When We Were Saints

  "Now how did you get in? They said you hadn't arrived yet," he said, looking Archie up and down.

  "They'd better step up their security around here," Clare said, giving the man a hug. Then she turned and introduced Archie, and the man offered him a sweaty hand to shake. Archie shook it, and when Mr. Endly wasn't looking, Archie wiped his hand on his robe. A minute later they all got on the elevator and Mr. Endly led them to the chapel.

  "Will you two be all right then?" Mr. Endly asked before he left them alone.

  Clare nodded, and both she and Archie thanked Mr. Endly and then he left. At last they were alone in the chapel, kneeling before the solemn Virgin at the altar Archie bowed his head and prayed for his grandmother. He prayed that she had been moved to the rehabilitation center and he prayed that she believed the note that he had left behind saying he was on a camping trip. He prayed for her happiness and asked for forgiveness for any way he may have hurt her since his grandfather's death. He knew his death had been hard on her although she'd never said anything about it. He had seen the sadness in her eyes. Even when she laughed with her friends it was there, and there was worry, too. Had she just been concerned about the pain in her leg?

  Archie lifted his head and stared at the Virgin. No, he knew what she had been worried about. Even before she broke her hip she had been worried about him. She was frightened she would die, too, and Archie would be all alone. She was frightened. Archie knew it. She was frightened still, and he had abandoned her What had he done? He had been scared, too. He knew he couldn't face another death, not yet, not hers. But it had been stupid to run off. He glanced over at Clare. Her face was lifted to the windows. Her eyes were closed and she was smiling. She looked so contented, and it reminded Archie that he didn't belong there. The Cloisters was Clare's home, not his. The memories and people were hers. He belonged in the country, not the city. He needed the mountains and the country roads and the South, where people didn't talk funny, the way they did in New York. Archie blinked up at the Virgin and made his final decision: With or without Clare, he was going home and he was leaving that very day. His grandmother needed him, and, he realized, he needed her.

  Chapter 31

  ARCHLE HEARD CLARE GASP. He turned his head and saw her staring wide-eyed with her mouth open. She raised her arms toward the Virgin, and her body went rigid. Her arms were held straight out, her fingers splayed and stiff but shaking as though electricity surged through her body. Archie stood up, frightened.

  "Clare? What is it? Clare?"

  He looked at the sculpture, but nothing had changed. He saw no tears. He felt Clare's shoulder and it felt like stone, hard and cold.

  He shook her and spoke again to her. "Clare? Are you all right? Say something."

  Clare gasped again and then again, as though she was trying to breathe but couldn't draw in enough breath. He got behind her and wondered if he should try to lift her up. He was afraid she was having a seizure. He looked back at the sculpture, and still he saw no change, yet Clare stared as though she was seeing something. Archie leaned over her "Clare, can you hear me? Are you okay? Clare?"

  He moved around in front of her blocking her view of the Virgin, hoping to break the spell. He took her outstretched hands in his. They were still stiff, and cold to the touch. He didn't know what to do. He rubbed her hands, trying to warm them, to wake them or her up. He looked at her face, still with its startled expression. He wondered if she was dying. Could someone die kneeling like that?

  Archie kept rubbing Clare's hands, wondering if he should call for help. Her hands began to feel warm, and he believed his rubbing was helping. He saw her blink once, then again. He kept rubbing, and Clare's hands got warmer and warmer Then he felt something wet, and he looked at his own hands and saw blood on them. He looked at Clare's hands, and she, too, had blood. He grabbed her hand and saw a wound in the center of it, where blood oozed and trickled down her palm. He looked at her other palm, and it, too, was bleeding.

  Tears ran down Clare's face. She pointed at the Virgin. "Do you see, Francis? Do you see the angels?"

  Archie looked at the sculpture. It was as it had always been. He turned to Clare. "No. No, I don't see anything. Clare, there is nothing there."

  Clare was not listening to him. Her face was beaming. Tears streamed down her cheeks. The sight before her eyes enraptured her. "O blessed Jesus!" she cried out, lifting her palms up toward the ceiling.

