When Pete, a witty man, read the e-mail, he blinked and read it twice.
Pete, the Blessed Virgin Mother who overlooks us all from the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains is crying tears of blood. These are shed for the sins of the world. I have seen her weep with my own eyes. Some of the other brothers don’t want people to know. They are afraid of what might happen. How can they be afraid of a miracle? A miracle from Our Lady, who is love and only love! The world should know that Our Blessed Mother is speaking to them. Brother Mark (Mark Croydon)
Pete reread the message, sat at his desk for a moment, tapping a yellow pencil against a large white coffee cup. True. Mark Croydon had scrambled his brains. Pete had met him once last year when the station ran a spring special on the apple blossoms in the orchard. He thought the young man quite peculiar. However, it would cost only one reporter two hours and a quarter tank of gas to drive to the top of Afton Mountain, then turn north for a mile to the iron-gated entrance to Mt. Carmel. Okay, maybe half a tank, because they’d need an SUV.
He stood up, flung open the door to his office, and strode down to the newsroom. “Nordy!”
8
So, there you have it.” Harry threw up her hands in quasidefeat as Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter looked on along with BoomBoom, Alicia, Susan, Miranda, Big Mim, and Little Mim.
An impromptu gathering had occurred at Alicia’s farm. Harry called around, and BoomBoom informed her that the state roads were plowed. Alicia’s farm wasn’t far off Route 250, so they gathered there.
The living-room walls, painted eggshell cream, and the woodwork, trimmed out in linen white, bespoke quiet elegance and warmth, like Alicia herself. Although she regularly visited the farm she had inherited, over the decades she’d changed it little from Mary Pat’s taste. Once it was finally home, Alicia began to exert her own tastes, which proved bolder than Mary Pat’s. Alicia, much as she loved sporting art and the great masters, wasn’t afraid of modern art. Nor was she afraid of a splash of bright color here and there, like magenta silk moiré pillows on the mustard-colored Sheraton couch.
Big Mim, arbiter of taste in Crozet, at first was shocked at Alicia’s “statements,” as she called them. Gradually, the controlling doyenne warmed to the color and airiness of the place. Her daughter, Little Mim, a contemporary of Harry’s, reveled in Alicia’s palette, style, cleverness. Little Mim, ever keen to differentiate herself from her mother, even painted her bedroom pale lavender, inspired by Alicia.
The women ate chicken sandwiches, a thin veneer of herbed mayonnaise on them, the bread freshly baked. Alicia, ever a thoughtful hostess, put out crisp vegetables to nibble on, a wide variety of cheeses, and an array of drinks, including a yerba maté tea that gave the girls a buzz. As a joke, she placed a tiny card with the calorie count by each item.
“No wonder you stay so trim,” Big Mim, in her sixties and in excellent shape herself, noted.
“Work out, walk, ride horses, and stop eating before you’re full.” Alicia smiled her incredible smile, a bit crooked, which added to her high-octane allure. Even sitting there in men’s Levi’s 501s, a crisp white Brooks Brothers’ shirt, a farmer’s red hanky tied around her throat, and wide gold Tiffany hoops in her ears, Alicia couldn’t be anything but a movie star.
“Good genes.” Big Mim reached for a raw carrot. “Good for the eyes, you know.”
“Maybe that’s why the horses like them so much,” Harry replied. “What do you make of all this?”
Susan reached for her second sandwich. Her willpower, not her strongest feature, had faltered during the holidays—hence the cigarettes. Harry teased her that the real reason she visited the top of the mountain on November 24 was that it was Thanksgiving and she was praying she wouldn’t eat too much.
“What do you make of Brother Frank’s call?”
Big Mim spoke first, her custom. “Until he can ascertain whether this is something in the stone, something explainable, his request for a news blackout, if you will, is sensible. This so-called miracle could become terribly embarrassing.”
“All God’s work.” Miranda smiled. “Whether it’s explainable or not.”
