“What if your priest comes?”
“He won’t,” Walt assured me. “Father Harris lives down the road a good ten minutes in a house the Church owns. Besides, this is why I brought you here at this hour. No one’s going to come this way so late in the evenin’.”
“Maybe some kind of vent is behind the statue, or there’s a leak in the pipes and something’s seeping out from the wall where you sit.”
“Don’t you think we’d see a vent if there was one there? Besides, we told you the heat isn’t broken; we aren’t even running it right now in this early fall weather. And it sure doesn’t smell like any kind of leak in there.”
I blinked and tried to think of any other reason to not go inside the church. Nothing came to me.
“Let’s get it over with.”
The two of us exchanged a look, each of us trying to determine how scared the other was. All he had to do was see my hand shaking as I reached for the door handle to know how terrified I actually was.
20
ST. AUGUSTINE was a smaller city than I had anticipated, easily crossed from one end to the other in about twenty minutes. The area had a Spanish feel, with the architecture, street names, and local monuments dedicated to Spanish settlers. We drove through several neighborhoods on our way to the church and admired the unique houses. Most places in the country you couldn’t get away with blue, yellow, and orange colored homes, but the style worked here in this sunny, coastal area of Florida.
We found Our Lady of the Sea in the back of a middle class neighborhood. As expected, it rested about a hundred yards from the crashing Atlantic waves, seen in the distance beyond a busy, two-lane road and a stretch of sandy beach. We approached the front of the stucco church, only to find that the doors were locked.
“What now?” Peter asked.
I didn’t answer him as I looked at my watch. It was late afternoon. I figured we must have missed the Sunday morning crowd even though we had taken the earliest flight available.
I walked around the perimeter of the church. It was much larger than the one in Rhode Island, but I didn’t feel that held any merit on finding the statue. Halfway down the side wall, we saw a stone grotto that lassoed our gaze. Two stout palm trees rose up beside it and a small statue of Mary rested inside. I approached the statue as a strong gust of wind blew by, rattling the stiff palm leaves above me. I touched the statue. Looking back to Peter, I shook my head. He seemed relieved.
Around the back of the church, we found an older man trimming the hedges with a mask over his face and grass stains on his pants. “Excuse me!” I yelled over the buzzing of his machine. He quickly turned around, then cut off the weed eater and removed his mask.
“May I help you?”
“I’m sorry to disturb you. My name is Father Paul and this is Father Peter.”
He eyed us up and down before deciding he could reveal his name. The trust of strangers was a small benefit of being a priest.
“Alton,” he replied. “I’d shake your hand, but ….” He held up his dirty hands and chuckled.
“Not a problem,” I replied. “We were wondering if you could tell us where the local priest is.”
“Father Wade just left to go to the hospital. He’s visiting a parishioner.”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“Can’t say for sure. May I help you with something?”
“Do you go here to Our Lady of the Sea, or do you work for the church?”
“No, I go here. I’m retired so I do this voluntarily.”
“Okay, well, Peter and I just wanted to speak with someone here at this parish. We’re on a mission of sorts.”
“I’m listening,” Alton said as he placed his trimmer down. I could tell he enjoyed feeling useful. “Is this a charity thing?”
“Not exactly. Do you think you could let us in the church?” I asked, not wanting to explain the reasons behind why we were here. “We need to have a look around.”
“No, I only take care of the grounds. I don’t have a key.”
“I see. When was the last time you were inside the church?”
He eyed me suspiciously. “I went to Mass today; the eight o’clock service.”
“And was anything strange going on? Anything out of the ordinary?”
“What the devil do you mean, Father?”
“Was the temperature higher than normal inside, or did any …”
I ate my words and couldn’t spit them back up. I hadn’t planned out how this conversation would go, and my lack of preparation showed. I suppose I had expected to be talking to a priest, but if there was no heated statue here it wouldn’t have mattered who I was speaking with. The vacant appearance of Alton’s face let me know nothing was happening at this church in St. Augustine.
I hadn’t noticed, but Peter had walked back to the car, never having even said a word. I did my best to end the conversation with Alton in a way that didn’t scare him or keep him wondering about my sanity. It took a slight bit of fibbing, but I told myself it was better not to tell him too much. I considered waiting for the local priest to return from the hospital to let us inside the church, in case there was a heated statue here but perhaps it was only in the first moments of this phenomenon, leaving it unnoticed for now. Father Powell and Mrs. O’Day had said some people didn’t notice the heat at first in the Rhode Island church. But something didn’t feel right. I was looking for a feeling, a gut instinct, and I didn’t have it here.
“That went well,” Peter said as I approached the car.
“It shouldn’t take long to get to Edisto Island.”
21
WALT AND I walked slowly across the gravel lot. When we reached the stairs leading up to the front entrance of the church, I glanced to my right where the ocean waters met the beach. There were thick woods blocking the church from a view of the sea, but you could still see glimmers of moonlight shinning off the water through the brush. We slowly climbed the seven cement steps together. My focus was centered on the large, red doors. As we approached them, I watched as Walt reached into his pocket for the key. When he placed it in the lock and turned the key over, the sound of the deadbolt shifting sides boomed within my ears, silencing the crashing waves, the croaking night frogs, and the rustling of the tree branches in the wind. Everything had gone silent.
