The Miracle Stealer (12 page)

“I should be going,” Gayle said, leaning forward as if to rise.

“No. Stick around.” I locked eyes with my mother, and Gayle
eased back in the Adirondack. I looked over my shoulder at Daniel, who stood silently with his hands at his side. “Go on, Little Man,” I said. Sensing the tension, he took off inside.

My mother lowered herself onto the arm of one of the other Adirondacks, opposite Gayle. As soon as Daniel was out of earshot, my mother turned to her. “I understand that you and Ann are, well, very good friends, but I don't appreciate you interfering in my family's affairs. I can't allow that.”

“Hold up,” I said. “Telling me the truth is interfering? Mayor Wheeler's running around claiming Daniel's coming to Paradise Days. You make some kind of deal with him?”

My mother rubbed her hands. “There isn't a
deal
. Don't make it sound like some conspiracy. Mayor Wheeler ran into me at Cohler's and asked if we'd be going to the festival on opening day. I told him yes. We've never not gone. Why would we not go?”

“How about there's never been a bunch of nutsos camped out in the woods waiting for Daniel? How about no one's ever tried breaking into our home before?”

My mother looked up into the gray sky and exhaled. “Ann, the mayor's gotten calls from church groups as far west as Ohio. Tourists are coming into Paradise. Do you know how long it's been since that happened?”

“Tourists,” I repeated. “So this is about money?”

My mother shook her head. “This is about moral obligation. Whether you want to accept it or not, your brother is blessed. And with blessings come responsibilities. These people are traveling a long way for something that matters deeply to them. And I'm not going to deny them that. Neither should you.”

“That sounds just peachy. But what about Daniel? You forget your moral obligation as a mother?”

My mother's mouth opened in shock. She looked like she'd been slapped. Gayle said, “Andi, you shouldn't talk to your mother like that.”

Gayle was right. Even then, in the heat of that moment, I knew it. Just like me, my mother always was doing what she thought was best.

“I'm growing accustomed to it,” my mother said. “I don't know where all her anger comes from, but I know where it gets directed.”

“Maybe this isn't my place,” Gayle said, “but it seems to me that—”

Daniel backed onto the porch, bumping the door with his butt, carefully balancing a silver tray that held three tall glasses of brown iced tea and a bottle of Yoo-hoo. When he turned, I saw the smile he was forcing. I remembered how I used to stay awake with my parents, knowing they wouldn't fight in front of me. We each took a glass and sipped at the iced tea, and Gayle thanked Daniel and told him it was good. Daniel got a chocolate mustache from his drink, but none of us laughed. In that miserable stillness, all of us stared away from one another, and the only noise was the tinkling of ice against the shifting glasses.

And then another sound entered the quiet, a peaceful and melodious tune that at first you'd take for a bird announcing spring. After a few seconds, it was clear we all were drawn to the song, but it was Daniel who turned to the road and found its source. Raising one arm with a pointed finger, he said, “How come they're dressed like angels?”

Just past the edge of our property, on the shoulder of Roosevelt Road, stood six strangers, a choir clothed in white robes. I got to my feet and wondered where my bat was. My mother and Gayle stood, and we listened to the voices raised in song, drifting through the forest.
“Amazing Grace,”
the visitors sang,
“How sweet the sound.”
The folds of their robes fluttered in the breeze.

“Pilgrims,” Gayle said.

“They don't look like Pilgrims,” Daniel said, no doubt imagining muskets and turkeys. “Are they out there singing because of me?”

I turned to my brother. His brown eyes were wide and nervous. I said, “No. They're just lost. Real, real lost.” I started down the steps.

My mother followed me but had to move quickly to keep up. “What are you doing?”

I didn't answer, and behind me Gayle said, “Daniel, come stay with me.”

“Ann?” my mother pressed.

“Just need to have a word,” I said. “Help these lost souls get back to where they belong.”

Even with all the anger pulsing in my blood as we walked the curves of the driveway, I could hear something pure in the voices of the strange choir. There was a girl my age, an old man with gray hair and skin the color of blackberries, and a bald guy in the middle of the bunch. They all beamed as they sang, radiating a peaceful, certain joy. Maybe because it was so far from what I was feeling, their faith only added to my fury. And at the time, my anger was all I was really aware of. I failed to recognize the rage of my envy.

