was going on. I’ve been tempted to tell my friends who don’t go to our church, but I’m too afraid to talk about it. I feel like I might get in trouble, or worse, upset God in some way. Who knows? Maybe he already is upset with us. It’s just been a very frightening couple of weeks, Fathers. I lost my husband recently and without him here this has been even more difficult.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” I offered from the backseat. “How did he die?”

  “Cancer.” She glanced down at her wedding ring and rubbed it with her opposite hand.

  “We’ll be sure to keep you and him in our prayers,” I said. “I’m sorry you’ve had to go through all this after losing him.”

  “Oh, thank you, Father. One can never have too many prayers said for them.”

  We rode in silence for the next several minutes as the sound of the rolling tires filled our ears, until soon we exited onto an off ramp.

  “Where are you taking us first?” Peter asked.

  “I’m supposed to take you to my home so you can drop off your belongings and freshen up. When you’re ready, I’ll take you to the church where you can meet Father Powell and the firemen.”

  “Firemen?” Peter said.

  “The head of our fire department goes to Our Lady of the Sea. He and one of his men have been helping Father Powell. And it’s a good thing, too; it’s not safe to enter without the right people.”

  Peter glanced back at me with a raise of his brow.

  We made our way over a steel bridge stretching above the harbor. Below us, the water churned in choppy waves cloaked in a dark, green tint. Several sailboats bounced further out in the sea before a white and black lighthouse. Its gleaming light spun in circles, warning of the rocky island it stood upon and only visible during midday because of the cloud cover darkening the land.

  Across the bridge, we arrived in the quaint town of Jamestown. We circled around a port of docked boats and into the main part of town. It had a village feel to it despite being modern at the same time. Shops full of trinkets lined the streets, along with old Victorian-style inns and plenty of restaurants to appease the tourists. Once through the town we moved into a string of neighborhoods bordered by red maples and sidewalks, eventually arriving at Mrs. O’Day’s house just before noon. It was a small, brick home with white shutters and a white picket fence to match. We parked in the narrow driveway and made our way inside her snug and cozy home. Pictures from her past adorned the walls and handmade quilts draped outdated furniture. She gave us a brief tour of the house, taking pride in the beautiful view from her back deck which rested over a forest turned red and yellow by the autumn chill. She eventually showed us to our bedrooms which sat perched at the top of the stairs, separated by a bathroom.

  After a thirty minute break to get off our feet and eat lunch, our investigation awaited. We left Mrs. O’Day’s neighborhood and went back through the main part of town. Our timid nerves quieted our tongues, leaving only the chamber music playing on her radio.

  The town streets and neighborhoods gave way to a rural area after only a few minutes. Farmland where sheep and cows grazed stretched over the horizon. We rounded a bend in the road curving around a small but thick forest and came upon a hill; at the top of that hill rested an old, stone church. I immediately knew this parish must have lacked the proper funds to have a Rec Hall or a house built nearby for the local priest, as the church sat alone on the hill.

  A few cars and a red SUV with the fire department logo on the side were parked in the gravel parking lot out front. Several figures stood waiting on the church’s steps, one dressed in black from head to toe, an outfit I was familiar with. As we continued our way up the road, I noticed that Our Lady of the Sea overlooked a cliff dropping down into the bay. A well-tended flower garden along the left of the church brought charm to the small structure, and exquisite stained glass windows ran from the roof almost down to the ground interrupting the stone pattern of the outside walls.

  “That’s Father Powell up there,” Mrs. O’Day said as we pulled in. “He will welcome you. Take as long as you need; you’re in his hands now. And here’s a key to my home in case I’m out or you get back too late. I probably won’t be out, though, I don’t know of any late-night functions going on for fifty-year-old women.”

  Mrs. O’Day handed me the key as she chuckled at her own joke. Her humor seemed like a forced attempt to disguise her discomfort from returning to the church grounds. We had barely stepped out of the tiny, blue car before she peeled out of the parking lot.

