Virgin (30 page)

She trimmed
away the last vagrant strands of hair, then sealed them in the Ziploc bag.

"There,"
she said, stepping back and smiling. "You look better already."

She glanced
down at the Virgin's long, curved fingernails. They were going to need a lot of
work, more work than she had time for now.

"I've got
to go now," she said. "Got to do my part for the least of His
children, but I'll be back. I'll be back every day.
And every day you'll see a new and better me. I'm going to
be worthy of you, Mother. That is a promise--one I'll keep."

She just had to
find the right way to tell Dan that the old Carrie was gone and he couldn't
have the new one. He was a good man. The best. She knew he'd understand and
accept the new her . . . eventually. But she had to find a way to tell him
without hurting him.

She placed the
bag of clippings under the table that constituted the Virgin's bier, then
kissed her wimple and blew out the candles. She snapped the combination lock
closed and hurried upstairs to help with lunch.

Carrie was
adding a double handful of sliced carrots to the last pot of soup when she
heard someone calling her name from the Big Room. She walked to the front to
see what it was.

Augusta, a
stooped, reed-thin, wrinkled volunteer who worked the serving line three days a
week, stood at the rear end of the counter with Pilgrim.

"He says
he's got a complaint," Augusta said, looking annoyed and defensive.

The guests
often complained about Augusta, saying she was stingy with the portions she
doled out. Which was true. She treated the soup and bread as if it were her
own. Carrie and Dan had been over this with her again and again: The idea here
was to serve everything they made, then make more for the next meal. But they
couldn't very well tell her she wasn't welcome behind the counter anymore--they
needed every helping hand they could find.

Carrie glanced
around for Dan, hoping he could field this, but he was standing by the front
door, deep in conversation with Dr. Joe.

"Preacher
don't want me to say nothin', Sister," Pilgrim said, "but he found
this in his mouth while he was eating his soup and I think you would know about
it."

He held out his
hand and in the center of his dirty palm lay a three-inch hair.

"I'm
Preacher's eyes, you know."

"I know
that," Carrie said.

Everybody knew
that. Mainly because Pilgrim told anyone who would listen whenever he had a
chance. Preacher was blind and Pilgrim was his devoted disciple, leading him
from park to stoop to street corner, wherever he could find a small gathering
that might listen to his message of imminent Armageddon.

"I'm
usually pretty good but this one slipped by me. I kinda feel like I let him
down."

"Oh, I'm
sure Preach doesn't feel that way," Carrie said, plucking the hair from
his palm. "But I do apologize for this, and tell him I'll do my best to
see that it doesn't happen again."

"Oh,
no!" Pilgrim said, agitatedly waving his hands in front of her. "You
got me wrong. It ain't your fault." He pointed a finger at Augusta.
"It's hers. Look at that gray hair straggling all over the place, and
that's a gray hair Preacher found. She's supposed to be wearing a net. I know
'cause I useta work in a diner and we all hadda wear hairnets."

"He has no
right to say that, Sister," Augusta snapped.

Just then the
basement phone began ringing in the far corner of the kitchen. Hilda Larsen
went to get it.

"It's for
you, Sister," Hilda called from inside. "Your brother."

Uh-oh, Carrie
thought as she hurried back into the kitchen and took the receiver. Brad never
called her at Loaves and Fishes. This could only mean that his American Express
bill had arrived.

"Hi,
Brad," she said. "I can explain all those charges."
Well,
most of them, anyway.

"What
charges?"

"On the
card. You see--"

"I didn't
get the bill yet, Car. And whatever it is, don't give it a second
thought."

"I went a
bit overboard, Brad."

"Carrie,
I've got more money than I know what to do with and no one to spend it on. So
let's not mention AmEx charges again. That's not why I called. It's about
Dad."

Carrie felt all
the residual warmth from her hours with the
Virgin
this morning empty out of her like water down a drain.

"What
about him?" she said coldly, asking only because it was expected of her.
She didn't care a thing about that man. Couldn't. The mere mention of him froze
all her emotions into suspended animation.

"He passed
out. They had to move him to the hospital. They say it's his heart acting up
again."

Carrie said
nothing as Brad paused, waiting for her reaction. When the wait stretched to an
uncomfortable length, he cleared his throat.

"He's
asking for you."

"He's
always asking for me."

"Yeah, but
this time--"

"This time
will be just like the last time. He'll get you all worked up thinking he's
going to die, get you and me going at each other, then he'll come out of it and
go back to the nursing home."

"He's
changed, Carrie."

"He'll
always be Walter Ferris. He can't change that."

"You
know," Brad said, "I wish you'd take one tiny bit of the care and
compassion you heap upon those nobodies down there and transfer it to your own
father. Just once."

"These
nobodies never did to me what that man did to me. It's because of him that I'm
down here with these nobodies. We can both thank him for where we are."

"I've
managed to do okay."

"Have
you?"

Now it was
Brad's turn for silence.

Carrie wanted
to ask him why he hadn't been able to sustain a relationship. It seemed every
time he got close to a woman he backed off. Why? What was he afraid of? That he
was like his father? That a little bit of that man hid within him? And that if
he had children of his own he might do what his father did?

