Miracle Girls (9781938126161)

by Caschetta, M. B.

  Over the years, he’d been the one friend she could turn to for advice when her own peace mission posed challenges and obstacles.

  She had just become Mother General when they first met. She and the handsome priest had struck up a conversation at a peace conference, the first one Amanda had ever attended.

  From that day, Daniel—Father Dan, as he was widely known—has signed all his letters to her familiarly: How I delight in you, beloved Amanda. —Your Daniel. He has gone so far as to compare his chaste love for Amanda to that of St. Francis for St. Clare, St. John of the Cross for St. Teresa of Avila. Of course, Amanda has heard rumors about him—everyone has. Despite herself, she is flattered. Once when he tried to caress her cheek, she told him, “I have dedicated myself to Christ and no one else.” She thought about her deformed body, about how it would never belong to a man.

  In the end, the munitions train was a no-show. It was diverted either due to the threat of their demonstration or a mechanical problem somewhere near Rochester. There were whispers that the conductor had gone AWOL.

  Dan didn’t wait for confirmation, but announced their protest a victory. He spoke commandingly through a bullhorn: Congratulations on stopping this train! To stop this war, we will move mountains if we have to.

  Everyone cheered.

  The national news cameras trailed his every move while local reporters interviewed as many protesters from Romeville and Utica as possible.

  Now, in the back seat of Brother Joe’s Pinto, the Sisters relive the protest, recalling Sister Robert-Claude’s interview on the local news.

  Amanda interrupts them: “No protests this morning, Sisters; we’re canvassing.”

  “Again?” Sister Robert-Claude says.

  Amanda frowns; they didn’t used to question her authority.

  After a moment, Sister Robert-Claude cracks her window and lights up. She takes a long deep drag and adds a final sigh: “Well, you’re the boss.” Toughest of all the Sisters, Robert-Claude is often the most critical, which Amanda has been able to use to her advantage.

  “I needn’t remind you that we’re trying to keep a low profile,” Amanda says. “It can’t be all fun and news reports.”

  The backseat three answer in unison—“Yes, Mother General”—then fall silent.

  At thirty-seven, Amanda is the liveliest of Christ’s Most Precious Wounds and the youngest Superior the order has ever had. She is well aware of the irony that she who is so orphaned should be called Mother by so many. It’s something she’s learned to live with.

  Naïve and overambitious when she first became the Mother General, she’d made some embarrassingly grand statements to Father Giuseppe. I am who I am, she’d said initially, an activist and a proponent for peace, and I am not about to change.

  Father Giuseppe was amused, but supportive: Good for you, Mother! And good luck! You’ve got some cranky Sisters on your hands.

  It was true that the Sisters of Christ’s Most Precious Wounds wore long black robes with full veils like the one Sister Robert-Claude unearthed as a sight gag for protesting. It was as if Vatican II hadn’t happened at all. In her first year as Mother General, Amanda made a point of changing all that. She introduced less cumbersome garb. She overhauled the educational system at the school. She encouraged a more modern policy of taking on projects out in the world, attending teaching seminars and religious conferences, working in soup kitchens, tending to the neighborhood poor and sponsoring community works.

  Her colleagues didn’t think much of her at first.

  She was green, they said, overly eager. She had big shoes to fill, replacing the previous and much beloved Mother Augustus, who had died gracefully and beautifully before everyone’s eyes. Behind Amanda’s back the community petitioned Father Giuseppe, complaining that their new superior was much too radical to bring any of them closer to God.

  You can’t push the river, Mother, Father Giuseppe said over a glass of wine. It’ll go better if you ease Our Lady into the twentieth century.

  She smiled as he poured more wine: She hadn’t even started making the big changes yet.

  Brother Joe whizzes them past mills and canning factories, soap and iron works. Past the grand old train station perched at the end of decrepit Main Street with so many businesses now on the verge of bankruptcy.

  When at last dawn breaks over central New York, the neon Paul Revere buzzes to the end of his electric ride atop Revere Ware Copper Works. The sign arrived after the factory opened in Romeville during the Industrial Revolution. And there he rides every night until sun-up, never minding that Romeville is hundreds of miles west of the place where the original event took place. It amuses Amanda to find the Revolutionary War hero here in this sleepy town of all places, flashing and buzzing above them. The sight is as familiar to her now as the trains rattling by and the dilapidated Town Hall with its crumbling bricks.

