The Miracle (50 page)

"Oh my God, I am heartily sorry for having ofifended you," she whispered, "and I detest all my sins, because of your punishments, but most of all because they offend you, my God, who are all good and

deserving of all my love. I firmly resolve, with the help of your grace, to confess my sins, to do penance, and to amend my life. Amen."

Rising, limping down the aisle, Edith made her way to the confessional box where Father Ruland had said a priest would be waiting. Advancing toward it, Edith tried to speculate on the priest's reaction to her confession. Since Father Ruland knew a clergyman would be there to hear her, there was some hope that the priest might be as broad-minded as Ruland himself. Reggie had always said that of all the priests in Lourdes, Father Ruland was the most practical, and reasonable, the priest most aware of the difficult ways of the world. Perhaps his appointee would be equally reasonable and flexible tonight or perhaps he would be offended. She could not guess which.

Inside the confessional booth, Edith knelt once more and addressed the openwork lattice set in the wall.

"Father, I need help."

An avuncular voice, slightly muffled, came through the lattice. "You may proceed."

From frequent practice in recent years, Edith went directly into the confessional procedure. "Bless me. Father," she began. "I confess to Almighty God and to you, Father, that I have sinned. It is almost a week since my last confession. I accuse myself of a single sin that occurred earlier today."

There was no response from the other side of the lattice, but Edith knew that the priest who was there was attentive. Edith resumed, feeling confident that what she was about to say was protected by the seal of the confessional. "Father, my recovery, which the Medical Bureau accepted as a miracle cure, and which my archbishop in London told me would be announced as such, is a failure. The last physician brought here to give final vahdation has found that the cure was temporary. The tumor is growing once more."

There was a brief silence. Then the priest spoke in an undertone. "You are sure of this? Your doctor is certain?"

"Yes, he is certain."

"Has he reported this to Dr. Berryer?"

"To no one but me, just Reggie and me."

"And your sin? You are ready to confess it?"

"I am. Father. Dr. Kleinberg informed me that my condition would worsen, would prove fatal, unless I submitted to a new kind of treatment that a certain doctor has been experimenting with secretly. This doctor is prepared to come to Lourdes tomorrow to try it on me Sunday. I am told I would have a seventy percent chance of recovery. If

I am healed by surgery, I can no longer be called miraculously cured, canir

The priest evaded the question. "Your sin?"

"I am fighting temptation, Father. As long as I am regarded as a miracle woman, I can help my husband. Right now he is doing wonderfully with our restaurant. But all of my inheritance is invested in this business. The minute that I am not a miracle woman any more, the business will deteriorate and eventually we will lose everything. Reggie and I put our heads together and we came up with a plan. This is my real sin. Father. I sent Reggie to Dr. Kleinberg to ask whether, if I submitted to this medical treatment and it was successful, he could shut his eyes to it and tell the Medical Bureau that I had been miraculously cured. We asked him to he on my behalf."

"And Dr. Kleinberg, what did he say to this request?"

"He said that he could not vahdate me as miraculously cured. Only the church could do that. He said that if I found someone m the church who was willing to overlook the treatment -- assuming I had it— and state that my cure had been miraculous, he would not interfere or mention the operation. He suggested I ask someone in the church to consider announcing that my cure was a miracle." Her voice was hesitant. "Is that possible. Father?"

There was a short silence. At last the priest's reply came through the lattice. "No, it is not possible. To know that you have been cured by medical means but pretend you have been cured by miraculous means would be a deceit the church could not condone. I am sorry."

Shaken, and ashamed, Edith pleaded plaintively through the lattice. "Father, I am lost. What should I do?"

"To save yourself? As your priest, I can only suggest that you offer yourself once more to the mercies of the Blessed Virgin. But I do understand the hesitation you might have about doing that, since you have believed that you were cured by Her, and for some reason unknown to us, you were not. On the other hand, your physician suggests that if you submit to medical science and surgery, you have a greater certainty of survival. You must make the choice."

"Then, Father, I should submit to surgery?"

"Why not? You may very well be healed in order to be useful on earth, but you cannot call your healing miraculous."

