The Miracle Stealer (6 page)

“Right,” I said.

“But what if something happened to make the people who believe in Daniel think maybe they were wrong? That they've been wrong all along?”

“That'd be kick-ass. But I think your solution is non-workable too.”

“Seriously. We could say it was all a hoax in the first place—isn't that what the Scarecrow dude said?”

“Now we're taking our plans from nutjobs?”

“I'm just throwing out ideas,” Jeff said. “It's called brainstorming.”

“It's called a waste of time,” I said. I looked at the watch on Jeff's wrist. “Your dad has got to be wondering what's keeping you. If he calls your mom, she'll be worried.”

Jeff stared at me, then started the ignition and pulled back onto Roosevelt Road. A few silent minutes later, we reached the driveway that winds down to Camp Anderson and he pulled over to the side. “I didn't mean to get you all ticked off.”

“I was upset when I came to find you.”

“Severe emotional states are not conducive to productive—”

I pressed my hand up to his mouth. “I've had about enough of Professor Mullins.”

His eyes looked hurt. Beneath the tips of my fingers, I felt the coolness of his lips, the soft hush of his breath. I lowered my hand and opened the door. “But I'm glad I came and found you.”

“I want to help,” he said as I turned. “It's not easy fighting miracles.”

“No,” I said. “It pretty much sucks.” I hopped out and slammed the creaky door. I started walking, not looking back, but I didn't hear him pull away until I was halfway down the drive. Kicking at the gravel, I thought about Jeff's words:
fighting miracles
.

The truck wasn't back yet, so I knew the house would be empty. Up on the porch, something on the swing caught my eye. I thought at first it was a Pennysaver or some advertisement, but as I stepped closer, I recognized it: It was one of Daniel's coverless comics. Resting on top of the comic were a couple of small sticks. The two twigs had been tied with a pine needle to form the shape of a cross. I picked up this strange talisman, turned it over and back. On the first page of the comic, Superman stood before the entrance to
the Fortress of Solitude. This was the one Daniel had been reading up at St. Jude's. He must have dropped it in all the excitement.

I spun around quick, scanned what I could see of the compound, squinting into the tree line for movement. But there was nothing. I snapped the cross into pieces, tossed them over the side of the porch. Then, acting calm as I could, I opened the front door and went inside, but once I shut the door behind me, I double locked it. I stayed behind the curtains and stared into the forest, and even though I couldn't see anything suspicious, I felt the truth in my bones. Somewhere out there, that Scarecrow was watching.

W
hen my mother finally got home from the Abernathys', she was surprised to find me lying on the couch in the main house. I was flipping through the course catalog for Lock Haven, mostly as a way to keep distracted. I didn't stop looking when I heard her come in.

“How was your day?” she asked behind me.

I laid the catalog on my chest. “Where's Daniel?”

“It's near dusk. He went down to the salt lick.”

I stood up and dropped the catalog on the couch. “He shouldn't be out there by himself.”

“I don't like that tone, Ann. He's down there alone all the time. Can't we have five minutes when we're not fighting?”

I walked past her into the kitchen. From the window, I could see Daniel down below, sitting on a fallen tree about twenty feet from a chunk of salt we put out to attract deer. They come early in the morning or just before the sun goes down. “How were things over at the Abernathys'? Was Volpe there?”

She opened the fridge door and then poured a glass of white wine. “Grace will be in bed for a few more days. She was delighted to see Daniel.”

“Of course she was.”

“Daniel got to hold the baby. You should've seen the smile on that boy's face. We just sat them side by side on the bed, but he was sweet. They asked us to come back tomorrow, first thing.”

“You'll be there all day again?”

My mother nodded. “They need our help and Daniel enjoyed being there. Why?”

“Just curious,” I told her. The truth was that this came as a great relief. She was planning on skipping church.

Something shifted in the shadows down by Daniel. In the half-light, I couldn't tell what it was. I was about to bolt outside when a deer crept out from behind a pine, leaning its head into the clearing. Timidly, it worked its way toward the salt. Daniel never moved.

My mother stepped up and placed her free hand on my shoulder. In the other she held her thin glass. If I were out there, or my mother, or anybody but Daniel, that deer would never have come so close. She looked out at what I saw and said, “He's such a blessed child.”

“He's a great kid,” I countered.

My mother squeezed my shoulder and took a sip from her glass. Then she said, “Sylvia. And the Abernathys'. Mayor Wheeler and his wife. They'd like to have a special service at the UCP.”

“Special,” I said back. I faced her. “Special for what?”

“To give thanks for Miracle. Of course tomorrow is too soon, so they're talking about next Sunday. You could come along,” she said quickly. “A lot of people will be there, Ann. Sylvia's apparently put out a few rather ambitious invitations.
It would be nice for us to go, don't you think? As a family, like we used to.”

Feeling a bit trapped against the wall, I bumped past her and moved into the more open space of the living room. “I'm going down to sit with Daniel.”

