The Maldonado Miracle (11 page)

It was a middle-aged man dressed in a loud sports coat with a tie that appeared to have come out of a paint pot. He had a sketch pad.

After a moment Lebeon rose, asking politely, "May I help you?"

"Don't believe so," the visitor replied, busily sketching.

Father Lebeon glanced over the man's shoulder at the pad. The likeness of Christ was there, rendered with fair accuracy. But it was the marginal notes that upset the priest.

One said, "Blood on the signpost, I.N.R.I., whatever that means." Another said, "Splotch shaped like a pear on the shoulder; drip marks on chest."

"May I ask what you're doing?"

"Just getting it right, Reverend," the man replied.

"For what purpose?"

The man turned. "Miniatures, of course." He passed a card to Lebeon. "We can make 'em up in plastic for a dime, sell 'em here for fifty cents. Stock every store in town."

The card said: Bay Novelty Company, Burlingame. Lebeon reached across and crumpled the sketch pad.

"Please leave," he said, tiredness in his voice rather than anger.

"Hey, what's wrong with you?"

"Leave," Lebeon repeated.

The man got belligerent. "This is a church, ain't it? Public place? I'm in a legal, commercial business, Reverend. So what's your problem? You want a cut?"

Lebeon said quietly, "I'll put it in your language. Get out before I break you apart. Is that clear enough?"

The man held up a protesting hand. "Now, wait a minute."

Lebeon took him by the arm, propelling him out of the church door and down the steps. The move was none too gentle.

The man yelled back, "Trouble with you, you don't know how to sell religion."

After waiting long enough to make certain the novelty company artist had driven away, Lebeon routed Gonzalvo out to order that the mission church be locked for the first time since 1794. Then he went to his office to place a call to the bishop of the Monterey-Fresno diocese, of which Mission San Ramon was a part. He knew the bishop would be aggravated, possibly even angry. High church politics was involved in events such as "miracles."

 

L
OCATED IN THE SMALL
barrio, the Spanish-speaking neighborhood of Paso Robles, a town of about seven thousand people south of San Ramon, the two-story house was old but neat; white clapboard with frilly woodwork around the porch posts. Dr. Ramon Castillo's name was beside the door. He was a general practitioner, it said in both Spanish and English. Giron knocked, and in a moment, the porch light came on.

Dr. Castillo was young, Jose saw. Not more than thirty. He had a thick, black brush of mustache and was wearing felt bedroom slippers and a thin sweater. "What is it?" he asked in Spanish after a glance at his visitors.

"This boy needs treatment," Giron said.

"What's wrong?"

"My shoulder," Jose answered, a bit nervously.

Castillo opened the screen door and said with mild sarcasm, "Come in. I really don't have office hours. I'm just here all the time."

They followed him down the hall. What could be seen of the living room was furnished with simplicity. A young woman was in there, reading. Perhaps his wife.

The doctor turned into a door marked "
oficina,
" and they followed. He sat at his desk, pulling a pad in front of him. "Name and address."

Giron hesitated, then said, "He is not legal, doctor."

Castillo looked up. "Why did you come to me?"

"You were recommended."

Castillo said angrily, "I am sick of treating people after fights. Last week a knife wound in the abdomen, an
americano
picker. Who is doing all this recommending?"

Giron said, "The boy was not in a fight. He got a splinter in this shoulder. But he's a wetback."

Castillo shoved the pad away, cooling down, "Oh, my, the chances I take," he said. "Come on."

They went into the treatment room, and Castillo began washing his hands. "Take your shirt off. How did it happen?"

"I fell on a board."

Castillo laughed. "You're about the right age to do anything. Go sit on the stool."

The doctor pulled a light into position and felt around the shoulder. "You can't do much for a puncture but let it heal and hope nothing got inside it. I'll clean it and give you a tetanus and an antibiotic."

They were out of Castillo's office within a half hour.
Both of Jose's arms were stinging from the shots. After stopping at a hamburger stand to eat, they headed back to San Ramon in Cubrías rattling Dodge.

Midway, Jose remembered the miracle. Earlier in the evening, he'd been so worried about seeing the doctor that he'd forgotten it. "Did you hear what happened at the mission?"

