The Infant of Prague

by Bill Granger

  At first he thought one of the radiator pipes on the side altar had burst and sprayed the statue with hot water. Then he got close to the little statue and saw that the water was only on the painted face. No, it was more precise than that: Wally knelt on the base of the side altar and peered closely at the face of the statue of the Christ Child. Tears, he thought. The statue was weeping. The thought was so profound that Wally nearly fell backwards off the altar where he knelt.

  Wally had few yearnings but one of them was an ordinary man’s desire for fame, however fleeting. He always listened to radio call-in shows in his unofficial “office” in the basement of the church, and he frequently tried to call his favorite programs when they proposed some provocative question. His best moment had come one November when he expressed the opinion that Ronald Reagan was the best President since Franklin D. Roosevelt. He had held the airwaves for a full forty-five seconds that time.

  Now, recovering from the miracle, he went to his office in the basement and began to make the calls that would lead him to fame. He called the Tribune and the Sun-Times, and at both places the response was unenthusiastic. They took his name and telephone number and said “someone” would check it out. The news radio station said much the same thing in different terms and so did the woman who answered the telephone at Wally’s favorite television news station. By chance, he was connected with Kay Davis at a second television station on his sixth try.

  Kay Davis did not believe him either, but it was Monday morning after a gloomy, arid weekend and she sat at her desk in the newsroom and saw Hal Newt glaring across at her as she listened to Wally.

  Hal Newt did not like Kay Davis very much anymore. It was nothing personal. Kay Davis was a mistake and they both knew it now. That’s what he had told her in different terms at lunch Friday and she had chewed on the words all weekend.

  She had come to the Chicago station with promise two years before. She had been a success in Des Moines, and when she left the Des Moines station for Chicago, they had written about her in the local paper. Hal Newt had brought her in and sold her to the station manager, who, in turn, oversold her success story to the director of the owned-and-operated stations of the network. As it turned out, Hal Newt had been too optimistic and the station manager, Al Buck, held it against him because his enthusiasm had made Buck lose face in New York.

  Whatever sold margarine on the local news in Des Moines did not do the same thing in Chicago. Kay Davis, like the other starring faces on the local news, had a “book” that outlined her acceptability rating by the faceless public. Her book was a failure. Her book said men liked her but not in a sexy way—she came across as too cold and calculating. Women, on the other hand, found her too sexy for her own good. “If it was just reversed, we’d be looking at a whole different book,” Hal Newt had said over lunch Friday. And Kay Davis had spent the weekend after that terrible lunch thinking bad thoughts.

  Wally told her that a statue in the church was crying. She half-listened to him and stared across at Hal Newt and thought she would start screaming if she had to sit in the newsroom all morning.

  And so she went to the church.

  Two of the vans used by the news department—and dubbed “Actionmobiles”—were in the repair shop and a third had been dispatched to the Chicago Bears training camp in Lake Forest. So Kay Davis took a ride to the church in an ordinary car with Dick Lester, the technician with the camera and sound box. Dick Lester asked what kind of a story it was and Kay Davis said it probably wasn’t a story at all. She just had to go someplace.

  By the time they got to the church, Wally had gotten around to telling Father Hogan about the weeping statue. Frank Hogan had crossed the same courtyard from the rectory to the church and beheld the water stains on the plaster face of the Christ Child. When Wally told him about the lady from the television station coming to St. Margaret of Scotland, Frank Hogan was horrified.

  He barred Dick Lester’s camera from the church. “We can’t have a circus going on here,” he explained on the church steps, and when Dick Lester seemed intent on pushing the priest aside, Kay Davis intervened. She told Dick to wait and said she wanted to see the statue for herself. The priest, smiling at the pretty, familiar face of the TV reporter, asked her if she was a Catholic.

  “Yes, Father,” she lied and he let her into the church.

  “You know the statue, of course,” he said as he led her up the left-hand aisle to the side altar.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “The Infant of Prague,” he said. He looked worried.