She followed right behind me. “I'm your mother, Ann. We can't go through life not talking to each other.”

I stopped and turned. “This God the Abernathys are so crazy to thank, this would be the same one who let Gabriella wander onto the ice and drown in the lake, right? The same God who took away their second child before it was even born? But now that they've done enough groveling or tithing or whatever, well, they get to have this baby. A consolation prize maybe. This is the God we're talking about, right?”

She slapped my cheek, hard enough to turn my face. “That's for blasphemy,” she explained. “I love you dearly, but you're still my daughter. Now let's speak plainly. This has nothing to do with the Abernathys.”

I felt the warm skin of my cheek. “Sure thing,” I said. “I don't care about them. I care about Daniel and the Holy Roller bone-heads who think he's something he isn't.”

My mother sighed. “You know, I've been silly enough to be hopeful lately. That night at the Abernathys, I saw you smile when the baby was born. Your old smile. And these last few days, I've been thinking that this, whatever's happening now, could be a whole new chance for you, Ann. A chance to come back.”

“Maybe I don't want to come back.”

Again she shook her head and gave me that familiar look of disappointment.

“That crazy guy from St. Jude's stopped by,” I said. I pointed to the Superman comic on the coffee table next to the Lock Haven catalog. “Left something on the porch for Daniel.”

“You saw this man, here on our property?” she asked.

“Hold it. You think I'm lying?”

She took a sip of her wine and tried to act like she wasn't upset. “I think you're very angry and confused. How do you know Daniel didn't leave it there?”

I pictured that weird cross, which I now regretted breaking. She'd never believe me. “I just know,” I said.

“Like you know the people at the church are all crazies?” My mother stared at me, hard-eyed, waiting for an answer.

“Go ahead and say it,” I told her.

“Say what?”

“‘Just like your father.' I know it's what you're thinking.”

“It's a dangerous thing to presume, Ann.”

“Great. So tell me I'm wrong.”

But instead of answering, my mother turned away and walked back to the window, looking down on Daniel as the last of the light began to leave the sky. I grabbed the course catalog and headed for the trail to my cabin. But then I worried that maybe the Scarecrow really was out there in the dark somewhere, so I swung around the side of the house, quiet as could be. When I rounded the back corner, there were two deer now, each within an arm's reach of Daniel. I froze where I was but still they startled, ears flipping up, eyes flashing to mine, spindly legs springing them back into the forest. Daniel turned and said, “What'd you do that for?”

“Sorry, Little Man. I just wanted to see how your day went.”

“Not so good,” he said. “Mr. Abernathy made me a hot dog for dinner but they didn't have any ketchup.”

“Bummer.”

I walked to my brother's side and rubbed my hand over his hair. I had the urge to ask if they'd wanted him to pray.

“All that baby does is sleep and eat.”

“She'll play when she gets older.”

“Was I little like that?”

I nodded, thinking of all the nights he slept cuddled next to me in my bed. He was warm and smelled so clean. “Sometimes you ate so many peas that your poop was green.”

“Gross.”

I held my nose. “Tell me about it. I had to clean those diapers.”

“Thanks,” he offered.

“My pleasure,” I said. And really, it was true. Those days before he fell into the ground felt like a fantasy now. Back then, my most serious problems were school projects, chores around the compound, and being a good big sister.

“I could hear you and Mom fighting,” Daniel said.

I glanced up at the house. “We weren't fighting,” I told him.

“Sure you were. You're mad at her and she's mad at you. Don't lie, Andi.”

“Look,” I said. “Sometimes grown-ups have a hard time working things out.”

He nodded, like this was a fact he knew already. Then he pressed one of his sneaker toes into the ground and said, “Are you gonna leave?”

I grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him in to me, squeezed both arms around him. “No, I'm not gonna leave. I'm your big sister and I love you.”

With his face pressed sideways, he said, “Didn't Dad love me too?”

I felt a sickness in my gut. “Of course Dad loved you. He loved all of us.”

“Then why did he go?”

I thought of all the reasons I'd come up with since my father's departure: that he was weak, a coward; that he figured we'd be happier without him; that he didn't think the same way as the people around here; that the place, or maybe the curse of Irene McGinley, just drove him crazy. But I didn't believe any of these things, so I told my brother the absolute truth. “I don't know, Daniel. I just don't know.”

After that I walked him around to the porch and sent him inside for his bath. I headed down to my cabin but, rather than getting ready for bed myself, I tugged my sleeping bag from the closet and grabbed a pillow. I pulled an old aluminum bat from a hall closet, then marched back up to the main house. I dragged one of the Adirondack chairs to the corner of the porch, giving me a view of the road, the cabins, and the lake. Later, I planned on rolling out my bag by the front door so the Scarecrow would have to step over my body if he came back for Daniel. For now though, I laid the aluminum bat on my lap and kept watch as long as the fading sun would allow, and my thoughts floated back to the summer before my father left us.