But she
couldn't say that to Brad. All she could say was, "I love you,
brother."

And she meant
it.

"I love
you too, Carrie."

Suddenly she
heard voices rising in the Big Room.

"I've got
to go. Call me soon."

"Will
do."

As Carrie
turned away from the phone, she saw Augusta coming toward her.

"Honestly,
Sister. That wasn't my hair. Mine's long and thick. That one Pilgrim gave you
is short and fine."

"It's
okay, Augusta," she said, brushing past the old woman. "What's going
on in the Big Room?"

"Probably
another fight," Augusta said. "You know how they are."

But it wasn't a
fight. The regulars--Rider, Dandy, Lefty, Dirty Harry, Poppy, Bigfoot, Indian,
Stoney, One-Thumb George--and a few of the newer ones were clustered around one
of the long tables. She saw Dan standing on the far side of the circle as Dr.
Joe bent over Preacher, who sat ramrod straight, holding his hands before his
face.

"A
miracle!" Pilgrim was screeching, dancing and gyrating among the tables of
the Big Room.
"I always knew Preacher had the power, and now it's
come! It's a miracle! A fucking miracle!"

Carrie pushed
closer. Preacher was staring at his hands, muttering. "I can see! Praise
God, I can see!"

She stepped
back and stared at the short strand of gray hair in her hand. It hadn't come
from Augusta. She recognized it now. It was the same length and color as the
stray strands Carrie had been trimming from the Virgin a short while ago. It
must have stuck to her sleeve downstairs and fallen into the soup as she was
adding the ingredients.

A miracle . . .

She wanted to
laugh, she wanted to cry, she wanted to grab Pilgrim's hands and join him in a
whirling dervish.

Oh, Pilgrim,
she thought as she hurried back through the kitchen and down to the subcellar.
If only you knew how right you are!

Yes, it was a miracle. And Carrie had a feeling it would not be
the last.

"Preacher
can really see again," Dan said for the third or fourth time. Evening had
come and they were cleaning up the Big Room after dinner. "Not well, mind
you. He can recognize his hand in front of his face and not much more, but at
least that's something. He's been totally blind for forty years."

Carrie had
decided to hold off telling Dan about the piece of the Virgin's hair in the
soup. He'd only go into his Doubting Thomas routine. She'd wait till she had
more proof. But she couldn't resist priming him for the final revelation.

She glanced
around to make sure they were out of earshot of the volunteers in the kitchen.

"Do you
think it's a miracle?" she said softly.

Dan didn't look
up as he wiped one of the long tables. "You know what I think about
miracles."

"How do
you explain it then?"

"Jose says
it might have been hysterical blindness all along, and now he's coming out of
it. He's scheduled him for a full eye exam tomorrow."

"Well, far
be it from me to disagree with Dr. Joe."

Dan stopped in
mid-wipe and stared at her. "Aw, Carrie. Don't tell me you think--"

"Yes!"
She said in a fierce whisper. "I think a certain someone has announced her
presence."

"Come on,
Carrie--"

"You and
Jose believe in your hysterical blindness, if you wish. All I know is that
Preacher began to see again within hours of a certain someone's arrival."

Dan opened his
mouth, then closed it, paused, then shook his head. "Coincidence,
Carrie."

But he didn't sound terribly convincing.

Carrie couldn't
repress a smile. "We'll see."

"We'll see
what?"

"How many
'coincidences' it takes to convince you."

FRUITLESS VIGIL IN TOMPKINS SQUARE

Approximately
1,000 people gathered last night for a candlelight prayer vigil in

Tompkins Square
Park. Surrounded by knots of curious homeless, many of whom call the park

home, the
predominantly female crowd prayed to the Virgin Mary in the hope that she would

manifest
herself in the. park.

Sightings
of a lone woman, described as "glowing faintly," and identified as
the Blessed

Virgin, have
been reported with steadily increasing frequency all over the Lower East Side

during the past
few weeks.

Despite
many recitations of the Rosary, no manifestation occurred. Many members of

the crowd
remained undaunted, however, vowing to return next Sunday evening.

The New York Post

17

Manhattan

"Something
bothering you, Jose?"

Dan and Dr. Joe
ambled crosstown after splitting a sausage-and-pepper pizza and a pitcher of
beer at Nino's on St. Mark's and Avenue A. Jose had been unusually quiet
tonight.

"Bothering
me? I don't know. Nothing bad or anything like that, just. . . I don't
know."

"That's
the first time you've put that many words together in a row all night, and six
of them were 'I don't know.' What gives?"

Jose said,
"I don't know," then laughed. "I . . . aw, hell, I guess I can
tell you: I think two of my AIDS patients have been cured."

Dan felt an
anticipatory tightening in his chest and he wasn't sure why.

"You're
sure?"

"It's not
just my diagnosis. They were both anemic, both had Kaposi's when I'd seen them
in July. They came in last week and their skin had cleared and their
hematocrits were normal. I had them admitted to Beekman for a full work up. The
results came back today."