Chapter 13
FATHER NESTOR had said yes, he saw it with his own eyes, the healing of the crippled boy.
"How was he crippled?" August had asked.
"His spine was deformed. The little boy used crutches and dragged his legs. It was very difficult for him."
"Then Juvenal touched him?"
"The boy was in the road where other children were playing. Juvenal was walking by them, ahead of Brother Carlos and I. He looked at the boy and then stopped. The boy looked at Juvenal. Something passed between them; or it might have, I don't know. The boy hobbled over to Juvenal--yes, and then he touched him, dropped to his knees, and held the boy against him. The boy seemed to be taller, his crutches fell--"
"The boy was happy, smiling?"
"I don't remember. I believe he was . . . stunned, very surprised. He looked down at his legs--"
"He ran off then?"
"He walked a few feet away, then in circles, looking down at his legs."
"What about the other children--was it at the same time, the others?"
"There was a little girl with tumors on her body, very ugly sores. He took her into his arms also."
"And they disappeared, the tumors?"
"No, it was not like that. But the next day they were talking about her in the village, everyone very excited. The doctor examined her, there was nothing, no tumors on her, not even scars, and he questioned if it was the same little girl."
"What about other children?"
"I'm not sure. Perhaps."
"Did he restore anyone's sight?"
"Yes, a young man. He left the village and went to Santarem and was injured very severely in a barroom fight and died soon after. This is what they say, I have no proof of it."
"I thought it was just children."
"No, I told you, the two children I know of and a few others, a very old woman I believe with tuberculosis."
"An old woman?"
"Yes, I remember some of the people saying why would he waste this gift on an old woman who was worth nothing."
August Murray had been thinking the same thing. "How many did he heal?"
"I don't know. Perhaps seven or eight."
"Why didn't he heal more?"
Father Nestor seemed to smile. He said, "Yes, send him to the hospital, uh? Heal everybody. But they brought him to Convento Sao Raimundo, where he stayed until he was sent home."
"That's the part I don't understand--keeping him hidden. Why?"
"You talk to him, ask him."
"Not yet," August Murray had said. "If I talk about it and seem too interested--well, he might not agree with our way of doing things. What I like best," August had said, at that time, months before, beginning to form his plan, "is the part about the children."
August could picture the brown-skinned little boy dropping his crutches and would see him, very clearly, running through a jungle junkyard village of old adobe and rusting Coca-Cola signs, the boy shouting excitedly and with dogs chasing after him in the muddy street. A cute little Walt Disney native boy. On the screen or in advertising they said kids and dogs were the number-one attention getters and emotional motivators, right? Sex also, some half-naked woman. Well, there was no place for dogs or women in August Murray's plan. But kids--yes, kids could do it. Kids could put them on the front page of every newspaper in the country. The right kids at the right time. And, if it worked.
But if it worked down on the Amazon, why not assume it would work here? It would be the same person involved. It would be a setup and he would be taken completely by surprise, if the timing was right. But still the same person, so why wouldn't it work?
If it didn't, well, it could still get press.
Chapter 14
AUGUST MURRAY'S favorites were Scott Lenahan, eight, with cerebral palsy, who had been last year's Torch Drive poster boy; a cute little girl by the name of Betty Davis, nine, blind since birth; and Kenny Melkowski, also nine, who had spinal meningitis.
There was another kid August had liked at first, a good-looking kid named Richie Baker, age ten, who wore a Detroit Tigers baseball cap all the time. But Richie's ailment wasn't acceptably visual. He had acute lymphocytic leukemia and when he took off his baseball cap he was completely bald.
August told Greg Czarnicki to get candid shots of the kids before--you know, like before and after--coming off the bus; and try to maneuver them so that Scotty, Betty, and Kenny would go up the aisle first, right after the Divine Praises--though any of the dozen kids August had rounded up would probably work okay: unfortunate little kids who belonged to friends of friends . . .
(Why had God done that to these nice Catholic kids?)