Giron nodded. "It was all over the field this afternoon. But I don't believe in miracles, Jose. And I don't believe in this one, especially."

Jose was disappointed. "Why not?"

"I read the paper this afternoon. There's something strange about it. That old woman sounds crazy. The priest isn't saying much, and there was dog hair up in that loft...."

"I heard her,
señor,
when she found it."

Giron looked over. "You what?"

"I was up there."

The Dodge slowed as Giron looked over at him, mouth slightly open. "You were there?"

"Yes,
señor.
"

Giron pulled the car over and stopped, letting the engine idle. "Jose, was Sanchez with you?"

"Yes."

"And this was after you hurt your shoulder? While it was still bleeding?"

Jose nodded. "Yes."

"Oh, man. Man, oh, man. Don't you know?"

"No,
señor.
"

"Put it together. That's your blood on the statue."

 

L
ATER, IN THE STORE,
the tears came. He had been holding them in since Oxnard.

J
OSEFA AND
M
ANUEL
Espinosa marched toward Mission San Ramon, Josefa straight-backed and proud; Manuel, head down, plodding sleepily beside her in the growing dawn. While it was still dark Josefa had arisen and said her beads, then had violently shaken Manuel awake.

On reaching the front of the mission, they found Gonzalvo posted at the closed doors, a blanket draped over his shoulders against the chill. Josefa climbed the steps, half expecting Gonzalvo to bow and usher her in. But he was exhausted from all the sudden activity and only said, "Mass in the chapel! Mass in the chapel!"

"What do you mean?" Josefa asked.

Gonzalvo stared at her bleakly. She had caused all this. "Father has locked the church."

"Locked the church? How can people see Him if Father has locked the church?"

Gonzalvo said with finality, and some pleasure, "Father doesn't want anyone to see Him."

Josefa looked at the door with alarm and then glanced back at Manuel. She bounced down the steps and punched him into awareness. He fell in beside her.

All night, a sleepless night, she had been looking forward to hearing visitors say, "She saw it first, Señora Josefa Espinosa." She could hardly wait until mass was over to confront Father Lebeon and find out his reason for closing the church. She was so upset that she hardly participated in the mass. At its end, she waited for the priest at the chapel entrance.

"Father, why have you closed the church?"

Lebeon said quietly, "Josefa, walk with me to the sacristy."

Feeling honored by the request, Josefa said aloofly to Manuel, "Meet me in front. I must talk to Father Lebeon."

Manuel shrugged. He was only too happy to get away for a few minutes.

They walked slowly over the adobe path that led across the garden to the sacristy. Several of the white pigeons flew to the priest's shoulder, and he cooed at them, lapsing into French. Then he turned to Josefa. "I locked the church because I did not want to make a spectacle of this."

Josefa nodded gravely. That would be wrong, she knew.

"Now, if it is proved that a miracle did occur..."

"If?" Josefa wheezed, stopping abruptly. "Father, you saw it with your own eyes."

Lebeon stopped, too. "You saw a stain, and I saw one. It is still there. But we don't know what it is. You see, Josefa, if we all said it was a miracle and then it proved to be paint, how would you feel? How would we all feel? Cheated, of course."

Josefa shook her head. "It cannot be paint. It is a miracle. The wood bled. He sent us this blessing."

The priest smiled at her. "Let's wait and see."

Josefa shook her head. "You don't want a miracle."

Lebeon's face became serious, and he brushed the pigeons from his vestment. "Josefa, no one wants a miracle more than I do. It would take all day to listen to the miracles I want. Not only for you and myself and for the parish, but for all mankind. But don't you see what could happen if this is false? Some people might even lose faith."

Josefa was not listening. Her head was sagging back and forth, causing the rolls of fat beneath her chin to quiver. "You don't want a miracle."

With ringing sharpness, Lebeon said, "The church will remain closed until higher authority can determine what happened. I talked to the bishop last night, and he left it in my hands."

Josefa was stunned. She lowered herself to a bench by the garden path. "But it was there," she said. "With a shining light all around it."

Lebeon crossed the path, putting a hand on her shoulder. "I must go into the sacristy now, Josefa. All of this will be settled in time. Meanwhile, go back to your job, and I'll see you at mass in the morning."

