The Maldonado Miracle

"There being no visible sign of a reason up here, my opinion is that..."

  "Careful," Lebeon warned.

  But careful was Amos's middle name. "...is that it could be a miracle."

  "That's the second most unsatisfactory answer I've ever heard," Father Lebeon said. "I'm surprised at you."

  Brother Amos smiled. "I'm surprised at myself," he said softly. "But I'm not a father, or a bishop or a cardinal. And I'm not the Pope, you may be assured. Where miracles are concerned, I'd just as soon keep my opinion to myself. But you forced me."

  Lebeon couldn't help laughing. "Now, that's an answer."

  They snapped off the stand-light and went below to look at the statue again. After a moment of silence, Father Lebeon said, "I can't tell you why, but I don't think this is a miracle, I think it has some logical explanation. Wood simply does not bleed. It has sap, but it doesn't bleed."

  "Unless?"

  Lebeon threw up his hands. He simply didn't believe in miracles, although he'd never admitted it.

  Amos said, "Well, you can do that, but do you know anybody with enough courage to spill anything on this statue?"

  "Lebeon sighed. "No, I don't."

  They looked at the statue a moment longer, and Lebeon shook his head. "I'd like to know what logical explanation I can make to the newspaper reporters who are bound to come and to the bishop and parish. I haven't the faintest idea what to say."

  "Why don't you just say you don't know?" Brother Amos replied.

  The priest glanced at him skeptically.

  They left the church, Amos exiting through the inner door to the sacristy at the rear. Father Lebeon took a bracing breath and went out the main door.

  Several hundred feet away, near the parking area, he saw Josefa Espinosa fanning herself. She had already changed into her best dress and sat, queenlike, in a gaudy overstuffed chair. Lebeon faintly remembered having seen that chair in Solari's furniture store.

  Manuel stood beside her, scrubbed up in the only complete suit he owned. He looked bewildered.

  Around the steps were no less than fifty parishioners, many of whom had come to early mass and stayed on. They were all talking at once. Father Lebeon held up his hand for quiet.

  "Yes, something has occurred in our church, but it is too early to call it a miracle. This morning Senora Josefa Espinosa discovered a stain on the statue of Christ."

  One mass attendant spoke up. "But they said it was blood, not a stain."

  Lebeon corrected her carefully. "It is the same color, Mrs. Sheehy."

  An elderly man standing at the top of the steps added, "Gonzalvo said it was on His shoulder and chest..."

  Mrs. Sheehy pressed anxiously, "Is it a miracle?"

  Father Lebeon skipped over her question to answer the elderly man. "Gonzalvo is right. Whatever it is, it is on His shoulder and chest."

  "Is it a miracle?" Mrs. Sheehy demanded.

  Father Lebeon looked at her with exasperation.

  "I don't know. We will have experts study it. We'll test the stain, and the bishop will undoubtedly assign a commission within a few days to investigate."

  A teenager, books in hand, asked, "But wouldn't that be sacrilegious, Father? In case the wood did bleed? To doubt it, Father?"

  He gave her a perplexed look. "No, it would not be sacrilegious to make such a test. Now, run on to school or Mother Regina will skin you."

  Then he addressed them all. "This is your church. I think you should see for yourselves, and make your individual decisions. Please come inside."

  He stood away from the door as they mounted the steps, some of them looking as if they were about to journey over the horizon. He was afraid of veneration—the worship of the miracle itself. Once, in France, he'd seen a procession begin with breathtaking speed at the mere mention of a miracle. Nowadays, people were grasping at anything. And San Ramon was in a mood to dig for the rainbow's end.

  As the last parishioner entered, and Father Lebeon was going down the steps, Frank Olcott labored up. "Mornin', Padre."

  Lebeon, occupied with thoughts of the press and their questions, glanced up absentmindedly. "Oh, good morning, Frank."

  "Hear we've got a little excitement. Maisie Keeper called me at home."

  "That we have. But don't ask me how or why. All we found up there was some dog hair."

  "If it's okay, I'll go in and look"

  Lebeon said, "Your church as well as mine, Frank" Then he went on to his small, book-jammed office.

