Cat's Eyewitness (6 page)

7

T
he long, slanting rays of the rising sun reached the statue of the Virgin Mary at 7:02
A.M.,
Friday. The back of her snow-covered robes shone pale pink, then deepened to crimson. The frozen blood on her cheeks glowed dark in the blue light for she faced west and it would be hours before the sun would climb high enough to warm her face.

Brother Mark, trembling in the biting air, again threw himself in the snow. He wept, he wailed, he prayed.

He pulled himself to his knees, his hands bright red from cold. He clasped them together, his face upturned to that most perfect of faces.

“Blessed Virgin Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. Forgive me for the hours I have wasted, for the destructive things I did. Forgive me for being weak.” A persistent memory of himself lying comatose at three in the morning in the middle of Beverly Street, Staunton, crept into his head. He had nearly died from a speedball overdose. “I come to you. I come to your Son. I give my life to this life, to your wishes. Make me your vessel.”

He prayed dramatically, fervently. He seemed not to hear footsteps coming up behind him.

“Brother Mark, you’ll catch your death,” Brother Frank said gruffly.

“My life is of no importance.”

Brother Frank was about to say, “Your history confirms that attitude,” but instead he said, “Your life matters to our Blessed Virgin Mother, otherwise you wouldn’t be on your knees before her. You must stay strong and become wise, Brother Mark. There is much to do and fewer and fewer young men to do it.”

A radiance washed over the young man’s face at this. He clasped his hands tighter. “Yes, yes, of course. I must be strong. We must bind the wounds of the world.”

“What we can.” Brother Frank long ago gave up on improving the world. He’d even given up improving himself. “Now, please, Brother, on your feet and come back inside.”

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Brother Mark couldn’t tear his eyes away from that face.

“Yes.” Brother Frank remembered only too well the beauty of women. He felt he had been led astray by women. Perhaps he had, but then again, blaming women for one’s own weakness was a central part of Judaism and Christianity, starting with Adam and Eve.

As the two men, one middle-aged, stout, the other younger, slight, carefully walked back to the main section of the old stone buildings, Brother Mark alternated between tears and euphoria.

“This sign must be shared. I know it. In my heart.”

“Not yet,” Brother Frank chided.

“We have to tell the world.”

“No. The world is, well, a world away. This is our world now, Brother Mark. We need to think this through before, like Pandora, we open the box.”

“Our Lady will overcome all obstacles, including the evils of man.”

“Why make her task more difficult?”

“Two women already know. Why should we remain silent?”

“Brother Mark, give me one day. You’re a fully stoked furnace and, I confess, I’m embers. But the years give one perspective. Announce this prematurely, and our haven will be overrun, and not just by those coming to worship or coming to Mary for her intercession. The media, the mountebanks, will turn this into a circus, a degenerate entertainment.” He drew in his breath, the cold air filling his lungs, painful to inhale. “She deserves better.”

Unconvinced, Brother Mark did promise. “Twenty-four hours.”

People visited the grounds, the various shops. This was the only mark of the outside world on the Greyfriars. The products the monks made barely kept the order in the black. Some monks had more contact with the outside world than others due to their special skills. All of the brothers, whether totally withdrawn or more “worldly,” would feel the impact of people flocking to see the miracle.

The lures of the Internet disturbed the older brothers greatly, partly because the temptations therein could so easily be hidden from others. Each shop contained a computer to keep accounts of their wares, the candles, goat’s milk soap, jellies and jams, iron trinkets, flowers, and potent applejack, their best seller. The order sold every kind of apple product, including even dried apples for decoration. Every Christmas the brothers wove huge wreaths, some as costly as five hundred dollars, filled with gleaming red apples and other dried tidbits, wide flat gold and red ribbons adorning the soft pine needles of the wreath itself.

Brother Frank walked down the long, cold corridor to his office. The job of treasurer suited him. He had hoped to find a successor among the few younger men in the order, but no one seemed suitable.

As treasurer, he used a computer for business purposes. He used the telephone sparingly. He found the hidden costs for both on-line and phone service infuriating. He checked his file, then dialed.

Harry, in the barn, heard the silly “Jingle Bells” ring on her cell phone. Fair had programmed it for Christmas. She pulled the tiny cell phone out of her belt.

“Hello.”

“Mrs. Haristeen, it’s Brother Frank.”

Harry sensed Brother Frank did not like women, despite his good manners. “Hello, Brother Frank, how are you this crisp morning?”

“Crisp? It’s cold as ice. But I’m well and thank you for asking. How about you?”

“I love the snow.”

“Well, at least one of us does. I’m calling to ask you a favor. You beheld an unusual occurrence yesterday, I believe.”

“The statue. Yes.” She dropped her voice slightly. “Very strange.”

