“Go on, Jamie. Tell the man.”
The boy stammered, as if words were new to him. “He healed me.”
“Solemn?”
The boy nodded.
The woman hugged her son and looked deeply into his eyes. “That good man healed him.”
“Just a minute,” Gooding said. He walked toward the boy, who stepped back at his approach. “I’m not going to hurt you, son. I just want a closer look. I’m a policeman.” Gooding knelt in front of the boy. “Show me your hands.”
The boy slowly lifted his arms, and the fingers that had been curled into claws opened toward the deputy.
“Can you walk for me?”
The boy took a few steps. They weren’t perfect.
“Tell me your name.”
“Jamie Witherspoon.”
“How old are you, Jamie?”
“Thirteen.”
“You’ve always been sick?”
“Yes.”
“Always in a wheelchair?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents didn’t put you up to this?”
“No.”
Gooding stood up. “I apologize for that last question,” he said to the boy’s mother. “It’s just that it’s all a little hard to believe.”
In the face of Gooding’s doubt, her own face reflected nothing but love. “Believing is what it’s all about.”
Cork directed them to George LeDuc’s store on the reservation, told them to tell LeDuc their story, and he would escort them to Solemn’s grave. He also told them to ask George to guide them to the home of Solemn’s mother. She would want to hear what they had to say.
As the old station wagon rattled out of the cemetery, Cork said, “You told me once that you’re a man inclined to believe in miracles. So what do you think, Randy?”
For a long time, Gooding simply stared beyond the cemetery fence where the wagon had gone. Finally he shook his head. “I don’t,” he said. “Honest to God, I just don’t know.”
44
Cork arrived home to discover that Mal Thorne had apparently mistaken the front yard for a parking lot. The yellow Nova had jumped the curb, its front wheels coming to rest on the grass apron between the street and the sidewalk. Inside the house, Cork found Annie standing in the living room looking stunned.
“Are you okay?”
She stared at him. “Father Mal’s here.”
“I figured that. Is he sick?”
“Not sick,” she said. “Drunk.”
“Where’s your mom?”
“She took Stevie for a haircut. Father Mal came after they left. I didn’t know what to do.”
“Where is he?”
Annie’s eyes went slowly upward, but Cork knew she wasn’t looking toward heaven.
“In Rose’s room?”
“I heard them talking. He said he’s leaving the priesthood, Dad. He said he’s in love with Aunt Rose and he wants to marry her. How could he do that?”
“He hasn’t done it yet,” Cork said.
Annie looked deeply into her father’s eyes, maybe hoping to find something there that would help her understand. “He’s a priest. The church is his life.”
High above them, in the attic room, something thumped.
“You wait here,” Cork said.
He bounded up the stairs and down the hallway to the opened door that led to the attic. He heard grunting coming from Rose’s room, the sound of a struggle. He took the attic stairs two at a time.
At the far end of the room, Rose’s sewing table lay on its side and her sewing machine had tumbled to the floor. The whole mess was surrounded by a spill of fabric of a dozen designs. Amid the ruin, Rose and Mal Thorne stood locked in a desperate embrace. The moment Cork appeared, Rose peered over the priest’s shoulder and her eyes grew huge.
“Help me,” she gasped. “I can’t hold him up.”
Cork realized that Mal was buckling and all that kept him from falling was Rose’s strength. He slipped his arms around Mal Thorne’s chest, wedging his hands between Rose and the priest.
“Got him,” he said.
The priest roused, enough to help as Cork walked him to the bed. Cork released his grip and Mal flopped on his back on the mattress. Rose lifted his legs and, with Cork’s help, arranged him so that, more or less, he rested comfortably.
Mal wore brown loafers, no socks. His khakis were wrinkled. His plaid shirt was torn, a long wound in the fabric beneath his right arm. His breath was all Southern Comfort. Through heavy lids, he stared up as Rose leaned over him.
“I love you, Rose,” he said, his tongue thick, his lips barely moving. “I love you.”
“Shhh,” Rose hushed him gently. “Just sleep.”
Mal’s eyes drifted closed. He mumbled something, and a few moments later, he was snoring.
Cork was breathing hard. “We’re not going to be able to move him, Rose.”
“It’s okay.” She reached down, tenderly touched Mal’s cheek, the bristle of his red hair. “He can stay here for a while.”
“I’d better check on Annie,” Cork said.
Rose nodded, but she didn’t take her eyes off the man in her bed.
While Cork was busy upstairs, Jo had returned with Stevie. Cork found her in the kitchen listening as Annie recounted, in a voice pitched at the edge of hysteria, what had happened.
“He’s still upstairs with Rose?” Jo asked Cork.
“Yeah, but he’s sleeping now.”
“Sleeping?” Annie said.
“Actually, he’s passed out on your Aunt Rose’s bed.”
“On her bed?” Annie looked mortified. “What are we going to do?”
“Let him sleep it off.” Cork walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer.
“Then what?”
What, indeed? Cork wasn’t happy with Mal, with this intrusion into his home, with the clumsy, thoughtless way the priest had chosen to make his feelings known. But he also understood the terrible conflict that must have been raging in Mal, dammed behind the calm face a man in his position had to maintain. He twisted the cap off his beer and took a swallow.
“It’s not right,” Annie said. “He’s a priest.”
Jo said, “Priests are just people, Annie. They have problems, too. They make mistakes, change their minds-”
“Aunt Rose won’t let him change his mind. He’s a priest.” She caught the look that passed between her parents. “What?”
“Your Aunt Rose loves him,” Jo said.