  6

  FEELING THE KNIFE-EDGED probing in his back as he climbed the final step (stairs always seemed to grind at his backbone), Olcott went in to look at the stain, staying at the rear of the crowd that was already pressing close to the statue. Gonzalvo had roped it off so that it wouldn't be within arm's length. There were subdued ohs and ahs, and Olcott heard the murmur of prayer.

  He looked first at the stains and then up at the choir loft, studying the six-inch space between the mission wall and the first floorboard. Like Father Lebeon, Olcott had never quite believed in miracles.

  Dog hair, he thought. It didn't make sense.

  As he was leaving the church he heard a man whispering, "People will be comin' for miles around to see this."

  He eased himself down the steps and limped the two blocks back to his station, a vague notion bothering him. He unlocked the door and went over to the counter, plugging in the coffee pot.

  A car pulled up to the gas pump area, and he went outside. He was so preoccupied that he overfilled the tank and apologized profusely as he wiped off the bumper.

  The car drove out, and Olcott stood by the pumps, gazing off toward the piles of crating in the empty lot. Maybe, just maybe, he thought.

  He limped over and stood by them, finally kicking the board that had snared the Mex kid. That dog had been a monster, he remembered, and the kid had run off into the Real, sure scared of something. Maybe he'd gone into the mission.

  Olcott looked up there. It was as good a guess as any. Some miracle.

  As he started back toward the mission, he thought again about the man saying, "People will be comin' for miles around."

  Frowning slightly, he stopped. He was positive he'd never seen that kid before, and like as not, he was a runaway He might be as far north as Salinas by now. Anyway, the boy spoke no English and wasn't likely to butt in

  Finally, Olcott made up his mind. He was grinning as he went on back to the station.

  IT WAS ABOUT eleven when Jose located the cucumber fields a kilometer south of the Haines tomato acreage. He stood on the road for a few minutes, making certain that neither Eddie nor Klosterman was around. He could see Rafael Giron stooping over the mounds of vines, along with about twelve other pickers. They were filling hampers. He walked on into the field and called to Giron.

  "Jose, I was worried about you. They told me what happened, and I drove Cubria's car all over town looking for you."

  "I'm sorry Sanchez caused trouble. Is that man all right?"

  "Who cares?" said Giron. "I heard about him."

  Several of the pickers were looking at them but soon bent to work again. The field foreman didn't seem to be around.

  "Where's the dog?"

  "In San Ramon. I found a place to hide. In that old store across from the mission."

  "You're better off. I talked to Eddie this morning. Your father can find another place to work, but I'll try to collect your money."

  Jose nodded. He didn't want to go back to Haines Main, anyway.

  Giron stepped closer. "Is something wrong? You look pale."

  "Yes, señor, I fell last night and hurt my shoulder."

  "How did you do that?"

  "A car came by, and I slipped and fell backwards. A long splinter drove into it."

  "Ouch," said Giron. "Let me see."

  Jose unbuttoned his shirt, and peeled it away at the top. "It aches," he said.

  "I guess it does. It's swollen, too. Come over to the truck. There's a first aid kit in it, I think."
br />   They went over to the flat-bed cab, and Giron found the kit. "You should go to a hospital. A puncture wound can be dangerous."

  "No hospital," said Jose. "Please."

  "Why not?" Giron pulled out a small bottle of alcohol.

  "People go there to die."

  Giron laughed. "Not always, Jose. But I'll get you to a doctor. You should have a shot."

  Jose made an effort to remain still as Giron cleaned both sides of the wound with cotton dipped in alcohol. "I don't know what else to put on it," he said. He found some Band-Aids and stripped the paper from them, placing them back and front. Spilling some aspirin into his hand, he said, "Take two of these now and two more in four hours." He chuckled. "I sound like a doctor."

  Jose felt better just being able to talk to Giron. "I'll be all right," he said.

  "I'm sure you will. But go back there and lie down. I'll borrow Cubria's car again tonight, and we'll find a doctor. Okay?"

  "Okay. But I wish my father would come."

  "So do I," said Giron. I'll tell the office to let me know when he arrives."