“Indeed it is, and I don’t want to jump to conclusions. Would you mind keeping quiet about this? Now, I’m sure you’ve told a few friends. May I rely on you to ask them to also remain silent as a favor to the brotherhood? I’m afraid a premature announcement could send people here looking for, well, miracles, perhaps. We need more information first.”

“Yes, I understand. Of course, I’ll do what I can. Luckily, no one will want to drive the icy roads up the mountain today; you’ll be alone.”

“I appreciate that. God bless you.”

“You, too, Brother Frank.”

Harry called Susan first, since they had seen the tears together, and filled her in on the conversation.

“Not an unreasonable request.” She reached for an ashtray. “What a time Ned had last night getting G-Uncle back to the monastery. We wanted him to spend the night, but he pleaded to go back up. He’s a little obsessed with the statue—and perhaps a little dotty, too. Then again, I don’t trust my own judgment these days. Maybe I’m dotty.”

Susan was sneaking a cigarette, letting out a loud exhale. A recent gain of ten pounds had driven her back to her blue menthol Marlboros. Her worry over Ned accentuated her fretting over her weight. She thought her kitchen needed an overhaul and she was falling behind in the decor department. She was nervous about so many things.

“You’re not losing it.” Harry paused. “Something’s wrong up there on the mountain.”

“Harry, you’re always looking for a mystery.” Susan laughed, then coughed.

“I told you smoking isn’t a good way to lose weight. Help me muck stalls or go to the gym. ACAC is really good.” She mentioned a local gym.

“Who said I was smoking?”

“Susan.”

“Oh, all right! One.”

“Well, if you’re going to lose weight, then one isn’t going to do it, is it? Either light up or hit the gym. So there.”

“You’re a big help.”

“What do you want me to say? I think you look great. You’re the one who complains that your thighs rub together when you walk.”

“Must you be so graphic?”

Harry giggled. “You look good. You and Brooks could be sisters.”

“Liar.”

“No. That’s true. I’ll forgo a lecture about smoking. It’s your body. But back to this Virgin Mary thing. My sixth sense tells me something’s not right.”

“Your sixth sense has gotten us both into one mess after another. I wish you’d turn it off.”

Harry was right, though. Brother Mark proved unable to contain his deep emotions. He snuck into the chandler shop when Brother Michael, a nearsighted man, was helping a customer. Since he’d grown up with the computer, using one was natural to him. Brother Mark fired off an e-mail to Pete Osborne, an executive at the Charlottesville NBC affiliate, Channel 29. Whenever he could he’d watch the local channel, since Nordy Elliott, his college friend, anchored the news. He’d learned who was who at Channel 29.

When Pete, a witty man, read the e-mail, he blinked and read it twice.

Pete, the Blessed Virgin Mother who overlooks us all from the top of the Blue Ridge Mountains is crying tears of blood. These are shed for the sins of the world. I have seen her weep with my own eyes. Some of the other brothers don’t want people to know. They are afraid of what might happen. How can they be afraid of a miracle? A miracle from Our Lady, who is love and only love! The world should know that Our Blessed Mother is speaking to them. Brother Mark (Mark Croydon)

Pete reread the message, sat at his desk for a moment, tapping a yellow pencil against a large white coffee cup. True. Mark Croydon had scrambled his brains. Pete had met him once last year when the station ran a spring special on the apple blossoms in the orchard. He thought the young man quite peculiar. However, it would cost only one reporter two hours and a quarter tank of gas to drive to the top of Afton Mountain, then turn north for a mile to the iron-gated entrance to Mt. Carmel. Okay, maybe half a tank, because they’d need an SUV.

He stood up, flung open the door to his office, and strode down to the newsroom. “Nordy!”

8

S
o, there you have it.” Harry threw up her hands in quasidefeat as Mrs. Murphy, Tucker, and Pewter looked on along with BoomBoom, Alicia, Susan, Miranda, Big Mim, and Little Mim.

An impromptu gathering had occurred at Alicia’s farm. Harry called around, and BoomBoom informed her that the state roads were plowed. Alicia’s farm wasn’t far off Route 250, so they gathered there.

The living-room walls, painted eggshell cream, and the woodwork, trimmed out in linen white, bespoke quiet elegance and warmth, like Alicia herself. Although she regularly visited the farm she had inherited, over the decades she’d changed it little from Mary Pat’s taste. Once it was finally home, Alicia began to exert her own tastes, which proved bolder than Mary Pat’s. Alicia, much as she loved sporting art and the great masters, wasn’t afraid of modern art. Nor was she afraid of a splash of bright color here and there, like magenta silk moiré pillows on the mustard-colored Sheraton couch.