  Father Powell waved to us from the front steps and came our way.

  “Father Paul, Father Peter, I presume,” he said as he approached us. “Thank you for coming.”

  “Absolutely,” I said, shaking his hand. His balding, grey hair showed his age, as did the bags under his eyes, and his skin drooped off his face like worn leather on a baseball mitt. We exchanged pleasantries with him, listening to the exhaustion in his voice.

  “Well, I know we don’t have you for much time,” Father Powell said, breaking us away from our greetings. “What else would you like to know before you go inside?”

  “I’m curious about what day the statue began to give off heat,” I began. “Throughout history, there have been Marian miracles involving statues that occurred on the anniversary of important dates.”

  “Yes, I thought about that. I can’t say for sure the exact day, because the small amount of heat the statue was giving off at first may have gone unnoticed. But the first time I became aware was Sunday, the fifth.”

  Peter opened a small book from his satchel and flipped through the pages. “September fifth doesn’t sound like any type of feast day for the Virgin Mother, and off the top of my head I don’t know of any other Marian apparitions on that day.” After Peter found the correct day, he continued. “The fifth is the feast day of St. Laurence Justinian, the first Patriarch of Venice.”

  The three of us searched for any connection we could make.

  “Do you have any parishioners with an Italian heritage?” I asked, knowing I was reaching. “Maybe one who has been sick?”

  “No, not at all.”

  “Does the church itself have Italian roots?” I asked.

  Father Powell shook his head. “This church was built about thirty-five years ago by the Catholics of Jamestown. They were tired of driving to Newport for Mass, so they raised the money with the help of the diocese. They wanted their own identity here on the island, but there’s nothing really special to take note of with that.”

  “Actually, I’m not sure we can place any significance on the date,” Peter interjected. “A lot of times when a statue does something like this, there’s a clear moment for its beginning. It’s hard to miss tears of blood or something along those lines. But with this there’s too much obscurity. When did it become so hot that you couldn’t enter the church?”

  “Shortly after the next Sunday, on the fourteenth, I think. I tried to pray at the foot of the statue, but it was just too hot. I called some people I know at the l
ocal fire department, not knowing who else to contact. Those two men over there, actually,” he said pointing toward them. “They did a scan of the area and didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. When people showed up for Mass that day, I couldn’t let them in. I canceled all the daily Masses, and shortly after that, I called the Bishop, and here you two are.”

  “We were surprised that we hadn’t heard about this on the news, yet,” I said. “How have you avoided that?”

  “Things are a little different here than they are in the big city. Most people in this town, in this parish, I should say, understand that the national media would overrun us if word got out about the statue, and they don’t want that. I advised them to keep quiet, but honestly, I don’t think people want to talk about it. Some residents feel the Virgin Mary is trying to warn us of God’s impending wrath, like we have angered him somehow. My parishioners are too scared to leave their homes right now.”

  “I think we should go ahead and get in there and save our other questions for afterwards,” I offered.

  “Okay, sure.”

  “Is there anything else we should know?” Peter asked him.

  He hesitated. “Let me go speak with the men who’ll be taking you inside before I introduce you to them.”

  We followed him up toward the red SUV parked in front of the church, but allowed him to go speak with the other two men in private as we looked out over the Atlantic. The seawater rumbled angrily below us, crashing against the towering cliffs sprawled up and down the coastline. The cliffs were rocky and rigid and covered in a green moss that shined in the light of day. A trio of pelicans gliding inches above the waterline caught my eye, but just then a deep voice boomed from behind us. “So you’re the guys we’re taking inside, huh?”

  We turned around, met by two men, one large and towering with a scruffy beard, the other a younger man with a chiseled, youthful face. They wore thick, black suits they weren’t wearing a moment ago, seemingly made from rubber. It went up to their necks and extended down into their boots and gloves, both made from the same material. No part of their skin was visible except for their neck and face.