The robed bodies of the Pilgrim choir formed a flowing white wall, and after me and my mother rounded that final bend, we stopped and faced them. From here, maybe twenty feet away, I could see that each one held a thin white candle, capped by a dancing flame. For just an instant I imagined they might be a gang of holy arsonists, come to burn down the compound. They finished “Amazing Grace” and rolled right into “What a Friend We Have in Jesus.”

Despite my dirtiest looks, the smiles on their faces did not diminish. I turned to my mother and asked, “So these screwballs are some of the tourists we have a moral obligation to?”

Quietly she said, “Go on back to the cabin, Anderson. I'll talk with them, ask them to leave.”

“Yeah,” I said. “Be sure to point out the Chief's signs.”

“They don't mean any harm.”

“I don't especially care what they mean,” I said. “They're scaring Daniel.”

My mother stepped in front of me and grabbed my shoulders. “Well, you're scaring me. You think everyone's out to get your brother, that the whole world is against you. And somewhere along the line you've decided I'm against you too. Why? Just because I still hope things can get better here in Paradise?”

I stared past her, over her shoulder at the Pilgrims, as if I wasn't listening. But her words struck me like cast stones.

“Ann,” she said, and the singing was gentle behind her. “When you were a baby, I'd find you in your crib humming to yourself. You used to carry leaves into the house to show me the patterns. Not counting the last few days, I can barely remember
the last meal we shared. What did I do, Anderson? What did I do to make you hate me so?”

You let him leave
, I wanted to say.
You could have stopped him.

In her face I searched for the effortless understanding we once shared, before the ground swallowed my brother and the fish died and my father abandoned us. “I don't hate you,” I said, knowing the words sounded hollow. And I wondered if I really did hate her, and if there was any sin worse than not returning your mother's love.

The singing stopped, and she turned to the silent Pilgrims. A big bald guy and that teenage girl stepped away from the group and started toward us, ignoring the No Trespassing signs. But as they neared, I realized that the bald guy wasn't simply bald. He was burned.

The skin of his head and most of his face was slippery smooth, melted by heat and flame. It was impossible to guess his age. The slick pink flesh extended over his forehead, where no eyebrows grew, and both his ears were scarred to unrecognizable nubs. The nostrils of the flattened nose were little more than slits. But under that, his mouth and chin, the skin glowed healthy. When he stopped, just a few feet in front of us, I looked at his mouth and it was perfect, the most perfect mouth I've ever seen. He had beautiful red lips, and when he smiled at us, his teeth were white and perfect too. The girl at his side spoke. “We know Daniel seeks no praise or rewards. We know Daniel is humble. We came to sing for him and offer our thanks.”

My mother said something, but her words didn't get through to me. I couldn't take my eyes off the burned man's mouth. I
wondered if he had ever kissed anyone with those lips. Shaking this thought from my head, I stepped forward. “You and your buddies need to clear off our land.”

His perfect smile vanished, and the shine in his eyes dimmed.

My mother shook her head. “Ann.”

“Like right now. You need to not come back here.”

I could tell the girl was looking at me. She said, “You're his sister, aren't you?”

The burned man lifted one arm, and the robe spread out beneath it to form a white wing. He reached out and laid his hand on my shoulder, and even through my shirt I could feel that his hand was cool, which didn't make sense in the heat of that summer day. I turned my chin to his hand and saw the loose skin and the blue veins of an old man, but when he spoke his voice was clear and young. “Why deny the beauty of what you see?”

I recognized his voice as the one from the UCP. He'd been in there with Volpe while I was hiding under the pew. I looked down at his feet and saw the black hiking boots, then turned my face away and found myself staring toward the charred earth of Cabin Five. His voice was so sweet and full of hope. Part of me wanted to accept his words, but I held on to my anger and said, “Not everything is beautiful.”

“And not everything is ugly,” he answered, and he sounded so sure that I looked around again and fell right into his eyes, perfect blue marbles set in dead, tight skin the color of putty. I can't explain it, but something in his eyes made me think this man would understand, that here was someone I could tell everything to, all that I'd seen and felt: the flicker of flame as it engulfed a
curtain, the heat pressing on my cheek in the snow, the fevered skin of my brother as he struggled to save Mrs. Bundower or pray the fish back to our lake. I thought this man could explain it all, tell me how I could have all this in my head and still be happy.