. . . and had been invited to the Saint John Bosco Dedication Day Picnic following the special blessing by Father Nestor.
(So their suffering could be used for a greater good? August decided that must be the reason.)
The priest's unscheduled trip to the toilet, Juvenal running after him, had given August a sinking feeling, but only for a moment. He'd picked up the Divine Praises, finished them . . . saw Greg in the back of the church with the kids and some of the parents, Greg waiting for the cue . . . saw Juvenal coming back on the altar, Juvenal out of it just long enough and completely unaware . . . and August felt both relief and excitement, more certain than ever God was helping him.
He said to the congregation, at least 250 packed into the little church, "Father Nestor will be right back and we'll proceed with the dedication. While we have a moment though, I'd like to take this opportunity to introduce you to a very remarkable man who's dedicated a good part of his life to the foreign missions, having served down in the jungles of Brazil on the Amazon River--"
Juvenal was staring down the main aisle, past the Gray Army to the vestibule.
"--and let him say a few words to us about his experiences in witnessing God's mercy and miraculous blessing on those less fortunate than we are."
Lynn saw Juvenal's expression.
She had turned her back to the children and stood rigid, feeling them behind her, watching Juvenal now, knowing what August Murray was doing. Juvenal knew it too; of course he would. His expression seemed composed, almost bland, but with a dreamy hint of something she had seen before, a look of sadness, resignation. She wanted to be with him, help him. She wanted to stop August, shut him up. She wanted to turn around and the children would be gone.
There was the sound of a camera shutter, a repeated sound, buzz and click. Greg Czarnicki, the altar boy she had seen outside by the bus, was backing past her, a Minolta pressed to his face, aimed at the children.
"I'm going to ask our special little guests to come forward," August said, arms raised high, beckoning, "and receive the blessing of our good friend Juvenal, who has demonstrated his compassion and love of children in ways that are truly miraculous."
The girl with the long blond hair and green dress, in the last pew, was looking around now at the children.
The two lines of the Gray Army made a half turn to face each other across the middle aisle, like a guard of honor.
Greg Czarnicki, backing up the aisle, clicked the shutter of his Minolta and the children came in their clean Sunday clothes, in their braces and on crutches, the little blind girl holding onto a wheelchair, a few with no visible signs of disease or prosthesis--parents remaining behind--the children following Greg as if drawn by his camera.
Bill Hill said, "Jesus Christ," awed, close to Lynn.
She saw the blond girl in the green shirtdress stand up on the seat of the pew. People on both sides of the aisle were turning now, faces raised, trying to see the children past the line of white shirts.
Lynn's gaze held on Juvenal--a tall altar boy, a gentle person being used, not knowing what to do, cornered, being made to perform in the name of God's mercy
This was not the way he did it.
The authority--how did she know?
She did though, somehow.
And yet she thought, But if he can do it, why wouldn't he? R
ight now. All these children---
She was fascinated by the spectacle of it, the prospect of what could happen. Still, she felt sorry for him and wanted to hold onto him and help him.
"Suffer the little children," August said, and she thought, Oh, God, wondering then if he could be sincere . . . the straggle of children well into the aisle now, inching along, dragging, bumping, pushing aluminum aids, August saying, "Come on, that's it, come right up here" . . . Juvenal staring at the children . . .
Juvenal with his hands folded in front of him, his hands moving apart, then touching the white surplice that hung past his hips, lowering his eyes briefly, glancing at his hands, folding them together again and raising his eyes to the children.
She had to be closer.
Bill Hill said, "Hey--"
Lynn was gone before he could ask where she was going--across the back of the church--then caught a glimpse of her moving up the side aisle on the left.
The girl standing on the seat of the last pew, Kathy Worthington, ignored the people who had noticed her and were staring. She watched the scene developing: the children approaching the altar where August Murray waited, arms folded now, hands in the sleeves of his surplice, striking a very churchy pose. Official dignitary. The guy next to him stared at the children and didn't move, not a muscle. His hands were somewhere beneath his surplice: probably another churchy pose, though she wasn't sure. Juvenal--she would remember the name.