  “The representation of the Christ Child as ruler of the world.”

  Wally stayed at the church door, instructed to keep Dick Lester out.

  Kay Davis stared at the little plaster statue and saw the stains on the face. The Infant of Prague was a child dressed with lace cuffs and collar, holding an orb surmounted by a cross. The Child wore an ornate, bulbous, Eastern-style crown on his head. She stared at the statue and saw what she did not expect to see. She thought she saw tears at the eyes.

  She blinked and did not speak.

  “I thought it was the steam pipe, myself,” Father Hogan said. “There doesn’t appear to be a leak. But you have to be suspicious about these things. You know, something like this can reflect badly on the Church.”

  And on the priest who calls it a miracle, he thought.

  A miracle, Kay Davis thought, thinking of Hal Newt and her bad book and the endless lunch last Friday at Arnie’s. She had wanted to get drunk when Hal Newt explained about the book and about how it was probably his fault and that he had “rushed” her instead of “grooming” her acceptance by the public. As it was, she had polished off three very dry vodka martinis.

  “This is wonderful,” she said to Father Hogan.

  “Well, it is certainly out of the ordinary,” Father Hogan said.

  “But it’s wonderful,” she said. “You have to let people see it.”

  “The church is open to all.”

  She shook her head. “No! I mean really see it. On television.”

  “That’s where you would come in,” he said.

  “Why not, Father? I’m a Catholic,” she said. And I need a miracle right now.

  “I don’t think… I think I need some advice on this. I better get in touch with the chancery office,” he said. He thought about the Cardinal in that moment. The Cardinal was very big on social responsibility, racial justice, and the rights of the unborn. Somehow, he didn’t see the Cardinal being overjoyed about a miracle at St. Margaret of Scotland Church. It was corny and flashy, something you might expect from one of those fundamentalists on television.

  In the end, Dick Lester made do with shots of the exterior of St. Margaret and Kay Davis standing on the steps of the church explaining the miracle of the weeping statue. She also gave Wally fifteen seconds of fame on camera for being the person to discover the weeping statue. Father Hogan declined to be on camera because he was wearing his off-duty wardrobe, consisting of a green Izod shirt and yellow slacks.

  It was just as well.

  Kay Davis got a full sixty seconds on News at Five, which perked her up. The station lost the segment for News at Ten but—miraculously, said a sly Dick Lester—it was revived and expanded into a ninety-second featurette on the morning news.

  The Cardinal’s liaison man was on the telephone to St. Margaret of Scotland rectory shortly after morning Mass on Tuesday.

  Had Father Hogan seen the news on television? asked the Cardinal’s man.

  Yes, the previous night, said Father Hogan.

  Had he seen the statue itself? asked the Cardinal’s man.

  Yes, he had.

  Well, what did he think of it?

  Think of what? asked the parish priest.

  The miracle, said the Cardinal’s man.

  Well, Father Hogan replied, it appeared there was a liquid-like substance to be seen on the face of the statue of the Infant of Prague.

  And what part did Father Hogan h
ave in alerting the news media to this phenomenon?

  None at all, Father Hogan protested. He explained that Wally the custodian had created the stir. He added that Wally was not even a Catholic, although that had not come out in the television report.

  A silence lay between the chancery office and the rectory of St. Margaret’s for a moment, and then Father Hogan had asked what he should do.

  “Do what you think you should do,” said the Cardinal’s man.

  “But can I get some guidance on this?” Father Hogan asked.

  “In what way?” asked the Cardinal’s man.

  “Well, I was thinking, maybe the chancery could issue a statement,” Father Hogan said.

  The ball came smashing back to his own court: “The chancery was not even informed of the… phenomenon… until the Cardinal saw the news this morning on television.”

  So he watches TV news in the morning, Father Hogan thought. You’d think he’d have more important things to do than that.

  “I certainly should have informed… someone,” Father Hogan said.