“Of course it is, Miranda”—Big Mim and Miranda were contemporaries, so Mim couldn’t sway her friend by hauteur—“but if the monastery advertises the Miracle of the Blue Ridge, which is subsequently discovered to be nothing more than a vein of iron deep in the soapstone, the order will appear in a less than holy light.”
“Can it be worse than priests molesting boys?” Alicia replied with a hint of sarcasm.
“And covering it up!” Little Mim smacked her sandwich on the plate. “You know what else? I think they’re still covering it up.”
“Why boys?” BoomBoom shrugged. “Are they all gay? For the last two thousand years we’ve been herded and prodded by a bunch of pederasts. Does that ever explain a lot—think about it.”
“This isn’t to say you wished they’d molested girls, dear.” Big Mim coolly drank some piping hot yerba maté tea. “But it is most peculiar, as is the response from the Vatican.”
“In keeping.” Alicia took a restorative sip of the bitter brew herself. “Pope Pius the Twelfth knew perfectly well what was going on in Nazi Germany. Not a word. Politics is politics. The Vatican is about power, not about saving souls.”
“You don’t find God in a building with a cross on it, you find God in your heart and in the hearts of others,” Miranda, who was devout, agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we rejoice in the sorrows of the Catholic Church. We’re enduring a little contretemps in the Church of the Holy Light.” She mentioned her church, a charismatic Baptist one, where she sang in the choir. “All about money.”
“Always is. When I served on the vestry board I nearly went bald from tearing my hair out.” Susan laughed. “Now Harry’s taken my spot. And you were thrilled when you were elected.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad, but you have to sit there while everyone shoots off their mouth. Time-consuming. Once we settled the issue of new carpets, things calmed down.” She reached for a gooey brownie. “But I swear what was running down the face of Mary’s statue wasn’t rust.”
“She’s right. It really did look like blood: the color, the consistency. I tell you, it was eerie.” Susan shook her head.
“Why don’t we go up there when the ice is off the roads?” Big Mim suggested, unaware that, with the exception of her daughter, the others had agreed to this.
Miranda nodded. “If we see it with our own eyes, we’ll know more.”
That settled, Harry changed the subject. “Doing my grape research. Grape expectations.” Everyone groaned. She plugged on. “Virginia is home to eighty wineries, which bring in five-hundred thousand tourists a year and put ninety-five million dollars into the state economy. Read it in the Daily Progress.” She named the local newspaper, which paid its staff a pittance, but since they were dedicated newspeople they did a bang-up job, anyway, out of pride, pure pride in their craft.
“Well and good, but let us not forget that the horse industry brings over one point five billion dollars annually to this state, and as Colonial Downs gets better and better, if we can finally convince the legislature to authorize more offtrack-betting sites, you will see that double in five years. I promise you.” Big Mim bred Thoroughbreds, mostly for steeplechase racing, some for foxhunting, but she kept a keen eye on the overall equine picture.
“The equine industry should be one of our most protected industries. As tobacco slides, it will be horses that make up lost revenue, if the state is smart enough to offer generous incentives.” Little Mim, vice-mayor of Crozet, supported her mother one hundred percent in that area.
“You never know down there in Richmond.” Harry laughed. “Are they smoking tobacco, weed, or opium? When you look at some of their decisions, you have to wonder.”
“Harry, you’re a rebel underneath it all.” Alicia smiled at her with warmth. “Any state has its share of blistering idiots elected to public office, but this state ha
s a solid government. If you want to observe entrenched corruption, watch Massachusetts; the reason they were the only state not to vote for Nixon was because the voters could spot a crook before anyone else.” She paused. “Ah, but you’re too young to remember all that, and I’m sounding like sour grapes. Let’s go back to your grapes.”
“Just doing my research. Good soil, rainfall, and sunshine for whites I’ve got. Maybe I can put in a row or two to see how they turn out. One good thing our legislature did was pass that Farm Wineries Act in 1990, which taxes wineries like farms, not like commercial businesses. That shows some foresight. But for now I’ll stick to hay and timber.”
“What about ginseng?” Big Mim kept up with the agricultural market.
