But I couldn’t explain all this to Father Chase because he was unaware of all that was happening to Peter.
I took a deep breath. “I don’t know if I can explain it, sir. I just think Peter and I need to visit these towns. I feel a call to see this through. We can learn so much more by seeing these churches with our own eyes and speaking with the people involved. Think about if we had just called Jamestown and didn’t actually go there; we would have probably never known about Donald and his messages. I just feel we’ll be placing ourselves in a better position to understand this if we’re willing to put in the extra effort.”
Father Chase took his turn at taking a deep breath as he ran his hand through his thinning, weathered hair. I glanced over at Peter, who stared at me sullenly. I knew he wanted to move on from what we had seen in Rhode Island, but I wouldn’t let him forget. Not yet.
“I respect your desire to see this through,” Father Chase said. “And I understand your sentiments in feeling a call to follow through on this. Sometimes we get feelings we can’t explain, and usually those are the feelings we should pay the most attention to. I suppose I have no excuse to keep you from going if it won’t cost us anything. Where exactly are these towns?”
“One is in St. Augustine, Florida, just south of Jacksonville, and the other is in Edisto Island, South Carolina. Both these churches are built right on the coast and are only about five hours apart. I figure we can fly into Florida and rent a car. From there, we could—”
“Now wait a minute,” Peter interrupted. “You can’t be serious about sending us halfway across the country on a whim like this, can you, Father Chase?”
“Why are you so skeptical?” I asked him, not giving Father Chase a chance to answer. “Donald said the statue would warm the earth, and she did. Why shouldn’t we follow a lead if Donald says there’s another statue somewhere?”
“I won’t even broach the subject of whether or not Donald could possibly know the truth,” Peter replied, “but let’s just say he does for argument’s sake. How do we know either of these two churches you found could be the right place to go? Maybe Donald was confused about which ‘sea’ the statue said and it’s really on the west coast. Maybe it is the Atlantic, but it’s in Europe or Africa somewhere. Did you look for churches all over the world that go by Our Lady of the Sea? No, of course you didn’t. Maybe in your research you didn’t find every church on the east coast called Our Lady of the Sea. What about all the churches called, ‘Lady Star of the Sea’ or any other similar name? There may be five or ten other churches on the east coast you don’t even know about that this supposed second statue could be at. And what if your original assumption is wrong? What if we shouldn’t even be looking for churches called Our Lady of the Sea?”
“All that could be true, but I don’t think God sent us to Rhode Island by accident, Peter, and I don’t think all that has happened since then is an accident either. We need to continue on with this journey and see this through to the end, or we’ll regret it for the rest of our lives. I can’t …”
I stopped my when Peter put his face in his hands.
“Are you all right, Peter?” Father Chase asked, also noticing his discomfort.
Peter kept his face buried in his trembling hands. Father Chase watched, bewildered. I laid my hand and on Peter’s shoulder, but he swiped it away. “You’re driving me nuts with this,” he snapped. “What are you trying to do? Do you think if we go down there and find another heated statue my life will be perfect all of a sudden?”
“Of course not. But why do you want to brush this away like nothing is happening? Forget about Donald for a minute, and forget about your past; I know you felt the heat. You can’t deny that.”
“I don’t want anything to do with it, and I don’t know why you can’t understand that. I’m leaving, Paul. You trying to force the issue only makes me want to leave even more. I told you that would happen the night you caught me leaving and begged me to stay. You just need to let me be, let me leave. You don’t understand what I’m going through. You can’t see things from my perspective.”
“Okay, you two,” Father Chase said, rising to his feet. “Someone needs to tell me what’s going on.” Both Peter and I ignored him, but Father Chase took control. “All right, Paul, why don’t you step outside for a minute and let me talk with Peter. But please don’t leave.”
I stepped outside his office, refusing to look at Peter as I left. The next thirty minutes felt like an eternity. I didn’t want to go far but I couldn’t sit down, so I paced up and down a nearby marble hallway.
What could I possibly do at this point to alleviate Peter’s anguish? Each second that passed without an answer to that question sunk me deeper and deeper into depression. In continuing my pacing, I began a dialog with God.
What is it that you want me to do to help my friend? What are you doing with this statue? If you knew this would distance Peter even more, why are you letting it happen? Why did you let that girl in Costa Rica suffer so much? Why did you let Peter meet her if you knew she would bring back his bitterness? Why are you letting Peter slip away?
Father Chase’s secretary, Mrs. Ferris, was an older lady who served as an honorary grandmother figure to everyone at the college. She could tell when something wasn’t right. She approached me with a cup of water. “All hard times come to pass, my dear.” She gripped my hand and squeezed it tightly. I didn’t know what to do except hug her. The smell of her faded, cotton sweater reminded me of simpler times. She held me without speaking. Her secure clutch nearly brought me to tears, but I thanked her and composed myself.
Father Chase’s door opened a second later. “Paul,” he yelled down the hallway. “Can you come back in here?” My steps toward his door seemed to echo throughout the whole building. When I entered his office, I saw Peter standing in the middle of the room with his hands in his pockets, his head hung toward the Oriental rug draping the hardwood floor.