Reverend Castle smiled. “We will go now. I promise you we will not return to your home. I shall pray for your brother, Anderson Grant, and I shall pray for you.”

Then the old preacher and the young girl turned and joined the other Pilgrims. Reverend Castle walked and they followed, south along the shoulder of Roosevelt Road, one behind the other in their flowing white robes. I felt a pull in my bones, the instinct to follow and find out where that burned man might lead me, but I let my anger rise up and I yelled after him, “Save it for the sheep!”

W
ednesday morning I found myself once again wide awake and waiting for the sun to rise, though now I was in my old bed across the hall from my brother. Trying to think in the hours between midnight and dawn is one of the dumber things you can waste your time on. Every problem is either impossibly complicated or its solution is ridiculously simple. But with the morning light comes the recognition that neither extreme is accurate. Hard problems are hard, nothing more and nothing less. At night, you should sleep.

That particular evening, instead of resting and dreaming, my mind had been floating between the Anti-Miracle Plan, the day I had ahead of me, and Reverend Castle. I found myself oddly obsessed with his scars, and I played out endless scenarios imagining their origin. Perhaps he'd rushed into a burning orphanage or pulled a pregnant woman from a wreck wrapped in flames. Maybe he'd had acid splashed on him. The most far-fetched notion that occurred to me was that the wounds were self-inflicted. I'd read about monks who whipped themselves to show their obedience to God, and I wouldn't be surprised if someone like him would scar his flesh as a demonstration of his faith.

To be honest, though, this bizarre thought went against my general impression of him. Although we'd had just that brief
encounter, there was a calmness that radiated off him, a deep ease I admired and envied. And then there were those strange, perfect lips and the melodious lilt of his voice. It had that deep hypnotic rhythm that you expect from most Bible-thumping preachers, but without the underlying hint of uncontrolled lunacy. He was a mystery to me, one I felt compelled to investigate.

But there wasn't much I could do at three a.m. The day ahead, I knew, would be an eventful one, with a trip to the bank and then to Stacy Wilbert's, the town's only notary public, where Mr. Dettweiller would meet me after lunch to do the paperwork for the Skylark. Since I'd already wasted another two hours on the blood concoction down in the shed after Reverend Castle and his choir left, I was contemplating a drive up to Scranton. Surely I could find one of those chain costume stores, one that might simply sell fake blood in the same aisle with the wigs and the pirate patches. Maybe I could track down Jeff and see if he wanted to come along for the ride.

Rolling around in my old bed, sleepy and anxious in the premorning's deep blue glow, I thought about Jeff, the two of us alone in the Skylark. Nothing could be more repulsive to me than being a damsel in distress, but when I was with him, I felt safer. I imagined him putting his arms around me, that big backseat, and my mind moved on its own in ways I couldn't stop. For a time, I found myself distracted from Anti-Miracle Plans.

When I finally did get up, I showered and brewed a quarter pot of coffee. All the things tumbling around my mind aligned for a second and I thought of an alternative to that long drive to Scranton. I remembered Scott Holchak in the school play at Paradise High. He was a wounded Civil War soldier returning
home to his wife, played by Carrie Mulendez. When Carrie, who didn't even talk to Scott in the cafeteria, saw his bandaged face, she burst into tears. Seems like every year the school play called for Carrie to cry. That was her specialty. But Scott's bandaged face was the thing that interested me most.

It was just after seven when I climbed into the Skylark I would own before the day was done. I rumbled out of the compound without saying good morning to Daniel or my mother. Though I was pretty sure I had time to catch the football team, I didn't want to take any chances.

Paradise High School is on the west side of the lake, up behind the country club, so I had to pilot the Skylark south around the dam and then north again. In the year since I had graduated, I'd come back to visit with my track coach a couple times. And once Mr. Shulte called me over to help him fix the window unit air conditioner in the principal's office. Other than that, I'd avoided my high school, relieved that the experience was over and done. Now as I pulled into the parking lot, the brick building seemed smaller to me, tired even. I parked by the menagerie of hand-me-down cars and beat-up trucks in the west corner of the lot.