“Down by the creek I might could grow some.” Harry looked around the room. “You know, here I am talking about myself and my little world. I’m lucky you put up with me. I’m even luckier that you all help me.”
“Harry, we’re all family here.” Miranda meant that. “We circle the wagons when we need to do so.”
“Or open them up.” Little Mim’s face was flushed.
“Yes?” Big Mim pushed her glasses down on her nose, looking over the top.
“Nothing, Mother, just adding to the conversation.” Little Mim didn’t fib; she was merely withholding the major news that Blair Bainbridge had proposed to her after Thanksgiving dinner. As her mother and father were herding the guests toward what Big Mim referred to as the “just desserts room,” Blair had taken her by the hand and trotted her to the den. She thought the big question might be coming. She answered yes with blazing speed. They kissed, then joined the others, deciding to tell her mother and father in private when it seemed propitious.
“Let’s see what the weather holds. If we’re going to climb the mountain we might as well make our plans now.” Alicia clicked on the large flat TV screen mounted on the wall in her den.
“You can do that from here? From the living room?” Miranda was incredulous.
Alicia held up a small remote. “I can turn on the radio, the TV, the security system, I can specify the rooms. Easy.”
“She’s so high-tech.” BoomBoom was impressed. “I thought I was cutting edge, but Alicia is way ahead of me. Do you know she even had a computer built to her own specifications?”
“Don’t be too impressed. Most of making a film is sitting in a chair trying not to wear off your makeup or crinkle your wardrobe. I had plenty of time to learn from the techies. I liked it.
“Why don’t we take our tea into the den and see what the report is? Dessert, too, if anyone would like more.”
Susan’s eyes fell on the brownies next to the small lemon-curd pastries. Lust filled her. “I can’t.”
“Susan, honest to God, you make me miserable by denying yourself,” Harry complained.
“I don’t deny myself enough.”
They filed into the den, a large room painted lobster bisque with creamy white trim. History, military history, and natural-science books filled the shelves. Alicia, an avid reader, skipped through a book every two or three days. In Hollywood she’d kept her brains to herself, which only proved how very smart she was.
The tail end of the news finished just as they found seats. The weather report came on.
“Should be good tomorrow. Mid-forties. You never know.” Big Mim, like most residents of central Virginia, was continually surprised, even enchanted, by the changeable weather.
The news returned after ads for carpet cleaner, aspirin, the Dodge Durango, and pet food.
“Hey!” Harry shouted, which caused her pets to run into the room followed by Alicia’s steady, placid, and terribly handsome Gordon setter, Maxwell.
A close-up of the Virgin Mary’s face, bloody tears still frozen, filled the screen. The camera pulled away to reveal the entire statue, with Nordy Elliott at the base, looking dapper in his navy winter coat, tan gloves, and red plaid cashmere scarf.
“The monks discovered this unusual phenomenon Thanksgiving morning.” No brothers were in sight as Nordy spoke, great puffs of air coming from his mouth like cartoon captions. “At this point no one can say just what is happening, but it appears the statue is crying tears of blood.”
As he continued, the women erupted, all talking at once.
“Hear, hear.” Big Mim finally called them to order.
“Liar!” Harry’s cheeks burned. “Brother Frank lied through his hat or his tonsure or whatever!”
“Don’t jump to conclusions,” BoomBoom sternly advised. “He’s a cold fish, but he’s not a liar. Someone else has let the cat out of the bag.”
“Why do people say that?” Pewter wondered.
“To irritate you.” Mrs. Murphy giggled.
9
Norton “Nordy” Elliott reveled in his good fortune. Pete Osborne called him “Nerdy” to his face, but on this night, Nerdy/Nordy was a star. Even Pete had to give him that.
The scandals in the Catholic Church, while creating profound misery for the victims, the church hierarchy, and those priests still trying to do God’s work, were a boon to the media. A church steeple needed repair. Made the news. One nun in the entire nation left a convent to become a lap dancer. Big news. A priest and a nun found love, rescinded their vows to marry. News. The image of blood on the Virgin Mary’s cheeks was picked up as a feed by NBC affiliates throughout the U.S.
