Her musings were shattered by the bell announcing the brief procession of Brothers and priest to the chapel’s altar.
All was as it had been yesterday, including the soporific sermon. Only the commemorated saint du jour was different. And Father Robert’s condition seemed considerably improved. The respite, or something, had seemingly done him a world of good.
The place came alive as the Mass ended and a queue began to form. Actually, two groups began to take shape. One group, in a more or less discernible line, formed to present themselves to Father Robert. The other group, by far the larger, pressed in as closely as possible in hopes of becoming spectators. The news media were part of the latter group.
Father Robert and Brother Paul were seated close together before the altar. Paul held the usual bag of relics. The other Brothers mingled with the crowd, trying to instill some measure of order. In this the Brothers were assisted today by several police officers, who, along with maintaining order, maneuvered Tully and Alice toward the head of the line. Only one person preceded them.
Lennon, with two of the sharpest elbows in captivity, and offering no apologies for using them, worked her way to the front of the crowd, the only print reporter to break through the television people, who always managed to garner prime positions.
Tully and Lennon caught sight of each other simultaneously. Each smiled briefly in recognition and then turned away. For no particular reason, Tully felt embarrassed. Perhaps because she would see Alice. He knew he should have told Lennon about Alice. On the other hand, she had not mentioned the Free Press reporter . . . what was his name? Cox. They had not been totally candid with each other. Should they have been? He could not decide.
She was frankly surprised to find him in a line of petitioners. He didn’t belong there. He was not the type. She was confused.
Priest and Brother were ready. Speculation on the part of Tully and Lennon ended as each focused on the first of the supplicants. Sincere efforts throughout the chapel managed to muffle much of the noise one would expect from a crowd vying to get close to the action. Still, there was enough background sound that it was difficult to hear, even for those in the immediate area of the priest. Pat Lennon was able to get her tape recorder fairly close to the priest and his client.
First in line was an attractive young woman. Tully pondered that. Making the natural association of illness with old age, he’d expected the lame and the halt. He had taken it for granted that Alice would be by far the youngest person to appeal to the priest. Tully glanced at the lineup behind him. With the exception of this first young woman, Alice definitely won the youth sweepstakes.
Tully noted that the priest had pulled the cowl up over his head. Once again, there was no seeing his face. He alone, of all the monks, had not worn the cowl during Mass. But even then the lighting was so poor it was impossible to see his face clearly. And of course the Big One had not once pulled back his cowl. Tully knew only that this one was well-built and, judging from his movements, young and perhaps athletic.
The young woman knelt before the priest.
Father Robert spoke. “What shall we call you?”
“Judith,” she replied. “Judith Ryan.”
“Then, so, Judith, why have you come?”
Her hands fluttered as if in embarrassment. “My problem probably won’t sound very important to you, Father, with all the troubles you hear, but it’s a big problem for me.”
Father Robert covered her hands with his. Brother Paul shifted abruptly but abortedly. Tully caught the movement but was unable to assess it.
Father Robert spoke softly. Only the young woman could hear; his words appeared to encourage her.
“I’m a dancer,” she said, “and a singer. I know that doesn’t sound crucial, but it’s my living. If I couldn’t do that, I’d be washing dishes in some greasy spoon—or worse.” She hesitated.
“Yes?” he prodded gently.
“My big break is coming up in the next couple of days. The Michigan Opera Theater is auditioning for ‘Kismet’ and I’ve been called to try out for the female lead. This is my chance to get out of the chorus and maybe go places.”
“Kismet,” is it? thought Lennon. Where have I heard that recently? Ah, yes: Pringle thought that Zoo and I should be guided by kismet—fate. And now, this girl is trying to get some “Kismet” in her future. I wonder.
“I don’t know . . .” the priest faltered.
Brother Paul tapped the priest’s knee and handed him a small round, gold-colored object. Tully, who’d been reading up on this ritual, assumed the article was a Catholic reliquary. He was correct.
Father Robert glanced at the reliquary and the card that was handed him as well. “My child, this contains a tiny fragment of the bone of St. Vitus, who lived in the fourth century. He is the patron saint of dancers and actors.
“Think, my dear child: almost seventeen-hundred years have gone by since this holy martyr lived on this earth. The reliquary holds a bit of what he was. Seventeen-hundred years! For all this time, actors and dancers have prayed to him, often successfully, I would surmise.
“Bow your head now, my child, and pray that through the intercession of St. Vitus, God may grant you the favor you now seek.”
With that, and in silence, the priest used the reliquary in tracing the sign of the cross over the young woman, who reacted by making a sign of the cross on herself.
“Go now,” the priest said, “and God be with you.”
She rose nimbly from her kneeling position. Just as a dancer should.
Alice was next. She started to kneel, but was halted by Tully’s hand on her shoulder
Lennon saw, and barely suppressed a gasp. Instantly she knew. They were together. The woman Tully had touched was his woman. There was no rift between them as existed presently between her and Joe Cox. The problem was that Tully’s lover was ill. It was as simple as that. She certainly looked ill. There was a pallor about her face and a frightened, exhausted expression in her eyes. She probably had been very ill for a very long time.
