Now and then, the old man's laugh drifted across the Real. He was busy. Cars were lined up at the pumps.
God will punish me; God will punish us all, Jose thought. He will cause the valley to be flooded, or open the earth.
He kept staring at Olcott and once, the old man looked up from a hood and frowned across the road.
Jose thought: You haven't told anyone. That's it. You have not told anyone. You are committing a sin as bad as mine.
11
GONZALVO SHOWED JOSE to a bench just outside the refectory, the simple dining room where the brothers ate each night. Their meal was late because there had been visitors until almost seven o'clock.
"You wait here for the padre," Gonzalvo instructed.
Jose settled down, dreading what he had to admit. Through the open refectory door he could see the brothers and the room itself. The walls were white, bare except for the wall behind Father Lebeon, who was seated at the head of the long wooden table. In a recess behind him was a crucifix.
One chair was vacant, and Jose guessed that it belonged to the monk who was by a small serving table against the wall. He was counting money. "Ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three..."
Father Lebeon suddenly barked, "Will you stop counting in here, Brother Carlos?"
The other brothers ceased eating, and there was an uneasy silence for a moment. Then Brother Carlos moved away from the side table and took his place, crossing himself, lips working in prayer.
A very young brother broke the tension. "Do you realize what all this means? Next to Lourdes and Our Lady of Guadalupe, we'll have the most famous shrine in the world."
Father Lebeon's fork stayed poised in midair. "If. If. If it's a miracle, Brother Anthony."
They all glanced at him. Then one by one they resumed eating. "You're all presupposing. We shouldn't doubt the possibility, but we should certainly question it."
Brother Carlos, who was the mission treasurer, said, "You've been negative in this from the start, Father."
"Is there something you know that we don't?" Amos asked.
Lebeon stared back at him. "I know nothing that you don't know. I'm simply more cautious. The lab tests show it was human blood. Where it came from...?"
Brother Amos said, "No human would have the courage to splash blood on that statue. We agreed on that, Father."
"Most of us here were taught to believe," Brother Carlos added.
Father Lebeon rose and placed his napkin down. He said stiffly, "Excuse me," and left the refectory.
Jose started to get to his feet, but the priest swept by without noticing him. The outside door banged shut. He stayed on the bench another moment, urging himself to follow.
Relief settled over the monks' dining room. Silverware began to clatter again.
Brother Amos said, "Aside from the other wonderful aspects of this, I'm personally not above a little larceny in my thoughts. The financial condition of this mission could use a large miracle."
"Amen," said Brother Carlos.
JOSE FOUND FATHER LEBEON standing in the garden by the mission wall, staring up the quiet road.
"Father?"
Lebeon turned and squinted into the shadows. "Yes?"
"Father, I..."
"Yes?" The priest's voice was dull and dejected.
"Is it all right if I go inside and see the statue?" He could not say anything else.
"Yes," Lebeon replied and turned away.
Jose moved quickly out of the iron gate but did not go into the church. He began to walk south, going past the Mission Bell Bar where Pook Goodwin was painting on the window. The white letters were almost complete: "Miracle Special Happy Hour—Four to Eight—Two Drinks for the Price of..."
He walked to a point opposite Olcott's, but the old man was not around. Ahead, off toward the freeway ramps, strong lights were shining, and he could see several people. He went that way.
Closer, he saw Olcott and one of the men who had gone into the mission with him in the morning. They were watching a sign painter at work under flood lights. The sign said, "See the Miracle of San Ramon." A huge arrow pointed toward the mission.
Jose went back to the store and took Sanchez out for a short walk. Returning, he sprawled down on the matting and prayed that Maldonado would arrive in the morning.
He did not sleep well.
He dreamed that he and his father were in the peaks of the Encantadas, the enchanted mountains above San Quintin. They were moving by a sheer cliff, and he fell over the side. He grabbed a root and began yelling for Maldonado to help. Jose watched as little by little the root pulled away from the side, and he plummeted down.
