F Paul Wilson - Novel 03 (27 page)

           
 
"He says he's got a complaint,"
Augusta said, looking annoyed and defensive.

           
 
The guests often complained about Augusta,
saying she was stingy with the portions she doled out. Which was true. She
treated the soup and bread as if it were her own. Carrie and Dan had been over
this with her again and again: The idea here was to serve everything they made,
then make more for the next meal. But they couldn't very well tell her she
wasn't welcome behind the counter anymore—they needed every helping hand they
could find.

           
 
Carrie glanced around for Dan, hoping he could
field this, but he was standing by the front door, deep in conversation with
Dr. Joe.

           
 
"Preacher don't want me to say nothin',
Sister," Pilgrim said, "but he found this in his mouth while he was
eating his soup and I think you would know about it."

           
 
He held out his hand and in the center of his
dirty palm lay a three-inch hair.

           
 
"I'm Preacher's eyes, you know."

           
 
"I know that," Carrie said.

           
 
Everybody knew that. Mainly because Pilgrim
told anyone who would listen whenever he had a chance. Preacher was blind and
Pilgrim was his devoted disciple, leading him from park to stoop to street
corner, wherever he could find a small gathering that might listen to his
message of imminent Armageddon.

           
 
"I'm usually pretty good but this one
slipped by me. I kinda feel like I let him down."

           
 
"Oh, I'm sure Preach doesn't feel that
way," Carrie said, plucking the hair from his palm. "But I do
apologize for this, and tell him I'll do my best to see that it doesn't happen
again."

           
 
"Oh, no!" Pilgrim said, agitatedly
waving his hands in front of her. "You got me wrong. It ain't your
fault." He pointed a finger at Augusta. "It's hers. Look at that gray
hair straggling all over the place, and that's a gray hair Preacher found.
She's supposed to be wearing a net. I know 'cause I useta work in a diner and
we all hadda wear hairnets."

           
 
"He has no right to say that,
Sister," Augusta snapped.

           
 
Just then the basement phone began ringing in
the far corner of the kitchen. Hilda Larsen went to get it.

           
 
"It's for you, Sister," Hilda called
from inside. "Your brother."

           
 
Uh-oh, Carrie thought as she hurried back into
the kitchen and took the receiver. Brad never called her at Loaves and Fishes.
This could only mean that his American Express bill had arrived.

           
 
"Hi, Brad," she said. "I can
explain all those charges."
Well,
most of them, anyway.

           
 
"What charges?"

           
 
"On the card. You see—"

           
 
"I didn't get the bill yet, Car. And
whatever it is, don't give it a second thought."

           
 
"I went a bit overboard, Brad."

           
 
"Carrie, I've got more money than I know
what to do with and no one to spend it on. So let's not mention AmEx charges
again. That's not why I called. It's about Dad."

           
 
Carrie felt all the residual warmth from her
hours with the Virgin this morning empty out of her like water down a drain.

           
 
"What about him?" she said coldly,
asking only because it was expected of her. She didn't care a thing about that
man. Couldn't. The mere mention of him froze all her emotions into suspended
animation.

           
 
"He passed out. They had to move him to
the hospital. They say it's his heart acting up again."

           
 
Carrie said nothing as Brad paused, waiting
for her reaction. When the wait stretched to an uncomfortable length, he
cleared his throat.

           
 
"He's asking for you."

           
 
"He's always asking for me."

           
 
"Yeah, but this time—"

           
 
"This time will be just like the last
time. He'll get you all worked up thinking he's going to die, get you and me
going at each other, then he'll come out of it and go back to the nursing
home."

           
 
"He's changed, Carrie."

           
 
"He'll always be Walter Ferris. He can't
change that."

           
 
"You know," Brad said, "I wish
you'd take one tiny bit of the care and compassion you heap upon those nobodies
down there and transfer it to your own father. Just once."

           
 
"These nobodies never did to me what that
man did to me. It's because of him that I'm down here with these nobodies. We
can both thank him for where we are."

           
 
"I've managed to do okay."

           
 
"Have you?"

           
 
Now it was Brad's turn for silence.

           
 
Carrie wanted to ask him why he hadn't been
able to sustain a relationship. It seemed every time he got close to a woman he
backed off. Why? What was he afraid of? That he was like his father? That a
little bit of that man hid within him? And that if he had children of his own
he might do what his father did?

           
 
But she couldn't say that to Brad. All she
could say was, "I love you, brother."

           
 
And she meant it.

           
 
"I love you too, Carrie."

           
 
Suddenly she heard voices rising in the Big
Room.

           
 
"I've got to go. Call me soon."

           
 
"Will do."

           
 
As Carrie turned away from the phone, she saw
Augusta
coming toward her.

           
 
"Honestly, Sister. That wasn't my hair.
Mine's long and thick. That one Pilgrim gave you is short and fine."

           
 
"It's okay,
Augusta
," she said, brushing past the old
woman. "What's going on in the Big Room?"

           
 
"Probably another fight,"
Augusta
said. "You know how they are."

           
 
But it wasn't a fight. The regulars—Rider,
Dandy, Lefty, Dirty Harry, Poppy, Bigfoot, Indian, Stoney, One-Thumb George—and
a few of the newer ones were clustered around one of the long tables. She saw
Dan standing on the far side of the circle as Dr. Joe bent over Preacher, who
sat ramrod straight, holding his hands before his face.

           
 
"A miracle!" Pilgrim was screeching,
dancing and gyrating among the tables of the Big Room. "I always knew
Preacher had the power, and now it's come! It's a miracle! A fucking
miracle!"

           
 
Carrie pushed closer. Preacher was staring at
his hands, muttering. "I can see! Praise God, I can see!"

           
 
She stepped back and stared at the short
strand of gray hair in her hand. It hadn't come from
Augusta
. She recognized it now. It was the same
length and color as the stray strands Carrie had been trimming from the Virgin
a short while ago. It must have stuck to her sleeve downstairs and fallen into
the soup as she was adding the ingredients.

           
 
A miracle . . .

           
 
She wanted to laugh, she wanted to cry, she
wanted to grab Pilgrim's hands and join him in a whirling dervish.

           
 
Oh, Pilgrim, she thought as she hurried back
through the kitchen and down to the subcellar. If only you knew how right you
are!

           
Yes, it was a miracle. And Carrie
had a feeling it would not be the last.

           
 
"Preacher can really see again," Dan
said for the third or fourth time. Evening had come and they were cleaning up
the Big Room after dinner. "Not well, mind you. He can recognize his hand
in front of his face and not much more, but at least that's something. He's
been totally blind for forty years."

           
 
Carrie had decided to hold off telling Dan
about the piece of the Virgin's hair in the soup. He'd only go into his
Doubting Thomas routine. She'd wait till she had more proof. But she couldn't
resist priming him for the final revelation.

           
 
She glanced around to make sure they were out
of earshot of the volunteers in the kitchen.

           
 
"Do you think it's a miracle?" she
said softly.

           
 
Dan didn't look up as he wiped one of the long
tables. "You know what I think about miracles."

           
 
"How do you explain it then?"

           
 
"Jose says it might have been hysterical
blindness all along, and now he's coming out of it. He's scheduled him for a
full eye exam tomorrow."

           
 
"Well, far be it from me to disagree with
Dr. Joe."

           
 
Dan stopped in mid-wipe and stared at her.
"Aw, Carrie. Don't tell me you think—"

           
 
"Yes!" She said in a fierce whisper.
"I think a certain someone has announced her presence."

           
 
"Come on, Carrie—"

           
 
"You and Jose believe in your hysterical
blindness, if you wish. All I know is that Preacher began to see again within
hours of a certain someone's arrival."

           
 
Dan opened his mouth, then closed it, paused,
then shook his head. "Coincidence, Carrie."

           
But he didn't sound terribly
convincing.

           
 
Carrie couldn't repress a smile. "We'll
see."

           
 
"We'll see what?"

           
 
"How many 'coincidences' it takes to convince
you."

           
FRUITLESS
VIGIL IN TOMPKINS SQUARE

           
 
Approximately 1,000 people gathered last night
for a candlelight prayer vigil in

           
 
Tompkins
Square
Park
. Surrounded by knots of curious homeless,
many of whom call the park home, the predominantly female crowd prayed to the
Virgin Mary in the hope that she would manifest herself in the. park.

           
 
Sightings of a lone woman, described as
"glowing faintly," and identified as the Blessed Virgin, have been
reported with steadily increasing frequency all over the
Lower East Side
during the past few weeks.

           
 
Despite many recitations of the Rosary, no
manifestation occurred. Many members of
 
the crowd remained undaunted, however, vowing
to return next Sunday evening.

           
 
THE
NEW YORK
POST