“Got a feeling when you’ll sell the other three?”
“Nope, but they’ll sell before the expiration date, you can be sure of that.”
I didn’t know what gave him the confidence to make that statement, but a day ago I wouldn’t have expected to buy three EpiPens, or even one, for that matter. Nor would I have imagined myself giving an innkeeper’s banker a check for sixty grand. Maybe Bob Pocket was right. Maybe there was something charmed about this town. I just hoped the cosmic balance didn’t depend on me.
I took a different route back to the Seaside, but I don’t know why. Main Street to A1A would have been a clear shot, but for some reason High Street to Eighth felt more inviting. Maybe I was subconsciously trying to get the feel of the little town.
Something happened when I turned on High Street.
I felt a tingling sensation. A good one, like the kind you feel when you first climb under the covers on a cold night. The further I drove the more soothing it felt. By the time I hit Eighth, I was practically euphoric. This was the feeling I’d had two nights earlier, when I’d followed Rachel down A1A, and again yesterday when I stood behind the B&B, contemplating the caretaker’s job. I drove past an empty tailor’s shop, some old houses, and a boarded-up dry cleaning store. At the intersection to A1A, on the left-hand corner, I saw a lady carrying what looked like a picnic basket up the steps of an old church. I remained there a moment, my eyes transfixed on the church. I’m not a religious man, nor even a spiritual one, but the feeling I was enjoying seemed to come from the area of the church.
I wasn’t alone in this, either.
In the churchyard, standing reverently, but still, like statues, were half a dozen elderly people. Their eyes were turned skyward, or perhaps I should say balcony-ward, since the second floor balcony on the side of the church seemed to be their point of focus. As I sat on my brake at the stop sign I noticed a small line of people turning the corner. They weren’t together, and none were speaking. But all were making their way toward the churchyard. There was also a van parked twenty yards to the side with two guys in the front seat. Like me, they appeared to be watching the statue people in the churchyard. They had almost certainly brought the first group of old people to the church and appeared to be waiting for them. I backed my rental car, turned into somebody’s driveway, put my flashers on, and climbed out. Crossing the street, I approached two elderly women and a man bent over a cane.
“What’s the attraction?” I asked.
No one answered.
Suddenly, one of the ladies sighed deeply and started moving her head around. Tears welled in her eyes and began streaming down her face. She rounded her shoulders as if warming up to take an exercise class. About that time the man’s cane fell to the ground and he slowly straightened his back. A look of ecstasy crossed his face and tears flowed freely from his eyes. The third woman broke into a wide smile and started dancing in a tight little circle of space.
I looked around.
The others were making small movements with their bodies. Some of the new arrivals stood stock still, as if waiting for something marvelous to happen. Their eyes were hopeful and glazed over as if experiencing the type of rapture that comes from contemplating divine things. As I watched their faces break into euphoric smiles I was reminded of a tent show I’d been to as a kid, where a preacher offered to trade the town folk miracles for money.
Only there were no preachers around.
I didn’t want to leave. But apparently the guys in the van had seen me trying to talk to the old folks, because the driver climbed out holding a cell phone to his ear, and within seconds, a cop car pulled in front of the church. I waved goodbye to my elderly friends and to the cops and van guys as well, and jogged back to my car. No sense in ruffling feathers my first day on the job.
I glanced at the church again and saw more people heading there. All were old or sickly, though some were being pushed in wheelchairs by younger, healthy people. All of them: healthy or sick, young or old, looked like they came for a miracle. Silently, I wished them well, but couldn’t help thinking they were the same people who’d travel 50 miles and stand in line to see a piece of French toast that looks like St. Paul’s bullfrog.
I backed onto Eighth, made my way to the corner and turned right on A1A. I’d got about a mile before losing the feeling of euphoria. I didn’t know what the power was, or how it spread, but it seemed to emanate from the church. At least today it did. Of course, yesterday I felt it behind the B&B and the night before it occurred a mile further south. So what had I really learned? My life had been filled with strange experiences, but this one took the cake! If the town wanted to make a killing, maybe they could find a way to harness the energy around that church and sell it. I doubted that was possible, but on the chance it might be, I gave serious thought to heading back that way with an empty bottle and a cork.
But that would have to wait.
I drove another half-mile and turned into the parking lot of The Seaside B&B, where, as caretaker, my first order of business was squirrel infestation.
I’d begun my military career right out of high school as a sniper for the Army. In those days I learned how to move stealthily through the woods and tall grass, where distance traveled was often measured in feet per hour. What I’m saying, it was a rare day that I didn’t encounter snakes, rodents and insects of all types, so I had no fear of St. Alban’s tree squirrels.
But I had no intention of climbing into that attic yet.
Most animals will give you a wide berth, provided you don’t back them in a corner. In the wild, there are plenty of escape routes for the big and small beasties, all of who are nervous, frightened, or curious. When they see or hear or feel you coming, the nervous move on, the frightened growl or hiss and move on, and the curious stop to look, maybe piss or defecate near you, but eventually slither or scurry away.
But the Seaside attic was self-contained, with walls, a floor and a ceiling and only a few small holes available to the beasties as escape routes. I had no idea what might be lurking in the eaves and insulation-filled floorboards of that attic, but there was one thing I did know: this was their attic, not mine. It had been theirs for a long time, and I wasn’t going to change that in a day, or even a week.
I had a plan.