In the field just beyond, helmeted players jogged slowly around the perimeter. Everybody in town knew that Coach Breiner worked early morning football practices starting July first. He had the team meet him at school at sunup and they drilled hard till just before lunch. In baseball caps and white shorts, Coach Breiner and his assistants surveyed their men from folded-out beach chairs, complete with an umbrella to block the sun that hadn't yet begun to bake. Nobody even turned as I got out of my car and walked toward the school.

The door, left unlocked for the football players, led directly into the auditorium, an all-purpose room that served as basketball court, cafeteria, and theater. At the far end was a raised stage with a closed red curtain, tattered and dusty. Above it, a basketball backboard was pulled up tight to the ceiling, waiting for the new season to descend. This was the room I'd graduated in, the room where they'd held a memorial service for Michelle Kirkpatrick. To my left were stairs that led down into the girls' locker room, and to my right, the boys'. I marched toward center court, watched only by the scarred and empty wooden bleachers. Ahead of me, to the side of the stage, were the stairs you take to get to the weight room, and as I walked I can't deny that I was listening for some sound from below. Outside, I'd hurried in to avoid too much attention, and I hadn't taken the time to look for Jeff's van.

But the weight room was silent, no clank or crash of barbells that might signal the presence of my one-time kind-of boyfriend. So when I got to the stage, I did what I came to do and climbed up quickly. The red curtain was thick, like some huge sail, and I pushed it back and forth, trying to find the opening in the center so I could pass through. That's when I heard the voice behind me. “What the heck are you doing?”

I spun and there was Jeff, standing at the top of the stairs by the boys' locker room. My heart tripped, and not just from being startled. I didn't say anything, and he crossed the court and stood below me. “Little late for taking up a career as an actress, don't you think?”

Nervously, my hands kept sliding along the curtain, and one slipped through the two folds. From the far end of the court, I
heard sounds outside the building. I extended my other hand to Jeff and said, “Come with me.”

Without hesitating, he reached up and I heaved him onto the stage. Together, we snuck through the curtain and froze.

Out on the court, somebody said, “I'm sorry, Coach.”

“That's why we tell you to drink orange juice,” responded the older voice.

Jeff shrugged and we listened to the footsteps disappear into the boys' locker room. Behind the curtain there wasn't much light, and I could barely see Jeff's face when he whispered, “So what's the deal?”

Instead of answering, I reached for his hand. It was warm with sweat and calloused from lifting. I led him backstage, picking our way around stacks of tables and chairs, stowed here for the summer. We worked through the maze, leaving the stage proper and entering a cemetery of discarded props. There was a fake apple tree with a face on its trunk, a plywood wishing well and a unicorn made from papier-mâché. I didn't know what this year's production had been, but clearly it was some kind of fairy tale. This would be a marked departure from the Civil War musical they did my senior year,
Blue and Gray
. In addition to Carrie Mulendez's tears, the play had called for pretend guns, plastic swords wrapped in shiny aluminum foil, and lots of blood.

I opened the fuse box and found the master key that Mr. Shulte kept hidden there. Jeff seemed impressed and confused. He held up his open hands and hunched his shoulders to question what we were doing, but I held a single finger to my lips.

I unlocked the dressing room and let us in. Inside, I closed the door and flipped on the light. “We can talk now,” I said.

Jeff scanned the room—a few dressing tables with tall mirrors, three racks of costumes, a couch from the sixties with one mismatched cushion. While I started rifling through the cosmetics in the drawers, Jeff stood over me. “I could help you look,” he offered, “if I knew what we were here to steal.”

I paused. “Something like blood,” I finally said. And like that it was decided. Jeff would be an accomplice in my plan. I know that he's felt guilt over all that happened and wondered if he couldn't have stopped it that day. But he couldn't have. The notion had taken hold inside of me and was growing on its own by then. At the time, he didn't seem fazed by my odd response. Instead he sat at the table next to me and started shuffling through the fake eyelashes and brushes. We worked in silence, like cat burglars, and I didn't even hear him slip over to the metal cabinet beside the clothes. I was shaking my head at all the varieties of lipstick when Jeff said, “Bingo,” and I looked over and saw him holding a thick tube with brownish red crud on the tip. It looked like caulk or paint. He'd already squeezed a little bit onto his hand.