  Archie felt as if he were in the dramatic death scene of one of those Shakespearean tragedies his grandmother liked to watch on public television. He looked again at the sculpture, moving closer and examining its eyes and the altar space around her "Clare, there is nothing there." He grabbed her chin and forced her to look at him. "Clare, it's nothing. You've had a seizure or something. You're sick. You need help. Okay? Let's go now."

  Archie let go of Clare's chin and tried to get hold of her arms and lift her up, but she grabbed his robe and clung to him, using all her weight to hold him still. She cried, pressing her face into his stomach, and Archie leaned over her and rubbed her back, trying to calm her. He wondered where Mr. Endly was and how soon the museum would open. He needed help. Again he tried to lift Clare, and he succeeded in pulling her to her feet. More blood oozed from her hands, and when she stood up and faced him, she grabbed her chest; Archie saw that blood had seeped through the side of her robe, leaving a small wet spot.

  "What's happening? I don't understand," Archie said, wrapping his arm around her and feeling her warm, thin body fall against him. He led her toward the exit, taking one small step, then pausing before taking another. He wanted to grab her and run, but Clare felt so fragile limping along beside him. He looked down and saw blood coming from beneath the straps of her sandals. He stopped walking and turned to her "Your feet are bleeding. Everything is bleeding. I need to carry you. I'll take you to the truck. We should get to a hospital. Where's a hospital around here?"

  Clare lifted her face to Archie's. "Don't fret, dear Francis. Don't you see? Jesus has united me to him forever I share in his Passion. I bear his wounds." She showed Archie the palms of her hands, where several more trickles of blood ran from the centers.

  "How—how did you do that?" Archie took her by the wrist and led her toward the door She moved with him, walking faster than before. Clare spoke and her voice sounded stronger. "I have done nothing but meditate on Christ's Passion. It is Christ who has done this."

  Archie could hear voices in the hall beyond the room. The museum was open for business. He wanted to get out of there, and he didn't want to be seen. What should he do? He shut his eyes for a second and prayed for help. Then he felt Clare tugging on his sleeve. "We must go now, Brother Francis."

  Archie opened his eyes and followed Clare through the hall, surprised by her sudden energy. Archie saw a few people staring at them, but no one stopped them or asked what was wrong.

  Archie guided Clare down the steps toward the exit and the parking lot. Once they were outside, Archie took a deep breath, happy to be free of the Cloisters. He told Clare that he would go to get the truck if she wanted to sit down and wait for him. Clare surprised him by agreeing to the plan, and Archie took off at a gallop. He wasn't gone more than five minutes, but when he returned he saw that the awful man from the day before was with Clare. Archie pushed down on the accelerator and pulled up right beside them. He jumped out of the truck and told Clare to hurry up and climb in. He ran around to where the two stood, and he saw that the man had Clare's wrists in his grip.

  "Hey, back off!" Archie shouted.

  The man let go of her and raised his hands. Archie watched him back away, and he decided the man had eyes like the comic-strip cat Garfield, heavy-lidded and lazy-looking. He didn't like the guy at all.

  "That's the stigmata!" the man said to Archie, lowering one hand to point at Clare's hands.

  Archie glanced at Clare, and then back at the man who had started coming toward him. Archie grabbed Clare's hand and Clare said, "It's all right, Francis
."

  Archie knew he didn't want another episode like the one he had had with the two boys in the woods at the school. The man was far bigger than Archie, both in height and weight, so he tried to seem relaxed and friendly. "Look," Archie said, "we'll have to talk another time. We've got some business to take care of. So if you'll excuse us..."

  The man blocked the passenger's side of the truck. "She needs help," he said, glaring at Archie.

  Archie gritted his teeth. "I'm taking care of it, so would you mind getting out of the way?"

  The man turned around and opened the door of the truck. Archie thought the guy was going to get in, and he prepared to reach out and grab him, but the man just held the door open for Clare and bowed.

  Clare thanked him and climbed up into the seat. Then the man turned back to Archie and said, "Go to Irving's. She needs help."

  Archie was startled. How did he know Irving? When did Clare tell this nutcase about the old man? He felt confused. He didn't know what was going on.

