Virgin (36 page)

He had wandered
the Lower East Side all day, tracing a spiral path from the Con-Ed station by
the FDR, following a feeling, an invisible glow that seemed to be centered in
the front of his brain, pulling him. Where or why it was drawing him, he could
not say, but he gave himself over to the feeling, allowed it to lead him in
shrinking concentric circles to this spot.

And now he was
here. The invisible glow, the intangible warmth, the only warm spot in the city
lay directly before him, somewhere within this church.

In the course
of the weeks he had spent down here searching for the vision, Vincenzo had
passed St. Joseph's numerous times. He had crossed himself as he'd come even
with its sanctuary, and even had stopped in once to say a prayer. But he had
not been struck by anything especially important about the place. A stately old
church that, like its neighborhood, had seen better days.

Now it seemed like . . . home.

But
what
precisely
was it that he had followed here? That the strange sensation was connected to
the apparition that had touched him with ecstasy and cleansed him of the
malignancy that had been devouring him he had no doubt. Neither did he doubt
that the apparition was a visitation of the Blessed Virgin. A
true
visitation.
Not a hallucination, not a wish fulfillment, not a publicity stunt. He had
seen, he had been touched, he had been healed. This was the real thing. His
wish had been granted: He had witnessed a miracle before his death, but as a
result of that miracle, his

death was no longer imminent. He had been granted extra time. And
he'd used some of that extra time to find this place.

Why? What was
so special about this St. Joseph's church? What significance could it have for
the Virgin Mary? It was built on land that had been an undeveloped marsh until
a millennium and a half after the birth of Christianity. Vincenzo did not know
of any sacred relics housed here.

And yet . . .

Something
was here. The same warm glow that had suffused his entire
being a few nights ago seemed to emanate from this building. Not from where he
would have expected--from the sanctuary of the church itself--but from its lower
level. From the basement which appeared to be some sort of soup kitchen.

What could be
here? The remains of some American saint unrecognized by the Church? Was that
the reason behind the Blessed Mother's visitations?

Inside . . .
it's inside.

Vincenzo was
drawn forward. Why shouldn't he go in? After all, he was wearing his cassock
and collar. Who would stop a priest from entering a church? Especially a
monsignor on a mission from the Holy See. Yes. Hadn't the Vatican itself asked
him to investigate the reports of visitations in this parish? That was
precisely what he was doing.

As he descended
the short flight of stone steps he passed under a hand-painted sign that read
loaves and fishes;
he pushed through a
battered door and entered a broad room lined with long tables and folding
chairs. Toward the rear, a serving counter. And beyond that, a kitchen.

Farther
inside
. . .

Feeling as if he were in a dream, he skirted the tables and
moved toward the kitchen. A growing excitement quivered in his chest. He heard
voices, running water, and clinking crockery from the kitchen. He rounded the
corner and came upon three women of varying shapes, sizes, and ages busily
scrubbing pots, plates, and utensils. The big,
red-cheeked one glanced up and saw him.

"Sorry,
we're closed until--oh, sorry, Father. I thought you were one of the guests. Are
you looking for Father Dan?"

Vincenzo had no
idea who Father Dan was.

"Is he the
pastor?"

"No.
Father Brenner is the pastor. Father Dan is the associate pastor. He went back
to the rectory about half an hour ago."

Down . . .
it's beneath your feet.

"Is there
a basement here?"

"This is
the basement, Father," another woman said.

"But
there's a furnace room below here," said the thinnest and oldest of the
three.

Vincenzo saw a
door in the rear corner and moved toward it.

"Not that
one," said the old woman. "That leads to the rectory. There's another
door on the far side of the refrigerator there."

Vincenzo
changed direction, brushing past them, unable to fight the growing urgency
within him.

So close . .
. so close now.

He pulled the
door open. A sweet odor wafted up from the darkness below.

Flowers.

As his eyes
adjusted, Vincenzo made out a faint glow from the bottom of the rutted stone
steps. He started down, dimly aware of the women's voices behind him speaking
of Father Dan and something about a Sister Carrie. Whether they were speaking
to him or to each other he neither knew nor cared. He was close now . . . so
close.

At the bottom
he followed the light to the left and came upon a broad empty space with a
single naked bulb glowing from the ceiling.

No . . .
this can't be it . . . there's got to be more here than an empty basement.

Off to his left
. . . a voice, humming. He followed the sound around a corner and found the
door to a smaller room
standing open. As he
stepped inside, his surroundings became more dreamlike.

I'm here . .
. this is the place . . . I've come home . . .

Candlelight
flickered off the walls and low ceiling of a room that seemed alive with
sweet-smelling blossoms. He saw a woman there, her back was to him and she was
humming as she straightened the folds of the robes draped around some sort of
statue or sculpture recumbent on--

And then
Vincenzo saw the glow. He recognized that glow,
knew
that glow. The same
soft, pale luminescence had enveloped the apparition. He could not be mistaken.
Hadn't it touched him, been
one
with him for a single glorious instant?
How could he forget it? He realized then that this was no statue or sculpture
before him. This was a human body laid out on a makeshift bier.

But whose body?

Suddenly
Vincenzo knew, and the realization was like a physical blow, staggering him,
numbing him, battering his consciousness until it threatened to tear loose from
its moorings and . . . simply . . . drift.