  The wheat fields and farms shine with silver snow in the distance. Beyond that, daybreak is glinting over the mountains. Brother Joe parks the Pinto in an empty lot above the old railroad tracks, a kind of graveyard where abandoned train cars sit empty and abused, most with busted wheels and rusty holes in their aluminum frames. On their doors, faded lettering announces the cargo each once carried: Romeville-Turner Radiators, Erie-Canterbury Coal, Dryden Oil Drums, Pope’s Fuel & Propane.

  “Just one quick stop; then we canvass.” Amanda gets out of the car, hauling her supplies from the hatchback. “I’ll be right back.”

  The Sisters scramble to join her.

  “You think she ran away, don’t you?” Sister Eugene says. “The missing Iaccamo girl, you don’t think she’s dead!”

  Sister Pius chimes in. “I always felt something bad was going on in that family. Have you met the father? You must think she could be one of ours.”

  “Let’s not get excited,” Amanda answers. “I don’t think anything yet.”

  “The news reported that the girl was spotted around here,” Sister Pius adds. “They found a piece of her sweater down on one of those fences.”

  “Needle in a haystack.” Sister Robert-Claude is the only one who remains unruffled.

  “Back in the car, please; this is a solo job,” Amanda says gently. “Joseph, keep an eye out, and only come down if there’s trouble.”

  She walks the gravel path down to where a fire is burning in an old barrel. No one is huddled over it, keeping warm. She walks straight to the last rail car, Wystan H.A. Livestock, and knocks. The door slides open, revealing several men in dirty clothes. They stand on the lip of the train car glowering at the visitor. One of them pulls out a shotgun and points it at her.

  “What do you want?”

  “I’ve brought food and dry clothing from the Catholic church.” She smiles, aware that with her scars covered by a turtleneck and slacks, she could be any pretty young woman delivering help. “And I’m looking for a child.”

  A murmur goes through the train car.

  One of the men laughs. “You got a child, Sister?”

  She smiles. They know who she is because only religious personnel bother with them at all.

  Another man takes the sack from her. “There’s no one here but us. If you’re looking for the Boogey Man, then it’s the Romeville Snatcher you want, and he ain’t here. We’re an exclusive gentleman’s club.”

  A few men laugh.

  Amanda hands the nearest man a folded note. “Give this to the girl if you see her.”

  He frowns. “We’re not messengers, Sister.”

  “We’re all God’s messengers, gentlemen.” She flashes a smile, not unaware of her charms. “If you hear anything, I trust you’ll get word to me.”

  They look down at their shoes, considering the request.

  “Enjoy your breakfast.” She backs away, heading up the gravel path.

  The Sisters are dozing when Amanda settles into the passenger’s seat. Sister Robert-Claude’s head rests on Sister Eugene’s shoulder.

  Sister Pius rouses as they pu
ll away and pass back through town. “No luck, Mother?”

  Amanda looks between the buildings for glimpses of the wide-open wheat fields surrounding the town. “Not yet, Sister. But let’s see what we can find.”

  Each time Brother Joe makes a stop, the five missionaries get out and search behind buildings, in alleyways, all the cracks and crevices of Romeville. They sit for a while in the cold car at the end of the Iaccamo dairy farm until Sister Robert-Claude’s snoring begins to irritate Amanda.

  “With all respect, Mother,” Brother Joe says. “It’s probably too late anyway.”

  With Glory gone, the days pass like a slow string of Sundays. Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly are left behind, and they know it.

  “Bet she went to Canada to visit the cousins,” Baby Pauly says. “Bet you a million doll hairs.”

  People drift through the house, but nobody cheers anybody up. Nobody knows where Glory goes when she’s gone like this. Usually by now there’s talk of getting shipped off to Nonna’s house, but since Anthony’s gotten older, Frank says no one’s going anywhere.

  Still, Nonna’s like a train when it comes to her family, and Frank does not put her off at all. He says, Marina, she’s taking a break, that’s all, but Nonna knows the score. She arrives on the sly, forcing a bath on anyone in her path, doling out kisses even if you don’t want one. She makes Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly put on clean pajamas and sleep in their own beds. She cooks up a storm and leaves instructions for Roadie about what to put in the oven when.