“Paul,” Father Chase began as he put his hand on my shoulder, “Peter has informed me of what’s been going on with him for the last few weeks, or years, for that matter. It saddens me, and I wish his feelings toward the life he chose were different.” He paused and turned to Peter. “We’ve had a nice, long discussion about what’s buried deep within his heart, and we’ve talked about his future. I’ve told him I can’t have you going on this trip by yourself, and he knows you only mean well. Peter has agreed to go south with you for a few days. After that, I’m sending him away on sabbatical for at least a few months, maybe even a year. That time away will give him a chance to straighten himself out. But I’ve told him if his feelings don’t change, then he needs to think about ending his vocation. As sad as I will be if Peter leaves us for good, I can’t have a priest here who views the world the way he does.”
I fought back my emotions as best I could. “I understand. Thank you for agreeing to go with me, Peter.”
Peter pursed his lips and nodded. He moved through the doorway and out of sight down the hall, leaving me and Father Chase alone to wonder what the future held for the Peter Davis we once knew.
17
TIME PASSED slowly for Walt and me in the next year or so. The seasons gave way to one another and we watched as the land cooperated accordingly, retreating in the frigid winter and coming back to life as the weather warmed. The two of us lent each other a hand in the summer of ’92 as we fixed up each other’s homes. We put a new roof on his place and changed out all the windows in mine. Old men need projects like this. We look for them and find them even when they seem hidden. We kept with our traditions of fishing and playing checkers, and perhaps our favorite of all, avoiding the old ladies down the dirt road.
But one overcast Sunday in September of that year our pattern was thrown off. Usually, the two of us would get together for brunch at a local diner after our separate church services. But Walt never arrived. I was worried at first, especially since he’d been acting strange lately. He seemed distant and distracted, but as u
sual he wouldn’t tell me what was on his mind. When he stood me up for our Sunday brunch it was just another example of his odd behavior. I drove home and saw that Walt wasn’t there, furthering my worry. But about thirty minutes later he pulled in his driveway. I watched him through my window and could tell something was up just by the way he was moving.
I walked over and let myself in. Walt sat in his recliner with a cup of ice water in his hand and Sam’s head resting on his thigh. “What’s goin’ on, Walt?”
He looked up at me. “Oh, gosh! I’m sorry, Buck. Something came up at the church and I completely forgot about our meal.”
“That’s okay,” I replied as I took a seat on his couch. “What happened?”
Walt hesitated. “I don’t keep much from you, buddy, but I don’t even know how to say this.” He took a sip of his water. “Would you mind going on a little trip later tonight?”
“Where to?”
“To my church, just across town. I wish I could take you now, but … it would just be better if we went at night … when no one was there. Why don’t you come back over here about nine-thirty and we’ll hop in my truck.”
“Why don’t you tell me what we’ll be doing? I’m not one for surprises.”
“I understand, but I’m sorry, Buck. I need a little time to think, to figure out how to explain what’s on my mind. Can you respect that for now?”
I didn’t want to respect that, but I knew I had to. I told Walt I’d see him later in the evening and walked back home, knowing I’d probably look at my watch every five minutes for the rest of the day.
18
THE SUNDAY morning following our meeting with Fr. Chase, Peter and I each packed a small bag and took the commuter rail to Logan International in Boston. Our journey would take us into Jacksonville first with there being no direct flight to the St. Augustine airport. I spent most of our nearly three hour flight in anxious, personal prayer.
When we landed in Jacksonville, we made our way to the car rental counter. We signed some papers, giving us permission to drive the Dodge Stratus my brother had reserved for us. We got a map from the lady behind the counter and headed for the airport exit, where we were met by the sticky, Florida air. Even in September the humidity gripped at our necks and strangled us. We sifted our way through a sea of overly bronzed, elderly people, until we found a shuttle that took us to our rental car.
After mapping out our route, we pulled onto the nearest interstate and headed for St. Augustine. I hadn’t driven much over the last fifteen years and it wasn’t long before people were honking their horns and waving their fists at my erratic driving. But the rust faded and my skills miraculously returned about ten miles down the road. We headed southwest, a little smoother now, out of Jacksonville and toward the coast. Before we left the city limits we passed a football stadium where the local NFL team played, which sparked an easy-going sports conversation between Peter and me. We found that our friendship returned to normal when we weren’t discussing religion, God, or the heated statues, and I was thankful for that despite being sad about the state of Peter’s psyche. It was nice for us to drive down the highway with the windows down, the cool wind in our faces and a Tom Petty song playing on the radio.
No matter how much I loved being a priest, it was nice every once in a while to feel like someone with a normal life. I wondered if that was what Peter yearned for, to know a life where every waking second wasn’t focused on our duty to God. But I quickly threw the thought out of my mind. I had to find the second statue.