That explained Tully’s presence in the singles bar. Yet, in a long evening of extensive and bordering-on-intimate chitchat, Tully had made no move on her.
So, when push came to shove, Tully would remain faithful to his lover who happened to be ill.
Commendable.
And so much for kismet.
And yet . . . and yet . . . something very positive had happened between her and Tully. Lennon had been around too long to misread the signs. Was a relationship between her and Zoo Tully over before it began? Too early. Her instinct told her it was too early to tell.
For now, back to the moment.
When Alice felt Tully’s hand on her shoulder, she halted in her attempt to kneel and stood erect again, in effect performing an abbreviated curtsy.
Tully turned to a sound man carrying a backpack and a mike. He was standing on one of the chapel’s few chairs.
“Get off that chair!” Tully said.
Brother Paul’s head jerked up. He recognized the tone. It was almost identical to his own. Its timbre brooked no compromise or delay, only instant obedience and compliance. Very few people could carry it off. Two such were Brother Paul and this stranger. And Paul recognized that immediately.
But wait: This was no stranger. Brother Paul had seen this man somewhere before. Night before last—at the singles bar. Except the guy had been with the reporter. Now he was with—whom? His wife? Paul smirked. He sensed the inviting odor of blackmail. How much might this black man pay to keep his dalliance a secret from his wife? As quickly as the thought came to mind, Paul dismissed it. Peanuts. He was going for the big bundle.
He had to admit, though: the black man had marvelous taste in white women. Both the reporter and sick woman were gorgeous.
It was a dramatic testament to Tully’s inbred ability to command that as soon as he issued the order, the sound man relinquished his perch. In almost any other circumstance, TV technicians would have challeng
ed such a demand.
Tully positioned the chair for Alice, who sat now very near the priest. Still, she could see neither his nor the Brother’s face.
Father Robert waited for Alice to compose herself. Then he asked, “What is it that troubles you, child?”
With the near-breathless continuity of a child telling Santa what she wants for Christmas, Alice reeled off the lengthy list of her ailments.
By the time she had stopped for breath, even she was impressed with the quantity and gravity of all that ailed her. Never before had she enumerated all her ills so rapidly or so completely. Taken like this, her condition seemed beyond anyone’s capacity to solve and cure. Maybe even God’s.
There was a pause while Father Robert and even Brother Paul absorbed all she’d said. At length, Paul scribbled a note and handed it to the priest. Paul’s constant intervention did not escape Tully’s notice.
The priest scanned the note, then said to Alice, “Does your doctor ever suggest that your mind must be at peace and rest before your body can heal itself?”
“Which of my doctors could you be referring to, Father?” Sarcasm was evident in her voice. “You must mean one of the head doctors, the psychiatrists or the psychologists. Yes, there has been mention of the possibility of a psychosomatic cause for all this. But none of them has ever put it as delicately as you have.”
“I did not mean that your illnesses were imaginary.”
“Oh, that’s all right, Father. I didn’t take it as an insult.”
“I only meant that with so many ailments your mind must be terribly troubled.”
Alice nodded eagerly.
Tully, listening closely, thought the priest deserved no medal for that conclusion. Anyone confronting as many physical blind alleys as Alice would have to be worried sick.
Father Robert accepted a relic from Brother Paul along with the explanatory note.
Tully began to wonder who was running this show, the priest or the Big One. It was a quiet suspicion but one he stored for future reference.
Father Robert held the relic in his outstretched hand, presumably so that Alice could study it. Her mental state was in such confusion and hopeful anticipation that she took little note of the reliquary. Tully, blessed with extremely keen sight, did the studying. He could see nothing mystical about the object—a small, round, filigreed, gold-colored container, enclosing a small patch of red cloth with an extremely tiny white object embedded therein. Tully took the small white object to be the relic. Again he was correct. Each first-class relic allegedly consisted of a fragment of bone in the case of a saint, or a sliver of wood in the case of the True Cross.
“See, child,” said Father Robert, “this is the relic of St. Dymphna, who lived in the seventh century. She died in exile, fleeing from her father, a Celtic king. Six hundred years later, her body was brought back to the British Isles. On that occasion, many mentally and emotionally disturbed people were miraculously cured. And ever since then, people troubled with worry or mental or emotional problems have been healed through her intercession. I will now bless you with the relic of St. Dymphna, my child.”
The priest traced the sign of the cross over Alice, who, uncertain how to react, simply bowed her head.
Brother Paul’s voice cut through the moment. “That will be all. You may go now.” It was said not loudly but definitively. Tully recognized the immense assurance of authority in the tone.
Almost in reflex to the command, Alice began to stand.
“Wait.” Father Robert extended one of his hands and motioned her back into the chair.
Tully noticed the Big One clench his fists, the knuckles whitening.
Eagerly, Pat Lennon moved closer. In the reports she’d read, Mrs. Whitehead had been preparing to leave after being blessed when the priest had called her back. It was then the miracle had taken place. Would lightning strike twice?