I stood up and reached for it, but he held it behind his back. “I'll trade you the blood for the truth,” he said. “You are seriously freaking me out and I want to know what's going on.”

I knew I couldn't snatch it from him, but I didn't want to come clean, so I turned away and dropped onto the couch. A puff of dust rose up and I sneezed. “Sounds like a fair deal, I guess,” I said. Jeff sat next to me and tossed the tube on my lap. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands, trying to decide where to start. Out in the gym we heard what I took at first to be thunder, but it was only the football players running the bleachers in their cleats. “That Pilgrim preacher,” I finally said. “He came by the house yesterday.”

“Came by for what?”

“He and his pals sang a couple songs. They wanted to see Daniel.”

“Sounds certifiable to me.”

“Maybe so,” I said. “But there was something about him.”

“Something like what?”

“I don't know. He just seemed peaceful, I guess. Maybe
holy
is a better word. I don't know.”

Jeff picked at the armrest of the sofa. “I guess you heard about the healings.”

“Gayle told me the latest. Next thing you know, folks will give Daniel credit for the sun rising in the morning.” Jeff didn't laugh at my joke, didn't even smile. I bumped his elbow with mine. “What gives?”

“My dad quit drinking, Andi.”

“Maybe the seventeenth time is the charm,” I said.

Jeff shook his head. “This is different. He didn't make any announcements or grand promises. My mom just all of a sudden noticed yesterday. He's dry.”

“That's great. I mean, I'm really glad for him. For you and your mom and all.” I wasn't sure what to say. I didn't want to see Jeff disappointed again. Even back as far as sixth grade, when Mrs. Trent began talking about addiction in health class, everybody in the room made sure not to look at Jeff. The whole town knew Mr. Cedars “took to drink.”

“I'm not saying it's Daniel,” Jeff said. “But something's in the air. Maybe this is just giving people a chance to try again after they gave up. Maybe that's what a miracle is.”

Jeff was looking me in the face now, and his hand was on my
leg. I turned away and pretended to read the instructions on the fake blood. “That preacher wasn't the only visitor we had yesterday,” I said. And I told him about the Scarecrow rummaging through our garbage after midnight. “What's next?” I asked. “People breaking into our house? Me walking around with Daniel all the time like some bodyguard?”

Jeff shrugged. “Paradise Days'll be over next weekend.”

“And you think this will end then? Weren't you here last time? We got letters from China. I heard the Pilgrim preacher and Volpe talking—they have some plan to take Daniel away.”

“Take him away? Where'd you hear that?”

I couldn't tell Jeff that I'd been hiding under a pew with matches in my pocket. “Doesn't matter,” I said. “I heard it.”

Now Jeff stood with a huff. “You and your damn secrets. You wonder why folks keep their distance from you. I'm going to go work out. Catch you later.”

Jeff had just swung the door open when I said, “Wait. The reason I know my dad won't help me. It's because I burned his cabin down the day he left us.”

He swallowed once, studied my face to be sure I was serious, then said, “You burned it down?”

“Till it was ashes. I don't know why. He wasn't in it or anything. Maybe I just wanted him to know he couldn't come back. I'm not sure I've ever been so angry.”

Jeff came back over to me on the couch and knelt down. He set his open palms on my knees. “One thing I figured out about you. The more angry you act, the more scared you are on the inside.”

I believed what he said. “Guess that means I'm really scared now. I'm scared for Daniel, Jeff. That's why I need this blood.”

Jeff slid up beside me, reached down, and took my hand. “Is there some part of you that thinks what you're saying makes sense?”

I took a deep breath, then began. “I think Daniel is in danger. I think sooner or later some nutjob is going to get to him. And if they don't hurt him, they'll scare him something terrible, scare him to the point where he won't ever be the same. Or it'll be like with Mrs. Bundower. These miracles will get bigger and bigger and before you know it, they'll have poor Daniel praying over a dying person. But this time he ain't three. He'll understand just what's going on. And he'll understand that he was supposed to save this person and didn't and he'll feel guilty for the rest of his life. Or through some fluke the person will live—that first time. But then more people will come or another preacher will pull into town. Don't you see? If this thing keeps on going, the only way it ends is with Daniel getting screwed up for life. I'm not going to let that happen.”