  He closed the door on Clare's side of the truck, then moved around to the other door still glaring at the man, and said, "I'm handling things, so just leave us alone." He climbed into the truck and pulled away looking back at the man in the rearview mirror The man stood with his hands on his hips, shaking his head the way Archie's grandmother used to do whenever she found that he had gotten himself into more trouble than he could handle.

  Chapter 32

  WHEN ARCHIE HAD TURNED out of the Cloisters parking lot, he said to Clare, "We need to find a hospital. You're not well. We need help."

  He saw panic flash in Clare's eyes when he said the word hospital, but then she smiled at Archie, her face beaming, and said, "I'm fine. I don't need a hospital. God is all I need."

  "I don't know what to do," Archie said. "I don't know where to drive. Clare, I'm scared. I think we should get you help and then go home. I need to go home. We haven't eaten in so long. You haven't eaten. Maybe if you ate. Maybe that's what you need. No sleep and no food—that's why you were hallucinating back there."

  Archie had driven in a circle and was coming up on the Cloisters again.

  Clare lifted a palm to Archie. The wound was still there, but he saw no fresh blood. "Is your faith so small, dear Francis, even now?"

  Archie felt the pressure in his stomach. He wanted to cry. He was too young to deal with the situation. Was his faith "so small"? Yes! he wanted to shout. I'm not you. I'm not Francis. But he kept silent, clenching his jaws. He turned onto Fort Washington Avenue and headed toward Irving's house. "I'm taking us to Irving's," he said. "He'll know what to do."

  Clare didn't say anything. She closed her eyes and hummed. A pained expression crossed her face, just for an instant, and Archie saw her jerk her hand up toward her chest. Then she stopped and let it fall back in her lap, and her expression was blissful again.

  Archie had a hard time finding a place to park when they arrived in Irving's neighborhood. At last he found a space seven blocks away. "I hate the city," he said, trying to fit into the tight parking space and getting no help from Clare. When he had maneuvered the truck well enough to keep it from getting hit by passing cars, he turned off the ignition and let out his breath. He rested his head a moment on the steering wheel and said, more to himself than to Clare, "When I get home I'm never driving again." Then he lifted his head, and turning to Clare he said, "Come on; we're here. Let's see if Irving can help us."

  "Francis, you go. I'm very tired. I'll stay here and wait."

  "But you're the one who needs help. You need food and a shower and sleep. Clare, you need to get yourself cleaned up."

  Clare shook her head. "I'll never wash the blood of Jesus from my body. You go on. And find out how to get to the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. We're supposed to go there."

  "We are?"

  "Jesus has told me that we must go."

  "But you need..."

  Clare closed her eyes and hummed.

  Archie sighed. "Okay then. I won't be long."

  Clare nodded. Her face glowed; her expression was still one of rapture, but Archie could see that her face was too pale. He knew she needed food and water. She had gone too long without both. He was afraid she might die if he didn't get her to eat. She had felt so thin when he had put his arms around her earlier and helped her out of the chapel. He had felt her ribs through the two layers of clothing she wore.

  Archie took one last look at Clare and repeated, "I won't be long." Then he ran down the sidewalk toward Irving's house. He arrived at the apartment out of breath, and he leaned against the wall of the building a minute to rest before pressing the buzzer. He had felt so weak running, he couldn't imagine how Clare was even sitting up. He had eaten much more than she had over the past few days. She hadn't eaten enough to make up even a single meal. He hoped he could get her to eat something; otherwise, he decided, he would take her to a hospital. He didn't want her dying on him.

  Irving answered the buzzer and Archie told him who he was. Irving sounded happy to hear from him, and when Archie arrived at his apartment door the old man was waiting. He smiled at Archie, taking in his robe but saying nothing, and then looked beyond him for Clare. Not finding her he drew his brows together and said, "Where is Clare? What's happened?"

  "Can I come in?" Archie asked, stepping inside.

  Irving backed up. "Yes, yes, certainly, come in." He closed the door behind Archie and led the way to the living room. "Is everything all right? Where is Clare?"