“My child,” Father Robert said, “a few moments ago, did you not remark that you had not one but many doctors?”
“Yes . . . yes, I did.”
“Child, do you remember the Gospel story of the sick woman who had spent her fortune on doctors? Not only was she not cured, her condition was worse than ever. Ill and tired, worried and weary, she came to Jesus. She abandoned her trust in doctors, and believed—really believed—that Jesus could and would cure her.”
“I think I remember. It sounds awfully familiar.”
“Can you believe like that, child? Can you leave the doctors behind? Can you transfer all the trust you have had in doctors, in worldly medicine, and put that same trust—and more—in Our Savior, Jesus Christ?”
There was an extended moment when the proverbial dropping pin could have been heard.
Falteringly, Alice said, “I ... I ... I don’t know.”
“You must.”
Suddenly, something—a feeling of determination?—seemed to come over Alice. “You’re right. I must. Yes, I will.” She slid from the chair to her knees. “I do believe. Father, I do believe.”
Father Robert led her in a natural antiphonal prayer. He prayed, “Come, Lord Jesus!”
“Come, Lord Jesus!” Alice echoed.
“I believe!”
“I believe!”
“I trust!”
“I trust!”
“In you alone!”
“In you alone!”
“Into thy hands . . .”
“Into thy hands . . .”
“. . . do I commend my health, my safety, and my life!”
“. . . do I commend my health, my safety, and my life!”
As suddenly and unexpectedly as it had begun, it was over.
Tully had been completely taken aback by the fervor of this spontaneous outpouring of prayer. He had never seen Alice look quite like this before. It was like some sort of transfiguration. She now wore a serene smile as if she had no problems whatever.
“That’s it!” Lennon said.
Tully heard her but didn’t know what she meant.
Brother Paul heard her and in a controlled fury knew exactly what she meant.
“Is this it?” asked the sound man. “Sid, is this it? Is this the miracle?”
“Damned if I know,” Sid replied. “Maurie, is this the miracle?”
“It’ll have to do,” said Maurie. “I think it’s the closest we’re going to get.”
The three TV technicians could be heard only by each other what with the commotion crescendoing throughout the chapel. But what the three men said quite accurately expressed what had happened.
It was by no means as dramatic as what had happened to Mrs. Whitehead. It was not the restoration of sight to a blind person. It was not the instantaneous healing of visible sores. But for a crowd bent on and starved for a miracle, it would do nicely.
Alice was radiant. The media people clustered around her. Tully was separated from her and pushed back by the crush of people trying to get close to her.
The celebration was not without foundation. Something had taken place. Alice felt it, although she was not sure what; it had all happened too fast. One minute she was being blessed with a relic, yet feeling deeply depressed. It was so anticlimactic. All she could think was: Is this all there is?
Then the Brother’s command to leave. Strange, his tone so resembled Zoo’s when he wanted something done immediately.
She could not explain to her satisfaction, let alone the media’s, what had happened next.
When the priest summoned her back, her emotion was something akin to a rebound from despair to hope. She was giddy. The Gospel scene the priest had painted hit home. That was exactly it. Magnified by frustration, she felt as if she had been under the futile care of every doctor in the world. And she felt worse now than she had in the beginning. Just like the woman in the Gospel.
The priest, in just a few inspired words, had made her see how hopeless was her future in the hands of the medical profession. The prospect had drained her. And in that state—empty to the point of being i
n a vacuum—Father had invited her to turn to the Lord.
Then she came to the part that was confusing, baffling, bewildering, mystifying. She came to what she was willing to believe was her miracle. She felt better. No, that wasn’t the word. She felt healed. It was as if a gentle hand had touched her. Had touched not just one spot on her body. Had touched her entire being, body and soul. And she had been healed.
Tully stood back against the wall, taking in the total scene. Alice was all right. As far as he could tell, she had never been better. The transformation was not only perceptible; it was truly remarkable. He stopped well short of terming it a miracle, if only because he did not believe in miracles.
Whatever it was didn’t matter. Alice was ebullient in her tentative cure and basking in all the media attention.
Tully turned his attention to the monks, all but forgotten now as everyone pressed in to question and hear the “miracle lady.” The three monks who had been grouped together fanned out like well-trained soldiers and harvested all the collection containers. They then reformed in their traditional procession and silently filed off, disappearing into the inner sanctum behind the chapel partition.
Tully thought it odd that the monks would not remain in the chapel and join the celebration. After all, this was their show. His hat was off, for the moment at least, to Father Robert. However he’d done it, he had pulled it off. Where any number of high-priced and high-ranking doctors had failed, the priest had succeeded. Why, Tully wondered, would the monks so inconspicuously fold their tents and quietly slip away?
As they had marched from the chapel area, Tully thought he detected the priest shying from the Big One. The lieutenant recalled Brother Paul’s reaction when the priest called Alice back after the Brother had dismissed her. The Brother had clenched his fists as if he were furious. Why should that be? And why should the priest appear terrified of the Brother?
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