  Like magic, she always manages to leave just in time. No one is ever the wiser.

  Grandma Bianco, Frank’s mother, is the opposite of Nonna. Grandma Bianco never shows up unless it’s someone’s birthday and there’s going to be cake. She sends Uncle Moonie over instead to make sure no one burns anything down.

  Mrs. Patrick is the only one who makes regular daily visits.

  Every other morning she brings groceries and sits at the kitchen table drinking Sanka with Roadie. Mrs. Patrick has been friends with Glory forever; she’s Roadie’s godmother. Everyone is still pretty careful around Mrs. Patrick because Glory says she doesn’t have both oars in the water.

  “I know Gloria Petramala like I know myself,” Mrs. Patrick says. “She’ll be back…mark my words. She likes her time alone. Got those nice friends in Syracuse from bank-teller training. She’s probably having a little visit.”

  Today Mrs. Patrick delivers Jeremy Patrick, her son, and Roadie’s one friend, with an overnight bag and his dirt bike.

  “Hello, pumpkins!” She pulls Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly onto her lap. “Smells like Nonna gave you two a good scrubbing.”

  The storm, she says, will veer and hit Canada. Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly like the sound of the word veer.

  Mrs. Patrick is resolute. “Storm or no storm, Jeremy can’t stay if no one is here.”

  “I’m here!” Anthony yells from the living room.

  When Mrs. Patrick leans forward, Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly go with her. “And I don’t mean him. I mean an adult like Frank, or one of your grandmas.”

  Cee-Cee loves the way Mrs. Patrick smells like powder and lotion. She touches the green silk scarf tied in a smart knot at her throat. It’s soft and silky.

  “What about Uncle Moonie?” Roadie says.

  “He’ll do fine,” Mrs. Patrick says.

  Whenever the topic of Uncle Moonie comes up, Glory says Mrs. Patrick has the hots for him, which is a bad idea. Moonie came back dead down there, Glory says.

  Roadie offers Mrs. Patrick another Sanka.

  Every morning before school, Roadie drinks a cup of coffee and zooms out of the garage on the junior Harley motorbike he bought with his own money. He meets Jeremy Patrick midway to school where he waits revving his reconstructed dirt bike on the corner of the Interstate. They ride together toward Romeville Free Academy, not minding the weather, or even the jokes. Roadie makes everyone call him by his new nickname, which is way better than what they used to call him—Junior.

  On the weekends, Roadie and Jeremy take turns giving Cee-Cee rides on the back of their bikes. Once she burned her leg on the exhaust pipe and Glory smeared it with butter.

  Roadie likes it better when he gets to sleep at the Patricks’ house and eat fried hot dogs and beans for dinner, then watch TV before getting tucked into clean sheets with a kiss.

  But things are different now. Roadie has to stay home and keep an eye out.

  Sleep tighty-tight, the monsters tell Baby Pauly, which keeps him up at night. How is someone supposed to sleep like that? Baby Pauly wonders. Tight.

  “Don’t look so glum,” Mrs. Patrick says. “Your folks will patch things up. They always do.”

  “Is that a prediction?” Anthony shouts.

  He keeps raising the volume on his soap opera to drown out the conversation in the kitchen. Right now all the characters are in a hospital corridor, whispering about love and death and betrayal at the top of their lungs.

  Mrs. Patrick lets Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly off her lap, even though Cee-Cee tries not to let go.

  “Don’t you ever put on pants, Anthony Gerard?” Her voice rings like pleasant music, not like the way it sounds when Glory is scolding someone. “It’s embarrassing to come over and find you half-naked all the time, Mister.”

  Anthony snorts.

  “You two stay off them bikes ’til the storm passes, you hear?” Mrs. Patrick sits up straight again. “Has Frank tried to find her, Roadie?”

  Anthony shouts an answer from the other room, “She probably ran off with some guy again!”

  “Wasn’t talking to you!” Mrs. Patrick rolls her eyes.

  Roadie’s voice is quiet. “Frank hasn’t been home.”