  Archie sat down on the sofa, and Irving sat across from him. "Clare is waiting in the truck. I parked it about seven blocks from here. She won't come in. She's praying. We—we went to the Cloisters early this morning, and we went to pray in the chapel with the Virgin—there's this Virgin Mary with Jesus, only Jesus' head is missing, and we were praying and then Clare said she saw angels, but there weren't any and then she started bleeding."

  "Oy," Irving said, moving forward in his seat and frowning. "Where did this blood come from?"

  Archie shrugged. "I don't know. From her. I mean, I didn't see her get cut, but she's bleeding from both of her hands and somewhere, like her ribs, and her feet—both her feet were bleeding. This guy—this guy we met called it something like—like stigma."

  "The stigmata?"

  "Yeah. I mean, that's the same word this guy used. This guy saw us and he said that word—stigmata. What is that?"

  Irving shook his head. "I don't know too much about it, but I do know it's nothing dangerous, just very rare. She's not gushing blood, is she?"

  "No, just some oozing, like a few trickles. I can't tell about the wound in her ribs. I guess it's not too bad."

  "They're the wounds of Christ, right? You've got the hands and feet and the ribs. Holy people get the stigmata."

  "You mean, like saints?"

  "I believe so." Irving stood up and shuffled over to a bookshelf. He ran his finger along a row of encyclopedias and pulled one out.

  Archie, feeling calmed by the slow, gentle way the man moved and spoke, joined him and waited while Irving flipped through the pages.

  "Here we go," Irving said, pressing his index finger on a page and reading the paragraph. Archie leaned forward and read over his shoulder.

  "Says here ecstatics bear the marks of the Passion of Christ," Irving said, running his index finger beneath the words as he read. "That's Clare, an ecstatic."

  "What's that?" Archie asked.

  Irving twisted toward Archie. "You know, has fits of ecstasy."

  Archie nodded, recalling his own feelings of ecstasy. It seemed like a lifetime ago.

  "Says the stigmatic feels the suffering of Christ and suffers with him for the sins of the world."

  "But what do we do about it?" Archie asked, leaning closer to the book.

  "Nothing. Nothing to be done. Look here." Irving pointed to a paragraph. Archie leaned even closer so that their heads were touching, and followed Irving's finger as it ran along the page. "Says physicians cannot heal the woun
ds. But it's not blood. See, they don't think it's blood but an oozing from the pores. Don't seem to know what it is, do they?" Irving looked up at Archie, and Archie pulled his head back.

  "No, but look at this," Archie said, pointing to another paragraph. " 'The divine malady of the stigmata ends only in death.' What do they mean? Will she die?"

  "I think it means it never leaves her—the stigmata. She'll have it always, until she dies."

  Archie nodded, feeling only slightly better and returned to the book. It cited examples of stigmatics, Saint Francis of Assisi and Saint Catherine of Siena and others. It told of one girl, Louise Lateau of Belgium, who lived in the nineteenth century and who ate no food for twelve years, except her weekly communion at church, and who drank only four glasses of water a week. She never slept but kneeled at the foot of her bed and prayed.

  Archie read about the girl and pointed the paragraph out to Irving. "Here, this is Clare. This is just like her. She's like this Louise Lateau."

  Irving read the paragraph, then raised his head. "It doesn't seem possible," he said.

  "But that's just how she is."

  Irving eyed Archie. "And you? What about you?"

  Archie took a step back. "Me? No, I'm not like this. I don't know what I am. I just want—I don't know what I want."

  Irving nodded and closed the book. He set it back on the shelf and turned to Archie. "So, you must pull the truck up to my door and drop Clare off. Then you can park it again. We need to take care of her."

  "She won't come. She says we have to go to that Cathedral of Saint John the Divine. She says Jesus told her Maybe afterward I could get her to come here. Really, I just want to go back home." Archie said the word home and felt his throat constrict. He could tell he was about to cry. "I'm hungry and tired, and I don't belong here the way Clare does."

  Irving nodded and ran his hand through the white wisps of hair on his head. "What do we do?" he asked, speaking more to himself than to Archie. He looked at Archie. "You must get her to come here; that's all there is to it."