19
I SPENT the rest of Sunday afternoon fixing things up around the house to occupy my mind. My gutter had gotten backed up with leaves, the steps leading up to my front door needed to be replaced with new wood, and a window ledge needed repairing. I enjoyed the work, but the day crawled by like a turtle stuck in tar.
I picked at my dinner and then tried to read a book, until finally, at nine-fifteen, I couldn’t stand it anymore. I walked over to Walt’s house and found him standing by his front door, knowing I’d be early.
“You ready?”
We climbed in his beat-up Ford and drove through town, hushed by the mood of the night. The quiet streets of Edisto were always slow, but Sunday evenings found a way to put even the street lights to sleep. After the main drag where the shops and restaurants were, we made our way through a patch of large trees covered in moss. I had only been to Walt’s church once a few years back for a Fourth of July barbeque, but I’d forgotten the way and was surprised when we pulled off on a side road more dirt than pavement. After a few seconds of weaving through the darkness of the oak trees, we arrived in a gravel lot bordering the coastline. Walt put his truck in park and shut the engine off. We sat quietly for several seconds as he stared straight ahead at the small, stone church. The headlights shinned on it, lighting up the stained glass windows.
“What are we doing here?” I asked, not being able to stand the agonizing quiet anymore.
He cut off his lights, leaving us in the darkness. The noises of the night seeped in through his rolled down windows. “You believe in God, right?” he asked.
“Course I do. You know that.”
“But do you really believe in Him?” he said turning to me. “Don’t just say you do because it’s the right thing to say. Stop and think about it for a second.”
“What’s this about, Walt?”
Walt went back to staring forward at the church. He put his hands on the steering wheel and gripped it tightly.
“Something strange has been happening inside that church,” he finally said. “I knew you wouldn’t believe me if I told you, that’s why I brought you here.”
“Are we going inside?” Walt reached in his pocket and brought out a key. “Now wait a minute; you need to tell me what’s going on before I go walkin’ in there.”
Walt took a deep breath. “Two Sundays ago I couldn’t help noticing it was a little warm in church, but nothing too out of the ordinary. I really didn’t think much of it. But last Sunday was a different story. It must have been ninety degrees in there and my clothes were drippin’ with perspiration.” He paused.
“Okay.”
“Despite it being so uncomfortable, I still didn’t pay it any mind. I came home without mentioning it to anyone, chalking it up to bein’ old and just having a fever or something.”
“Sure, that makes sense.”
“Well, I came over here this past Wednesday afternoon to practice for today’s service, ’cause we were trying out some new songs for the choir, and again, I felt as hot as ever. But this time a couple other people began to notice the temperature, so I knew I wasn’t going crazy. We spoke to our priest, Father Harris, and he acknowledged the heat.”
“Maybe your heat pump is goin’ haywire.” I quickly realized how stupid a comment this was. Walt would not have brought me down here in the middle of the night for something as simple as a busted heat pump. He gave me the courtesy of a polite response.
“No, Father had that looked into on Tuesday by a mechanic in our parish. He said everything seemed to be in order with our heating and air system. He didn’t know why it was so hot in there.”
“So what’s causing the heat, then?”
Walt didn’t answer my question directly. “I came here today for Mass, not knowing what to expect. I hoped things were back to normal, but when I showed up everyone was standing outside. Father Harris had locked the doors because it had gotten too hot inside. We all discussed what could be happening for hours. Everyone had a theory, of course, but I think I know the answer.”
“And?”
“First let me explain where I sit. The choir is up front, on the left side of the altar. Usually I sit by the wall playing my violin, while the people in front of me do the singing. Well, on the wall above my seat there’s a statue of Mary resting on a concrete podium. I never really noticed that I sit right under it, but anyway, on Wednesday, when we were in there practicing, I had this crazy notion it was hotter around
this statue than it was everywhere else. So I reached up and touched it when no one was looking, and it burned my hand.”
“What’re you trying to say, Walt?”
He appeared as if he needed courage to go on. “I swear the heat is coming from that statue, Buck.”
“What? How can that be?”
“I know it’s crazy, but I’m pretty certain about it. It makes perfect sense. Listen, the first two Sundays I was the only one who felt the heat since I was sitting right under the statue. But now it’s getting hotter, so you can feel it all over the church. You’ll see when we get in there. The temperature isn’t as high in the back of the church, but when you move closer to where the choir sits, to where the statue is, it’s almost unbearable.”
I stared at him for several seconds, until I leaned back in my seat and rubbed my face. For the first time in my life I felt that one of my friends had gone mad.
“That look you’re giving me is why I brought you here. I knew what you’d think. Father Harris told us to keep quiet so the whole town wouldn’t think we’d gone crazy, but I had to tell you. I trust you more than anybody, Buck. I need you to go inside that church and tell me what you think.”
“I don’t know. Are we even supposed to be here?”
“No. Father Harris told us to keep away. But I’ve been coming to this church for over thirty years. I’ve always had access with this key ’cause I do so much work around here, and we’ll only go in and out real quick-like. Please, Buck, I need you to feel what I’ve felt.”
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