  "Señor Eddie?"

  "Who else?"

  "Then he'll find me and shoot Sanchez."

  Giron shook his head. "No, he won't. I'll make certain he doesn't. Now, go on back to town and stay in that store. Keep off your feet."

  Jose went back out to the road, staying well off to one side in case Eddie happened along. He skirted the freeway for the last kilometer.

  THERE WAS A CROWD outside the mission, and he saw the old woman who had been in the church that morning sitting on a large chair near the parking lot. A small group of people were around her. He could not read the red-lettered sign by her chair, which said: "Courtesy—Solari's Furniture Store."

  Jose finally worked up the courage to go to the edge of the crowd and tap a spectator on the shoulder. In his straw hat and jeans, he looked like a field worker. "What happened?" he asked.

  "She saw a miracle."

  Jose frowned. "What kind of miracle?"

  "The statue of Christ bled."

  She had cried out, "Milagro," Jose remembered. He'd heard about miracles before but very little. A famous one had happened in Mexico, his mother had told him. "That's lucky," he said.

  The picker shrugged and laughed.

  Jose decided he would come back and see it when he felt better. He was a little dizzy from the long walk, and he was hungry again. He went on to Esteban Coles, bought some crackers, sandwich meat, a can of dog food for Sanchez, and some milk.

  Sanchez greeted him wildly, hopping up and down, tail thrashing. Jose opened the can of dog food with the horn-handled knife, fed Sanchez, and then ate the crackers and sandwich meat.

  Before going to sleep on the matting, he went out to the front of the store and peered through the grime. The old lady was still there, and the crowd seemed to be growing larger. A taco vendor had rolled his pushcart up near her chair and was doing a good business.

  He had not thought a miracle would be quite like this.

  7

  IN THE EARLY EVENING, Father Lebeon entered the nave and spent almost an hour staring at the statue, wondering if he should close the mission to all visitors until he'd received definite instructions. That, at least, might dampen the enthusiasm in San Ramon. His head had been throbbing dully since after lunch. Finally, he turned, feeling the presence of someone in the nave.

  It was a middle-aged man dressed in a loud sports coat with a tie that appeared to have come out of a paint pot. He had a sketch pad.

  After a moment Lebeon rose, asking politely, "May I help you?"

  "Don't believe so," the visitor replied, busily sketching.

  Father Lebeon glanced over the man's shoulder at the pad. The likeness of Christ was there, rendered with fair accuracy. But it was the marginal notes that upset the priest.

  One said, "Blood on the signpost, I.N.R.I., whatever that means." Another said, "Splotch shaped like a pear on the shoulder; drip marks on chest."

  "May I ask what you're doing?"

  "Just getting it right, Reverend," the man replied.

  "For what purpose?"

  The man turned. "Miniatures, of course." He passed a card to Lebeon. "We can make 'em up in plastic for a dime, sell 'em here for fifty cents. Stock every store in town."

  The card said: Bay Novelty Company, Burlingame. Lebeon reached across and crumpled the sketch pad.

  "Please leave," he said, tiredness in his voice rather than anger.

  "Hey, what's wrong with you?"

  "Leave," Lebeon repeated.

  The man got belligerent. "This is a church, ain't it? Public place? I'm in a legal, commercial business, Reverend. So what's your problem? You want a cut?"

  Lebeon said quietly, "I'll put it in your language. Get out before I break you apart. Is that clear enough?"

  The man held up a protesting hand. "Now, wait a minute."

  Lebeon took him by the arm, propelling him out of the church door and down the steps. The move was none too gentle.

  The man yelled back, "Trouble with you, you don't know how to sell religion."

  After waiting long enough to make certain the novelty company artist had driven away, Lebeon routed Gonzalvo out to order that the mission church be locked for the first time since 1794. Then he went to his office to place a call to the bishop of the Monterey-Fresno diocese, of which Mission San Ramon was a part. He knew the bishop would be aggravated, possibly even angry. High church politics was involved in events such as "miracles."