She would also recall, later, the first time she saw Lynn Faulkner: glancing over to see the girl in the blue-green print dress hurrying up the aisle.
* * *
Richie Baker was pushing Kenny Melkowski's wheelchair, trying not to bump the blind girl who was hanging onto the side or run into the kid ahead of them, Scotty, dragging along in his braces and arm crutches.
Richie had planned to stay in the back of the church with his baseball cap on, wait for the picnic to start--until he noticed the tall guy on the altar who looked like Al Kaline. He wondered if it was.
He had not been to mass in over two years, since starting his chemotherapy. He wasn't going to go anyplace where he had to take off his baseball cap and show his Kojak skull, which is what the kids called him and wasn't funny anymore. They called him Kojak and sometimes Lollypop and once in a while Yul Brynner. One time he cried--only once, he got so mad--and said, "You try cobalt sixty sometime and see how you like it!" But they didn't know what he was talking about. The little shitbirds. That's what his mom called them.
She'd said, "Oh, Richie," in that voice like she was in pain, "why don't you go to the picnic with the kids; it'll do you good." She was always reminding him he was sick. They'd say, "You don't look sick except your head," and laugh and ask him over and over what he had. He'd say, "How many times I have to tell you? Acute lymphocytic leukemia." And they'd say, "Big deal."
The guy could be Al Kaline, except what would Al Kaline be doing here? He wasn't even sure if Al Kaline was a Catholic. He hoped he was. Out of his 1,132 baseball cards, 27 of them were Al Kaline, though none of them said what religion he was and now you couldn't get them anymore; Al Kaline was announcing Tiger Baseball with George Kell and Joe Pellegrino. They were really good.
The blind girl had her face raised. She bumped into the side of Kenny Melkowski's wheelchair and Richie said, "Lookit where you're going, will you?"
He could feel everybody staring at his head. It was like he didn't have any clothes on. Just below his gaze, Kenny had so much hair--blond hair curling under, like a girl's.
The guy in the altar boy clothes was not as big as Al Kaline. He looked different now. But he looked familiar and Richie wondered if he was somebody else, on one of the other baseball cards. He thought of Fred Lynn and then Rick Burleson, both of them Red Sox--except this guy had lighter hair. Lighter than Al Kaline's too. Burleson was hitting .286.
The one taking pictures would shoot Kenny and the blind girl and then look past him, deciding, and then snap another picture.
The kid Scotty was so slow. The blind girl looked like she was staring at the ceiling.
Richie thought of Frank Tanana of the Angels, because Tanana was from Detroit and had gone to Catholic Central. Then Soderholm, White Sox third baseman, hitting .294. But Soderholm had a mustache.
The guy on the altar was looking at him. Richie didn't get it. Was he supposed to know him? The other man--altar boy on the altar was trying to motion to the one with the camera, finally stepping down into the aisle and pulling at his surplice, getting him out of the way.
Richie was looking directly at Juvenal. He wanted to go up and say something to him. But what?
He wanted to run up there and laugh with him--God--about what?
He wanted to jump on him. . . . Really?
Yeah, that's what he felt like. For no reason he could understand but simply feeling the urge very strong, in front of all these people, too, and with his bald, shining head, it didn't matter. And that's what he did.
Richie gave the wheelchair a little push, moved around it, and was past the blind girl and Scotty before he knew it, in front of everybody, running up on the altar and seeing the guy's hands coming out from under his surplice red--red?--it didn't matter, wet red, the hands taking his shoulders and the guy going down to become no taller than he was as he felt the guy's arms go around him. He was thinking something, thinking what was he doing here? But he felt good. For no reason he felt so good he wanted to jump up in the air, not even worrying about the people watching, and then run somewhere, run as fast as he could, not to get away but to be running; but he began to calm down and felt something sticky wet on the back of his T-shirt, on his arms, God, his head, and a sound, voices, voices getting louder in a sound like oooooooohhhhh or aaaaaaaaahhh and a voice saying very loud, "Lord Jesus Christ," and another one saying, "My God," and a sound like breath being sucked in and feet moving on the wooden floor, Richie Baker right in the middle of it looking up at the guy's face now, way up, the guy standing again, so Richie moved back and that's when he saw the hands held out from Juvenal's sides palms up, the hands full of blood.