Walt opened the door.
I followed closely behind him, past the entrance. He reached over to the side wall and flipped a switch. Lights flickered on up ahead in the church one-by-one, but Walt had only turned a portion of them on so it remained half dark, like dusk falling over our back porches.
At first I thought it wasn’t that hot. I suppose if someone had asked me I would have said it was warm, but nothing like Walt had described. He stepped into the church onto a maroon carpet that stretched down the center aisle and separated the pews. As I followed, I took in my surroundings. When I had come to the barbeque here some years back, they had set up picnic tables down on the beach for the get-together. I never came in here that day, so this was my first time seeing a Catholic church. I don’t know what I expected it to look like, but it was much more complicated than my church across town. There was much more for the eye to look at. The stained glass windows were covered with fine artwork, as fine as I’d ever seen. There were paintings and statues everywhere, and a large crucifix hung on the wall up front, demanding attention, probably a little larger than my whole body, with blood covering the body of Jesus on his head, hands and feet. The sight of it took me by surprise. I was used to seeing only the bare cross in my church; this was much more graphic.
As we proceeded up the center aisle, a thought abruptly occurred to me and made my unfamiliar surroundings an afterthought.
It was getting hotter; much hotter.
I felt like I was walking on an asphalt parking lot in the middle of a July day. Walt turned around and glanced at me, probably wondering if I had noticed the rise in temperature.
In the front, left part of the c
hurch I could see a section of boxed-in seats. I figured this was where the choir sat. Resting above, I saw the statue. It was about four or five feet tall and ivory white. The woman stood straight up with her arms extending outward, like she was waiting on a hug. Her veil went up over her head and a robe stretched down to her feet. We didn’t have statues like this in my church, but I had seen ones like it before and it didn’t look to be out of the ordinary. It looked much like the one I saw in Atlanta when I met with Sister Marie.
When we finally reached the front where the pews ended, I could barely stand it. We’d only entered through the doors two minutes ago and my clothes were literally dripping with sweat. My breaths were heavy and my eyesight had become blurred.
“You okay, Buck?”
“Yeah, sure.”
We didn’t have to whisper, but we did because it felt unnatural to speak in a normal tone, considering the circumstances. “I know you can feel the difference up here. And look,” he said pointing to the back right part of the church, “the wax of those candles is only partially melted, and these up here are completely gone.”
I looked back and forth between the two racks of candles. No more than ten yards from where the choir sat, melted wax was caked on the wood floor.
“I see what you’re saying,” I whispered. “It’s hotter than hell in here, and it’s sure hotter up here than in the back, but that doesn’t mean the statue is what’s causing the heat. I still think this is crazy. Let’s get out—”
“Touch it, then.”
“What?”
“Touch the statue and feel how hot it is.”
“It’s almost ten feet off the ground.”
“Stand on a chair.”
Walt didn’t wait for me to object as he moved around the small wall separating the choir from the front aisle. About ten individual chairs were placed in this section. He grabbed one and moved it underneath the statue.
“Well,” he said, seeing that I had not moved an inch. My feet stood in quicksand yards from the altar. Now that I was here, I didn’t want to touch the statue; I was too afraid Walt would be right.
“Come on over,” Walt insisted. “That is, if you can handle it. Do you feel okay? You look terrible.”
“I’m fine,” I said. “A little bit a’ heat isn’t going to kill me.”
I made my way over to Walt. He braced the chair and gave me a nod.
“Are you not going to touch it too?”
“I touched it on Wednesday. I told you that.”
I braced myself and mounted the chair. My feeble bones and off-centered balance forced Walt into helping me up, but when I had stabilized myself, I reached up with my hand and touched the feet of the statue.
A sizzling burn instantly scorched my skin. I ripped my hand off and waved it in the air.
“You can’t even keep your hand on it?” Walt asked from below me.
“You told me you’d touched it!” I placed my fingers in my mouth in an attempt to cool them off.
“I did, but I could keep my hand on it for a few seconds before it got too hot.”
“I don’t think you can do that anymore.”
“Ya’ see? Then it is getting hotter. Let me get up there.”
Walt and I switched places. I braced the chair for him as he climbed up, and within a second he had burned his fingers as well.
“My word in heaven, that’s almost twice as hot as it was a few days ago.” Walt looked down to me, looking for some kind of response. “What’s going on here, Buck?”
I shook my head. “You know I don’t know the answer to that. Can we get out of here?”
Walt ignored me and looked back to the statue, as if staring at it would somehow explain the phenomenon. He reached up to touch it again.
“Don’t, don’t, Walt, don’t touch it again….” I couldn’t focus. My legs felt light and began to tingle. Bright colors flashed before me. I heard Walt ask if I was all right, but his voice sounded as if it were coming from a distant tunnel.
Not a second later, I blacked out and fell to the ground.
