“But it just had to be a statue of Mary, didn’t it? It couldn’t have at least been a statue of Jesus radiating heat to help make this a little easier on us?”
“Peter, the rest of the world may not view Mary in the light we do, but they know God used her to bring his son into the world. Mary brought Jesus to all the nations, just like any Christian disciple who journeys across the globe preaching in Christ’s name. In this way, she was the first ever missionary. At that wedding in Cana she told the servants, ‘Do whatever he tells you.’ That wasn’t a message directed solely at those servants; it was a message to all of us, from the very mouth of Christ’s own mother. She wasn’t asking for our worship and we don’t give it to her. She was asking us to follow her son. This wouldn’t be the first time God has used Mary to bring people closer to Christ. We shouldn’t be surprised that it is a statue of her doing this.”
“I just … look, all we should really do is remove the statue from the church. Then those people can get their lives back to normal and we can all move on.”
“Perhaps we should remove the statue, but we shouldn’t move on until we’ve made sense of this.”
“And how do you figure on making any sense of this mess?”
“We both know there is no guidebook or list of rules to follow when things like this happen. All we can do is pray, trust our gut instincts and follow the evidence laid before us.”
“Evidence? Tell me you don’t call Donald’s claims evidence?”
A voice boomed over the speakers of the station, informing the passengers of the next departing train. It wasn’t announcing the one we were waiting to board, but the noise sliced through our dispute and deflated me. I didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. I headed to a vending machine tucked away in the corner of the main hall, placed a couple coins in the slot, and listened as the can tumbled to the bottom of the machine. I gulped down the fuzzy liquid, hoping the caffeine would perk my energy.
After a few minutes spent standing alone, I heard them finally call our train. I glanced over to where Peter had been sitting, but his seat was empty.
15
AFTER FOUR days of not speaking to Walt, I paused in the novel I was reading to stare out my side window at the drizzling rain, just in time to see him hurrying toward my house. He didn’t knock after he had climbed the back steps. Instead, he slid a white envelope under the crack beneath my door, then jogged back to his own house, doing his best to avoid the lazy rain.
I didn’t get up at first. I stayed put in my blue-cloth chair and proceeded to read the novel in my lap, determined to reach the end of the chapter before retrieving the envelope.
I reached the end of that chapter, glanced at the envelope, then continued to the next chapter. Plain fear kept me from putting the book down through the course of three more chapters. I was kidding myself if I thought I was paying attention to the story. My gaze slid over some pages three times before I’d actually read a word. After an hour I got up and made some dinner, still leaving the envelope sitting on the floor. It stared at me like a sad puppy wanting attention as I fried a grilled cheese on my stove.
At ten o’clock, with the sun long set and the rain journeyed down the coast, I snatched it off the floor and walked outside to my back porch, planting myself in a rocker. The night sky was as black as a witch’s cauldron, with not a star in sight or a moon to speak of. I pulled out the note and unfolded it, the paper popping like my old bones as I rose from bed each morning. I read Walt’s letter using the glow from the window over my shoulder:
Dear Buck,
I’m sorry for how I jumped on you last week. Passing time can be the best prescription for understanding a difficult matter, and I see now that you only meant well. I hate that you lied to me about where you went, but I reckon I can forgive a white lie.
When I tried to find my son so many years ago, I was told by the authorities that my boy would’ve grown up in that orphanage, and that he would’ve stayed there until a family had claimed him, which sometimes took years. So I went about my life thinking my own flesh and blood spent his years living in a run-down, group home, being raised by people who didn’t know about the life me and the boy’s mother wanted for our son. But I suppose I can’t hold those people responsible for that.
That day I walked out of that hospital, I pushed my boy away forever. But no day was worse than when I came back ten years later and saw the place where he would have grown up. It made the reality of my decision sink into my bones, and that has weighed me down since then.
But after you left last week, I stared at the picture of that nun, Sister Marie. You told me she was a kind lady, and that she and the other nuns took care of the children as if they were their own. You told me this home was as nice a place to grow up as any place could be. I don’t know if my son spent any time at that home, but Sister Marie’s picture is sitting on my mantle now. She’s not a stranger somehow, and that comforts me for reasons I can’t explain.
I am indebted to you for the efforts you made in trying to reconcile my sins. I won’t forget what you’ve done.
Sincerely,
Walt.
P.S. I’d like you to be on the beach tomorrow when I play. I want to introduce you to Olivia.
I folded up the letter, placed it in my shirt pocket and let the ocean’s waves put me to sleep.
When I felt a soft glow on my face, it was clear a new day had arrived. I walked out on the beach through the salty, morning mist. Just as I arrived on the cold sand, I heard Walt’s screen door slam. He came my way, carrying his violin and a chair. Sam galloped toward me on excited paws, surprised to see a visitor for their morning ritual.
