The Maldonado Miracle (10 page)

"There is always blood on His body. It is on His hands and His feet and where the thorns..."

"There is new blood, Manolo," Josefa said. "Blood He sent. A sign for us all."

Manuel shook his head. "Josefa, you've missed your bus." He went to work at his own job in the dairy co-op at noon each day.

But Josefa had already gone. Through the windows he glimpsed her ponderously trotting over to their neighbors, the Panaderos.

S
EVERAL HOURS LATER,
Father Lebeon and Brothers Amos, Luke, Timothy, Noel, Anthony, Carlos, and Kevin were in the choir loft, studying absolutely nothing. They had been there for thirty minutes.

Lebeon had brought a flashlight up and had ordered Gonzalvo, a hulking, silent Chicano, who had been on the mission staff for eighteen years, to rig a stand-light for illumination directly above the statue. So far, there was no indication of any fluids up there; no evidence that anyone had been in the loft during the night. They'd found some dog hairs, but Gonzalvo's hound roamed all over the mission. He'd even been caught sleeping in the pews.

Lebeon and the brothers were mystified, and although they did not commit themselves beyond stating the belief that a "miracle" was always possible, they had examined the area with growing uneasiness. Even if Josefa hadn't found the stain and spread the word, the incident would have been puzzling and unnerving.

Sharply questioned by Father Lebeon, Gonzalvo had sworn that he hadn't been in the loft since Friday and even then had taken no liquids of any kind up the steps. He'd simply swept it out and dusted the organ and the chairs. Yes, Mojo had been up there with him but was that a crime? He resented their accusing looks.

One by one, shaking their heads or shrugging, all the brothers except Amos, who was by far the oldest, left to go about their chores. In their excitement, they'd hurried the morning devotions, and Father Lebeon had transferred the early masses to the chapel, which he now realized was a mistake. It only helped the rumor sweep across the valley.

Lines of worry crisscrossing his face, he asked Brother Amos, "What do you think?"

Amos dug his sandaled toe around the timber of the loft and replied, "It isn't up to us to think, Father. If it is a miracle, we accept it gratefully."

Lebeon stared with annoyance at the round, soft monk's face. Senile old goat, he thought, and then regretted it. Amos had his
capuche
down, and the sparse white hair on his pink head stood straight up.

Lebeon said, "That is undoubtedly the most unsatisfactory answer I've ever heard from anyone on any topic. I didn't ask your acceptance, Amos. I asked your opinion."

"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.

F
EELING 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.

 

I
T 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."

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.

 

T
HERE 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.

I
N 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.