Josefa's head went from side to side mechanically. "I quit my job yesterday so that I could be at the mission all day."

"That was a mistake," Lebeon said. "I'll call the family and see what I can do."

"I can't go back, not when there's a miracle."

Lebeon sighed. "Think about it, Josefa." He moved across the garden into the archway that led to the sacristy.

 

A
T BIGHT O'CLOCK,
Frank Olcott went to the Dinner Bell. It was a morning ritual that seldom varied. Apple juice, English muffins with honey, black coffee, and a scan of the
San Francisco Chronicle
front page.

Olcott climbed to a counter stool, was served his coffee, read the headlines, and watched the increasing flow of traffic with satisfaction. There hadn't been this many cars rolling down the Real in two years. Already, there were almost three dozen parked in front of the mission. He smiled at Maisie. "Looks like we'll have a lot of people in town today."

"Yeah, I guess so. And they'll all be coming here to the Bell 'cause they can't go over there."

"Can't go where?"

"Father locked the door last night an' ol' Gonzalvo is guarding it like a fort. Won't let nobody in, and I mean nobody."

"I don't understand."

"Neither do I," Maisie said, "but it's a fact. Fellow came in here ten minutes ago an' said no one can get in 'til they prove it's a miracle. That's what he said."

Olcott got up and hobbled to the doorway, looking over toward the mission. Gonzalvo was there, all right. "These things sometimes take months, years."

"Maybe somebody in Santa Barbara or Fresno told him to keep people out," Maisie said. "He's got bosses. How do we know?"

Olcott said, angrily, "Well, I'm going to find out." He went back to his stool, but he'd lost his appetite and only toyed with his muffin. He went out, slamming the door.

Twenty minutes later, the cafe door opened again and Jose came in, moving timidly to a position near the front counter. "
Buenos dias,
" he said softly to the blond.

Maisie smiled at him. "
Buenos dias.
Same as yesterday?"

Jose nodded, then added, "
Un jugo.
"

Maisie frowned, and a
pocho
several stools down said. "The boy wants juice."

"
De naranja, por favor,
"Jose said.

"Orange," the
pocho
interpreted.

"Coming up," Maisie said. "Orange juice, doughnuts,
dos leche.
"

Jose nodded.

"You live near here? You're new to town."

"
Si, señora.
"

He took the bag, paid for it, and then returned to the store. Sanchez trotted behind as he went to the front window, where he'd pulled a box up.

Giron had made him promise to tell the padre that day, but it would take a while to get the courage, and he hoped that Maldonado would arrive in time for them to go to the mission together. That priest looked as tough as the Sierra de Juárez peaks.

He'd also been thinking about the man from the service station. Surely, he knew. If Giron had been able to guess what happened, then the man, with his shining badge, had figured it out.

A
T MID-MORNING,
Olcott, flanked by Nello Solari, the big Swiss who owned the furniture store, and Abe Goldblatt, who ran San Ramon Hardware, headed toward the mission.

They passed so close to the boarded-up store that Jose pulled back from the window. He kept his eyes on Olcott as the three men crossed the street. He was certain that they were on their way to tell the padre about the false miracle. Why else would the limping man be going over there?

Then perhaps the whole town would begin searching for the person who had caused it all. Sweat popped out on Jose's forehead.

Pausing by the mission wall, Olcott counted forty people standing around. He also saw two cars pull away and move toward the freeway entrance ramp. "That's some we lost already," he said.

Josefa was sitting in the overstuffed chair, which Solari had offered the previous day There was a small cluster of people around her. They came, listened a moment, and went on. Manuel stood behind the chair, still looking dazed.

Goldblatt said, "And that's a sight we could do without."

Solari reddened. "It's good advertising for me."

"Never mind that," Olcott snapped. "Let's go see the padre."

People had been knocking at the priest's door since the end of the second mass, and he had received each visitor with a patient explanation about the locked door. He had left his dusty rolltop desk only briefly, to accompany a laboratory technician from a Salinas hospital into the nave. The technician took a sample of the dried liquid on the statue and was now in the mission kitchen, studying the substance under a microscope. He had brought specimen slides from the hospital for comparison.