After my brother's rescue, things seemed to get stranger week by week. I don't know who first used the term
Miracle Boy
, but
pretty soon it was all over the TV. Even before Daniel was released from the hospital, he and that miner were on magazine covers and some guy from Hollywood called to say he wanted to buy the rights to make a movie.

The very first Sunday following the accident, while my dad was up at St. Jude's with Daniel still in intensive care, my mother and I attended a standing-room-only service at the UCP. By then there were a dozen reporters in town. Volpe was probably one of them, though I don't remember seeing her. Mrs. Wheeler let them all set up their cameras by Mrs. Krupchak's piano, so they had a good view and everything. The citizens, packed in the pews and spilling into the aisles, applauded when we walked in, and everyone was weeping with joy through the opening songs.

It'd been decades since the UCP had an official leader like normal churches. Instead, each Sunday a different member of Paradise would read from the Bible and reflect on Christ's will. There'd be another song or two, and then we'd move on to the main event, when people would offer their testimony.

The testimony at the Universal Church of Paradise was divided into two parts: the praises and the petitions. The praises always came first, where people shared their good news and thanked God for the week's blessings. As a child, the praises had been my favorite part of the service. I'd wait my turn and say something good like,
Thank you, God, for my new baby brother
, or
Praise God for the B-plus I got on my report about FDR
. Whatever. Surrounded by so much good fortune, you had the impression that the world was simply a wonderful place, like nothing could ever go wrong. That summer day when it was just me and my mother, the praises were just one after the next different versions
of “Thank you, God, for saving our Daniel.” To be honest, despite the cameras and the crying and even the
our
, like my brother was community property, none of it really bothered me. Daniel was alive, and I was grateful.

The second half of the testimony was the petitions, when you put your needs before the Lord. There wasn't a real order to who went first, you just had to wait till the spirit moved you. Typically somebody'd get us started with something admittedly minor, like
Protect all our school's athletes as they compete
, or
Guide Christine's studies in France
, but before long people got down to business, pleading
Be with Mayor Wheeler when he goes to the capitol
or
Help Harold Cedars keep clear of that bottle
.

That first service after Daniel's accident, I thought it was appropriate that nobody petitioned God for anything except for blessings for the miners and for Daniel to heal. But then right at the end, Mrs. Braithwaite stood up on her veiny legs. She pushed through to the lectern and lifted her droopy face and glared until everyone fell silent. “Heavenly Father,” she began, “help us all to recognize the certain sign of Your work here among us. Help all of us fully appreciate Daniel as Your divine and holy gift.”

Well, this caught me by surprise, but everybody else just amen-ed and hallelujah-ed, like the idea of Daniel being a divine gift was something everyone had talked about and accepted for years. I looked up at my mother, and she saw me looking, but she just stared straight ahead at the altar. I knew she wouldn't tell my dad, who generally would take any excuse to skip coming to church.

A couple weeks later, Daniel came home from St. Jude's with his right foot in a tiny blue cast. My parents did interviews on the
phone, and people stopped by our house to have their picture taken with him. By now, letters and postcards were arriving from all over America, plus Canada, Mexico, even China. Up in the fairy fort, a construction company filled in Daniel's hole with concrete and then, just for show, moved that fist-shaped boulder over it. The place became a tourist attraction of sorts. Meanwhile, more and more outsiders started attending services at the UCP. For all I know, Scarecrow could've been in one of those crowds. I wouldn't have noticed, distracted as I was.

You see, even Daniel's first return to our church was pretty freaky. The vestibule filled up and then they had to open the outer doors and let people stand in the field. Everyone in the congregation kept grinning and waving at Daniel, even while Emma Guidry read from the Bible. Then during the praises, things got downright weird. Ryan Thomason said, “Thank you, Lord, for the plentiful fish this summer. And thank you for Daniel.” Lisell Williams flashed peace signs to everyone and said, “My carpal tunnel was getting so I couldn't work. Now it's flat gone. Thank you, Lord. And thank you for Daniel.” Through thin tears, Deidre LaMont said, “Those nightmares have finally left me, Jesus. Praise your name. And thank you for Daniel.”

In some strange way, every blessing—no matter how great or small—became connected to my brother. Meanwhile, he just sat between my parents, picking at the stuffing in his cast. Dad squirmed in his seat, clearly uncomfortable, and what happened during the petitions only made things worse. Rita Solomon stood up and turned toward Daniel directly. “Christ Jesus,” she said. “You saved one son of Paradise. Please just let me know that Cody's still alive.” Her teenage boy had run off to join a band in
New York. Hank Grenke, just down the pew from us, fixed his eyes on Daniel and said, “Lord, you know my secret shame. Take it away from me, let me lay my burden down.” And Miriam Sinclair, usually so timid you couldn't hear her, shouted out as she faced my brother, “My cousin needs a gift like Daniel's.” She explained that the surgeons couldn't remove all the cancer from her cousin's brain and that she couldn't handle much more chemo. Just like with the praises, every petition grew associated with Daniel. Even though the believers were talking to God, they were staring at my brother.