There was a cup for tips and I put the change in there and was he grateful?
Was he fuck?
The chatter of the city was the miracle.
I was asked more than once,
“Jack, do you believe in miracles?”
I said,
“Take a wild guess.”
Adding to the mystery, if mystery there was, was that the children had disappeared.
I said aloud,
“Not my problem.”
Five minutes later I was hit by a truck.
A big one.
The expression
I felt like I was hit by a truck.
Let me tell you, actually being hit by a truck is a whole other feeling.
It’s a blend of deep shock, terror, ferocious pain, then unconsciousness.
I came to in a hospital bed, not feeling anything save panic and the realization that my daughter’s miraculous medal was no longer round my neck. In moments of terror I instinctively reached for it.
A nurse said,
“Don’t move, I’ll get the doctor.”
Don’t move!
Was she kidding? I couldn’t raise my head, a sound in my mind of crushing metal and grinding gears overridden by utter fear.
What I most wanted to do was scream.
Very, very loudly.
And at length
The doctor arrived, with the inevitable chart — your future, or lack of it.
He said,
“Mr. Taylor.”
Then paused, a momentary loss, until
“You’re a miracle.”
I managed to say,
“Seems to be the season for them.”
He asked,
“What do you remember?”
“That Mourinho was sacked from Man United.”
He gave me a thorough examination with many
Uh-huts, mms, bumphs,
The kind of noises that scare the shite out of you, that imply,
“You’re fucked.”
He stood back, looked out at me over his glasses, said,
“It’s baffling, you were hit full on by a massive truck. Though you’ve been unconscious for weeks, basically, there’s not a scratch on you.”
I had no reply to this; I was simply astounded.
I said,
“My miraculous medal is gone.”
He added with the hint of a smile,
“No wonder they’re calling you the first miracle of the memorial.”
Oh, shit, no, no.
I croaked,
“Calling me what?”
He seemed perplexed at my ignorance, said,
“The famine memorial, where the children saw the lady of light. You’re the first miracle. It’s all over the media: you’re a bona fide event.”
This was insane. I tried to sit up, near screamed, but my throat hurt, managed,
“The memorial, what in God’s name has that to do with a truck blindsiding me?”
He was now concerned, got some water, and handed it to me with two pills, said,
“Easy, you need to stay calm. Take these, they’ll help.”
Me, I’ll always take the pills but I continued to stare at him, waiting for the explanation.
He sighed, said,
“The children, the ones from the memorial that they’ve been searching for, they tended to you, waited with you until first responders came, then they...”
He clicked his fingers,
“Vanished.”
He left me to ponder and, fuck, pondering was no help.
A nurse stuck her head round the door, said,
“You up for another visitor?”
I echoed,
“Another?”
She gave that Galway girl smile, part devilment, pure attitude, said,
“We’ve had to fight off your public.”
Saw my face, said quickly,
“I’ll get the visitor.”
While I awaited the visitor I noticed a ton of flowers, cards, and, uh-huh,
Rosary beads, relics of many saints, even the glove of Padre Pio.
Phew-oh.
Alongside this bounty of well wishes was a long black box, like you would find enclosing a fountain pen, tied with a bright red ribbon.
I felt a shiver, recalling Truman Capote’s sinister story in Music for Chameleons.
Titled “Handcarved Coffins.”
Fuck. I shook my head, enough with the dread. I was, after all, a bona fide miracle. What could harm me?
Even without my daughter’s medal.
Right?
Opened it and took out a long single match, with a note.
I read,
Jack
Don’t panic, it’s a safety match.
Think of the painter L. S. Lowry.
You and I are angels in fire.
Think Rilke, a favorite of yours if Google is to be believed, and his line,
“Each angel is terrible.”
We will set the city alight.
I am the match, you are the sulfur.
It seems awesomely fitting; you are currently the miracle man,
I am the matchstick man.
Together we will engulf them all.
Yours in flames,
A woman appeared in the doorway, a nun?
My heart jumped.
Maeve?
Impossible.
For years, one of my odd friendships had been with Sister Maeve, a lovely, warmhearted soul, who had been literally torn to pieces by two knife-wielding psychos who killed her as part of a vendetta against me.
Both were buried deep, the bad fuckers.
I named the falcon Maeve in her memory.
The woman before me was only kind of a nun.
In her appearance: She had a discreet nun’s headgear owing more to Gucci than to the Lord, navy tunic with stylish navy pants, white silk shirt with a hint of red at the collar.
Mostly, she had the rugged blonde hair of a California divorcée and the complexion that spoke of serious cash in its care, her age thus anywhere from forty-five to fifty-eight.
Too, even before she spoke, she radiated that fantastic energy and charisma that people from that state exude. They might not have invented vitamin D but they were a walking testament to the benefit of it.
She said,
“Jack, oh, Jack Taylor.”
Yup, definitely American but a British undertone that suggested a Swiss finishing school. She uttered my name in a tone that was rare in my experience. Usually, someone said my name, chaos lurked behind.
But this, this was delight tinged with a type of wonder.
Fuck, I felt better already.
Then — I know this sounds highly unlikely — she blushed. Certainly a red hue appeared in her healthy face. She gasped,
“Where are my manners? I’m Sister Consuela of the Sisters of Solace, but most people call me Connie.”
I echoed,
“Like S.O.S.”
She didn’t get it, looked askance, so I said,
“Like the emergency code.”
Then she got it and smiled in delight, said,
“Oh, I heard you were whip smart, sharp as a scalpel.”
I was still holding the match and she looked at it, in question mode, so I asked,
“Do you smoke?”
Idiotic question. