Reunion at Red Paint Bay - By George Harrar Page 0,8

loop he veered onto Larkspur. The street ahead of him was so full of parked cars that he had to pull over a block away. When he reached the sprawling Colonial at number 33 the miracle seekers were lined up on the narrow gravel path next to the house. Yellow police tape stretched across the front walk. A sign tacked to a tree pointed around back. Several women in line fingered rosaries. He heard whispers of “Hail Mary, full of grace …” After a few minutes shuffling forward he turned the corner into the freshly mowed backyard. There was the dirt, piled ten feet high, with a white canopy arching over it and clear plastic draping the sides. The sign staked into the ground said DONATED BY DEVEREAUX CATERERS. A computer-size cardboard box marked BLESSINGS FOR THE VIRGIN sat next to the mound. The woman in front of him pulled out a twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and dropped it in, then crossed herself and kissed her fingers. A man in a business suit did the same. Simon leaned over the box, saw dozens of tens and twenties. These were not spare-change miracle seekers.

“Keep moving, please,” Mrs. Nichols said from her post next to the mound, coaxing people along. She was somewhat grayer than when he interviewed her after her son’s accident, and thicker in the waist. Still impressive, though, almost six feet two, with no hint of stooping over. She was apparently quite comfortable with her size. The dirt did look like a face, he had to admit, and more so of a woman than a man, though he couldn’t say why. There was a small rock for a nose and two slight indentations where eyes would be. But if this was the Virgin Mary, she didn’t have ears, hair, or much of a chin, as far as he could make out.

Mrs. Nichols touched his shoulder. “Please step back if you want to linger.” Simon started to move on, but she grabbed his arm. “Mr. Howe,” she said, “I didn’t recognize you.”

“Nice to see you again, Mrs. Nichols. How’s John?”

She tipped her head to the upstairs window, and there was the boy staring out at the scene in the yard. A round red face and shaved head. “He’s doing fine now. He feels his whole life has been blessed.”

Simon found himself nodding, but to what—a miraculous blessing of this yard, this house, this paralyzed boy? A woman pressed against his side and gave him a little shove. “Quite a crowd you’re getting,” he said as he stepped out of her way.

“Channel 13’s coming out tonight from Portland. They said CBS may pick up the feed, go national. We’ll be mobbed, but I couldn’t keep this to myself and Johnny. That wouldn’t be right.” She let go of his arm. “Sorry I couldn’t give the Register an exclusive, though. I did call you first.”

“I understand,” Simon said.

Mrs. Nichols closed her eyes. “Can’t you feel it?”

“It?”

“The spirit of Our Lady.”

Simon looked back at the pyramid of brown earth, and now the Virgin seemed to be smiling at him.

Fox Run was silent. Standing at the edge of his yard with the mail in his hands, Simon listened. Where were the speeding cars, the mothers calling back wandering children, or the rude teens skateboarding treacherously down the sidewalk? Where were the backfires that sounded like gunshots, or the gunshots that sounded like backfires? Where were the foxes running? The street was uncommonly still, even for Red Paint. He walked the slate path toward his house with the magical mound of earth in his mind. He scanned the rows of white pines on either side of the yard, his eyes searching out an unexpected pattern, some suggestion of design imprinted on nature. What he saw were the ragged branches of trees in desperate need of pruning.

He opened the front door and shouted hello, as he always did, extending the word into nonsense for Davey’s benefit … “Hel-looooo.”

The boy came running from the kitchen, an Oreo clenched between his lips. His sneakers were untied and his T-shirt ripped at the neck. He skidded to a stop and spit the cookie into his hand. “Anything for me, Dad?” His face contorted into an assortment of squints and stretches, as if he were auditioning to be a clown.

“No, and keep doing that, your face might stay twisted up one day, which you won’t like much when you start up with girls.”

“I already got a girl.” Davey sucked