The last thing he saw was his father's face, looking down at him as if he'd made a mistake.
12
AN UNSEASONAL COLD front passed through the valley the next morning, bringing with it gray clouds; shrouding the Gabilans in mist. It was bleak and chilly at a few minutes after ten when an expensive maroon car with Arizona plates pulled up in front of Mission San Ramon.
A well-dressed man and his wife stepped out. The man reached back into the car and lifted out a small, thin, wheat-haired boy. He looked about five, and he was nervous, if not frightened.
Jose, seated on his box, watched from the window of the store. He had been watching since the peddlers arrived to open their pushcarts for business. The carnival had started again. At least two hundred people were already milling about.
As the man carried the boy into the church, the KDOX-TV camerman ran up, hit his switch, and aimed his lens. On the church steps, Jack Ortt said to Lebeon, "You seem to be getting more of these."
"Unfortunately," the priest replied.
"Doesn't it make you a little squeamish?"
"It does," Lebeon said flatly.
"Can't you stop it?"
Lebeon controlled his impatience. "I'm not the final authority. I have superiors who tell me a commission must decide. The town tells me the church must stay open. That's not a good answer, but that's it."
"Meanwhile," Ortt said, looking toward the door where the family had entered.
"Yes, meanwhile," Lebeon replied, and they went inside.
Lebeon watched as the couple from Arizona lighted candles. The father, holding the jittery boy erect, said, "Look, Robert. Look at the statue."
The boy gazed at it.
Lebeon fought to keep from asking the man not to do this. The child, bewildered and injured enough by whatever had crippled him, would be hurt once more.
The boy's father said, "Now, Robert, I'm going to take my hands away, and you will pray to Him that your legs will carry you. Look at the statue, think of all I've told you about it, pray very hard, and walk to the rope."
Father Lebeon listened in sick fascination, then closed his eyes to avoid seeing the rest.
He heard Ortt gasp, "He's walking! The kid's walking!"
Lebeon opened his eyes as the child took his final unsteady step toward the rope. The parents rushed forward and knelt beside him.
Instinctively, Lebeon murmured, "Adjutorium nostrum in Nomini Domini." And it echoed into the far corners of his mind: "Our help is in the name of the Lord."
The priest waited until the parents and the child were leaving the church, refusing to talk to Ortt. Then he questioned the father, whose eyes were still moist. "What type of illness did the boy have?"
The man looked at Lebeon strangely. "He broke both legs two years ago. For a while, we thought there was nerve damage, but the doctor finally decided it was purely mental. Robert was afraid to use his legs."
"I see. So it wasn't physical damage."
"No."
There had been no cure, Lebeon thought. No miracle had worked. Yet, undeniably, the boy had walked. There was always the miracle of the human mind.
"I'd like to make a contribution," the man said.
Lebeon shook his head. "That isn't necessary. I don't think, truthfully, what happened in the church, ah ... what's in the church had much to do with..." He
faltered and stopped. "I, ah. Well, it's terribly difficult..."
The Arizona man interrupted softly. "Robert is walking."
"Yes," Lebeon agreed. "A gift will be appreciated. You can send a check."
As the car eased away, Ortt said, "Father, someone made a liar out of both of us."
"Yes, someone, or something, did." He studied the handsome, gray-haired man. "You've been a resident here for two days. You're an expert now, Mr. Ortt. How do you plan to handle this one? What will you tell your viewers? I'd be interested to know."
Ortt rubbed his jaw. "Well, the boy walked. In an odd way, your 'miracle' worked. Now, what else do I say?"
"Of all people, don't ask me." Lebeon's voice was low, defeated. He felt that he was now paying for failing to believe.
The news of the crippled boy went through San Ramon like wind-driven flames.
Jose could sense that something was different at the mission. Small groups of people were talking. The television cameramen were grinding footage of the priest as he chatted with Ortt. There were at least six people lined up to use the outdoor phone booth. Others scurried across the road.