  “Well, that’s water over the dam, isn’t it?” the Cardinal’s man said. “I think you’re going to have to paddle in that stream by yourself for the time being, Father Hogan.”

  And that was that. Hogan heard the receiver click and said aloud, “In other words, it’s up to me to twist slowly in the wind.”

  Kay Davis found Father Hogan kneeling on the side altar at ten in the morning. This time, Dick Lester was in the church behind her. He started shooting when he was less than ten feet from the altar and the bright TV lights announced his presence.

  Father Hogan jumped down from the altar and the sound echoed through the damp, dimly lit church. At that moment, Dick Lester flicked the light bar off. “Too dark,” he complained. “Can you turn the lights on, Father?”

  “I cannot turn the lights on,” Father Hogan said. “What are you doing in my church with that camera?”

  Kay Davis pushed her thin body between the two large men and touched Father Hogan’s chest. The touch arrested him. He was among the minority of men represented in her book who would have said they found Kay Davis sexy in a kittenlike way. She had a wet-lipped smile and natural teeth that were so perfect they looked capped.

  “Father, we really came back because this is a story that has to be told, a story of faith and hope,” she said.

  “Well, people can go someplace else for their faith and hope,” Father Hogan said. “I’m not ready to be pushed around by the news media. I just got a call from someone at the Sun-Times, and for all I know this is going to be going on all day. I don’t have time for this. You want to do something about St. Margaret’s, why don’t you write a story about how we need a new roof here on the church? Or the Ramirez girl over in the school, who won the northwest division spelling bee last year. Now that’s good news.”

  “Father, you can’t turn your back on a miracle,” Kay Davis said in that very soft and sure voice that women in her book found so annoying.

  “Maybe I can get a tight shot,” Dick Lester said.

  “Get outta my church,” boomed Frank Hogan, and he pushed Kay aside and went for Dick Lester. With a cameraman’s instinct, Lester flicked the light bar on and blinded the priest for a moment.

  “Don’t fight in church,” Kay Davis said.

  The two men paused and considered it. Frank Hogan’s face was flushed.

  He had tried to contact his rabbi at the chancery office after getting the call from the Cardinal’s man, but he didn’t get an answer. His rabbi had watched out for Hogan’s interests downtown for a dozen years, from his first parish, Our Lady of God on the southwest side. St. Margaret’s, while not a rich parish, was a step up the ladder of success. If Hogan didn’t stumble here, he could look forward to getting a nice fat north suburban parish in a year or two. Which is why the weeping statue appeared to be more than a simple glitch in his plans. He had returned to the church that morning to see if there was some reasonable explanation for the stained, watery face. He had found none and uttered a heartfelt prayer: “Why are You doing this to me?”

  “Father,” Kay Davis said. “If you don’t let us film the statue, someone else will. Some newspaper photographer will get in here or something. You can’t keep the church locked—”

  “I can keep the church locked,” Hogan said. “And open it up for morning Mass and put a couple of the parish men on the doors to make sure no one with cameras comes inside.” He formed the plan as he said it.

  “That’s crazy,” Dick Lester said. And it was, but it worked to keep cameras away from St. Margaret’s one more day.

  Which, in turn, led to a media frenzy to get inside the church and photograph the statue of the Christ Child.

  On Tuesday night, Kay Davis described her own religious experience in witnessing the miracle of the weeping statue. To make up for a lack of graphics, Kay purchased a statue of the Infant of Prague in a religious supply store on the edge of the Loop, and the art department came up with a ten-second film clip of the city of Prague. She got a full sixty seconds both at Five and Ten and was interviewed by a stringer from People magazine. Suddenly, she was getting very hot and the memory of that painful Friday luncheon with Hal Newt began to fade.

  “I didn’t know you were a Catholic,” Dick Lester said after watching the tape on the monitor.

  “For years,” Kay Davis said and never even thought of it as a lie.