Although Pete regarded Nordy as little more than a talking Ken doll, he was not averse to the attention this brought Channel 29.
The switchboard lit up after the first airing, the one the ladies had watched in the early afternoon. By the six o’clock news the switchboard twinkled like Christmas lights. For the eleven o’clock news the station took on a carnival atmosphere. E-mails jammed the system.
Nordy pushed the story. His next planned foray would be interviewing the brothers. As Prior, Brother Handle had sternly declined to give an interview or to have anyone else talk to the reporter. Pete allowed Nordy use of whatever equipment he needed. Nordy was in heaven.
The response proved the opposite at the monastery.
Brother Handle, in his late fifties and feeling it this evening, angrily clicked off the TV, one of two on the grounds, the other one in Brother Frank’s office. First he called Brother Frank and Brother Prescott into his office. After a fulsome discussion in which each man pledged complete agreement with the Prior, he called in Brother Mark. Brother Handle’s patience, already wafer-thin, wore through to threadbare. He finally ordered the young man to shut up and get out. Seeing Brother Mark slink away made him feel even angrier. Brother Handle never could bear emotional types. He then attended a choral practice.
When the eleven o’clock news aired, the brothers were still singing in the chapel. At eleven-thirty, Brother Handle ended the musical contemplation, as he liked to call it. The chapel, usually chilly, seemed even colder.
“At midnight we shall begin penance and silence. Two hours of private prayer will be followed by a return to your quarters. At five, we will again convene for Mass, followed by breakfast. You shall each go about your tasks in silence. The gates will be locked. No one is allowed onto the grounds and no one shall leave. If anyone speaks before I lift this rigorous rite of prayer and cleansing, a severe penance will be enforced.” He turned on his heel, sandal squeaking against the stone, and strode down the center aisle, the gray folds of his raw wool robe swirling outward, the white cape slightly lifting up behind his shoulders. He said under his breath, “Silence, prayer, work, abstinence, austerity, seclusion.”
Twenty minutes remained wherein brothers could speak, but as the men filed out, no one did.
Once out of the chapel, Brother Frank motioned to Brother Prescott.
Whispering, Brother Prescott intoned, “Runs a tight ship, our Brother Handle.”
“Our tight ship has sprung a leak,” Brother Frank whispered back, as both men smiled at the double entendre.
10
I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you.�
� Susan mournfully looked out the window of Harry’s 1978 Ford F-150.
Although in four-wheel drive with snow tires, the truck, even in second gear, struggled for traction on the steep climb up Afton Mountain, the fog increasing in density with each ten feet of altitude.
“You always say that.” Harry peered ahead, scanning for red taillights.
Mrs. Murphy and Pewter watched the road intently. Tucker sat on Susan’s lap.
“Pea soup.”
“The mountain wears its mantle of fog all too often.” Harry remembered the time a pileup of over thirty cars closed down Interstate 64.
She kept to Route 250. She could swing onto it easily from Crozet. Since it was a two-lane highway, the opportunities to speed remained limited to whatever vehicle chugged along in front of you. At least, that’s what she told herself as she kept her foot steadily on the accelerator, her hands moving the steering wheel in the direction of the skid, then back straight again.
“I wish we’d never seen those tears.”
“Will you stop being morose? We’re almost there. Relax.” She coasted under the overpass, turned south onto the Skyline Drive. The fog was almost impenetrable. The Skyline Drive had been plowed out. Often, when weather became treacherous, the Skyline Drive shut down, since far too many people thought they could drive in ice and snow but events proved otherwise. The drop from sections of this extraordinary roadway sheared away at hundreds of feet. The height at the turn onto the Skyline Drive from Afton Mountain was about 1,800 feet.
Harry couldn’t see a thing as she passed the Inn at Afton Mountain, its lights diffused to yellow circles in the gray fog. She missed the mobile unit from Channel 29, but they couldn’t see her, either. Had they been outside the unit, they would have heard the deep rumble of the big eight-cylinder engine.
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