"Well, I guess whatever I do, I am choosing between two kinds of death. Because, even if I live, I can never be a miracle woman again."

There was a lengthier silence, and finally the priest spoke. "We do not believe that miracles are enjoyed only by ailing persons miraculously cured at the grotto. There are, in God's infinite wisdom, numer-

ous other miracles that occur. There will be a different kind of miracle in Lourdes this week. The person to whom the Blessed Virgin appears, on Her reappearance, the person who sees the Virgin, will be a miracle person—a miracle man or a miracle woman."

"Really?"

"Certainly. That person, like Bernadette earlier, would for all eternity be known as a miracle person."

With that, Edith nodded and finished her confession. "I am sorry for my sin—my sins—asking my doctor what I did . . . and asking you. I am sorry for those sins and all the sins of my whole life, in particular my sins of selfishness and greed."

The priest responded automatically. As a penance for her sins, he assigned her to a dozen Hail Marys. Then he gave her absolution.

When it was over, Edith rose to her feet, left the booth, walked unevenly up the aisle and out of the Church of the Sacred Heart. Her course was clear.

She would phone Reggie at the restaurant where she had urged him to remain and tell him to inform Dr. Kleinberg that she was ready for Dr. Duval's new surgery—surgery and inevitable destitution—as soon as possible.

After that, she would go to the grotto and pray beneath the niche, pray fervently once more and hope that the Virgin Mary would appear to her and save her before the scalpel could touch her flesh.

Profoundly miserable, she started limping away. As she left, only one strange thing niggled at her -- the voice of the priest in the confessional—it had seemed faintly familiar ... if it had been more distinct she would have sworn that it had been none other than the voice of Father Ruland.

Saturday, August 20

The sun was rising this early morning in Lourdes when Father Ruland, having finished his breakfast, left the large Chaplains' Residence behind the Upper Basihca and strolled toward the ramp which would take him to his office in the Rosary Basihca.

Normally, during this walk, he was accustomed to inhaling God's good air deeply for his health, to compensate for his sedentary way of life. However, this crisp morning, he was too bemused to breathe deeply.

Strolling along. Father Ruland was lost in thought, and what occupied his mind was Edith Moore's confession last night. At almost the final moment, he had decided to sit behind the lattice in the Church of the Sacred Heart and hsten to Edith's confession himself. Ruland did not know if Edith had recognized his voice, even though he had partially covered his mouth when he had spoken to her. If she had suspected or guessed at his presence, it really did not matter. What mattered had been her confession itself, which some instinct had driven him to hear.

The miraculous cure that Ruland had looked forward to announcing, a marvelous declaration for The Reappearance Time, was no more. The news had been unexpected, but there could be no doubting it. Dr. Kleinberg had been summoned here because he was among the best in

his specialty, and his tests and X rays—which led to his diagnosis— could not he. Edith Moore had been cured (probably a spontaneous remission), and now she was no longer cured.

Father Ruland turned the matter over in his mind. From a selfish point of view, it was a sad outcome. The Church could have used her miraculous cure to great advantage, heralded it far and wide, and profited from the publicity. Nor was he unmindful of the loss this was to the Moores. They had invested everything in commercializing the cure, and they would be bankrupted in many other ways as well.

He wished that he could condone the deceit that Edith Moore had begged for. He had, in his weaknesses, committed many small sins, but he had never committed a large one. In fact, it surprised him that Dr. Paul Kleinberg, a physician of impeccable reputation, had lent himself to collaborating in a deceit—but then, he really hadn't. He had really left the final decision and actual deceit to a clergyman, to Ruland himself. Ruland wondered if Dr. Kleinberg, learning of Edith's rejection by the clergy, might dare reconsider and certify her on his own, but instantly he knew that Kleinberg would not. He knew that Kleinberg was a Jew, and would have no wish to become a medical Dreyfus. Well, that was that. Poor, unhappy Edith.