It was clear Walt and I would not say a word to one another. As he set himself up to play, I sat down on the sand next to him and looked out over the sea. The sun rose slowly from the watery horizon, sprinkling the clouds with morning’s first light. Sam curled up next to me and took his place in the scene, lying in such a way that seemed to say this was his beach. I considered how Walt had done this every morning for the last thirty some years, giving meaning to each day. Like most of mankind, I had managed to let time pass without much thought given to something beyond this world. I was jealous of Walt for experiencing these unique moments, but then I realized it was his tragedies that brought about the meaning he’d found, and I wondered if I should be jealous at all.
My thoughts came to a halt when the music began to rise from beside me. I wasn’t sure what piece Walt played, but I knew it was played to perfection. He grazed the strings in such a way that made the skies part and open us up to the heavens above. The sea gulls no longer needed wind to glide through the air; Walt’s song carried them wherever they needed to go. I looked upwards and closed my eyes, letting the chills tickle my skin.
I met Walt’s wife that morning. His music somehow served as a conversation between Olivia and me, and in only a matter of minutes, we’d become close friends.
The song ended and gave way to the sounds of the beach. The crashing waves returned, the sea gulls squawked once again, and the morning wind whistled as it always did. Walt and I both stood up and shook hands. Still, neither of us spoke a word. We returned to our homes and knew we would never do that again. That was Walt’s ritual; I was simply a one-time visitor.
That morning helped us both a great deal. He got over the lie I had told, and I left his past where it needed to be left. Walt seemed to have finally accepted his sins and would do his best to move on, and I was happy for that. All I wanted was to live out my days in peace, with my friend and neighbor by my side.
But it wasn’t long before something else shook our uneventful days; something that would change our lives, and change the way I viewed the world forever.
16
I HURRIED back to where I had been sitting with Peter. His bags were gone but mine remained. I grabbed them and searched the station frantically until I heard the final call for our train. Not knowing what to do, I headed for the train and boarde
d it. Much to my relief, but also anger, Peter was seated in the first cart, staring out the window.
“What was that about?” I asked, taking the seat next to him.
“What?”
“You left me. I didn’t know you had boarded.”
“Sorry.”
That was all Peter managed to say the whole way back to Worcester. When we arrived on our familiar campus, we tried to set up a time to see Father Chase, but he was tied up for the remainder of the evening, pushing our meeting until the following morning. That night, Peter departed to his bedroom early without eating dinner, but I had something I needed to do before speaking with Father Chase.
I walked across campus about eight in the evening. Most of the students had retired to their dorm rooms, but a few were outside enjoying a cigarette. I walked into the library on the south side of the grounds and was met by the security guard sitting at the front desk, an elderly man everyone called Ace for reasons unknown to me. After exchanging a brief greeting with Ace, I departed to the back of the library. Only a few students were there, letting me concentrate on what I wanted to do. I sat down at an empty desk and went over the notes I had taken from our weekend trip. I heard Donald’s words echoing in my mind. Anoder lady. Anoder lady warmin’ the eart’. On the train ride home, I had considered that perhaps Donald was telling us to look for another church that went by the name, “Our Lady of the Sea.” But as I thought about all the Catholic churches in America that could be, or the world, for that matter, I became overwhelmed. The task of finding all those churches and their locations seemed unlikely, or would at least take months of research.
I needed coffee. I walked back to the front desk where Ace sat reading a magazine. I filled a styrofoam cup to the brim and decided to take a break from my investigation and talk with him about something trivial, something that didn’t require me to think. But in an instant, Ace had sparked my mind back to the statues.
“What did you just say?” I asked.
“I said my brother caught a small shark last weekend.”
“No, before that. Where did you say he was?”
“He was deep sea fishing, out in the Atlantic.”
I smiled. “Ace, you’re a genius!”
“Now there’s something I’ve never been called,” the old man joked.
I laughed and ran back to my desk, trying to keep my arm steady so I wouldn’t spill the coffee. I suddenly felt as if Donald was sitting next to me in the library; I could hear his message that clearly. She in this same sea as here in my home. Sitting back down, I devised a plan for how to locate all the churches on the eastern seaboard named Our Lady of the Sea.
For the next three hours I flipped through stacks of books, Catholic magazines and diocese newsletters; I sifted through old periodicals; I made phone calls to Bishops up and down the east coast asking them about the churches in their dioceses, catching the wrath of some because of the late hour. When I couldn’t reach a Bishop, I called priests and even friends and family living in the targeted areas, imploring them to check their local phone books for the information I sought. It was hard to gauge the accuracy of my research, but when it was all said and done, I had only found four other churches on the east coast that shared a name with the Rhode Island church. I spent another hour doing research on the four other parishes, locating them on maps Ace retrieved for me from a library closet. When I finally stopped to look at the time, I saw it was long past midnight. I lugged my tired body back to my room, but slept little. I tossed and turned as I thought about our meeting with Father Chase. I had to handle the situation delicately, and before I went in, I knew I needed to make a phone call and ask for a favor from my brother back in Michigan.
The next morning I awoke early, making a few more phone calls to confirm what I had discovered the night before. I didn’t even see Peter until we met each other in Father Chase’s office after lunch.