  “Shame on him," She says, “I wish he'd stop giving Cee-Cee Benadryl like it’s going out of style…No wonder she hallucinates angels and talks to God.”

  Anthony mutters, “Oh, Christ.”

  “Saying your prayers in there, Anthony?”

  Roadie and Jeremy Patrick smile.

  They bend their heads together, emitting a warm pink glow.

  Baby Pauly and Cee-Cee can see the light around everyone; they watch for it. Roadie glows when he’s with Jeremy Patrick. Glory glows green and red like a Christmas tree when Baby Pauly is having a tantrum. Frank glows like a piece of charcoal, flecks of dark orange in black, worse if he’s been drinking.

  Whispering but stern, Mrs. Patrick has them form a huddle. “You kids stay away from Mr. Bad News in there, you hear?”

  Mrs. Patrick is right: Anthony never glows.

  “I’ll take that second Sanka, hon. Then, I got to get back to my laundry.”

  Sometimes Mrs. Patrick tells Roadie how he’ll make some girl a wonderful husband one day. Today she slips him money, clucking her tongue. “A boy like you shouldn’t have to be a mother before becoming a man.”

  Roadie shrugs.

  “Order a pizza for dinner, and keep Cee-Cee away from that medicine.” She smooths Cee-Cee’s hair and feels her forehead, which for the moment is cool. “We always wanted a beautiful little girl, didn’t we, Jer? A boy and a girl make a perfect family, Jeremy’s dad always said, rest his soul.”

  It’s Cee-Cee’s favorite story.

  But Mrs. Patrick’s husband died in the middle of a snowstorm, shoveling. He keeled over right during the worst of it, and Mrs. Patrick had to hire someone from Il Duce Snow Management to come and dig him out.

  “Life is unpredictable.” She stares out the window. “And men have weak hearts.”

  Outside it’s heading toward dusk, the time of day Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly dread most.

  Following Cee-Cee down the basement stairs to the bathroom near the sump pump, Baby Pauly is on the lookout. Real monsters don’t come out until nighttime, he’s pretty sure, but it’s good to stay prepared.

  He pulls a long string hanging from the ceiling, clicking on a bare bulb.

  On Saturdays, Anthony sometimes makes them play touch football on Frank’s old wrestling mat in the fa
r half of the basement. Roadie and Baby Pauly team up and play against Anthony and Cee-Cee. Anthony wants Cee-Cee on his team because she can catch a football better than anyone.

  The saggy feet of Cee-Cee’s tights gather sawdust from the stairs.

  Cee-Cee and Baby Pauly stick close together, stepping further down into the pungent moldy place. She stops at the long punching bag hanging from the ceiling and gives it three good belts.

  She leads the way to the little unfinished bathroom, a room with a door but no doorknob, a toilet but no seat.

  “You’re never afraid?” he asks. “Not even a little?”

  “No,” Cee-Cee says.

  She looks for a washcloth under the sink. The basement ceilings are low and the rooms are dark, but she still leaves the light off.

  Baby Pauly does a little sword fight with the broomstick, a pretend monster that steals children from their beds at night. He saves Cee-Cee twice from its clutches—her protector, knight of her round table.

  She is his leader.

  Cee-Cee finds a box of detergent and hops up on the counter to look at herself in the mirror. “St. Rose of Lima rubbed pepper and stones into her cheeks to be ugly so she could save herself for God.”

  “You’re not pretty.” Baby Pauly feels scared; he wants to go upstairs. He takes the detergent away from Cee-Cee. “Do you see my color?”

  “Not again, Sollie!” She uses his secret name.

  “Show me,” he says. “Please.”

  Perched on the edge of the bathroom vanity, she stares at him through the dark until he feels the warm fog pushing through his skin. From his hands, he sees the happy light emerge, so transparent it’s barely any color at all.

  He beams at Cee-Cee. “Purple!”

  She takes a stick of gum out of her pocket and rips it. They each chew a half-piece, looking at each other and smiling.

  “Want to see a card trick?” she says, reaching for the little deck in her pocket.

  They barely notice when the sump pump punches on with its loud kerchunk-kerchunk.

  “Hey!” Anthony calls from the top of the stairs. “What are you two doing down there?”