Jose went over to the mission just before eleven. He asked the balloon peddler, who was a young pocho, what had happened.
"A little crippled boy found his legs in there. He walked. We have a real miracle."
"Please do not joke," Jose said. "It is a sin to joke about this."
"I'm not joking." He called over to the taco stand.
"The boy was cured," the taco cook affirmed.
Jose said, "Impossible," and began running toward the gas station.
Olcott was at the parts counter, prying into a carburetor valve with a small screwdriver when Jose entered. Olcott wasn't aware of anyone until he heard Jose saying, "Señor, por favor, la estatua de Cristo ... mi sangre."
He looked up and recognized the large-eyed brown face. He dropped the valve, which hit the glass top with a cracking sound.
Jose said, "Señor, aqui." He pulled his shirt back to reveal the bandage. "Mi sangre. The mission."
Olcott's eyes narrowed.
Jose pointed to the lot next door. "Accidente. Mi. You help."
Olcott shook his head. "You must be crazy, boy. I've never seen you before in my life."
"Señor, por favor. Speak the padre."
Olcott was beginning to perspire. "I don't know what you're talkin' about. Get out of here."
Jose said frantically. "Por favor, señor. Por favor." He reached across the counter and grabbed Olcott's sleeve. "Please speak the padre."
Olcott knocked Jose's arm away and reached back of him for a tire iron. "Get out," he yelled.
Jose backed out of the service station and wheeled around toward the mission.
Olcott hobbled over to a greasy rocking chair near the oil stove and sat down heavily. His face was ashen.
JOSE WENT ALONG in an odd, disjointed half-run, half-walk. Every so often, he'd shake his head as if to dislodge something in it. Then he broke into a skip for a few yards, finally stopping about fifty feet from the church steps.
There were more visitors approaching. An elderly couple, the man leaning on a cane, were about thirty feet from the first step. A blind man was being led by his wife. A young mother and her child were almost on the top step when Jose ran for them, shouting, "No milagro!" He leaped and landed almost in front of them.
"No milagro," he shouted again.
The mother clutched the child to her and froze as Jose went on down the steps past them like a madman.
"Mi sangre," he yelled, separating the blind man from his wife.
The blind man flailed his arms in terror, shouting, "Helen? Helen?"
Jose grabbed him by the shoulder. "No, sefior. No milagro."
The wife struck at him with her purse, but Jose did not feel it. He went on to the elderly couple, still yelling.
The man slashed his cane across Jose's chest, and the wife pushed him forward. He reeled against the taco cart and bounced off it. His shoulder hit the balloon peddler at the back of the knees, spilling him into the dirt.
Then Father Lebeon was pinning him down.
Almost a dozen of the red and blue balloons floated up into the sky, slowly rotating their inscriptions: THE MIRACLE OF SAN RAMON.
13
IN THE OFFICE, Father Lebeon was asking, in Spanish, "Who are you?"
Jose made his voice firm because he was no longer ashamed. "I am Maldonado's son, Jose." There was dirt on his face and a red mark on his forehead where the purse had connected. The shoulder hurt, too, where the cane had hit it. He was still breathing heavily, but he was no longer frightened. For the first time in his life, he felt confident. He knew that Maldonado would have been afraid to sit here and make the confession.
"My blood is on..."
Lebeon nodded and finished it calmly. "...is on the body of Christ."
Jose nodded.
The priest let out a long sigh, as if a weight were off him. He said "Am I glad to see you," and went back of his desk to sit down. He looked at the boy for a moment and then smiled. "Make yourself comfortable over there."
After phoning the thoroughly disgusted bishop in Fresno, telling him that he'd provide details later, Lebeon said to Amos, in English, "Get some juice for Jose, will you? Put ice cubes in it."
As Amos went out, Lebeon said, again in Spanish, "Now, tell me everything."
They were interrupted only once, when Amos returned with the glass of juice. Lebeon said, "He really deserves something much stronger, Brother Amos. I'm beginning to find out he's the only one who's been decent about this, including me."