Big Mim, arbiter of taste in Crozet, at first was shocked at Alicia’s “statements,” as she called them. Gradually, the controlling doyenne warmed to the color and airiness of the place. Her daughter, Little Mim, a contemporary of Harry’s, reveled in Alicia’s palette, style, cleverness. Little Mim, ever keen to differentiate herself from her mother, even painted her bedroom pale lavender, inspired by Alicia.

The women ate chicken sandwiches, a thin veneer of herbed mayonnaise on them, the bread freshly baked. Alicia, ever a thoughtful hostess, put out crisp vegetables to nibble on, a wide variety of cheeses, and an array of drinks, including a yerba maté tea that gave the girls a buzz. As a joke, she placed a tiny card with the calorie count by each item.

“No wonder you stay so trim,” Big Mim, in her sixties and in excellent shape herself, noted.

“Work out, walk, ride horses, and stop eating before you’re full.” Alicia smiled her incredible smile, a bit crooked, which added to her high-octane allure. Even sitting there in men’s Levi’s 501s, a crisp white Brooks Brothers’ shirt, a farmer’s red hanky tied around her throat, and wide gold Tiffany hoops in her ears, Alicia couldn’t be anything but a movie star.

“Good genes.” Big Mim reached for a raw carrot. “Good for the eyes, you know.”

“Maybe that’s why the horses like them so much,” Harry replied. “What do you make of all this?”

Susan reached for her second sandwich. Her willpower, not her strongest feature, had faltered during the holidays—hence the cigarettes. Harry teased her that the real reason she visited the top of the mountain on November 24 was that it was Thanksgiving and she was praying she wouldn’t eat too much.

“What do you make of Brother Frank’s call?”

Big Mim spoke first, her custom. “Until he can ascertain whether this is something in the stone, something explainable, his request for a news blackout, if you will, is sensible. This so-called miracle could become terribly embarrassing.”

“All God’s work.” Miranda smiled. “Whether it’s explainable or not.”

“Of course it is, Miranda”—Big Mim and Miranda were contemporaries, so Mim couldn’t sway her friend by hauteur—“but if the monastery advertises the Miracle of the Blue Ridge, which is subsequently discovered to be nothing more than a vein of iron deep in the soapstone, the order will appear in a less than holy light.”

“Can it be worse than priests molesting boys?” Alicia replied with a hint of sarcasm.

“And covering it up!” Little Mim smacked her sandwich on the plate. “You know what else? I think they’re still covering it up.”

“Why boys?” BoomBoom shrugged. “Are they all gay? For the last two thousand years we’ve been herded and prodded by a bunch of pederasts. Does that ever explain a lot—think about it.”

“This isn’t to say you wished they’d molested girls, dear.” Big Mim coolly drank some piping hot yerba maté tea. “But it is most peculiar, as is the response from the Vatican.”

“In keeping.” Alicia took a restorative sip of the bitter brew herself. “Pope Pius the Twelfth knew perfectly well what was going on in Nazi Germany. Not a word. Politics is politics. The Vatican is about power, not about saving souls.”

“You don’t find God in a building with a cross on it, you find God in your heart and in the hearts of others,” Miranda, who was devout, agreed. “But that doesn’t mean we rejoice in the sorrows of the Catholic Church. We’re enduring a little contretemps in the Church of the Holy Light.” She mentioned her church, a charismatic Baptist one, where she sang in the choir. “All about money.”

“Always is. When I served on the vestry board I nearly went bald from tearing my hair out.” Susan laughed. “Now Harry’s taken my spot. And you were thrilled when you were elected.”

“Oh, it’s not so bad, but you have to sit there while everyone shoots off their mouth. Time-consuming. Once we settled the issue of new carpets, things calmed down.” She reached for a gooey brownie. “But I swear what was running down the face of Mary’s statue wasn’t rust.”

“She’s right. It really did look like blood: the color, the consistency. I tell you, it was eerie.” Susan shook her head.

“Why don’t we go up there when the ice is off the roads?” Big Mim suggested, unaware that, with the exception of her daughter, the others had agreed to this.

Miranda nodded. “If we see it with our own eyes, we’ll know more.”

That settled, Harry changed the subject. “Doing my grape research. Grape expectations.” Everyone groaned. She plugged on. “Virginia is home to eighty wineries, which bring in five-hundred thousand tourists a year and put ninety-five million dollars into the state economy. Read it in the
Daily Progress.”
She named the local newspaper, which paid its staff a pittance, but since they were dedicated newspeople they did a bang-up job, anyway, out of pride, pure pride in their craft.

“Well and good, but let us not forget that the horse industry brings over one point five billion dollars annually to this state, and as Colonial Downs gets better and better, if we can finally convince the legislature to authorize more offtrack-betting sites, you will see that double in five years. I
promise
you.” Big Mim bred Thoroughbreds, mostly for steeplechase racing, some for foxhunting, but she kept a keen eye on the overall equine picture.