This was no holy relic, no unsung, uncanonized saint. This
was
her!

He knew it and
yet a part of him stubbornly refused to accept it. Impossible! Tradition held
that she was assumed body and soul into heaven. And even if tradition were
wrong, even if her body had remained preserved for two thousand years, she
would not--
could
not--be here in this church basement in Lower Manhattan.
It defied all reason, all belief, all common sense.

Can it be
her? Can it truly be her?

As he lurched
forward he heard a voice speaking. His own. In his native tongue.

"Puo
essere lei? Puo essere veramente lei?"

Carrie cried
out in shock and fear at the sound of the
strange
voice behind her. She turned and saw a man in black
silhouetted in the light from the door, staggering toward
her.

Reflexively she
began to dodge aside, but stopped and
forced
herself to stand firm. Anyone trying to get to the Virgin would have to go
through her first.

Then she saw
his collar. A priest.

"Father?"

He didn't seem
to hear. He continued forward, trembling hands folded before him as if in
prayer, eyes fixed on the Virgin as his expression twisted through a strange
mixture of confusion, pain, and ecstasy.

"Puo
essere lei?"

She didn't
understand the priest's words, but the devotion in his eyes caused her insides
to coil with alarm.

He knows! she
thought. Somehow he
knowsl

Sensing he
meant no harm, Carrie eased aside and let him approach. Her mind raced as she watched
him gaze down at the Virgin. No . . . obviously he meant no harm, but his mere
presence was a catastrophe. No matter what his intentions, he was going to ruin
everything.

"Who are
you?" she said.

He didn't seem
to hear, only continued to stare down at the Virgin.

"Who are
you, Father?" she repeated and this time touched his arm.

He started and
half turned toward her, tearing his eyes away from the Virgin at the last
possible second. Carrie hadn't realized how old and thin he looked until now.

"It's her,
isn't it," he said in a hoarse, accented English, and Carrie's heart sank
as she searched but found no hint of a question in his tone. "It's truly
her!"

"Who do
you mean, Father?" she said, hoping against hope that he'd give the wrong
answer.

But instead of
answering in words, he knelt before the Virgin, made the sign of the cross, and
bowed his head.

That was more
than enough answer for Carrie. She began to shake.

I'm going to
lose her, she thought. They're going to take her away from me!

At that moment
she heard the scuff of hurried footsteps out in the old furnace room, then Dan
dashed in. He skidded to a halt when he saw the figure in black kneeling before
the
bier, then stared at Carrie, alarmed, confused,
breathing hard.

"Hilda
called me over . . . said there was a strange priest . . ." He glanced at
the newcomer.
"Who . . . how?"

Carrie shook
her head. "I don't know."

Dan stood in the center of the room, looking indecisive for a
moment, then he stepped forward and laid a hand on the other priest's shoulder.

"I'm
Father Daniel Fitzpatrick, Father, associate pastor here, and I'm afraid I'll
have to ask you to leave."

The older man
turned his head to the side, then rose stiffly to his feet. He stared at the
Virgin a moment longer, then turned toward Carrie and Dan and drew himself to
his full height.

"I am
Monsignor Vincenzo Riccio. From Rome. From the Vatican."

Carrie stifled
a groan as she heard Dan mutter, "Oh, God. You're the priest from the
pub!"

"You must
explain this," Msr. Riccio said, gesturing toward the Virgin. "How .
. . how is this possible?"

"How is
what possible?" Dan said.

"Please,"
the older priest said. "There is no point in trying to fool me. I was
touched by her,
healed
by her. I know this is the Blessed Mother. Do you
understand? I do not believe it, think it, or feel it, I
know
it. What I
do not know is why she is hidden away in this dingy cellar, and how she came to
be here. Will you please explain that to me, Father Fitzpatrick."

Dan held the
monsignor's stare for a moment, then turned to Carrie and introduced her as
Sister Carolyn Ferris.

"Carrie,"
he said. "This is your show. What do you want to do? Whatever you decide,
I'm with you all the way."

Carrie felt as
if she were perched on the edge of a precipice . . . during an earthquake. Her
mind was numb with the shock of being discovered. She could see no sense in
lying. The monsignor already knew the core truth. Why not tell him the details.

And suddenly
hope was alive within her.

Yes! The
details. Maybe if he knew how the Virgin had
been
hidden away in a cave much like this subcellar room, he'd realize that she had
to remain hidden . . . right here. "It began with a scroll Father
Fitzpatrick received as a gift . . ."

"I
see," Vincenzo said softly as Sister Carolyn finished her story, closing
with the details of the cures and miracles at the soup kitchen one floor above.

He had been too
fascinated to interrupt her long monologue more than once or twice for
clarifications. He had studied her expression for some hint of insincerity, but
had found none, at least none that he could detect in the candlelight. And as
she spoke he came to understand something about this beautiful young woman. She
was deeply devoted to the Virgin. No hint of personal gain or notoriety had
crossed her mind in bringing the Virgin here to her church. It had seemed like
the right thing to do, the
only
thing to do, and so she had done it. She
was one of the good ones. He sensed a hard knot of darkness deep within her, an
old festering wound that would not heal, but otherwise she was all love and
generosity. Had she always been like this, or was it the result of prolonged
proximity to . . . her?