August was saying, "Get him! Get him!" pulling Greg around, grabbing the Minolta from him and hurrying glancing at it to get his finger on the button and then pressing the camera to his face.
Lynn came across the front of the first pew, coming but holding back because she didn't know what she was going to do.
A woman had cried out. Words, Jesus and God, had come from the crowd, an eruption of hushed sound and now silence as Juvenal stood with his hands extending out to both sides, blood on his hands, blood on the white surplice, blood on the boy standing before him, posed--no, the pose of a man crucified but not purposely posing; he didn't know what to do with his hands, with himself, he didn't know what to do.
He stood waiting.
Nailed, if he was nailed at all, to where he stood. Unable to move. Then seemed about to say something, looking at the people.
What? Tell them what? Explain it--how?
Still the mild expression, but a flush of pain, holding something in. Trying to be composed, to explain it. Listen, I'm just--I'm no different--I'm---
No one in the church was going to move, perhaps ever. They stared.
Lynn walked up to him. She heard the snick of the camera and looked at August. August hesitated, then lowered the camera.
She looked at Juvenal, saw his eyes.
Help me. I don't know how to do this. But in the same expression, wonderment. Do you believe it? Look.
Lynn reached out.
She would not look at anyone or think of anything. She would simply do it, take Juvenal's hand . . .
August said, "The children."
What did that mean? Lynn felt the blood in her own hand now, leading Juvenal down the aisle past the children and the Gray Army and the layers of faces, past Bill Hill and the girl standing on the seat of the last pew, past everyone and out the door.
Bill Hill said, "Jesus Christ."
Kathy Wo
rthington said, "What's her name?" getting her note pad out of the canvas bag.
Within a few minutes August was distributing his pamphlets entitled "Stigmata."
People were beginning to file outside, looking around, wondering where Juvenal and the girl had gone.
Chapter 15
KATHY WORTHINGTON told August at the church she'd look at his pictures, sure, bring them down; but she couldn't promise anything. He asked her how she was going to write it. She said, write what? What happened? August said here, and gave her three copies of the stigmata pamphlet plus his Juvenal story, "The Miracle Worker of the Amazon," and, for a little Outrage background, "Without Traditions Where Are We?" and "Why the Holy Ghost Flew Vatican II."
Kathy was glad to get away from the church and everybody standing around talking excitedly, blowing up what had happened bigger and bigger in their minds.
Later on, August drove downtown to the Free Press building on West Lafayette and walked into the city room at ten after four, surprised at all the empty desks. He had imagined reporters pausing, looking up as he walked by--"That's August Murray"--and a hush coming over a roomful of typewriter and telephone noise. But it was Sunday, with only an assistant city editor and four reporters among the wall-to-wall desks piled with files and binders and books, magazines--it looked like they were saving up for a paper drive. Kathy rose from where she was talking to some guy and led August back to her desk. He handed her a thick manila envelope.
"How can you work in a place like this?"
"What's the matter with it?" Kathy said. She opened the envelope, pulled out a stack of black-and-white eight-by-ten glossies and began going through them--crippled children outside the church . . . crippled children inside . . . Juvenal . . .
Too fast for August. He wanted to slow her down; raised up out of his chair to lean on the desk. "There he is. Look at the hands."
Kathy studied the close-shot of Juvenal, cropped at his hips, hands raised from his sides. "It doesn't look like blood."
"It's blood," August said. "You saw it on him, you saw it on the kid."
"I don't know--in the paper it's gonna look like a dark blob."