“The equine industry should be one of our most protected industries. As tobacco slides, it will be horses that make up lost revenue, if the state is smart enough to offer generous incentives.” Little Mim, vice-mayor of Crozet, supported her mother one hundred percent in that area.

“You never know down there in Richmond.” Harry laughed. “Are they smoking tobacco, weed, or opium? When you look at some of their decisions, you have to wonder.”

“Harry, you’re a rebel underneath it all.” Alicia smiled at her with warmth. “Any state has its share of blistering idiots elected to public office, but this state has a solid government. If you want to observe entrenched corruption, watch Massachusetts; the reason they were the only state not to vote for Nixon was because the voters could spot a crook before anyone else.” She paused. “Ah, but you’re too young to remember all that, and I’m sounding like sour grapes. Let’s go back to your grapes.”

“Just doing my research. Good soil, rainfall, and sunshine for whites I’ve got. Maybe I can put in a row or two to see how they turn out. One good thing our legislature did was pass that Farm Wineries Act in 1990, which taxes wineries like farms, not like commercial businesses. That shows some foresight. But for now I’ll stick to hay and timber.”

“What about ginseng?” Big Mim kept up with the agricultural market.

“Down by the creek I might could grow some.” Harry looked around the room. “You know, here I am talking about myself and my little world. I’m lucky you put up with me. I’m even luckier that you all help me.”

“Harry, we’re all family here.” Miranda meant that. “We circle the wagons when we need to do so.”

“Or open them up.” Little Mim’s face was flushed.

“Yes?” Big Mim pushed her glasses down on her nose, looking over the top.

“Nothing, Mother, just adding to the conversation.” Little Mim didn’t fib; she was merely withholding the major news that Blair Bainbridge had proposed to her after Thanksgiving dinner. As her mother and father were herding the guests toward what Big Mim referred to as the “just desserts room,” Blair had taken her by the hand and trotted her to the den. She thought the big question might be coming. She answered yes with blazing speed. They kissed, then joined the others, deciding to tell her mother and father in private when it seemed propitious.

“Let’s see what the weather holds. If we’re going to climb the mountain we might as well make our plans now.” Alicia clicked on the large flat TV screen mounted on the wall in her den.

“You can do that from here? From the living room?” Miranda was incredulous.

Alicia held up a small remote. “I can turn on the radio, the TV, the security system, I can specify the rooms. Easy.”

“She’s so high-tech.” BoomBoom was impressed. “I thought I was cutting edge, but Alicia is way ahead of me. Do you know she even had a computer built to her own specifications?”

“Don’t be too impressed. Most of making a film is sitting in a chair trying not to wear off your makeup or crinkle your wardrobe. I had plenty of time to learn from the techies. I liked it.

“Why don’t we take our tea into the den and see what the report is? Dessert, too, if anyone would like more.”

Susan’s eyes fell on the brownies next to the small lemon-curd pastries. Lust filled her. “I can’t.”

“Susan, honest to God, you make me miserable by denying yourself,” Harry complained.

“I don’t deny myself enough.”

They filed into the den, a large room painted lobster bisque with creamy white trim. History, military history, and natural-science books filled the shelves. Alicia, an avid reader, skipped through a book every two or three days. In Hollywood she’d kept her brains to herself, which only proved how very smart she was.

The tail end of the news finished just as they found seats. The weather report came on.

“Should be good tomorrow. Mid-forties. You never know.” Big Mim, like most residents of central Virginia, was continually surprised, even enchanted, by the changeable weather.

The news returned after ads for carpet cleaner, aspirin, the Dodge Durango, and pet food.

“Hey!” Harry shouted, which caused her pets to run into the room followed by Alicia’s steady, placid, and terribly handsome Gordon setter, Maxwell.

A close-up of the Virgin Mary’s face, bloody tears still frozen, filled the screen. The camera pulled away to reveal the entire statue, with Nordy Elliott at the base, looking dapper in his navy winter coat, tan gloves, and red plaid cashmere scarf.

“The monks discovered this unusual phenomenon Thanksgiving morning.” No brothers were in sight as Nordy spoke, great puffs of air coming from his mouth like cartoon captions. “At this point no one can say just what is happening, but it appears the statue is crying tears of blood.”

As he continued, the women erupted, all talking at once.

“Hear, hear.” Big Mim finally called them to order.

“Liar!” Harry’s cheeks burned. “Brother Frank lied through his hat or his tonsure or whatever!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions,” BoomBoom sternly advised. “He’s a cold fish, but he’s not a liar. Someone else has let the cat out of the bag.”

“Why do people say that?”
Pewter wondered.

“To irritate you.”
Mrs. Murphy giggled.