I did most of the talking, while Peter merely stared straight ahead. Father Chase asked questions as he listened to my report with an attentive ear. When the discussion turned to Donald, he seemed frightened by what we told him. He glanced at Peter when I told him about the message from the statue, about a shepherd made of the rock, but he didn’t address the message specifically when I finished my report.
“This is pretty daunting to hear,” Father Chase began. “I don’t know what I expected you to find, but I didn’t expect this. The challenged boy being such a big part of this means we have to be even more sensitive in how we handle it. It’s hard to put a lot of stock in these messages he supposedly hears, but what you say about him not being affected by the heat, that’s reason to take notice of him. I like your suggestion, Peter, of having the statue removed from the church, perhaps so it can be studied, but also so the people of the town can get their lives back to normal. I’ll suggest this to the Bishops, but from there it’s out of my hands. At some point this story will get out, but for now, we still need to keep this secretive until we know more. This will be easier for everyone involved if we can keep the reporters and cameras away for a few more days, or at least until a more stringent investigation can be done.”
“And what about the possibility of a second statue?” I asked.
Father Chase shrugged his shoulders. “I’m as curious about that as you are, Paul, but what can we do? If this boy didn’t give you any specific information, we can’t go any further with this. If there is another heated statue, that parish may be keeping quiet as well. Maybe there’s another set of priests having a meeting like this somewhere else in the world, but how could we possibly know that?”
“I actually did some work last night, and I have a theory.” I could feel Peter’s eyes on me.
“Okay, what do you have, Paul?”
“Well, Donald said there was another, ‘lady of the sea warming the earth.’ I took that to mean another statue in another church called, ‘Our Lady of the Sea.’ So I went to the library last night and did some research, making dozens of phone calls. I discovered that, as near as I could tell, there are only four churches by this name on the east coast, outside of the one we visited in Rhode Island.”
“What does the east coast have to do with it?” Peter asked.
“Donald said this other lady was, ‘in this same sea as the one in my home,’ ” I answered, glancing at my notes. “I know that doesn’t make perfect sense, but I think that means the Atlantic Ocean. His hometown and church are right on the water, so maybe this other statue is also located somewhere near the Atlantic Ocean.”
Peter huffed under his breath from the seat next to me, but I ignored him.
“I’m still listening,” Father Chase assured me, although I could tell he was skeptical.
I looked down at my notes again. “After calling several Bishops, priests, and some friends and family, looking through old articles and books, and reviewing countless maps, I found that the four other churches are in Maine, South Carolina, and there are two in Florida. The one in Maine is almost ten miles inland, as is the one in Miami. But one church near Jacksonville seems to be right on the coast, as does the one in South Carolina. They are literally directly on the water, just like the one in Rhode Island. I think we should look into these two churches and see if anything unusual is happening. If we discover another heated statue, we’ll know for sure that Donald is telling the truth, and we’ll be a step closer to understanding this miracle.”
“Don’t forget the statue is keeping people away from church,” Peter interjected, “and terrifying people. Doesn’t something good have to happen for it to be considered a miracle?”
“That’s not necessarily true,” Father Chase answered. “Certain events throughout history may not have served a clear purpose, but they can give us signs that there is something beyond this world. Think about Fatima and the day the sun danced; that was terribly frightening for those people, but as we look back on it we see the miracle in its entirety. You should know better, Peter.” He stared at Peter for several seconds
but Peter didn’t respond. “Look,” Father Chase said turning his focus back to me, “I love the passion you’re showing in pursuing this, but we still don’t know anything for certain, and we don’t have the resources to send you two on a wild goose chase. If you want to make some phone calls and try to gather more concrete evidence of a second statue, then you have my permission. But otherwise, we’ll have to wait and see what develops.”
“I think we need to do more than that. I’ve taken care of the resources so that it won’t cost the school or diocese any money to send Peter and me down south.”
“How is that?” Father Chase asked.
“I figured we didn’t have the funds for another trip, so I called my brother in Michigan this morning and asked if he would make a donation. I didn’t tell him what was going on with the statue, but he trusts me and has agreed to pay whatever it takes to get us where we need to go: plane tickets, car rentals, hotels, food, and anything else we need.”
“Are you sure he can afford to do that?”
“Absolutely. He’s a successful lawyer and his wife has a great job as well.”
“But why travel all over the country and spend his money? Why wouldn’t a few phone calls work?”
This was an argument I was expecting to hear, whether from Father Chase or Peter, and technically, I didn’t have an answer. The truth was that I felt I needed to make sure Peter saw this mission through to the end. I knew if I took the lead in the investigation by myself, remaining here at our campus and only making phone calls, Peter would simply fade away and possibly leave us for good. But if he was forced to take another trip, I felt I might have more time to speak with him and have his full attention. Most importantly, I prayed that if we journeyed down south Peter would find something which renewed his faith. I knew all this phenomenon with the statues had something to do with him; I was sure of it, even if Peter was resisting it.
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