Jose did not know what the priest was saying, but his smile was encouraging.
When he had finished telling what had happened, from his mother's death until he fell on the packing crate, Jose asked, "Will I be punished? Will you give me to Immigration?"
Lebeon was silent and thoughtful for a moment, then replied, "If anyone is to be punished, it's our mayor. For fraud, Yet he meant well, I think."
"About Immigration, Padre?"
"The first thing I think we should do is locate your father. What was the name of that company in Oxnard?"
"I think it was Consolidated. But his bosses will not let him go."
Lebeon said, "I believe they will, Jose. I'll make a 160 phone call, and I think they will put him in a fast car wherever he is. You see, it is illegal to hire wetbacks."
"But do not cause him trouble, please, Padre."
"I won't cause him trouble."
The priest dialed for the long distance operator and Jose listened as he began talking English to someone. Jose became anxious as Lebeon's voice rose. The priest's hard fist slammed down on the desk and his face reddened. Then he banged the phone into the cradle and leaned back in his chair.
Suddenly, he began laughing. "Your father will be on his way to Oxnard in a few minutes. I shook them up good."
Jose laughed with relief.
"Now, what are your plans?" Lebeon asked.
Jose frowned. "I have not talked about it with my father, but I want to go home."
"Back to Cabo Colnett?"
"Yes. You've never been there?"
Lebeon shook his head.
"It is far below Ensenada. Like a great bear that is always sleeping. But it is really a very friendly cape."
Lebeon smiled. "And what will you do after you get there? You said you can't live in your house any longer."
"I've been thinking about it, and I must talk to my father, but I'd like for us to build a driftwood and tin house on the beach just below Enrique..." He stopped.
"Go on."
"I've decided we don't need many things that people have here. Electricity is not so important. Or a motorcycle."
"Hmh," said Lebeon, thoughtfully. "And who is Enrique?"
"He is our best friend. A squatter. He fishes and catches lobster."
Lebeon said appreciatively, "You know, that sounds like a very good plan. I
n fact, maybe you should save a space for me. Between the bishop and the parish, I may need it."
Jose laughed softly. This priest was not so terribly tough.
Lebeon looked over at Amos, who had been quiet throughout it all. He spoke in English. "Would you call Father Glanzman? Ask him if he'll say my masses the rest of this week? I'm going to take a trip. Oxnard, and then maybe on to Ensenada."
Brother Amos appeared puzzled but finally shrugged. "Is there anything you want me to say to Frank Olcott?"
"I'll get around to Frank when I return," Lebeon replied, relishing the thought. He rose from his desk.
Jose wondered what they planned to do with him. "May I go back to the store and wait for my father?"
"I'm taking you to him. Then if I can talk him into it, I'll take both of you on to Colnett. I need to get away from here for a few days, anyhow. Otherwise, I might kick some rear ends."
A worried look passed across Jose's face. "Will there be trouble at the border, because of what we are?"
"I doubt it. My truck has Mission San Ramon painted on the side. I'll wear what I have on now. Sometimes, it's a rather handy costume. On the American side, they'll probably just smile at us and wave us through. On the Mexican side, they might even bow. A Franciscan priest with two parishioners..."
To Jose, he sounded very sure of himself. "I must get Sanchez and my suitcase. Then I'd like to say good-bye to Señor Giron and to thank him."
"We'll do all that." Lebeon paused briefly by the door. "Oh, Amos, you might tell the parish that my next sermon, whenever that is, is likely to have something to do with greed."
Amos nodded soberly.
There were still some people outside the mission as Jose and Father Lebeon went past the church steps. They looked at the boy and the priest and talked in low tones. The carnival was over. He'd called the bishop.
Josefa ran up. "Padre, the miracle?"
Lebeon pushed back a strong temptation to rip into her on general principles. He looked at her confused face for a moment and then smiled. "There's never been one like it, Josefa."