Still, Father Ruland reminded himself, he had tried to help Edith Moore in his fashion. He had tried to tell her something. It had been oblique, subtle, and in no way could God truly fault him for his humanity, but Ruland was afraid that Edith Moore was too dim-witted to grasp what he had tried to tell her.

He sighed. He had done as much as an honest servant of God could do. He, too, could be absolved for having no further involvement in the unfortunate woman's case.

Aware that he had arrived at the Rosary Esplanade, he went to his office, where he planned to settle down for a long and strenuous day at his desk.

Entering his office, Father Ruland was surprised at the visitor who had preceded him, although not surprised that his visitor had located the key to the only cabinet in the office, unlocked it, found the fifth of J & B scotch, and was pouring himself a whisky straight.

The lanky bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes, Monseigneur Peyragne, came away from the cabinet with the shot of whisky in hand, acknowledged Ruland with a short dip of his head, and folded himself into the chair across from Ruland's desk. "I'm impressed by the early hours you keep," said the bishop.

"I am even more impressed by your being here earher," said Father Ruland, occupying his chair behind the desk. "These are busy

days." He studied the bishop's creased face. "Anything wrong, Your Excellency?"

"Yes, busy days," Bishop Peyragne agreed. He sipped his whisky, then lay his head back and threw down the rest of the drink. "But unproductive days. That is what troubles me."

"Unproductive in what sense?"

"You know what I mean, Ruland. This is a special week. We're here in Lourdes—at least I am—for a special reason."

"Of course, the reappearance of the Blessed Virgin."

"I know that you are the repository of all information on everything that is happening in Lourdes," said the bishop. "Is there anything happening? Has there even been a hint of the Virgin's reappearance?"

'The usual number of sightings by a few who are unstable or emotionally disturbed. Brief questioning brings an end to their fancies. It is not difficult to ferret out the truth."

"Yes, I imagine you're good at that."

"Merely experienced," said Father Ruland modestly.

"I don't mind telling you I'm troubled," said the bishop. "I was worried about this event from the moment that His Holiness ordered us to make the announcement. After all, in my lifetime, in fact since Bernadette's time, the Blessed Virgin has never appeared in this area. It gives one cause for concern. Too much pressure has built up. I don't like the atmosphere of Great Expectations."

"Still, Your Excellency, this is all the result of the Virgin's word to us."

"Through Bernadette, only through Bernadette," said the bishop unhappily. "Perhaps her writings in the journal were misread or misinterpreted."

"I have no sense of error," said Father Ruland. "I have studied the journal many times myself. Bernadette was precise in her report of the secret that the Virgin Mary had confided to her—exact as to the year, the month, the days of the Virgin's coming. This is the year, the very month, the days promised."

"Within eight days. She would reappear, the Virgin promised. This is the seventh day. That leaves but one more day," said the bishop.

"True."

"I think that gives reason for concern. What if Bernadette herself made a mistake? What if she did not hear the Virgin correctly, or in setting down what she had heard in 1858, after many years had passed, what if her memory had distorted her recollection? If some human error like that could be learned before time runs out, it could be an-

nounced and would be understood and the Church would escape censure. Yes, what if Bernadette made a mistake?"

Father Ruland would not be swayed. "I don't think she made a mistake, Your Excellency."

The bishop sat up. "Well, it's in your hands." He put his empty shot glass on the edge of the desk and rose to his feet. "I must be off. Only today and tomorrow left. I trust you will stay closely in touch." He started for the door. "I wish I were as sure as you."

Father Ruland stood up with a small bow. "Have faith," he said with a smile.

The bishop of Tarbes and Lourdes paused, responded with an angry glare, and left the office in the Rosary Basihca.

In the pleasantly decorated office of Inspector Fontaine, in the Commissariat de police de Lourdes at 7, Rue du Baron-Duprat, Liz Finch had just about finished her interview, and the page of the spiral notepad resting on her crossed knees was still blank.

It was a fruitless exercise, this interview, Liz knew, and besides, Bin Trask had already told her that he and API had no interest in the murder of a nonentity. Still, hoping for some break in the story, but mainly because she had little else to do or report and because she was becoming desperate, Liz had arranged the interview and had gone through with it.