  Father Hogan got to his rabbi late Tuesday, just after the News at Five segment. He felt besieged in his rectory. Two photographers were sitting in unmarked cars across the street and the police department had dispatched a tactical car to keep a watch over the watchers.

  “Get a friend in the media,” his rabbi said in his close-to-the-receiver telephone voice. “You can’t keep the lid on it by pretending it isn’t happening. We’re not in the Middle Ages, for Pete’s sake. The Old Man is pissed off when stuff like this happens. He thinks you’re hotdogging. He doesn’t like hot dogs.”

  “I swear to God, Charlie, I don’t want this any more than he does.”

  “Then lose it,” said the rabbi.

  “How do I lose it? I got the church locked and I got two of the men from the Holy Name Society said they would guard the doors tomorrow.”

  “This isn’t Poland, Frank,” the rabbi said. “You don’t want guards around the church. I tell you, if I didn’t know you better, I’d swear you were milking this. Why didn’t you just get rid of the statue?”

  “It’s bolted down,” Frank said.

  “Unbolt it,” said Charlie.

  “I can’t and I can’t find Wally. I got pretty steamed up at him yesterday and I think he’s taking a couple of days off to sulk.”

  “Get a friend in the media, Frank,” said the older man. “Get someone who is going to be reverent and solemn and all that. Don’t make this look like it was put on by Baptists. Do the best you can.”

  Do the best you can. It was miserable advice, Frank Hogan thought sitting in his office in the rectory. He could smell Mrs. Clements’ cooking from there. Corned beef hash again. He hated corned beef hash and she never failed to serve it on a day he really needed a lift from supper.

  After supper, he called Monsignor Foley, the former pastor of St. Margaret’s, who was now retired in Clearwater, Florida. He had to know about the statue in order to learn what to do next.

  “I don’t really recall.” Foley chuckled on the phone. “We probably got it from some grateful old Bohemian who got his prayers answered. Used to have a lot of Bohunks at Maggie’s. But I can’t recall getting it, so it must have been there before my time. So you got a miracle on your hands, is that it, Frank?”

  “On my hands is a good way of putting it. And the statue is bolted to the altar and I can’t find Wally and you know me and tools.”

  “Clumsiest priest I’ve ever seen,” Foley said. “Couldn’t even take to golf.”

  “And the Cardinal is on my case about it,” Frank Hogan said
sadly, thinking of the corned beef growling in his stomach.

  “Yeah, that’s Bernie for you,” Foley said. “He’s gotten so very serious in the last couple of years, I think he’s running for Pope. It’s all those commissions he puts himself on. Me, I never was much for politics, especially church politics. They wanted me down in the chancery office at one time, but I was satisfied with Maggie’s and taking the afternoon off for a round at Fresh Meadows. I can golf every day down here, you know. Maggie’s suited me fine and I saw no point in giving it up to be a paper shuffler down at the chancery office. It was a big surprise when Cody made me monsignor, I never asked for it.”

  God, Foley could ramble on and pretend he wasn’t the slyest fox in the forest, Frank Hogan thought. Well, Frank Hogan wasn’t going to be buried in Maggie’s if he could help it.

  The new line of action came to Frank Hogan after morning mass on Wednesday. The two ushers at the door had politely restrained the photographers; the children had been suitably impressed by the publicity. In fact, a number of their parents had come to Mass that morning along with the children. All the people along with the news photographers and cameramen on the steps made it seem quite festive.

  They locked the doors after Mass and Hogan prowled the church grounds looking for someone in particular. When he saw Kay Davis alight from the white Actionmobile, he signaled to her and they both ducked into a side door of the church.

  “I need your help,” he began.

  “Anything,” she said. Her voice was husky. She could smell the aura of defeat about Frank Hogan. She would have to be very tough on him.

  “The last thing we want is this to turn into a circus,” he said.

  “That’s what it’s turning into though, isn’t it?” she said.

  “I saw your report on the television news last night. I was quite struck by your speech there about how the apparent miracle of the weeping statue had affected you.”