22
PETER SLEPT most of the way as I drove us through southern Georgia and into South Carolina. The day was nearing an end but there was enough light in the sky for me to take in the endless rows of pines off each side of the road. The Southern landscape was unfamiliar to me, but I enjoyed the seclusion and quiet of this part of the country.
Peter eventually offered to drive the last hour or so. I appreciated the offer, as night had fallen, and my eyes were tired from navigating the lonely, back roads we encountered after exiting Interstate 95. We stopped at a small diner in Adams Run, South Carolina, to eat a warm meal and confirm the directions I had mapped out. It turned out we were closer than I thought. The waitress informed us Edisto was only twenty minutes down the winding, two-lane road, and by ten o’clock we were pulling into town. My brother had reserved us a room at a local motel here and in St. Augustine since we weren’t sure of our exact itinerary.
Peter put on the turn signal as we approached the first major intersection.
“Go straight, here,” I said.
“Don’t we take a left to get to the motel?”
“Yes, but we keep straight to make it to the church.”
“Why on earth would we go there right now?”
“I don’t know, I just—”
“It’s too late to do anything tonight, and surely no one will be there to let us in.”
“I know. I’m just a little antsy. I want to see it tonight. And if we go there now we’ll know where we’re going in the morning. I think it’s only a few minutes down the road. It won’t take long.”
Peter took a deep breath and continued straight down the road. We went through the commercialized part of town with shops and stores until we eventually moved down a road twisting between large oak trees draped in Spanish moss.
“Oh,” I said as I pointed from the passenger seat. “I think that was it.”
Peter slammed on the breaks when he saw me pointing to a wooden sign on the side of the road, reading: “Our Lady of the Sea, Catholic Church of Edisto Island, South Carolina.”
He slowly backed up and pulled down a dirt road with bits of rock scattered about on it. For a moment it felt like we were driving into the wilderness, and if it hadn’t been for the sign we just saw, I would have thought we’d taken a wrong turn. But soon we had come across a gravel parking lot laid out before a small, stone church, one that looked nearly identical to the church in Jamestown. If I blinked my eyes, I could place this church in Edisto on that grassy hill overlooking the cliff back in Rhode Island and fail to tell the difference, from its size and layout, to the pattern of the stained glass windows interrupting the stone walls, to the red doors at its entrance. My adrenalin rushed through me like a river. I finally had that gut feeling I was searching for.
Peter pointed across the parking lot. “It’s kind of late for that truck to be parked there.”
“Someone probably left it here for the night,” I replied. “It looks old. Maybe it died.”
Peter nodded. “Well, we know where the church is; you want to head to the motel?”
I wanted to get out and walk around, but Peter had compromised by coming here, so I decided to bite my lip. “Sure.”
Peter didn’t hesitate. He changed gears and thrust the car in reverse so fast that I wondered if he had overlooked the similarities between the two churches. But before he could get us turned around, the church doors flew open. A man backed out of the church, hauling another man out who appeared unconscious, dragging him by his armpits, his feet scraping across the ground. Peter and I looked at each other before bursting out of the car and sprinting across the parking lot.
When we reached them, the lucid one placed the other man on the ground. His shocked eyes met ours. Their aged skin and graying hair told me this elderly man was probably having a heart attack.
“Can you help me get him to the truck?” the conscious one asked
/> “What happened?” Peter asked.
“I think the heat made him pass out, or … Please God! I hope he didn’t have a heart attack. Do either of you have any medical expertise?”
“The heat?” I asked.
“Can you just help me get him to the truck?”
Through the open doors of the church, I saw a statue of Mary. I stumbled towards the church, but Peter yelled, “Paul! We have to help him!”
Turning around, I saw Peter standing helplessly over the other two men. I hurried over to the man lying on the ground and touched his forehead. Feeling his roasting skin, I motioned toward the car. “Peter, go grab our thermos of water.” I took off my coat and placed it under the elderly man’s head. Peter returned with the water, unscrewed the top, and poured a few drops onto the man’s head.
“What’s his name?” I asked.
“Buck, his name is Buck Washington.”
“And you?”
“I’m Walt Henderson.”
“How long ago did he pass out, Walt?”
“Not long ago. About two minutes.”
I grabbed Buck’s wrist and checked his pulse. It was faint, but there. “Buck!” I gently slapped his face. “Can you hear me, Buck?” His eyes opened, but only for an instant. He groaned and licked his cracked lips. I poured a small bit of water into his mouth and over his forehead again. He drank some of it but spit the rest up. “I think this is good,” I assured Walt. “At least he’s regaining consciousness. Maybe he just fainted. Buck,” I yelled, focusing back on the sick man, “can you open your eyes again for me?” He struggled. “How many fingers am I holding up, Buck?”
He squinted. “Three, I think.”
“I guess that’s good too,” Peter said from behind me, confirming Buck had answered correctly.
“What do you think?” Walk asked. “You think I can take him home?”
“Maybe we should take him to the hospital,” I suggested.
“I’m fine,” Buck mumbled, though I wasn’t even sure he knew where he was.
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