  LOCATED IN THE SMALL barrio, the Spanish-speaking neighborhood of Paso Robles, a town of about seven thousand people south of San Ramon, the two-story house was old but neat; white clapboard with frilly woodwork around the porch posts. Dr. Ramon Castillo's name was beside the door. He was a general practitioner, it said in both Spanish and English. Giron knocked, and in a moment, the porch light came on.

  Dr. Castillo was young, Jose saw. Not more than thirty. He had a thick, black brush of mustache and was wearing felt bedroom slippers and a thin sweater. "What is it?" he asked in Spanish after a glance at his visitors.

  "This boy needs treatment," Giron said.

  "What's wrong?"

  "My shoulder," Jose answered, a bit nervously.

  Castillo opened the screen door and said with mild sarcasm, "Come in. I really don't have office hours. I'm just here all the time."

  They followed him down the hall. What could be seen of the living room was furnished with simplicity. A young woman was in there, reading. Perhaps his wife.

  The doctor turned into a door marked "oficina," and they followed. He sat at his desk, pulling a pad in front of him. "Name and address."

  Giron hesitated, then said, "He is not legal, doctor."

  Castillo looked up. "Why did you come to me?"

  "You were recommended."

  Castillo said angrily, "I am sick of treating people after fights. Last week a knife wound in the abdomen, an americano picker. Who is doing all this recommending?"

  Giron said, "The boy was not in a fight. He got a splinter in this shoulder. But he's a wetback."

  Castillo shoved the pad away, cooling down, "Oh, my, the chances I take," he said. "Come on."

  They went into the treatment room, and Castillo began washing his hands. "Take your shirt off. How did it happen?"

  "I fell on a board."

  Castillo laughed. "You're about the right age to do anything. Go sit on the stool."

  The doctor pulled a light into position and felt around the shoulder. "You can't do much for a puncture but let it heal and hope nothing got inside it. I'll clean it and give you a tetanus and an antibiotic."

  They were out of Castillo's office within a half hour. Both of Jose's arms were stinging from the shots. After stopping at a hamburger stand to eat, they headed back to San Ramon in Cubrías rattling Dodge.

  Midway, Jose remembered the miracle. Earlier in the evening, he'd been so worried about seeing the doctor that he'd forgotten it. "D
id you hear what happened at the mission?"

  Giron nodded. "It was all over the field this afternoon. But I don't believe in miracles, Jose. And I don't believe in this one, especially."

  Jose was disappointed. "Why not?"

  "I read the paper this afternoon. There's something strange about it. That old woman sounds crazy. The priest isn't saying much, and there was dog hair up in that loft...."

  "I heard her, señor, when she found it."

  Giron looked over. "You what?"

  "I was up there."

  The Dodge slowed as Giron looked over at him, mouth slightly open. "You were there?"

  "Yes, señor."

  Giron pulled the car over and stopped, letting the engine idle. "Jose, was Sanchez with you?"

  "Yes."

  "And this was after you hurt your shoulder? While it was still bleeding?"

  Jose nodded. "Yes."

  "Oh, man. Man, oh, man. Don't you know?"

  "No, señor."

  "Put it together. That's your blood on the statue."

  LATER, IN THE STORE, the tears came. He had been holding them in since Oxnard.

  8

  JOSEFA AND MANUEL Espinosa marched toward Mission San Ramon, Josefa straight-backed and proud; Manuel, head down, plodding sleepily beside her in the growing dawn. While it was still dark Josefa had arisen and said her beads, then had violently shaken Manuel awake.

  On reaching the front of the mission, they found Gonzalvo posted at the closed doors, a blanket draped over his shoulders against the chill. Josefa climbed the steps, half expecting Gonzalvo to bow and usher her in. But he was exhausted from all the sudden activity and only said, "Mass in the chapel! Mass in the chapel!"

  "What do you mean?" Josefa asked.

  Gonzalvo stared at her bleakly. She had caused all this. "Father has locked the church."

  "Locked the church? How can people see Him if Father has locked the church?"

  Gonzalvo said with finality, and some pleasure, "Father doesn't want anyone to see Him."

  Josefa looked at the door with alarm and then glanced back at Manuel. She bounced down the steps and punched him into awareness. He fell in beside her.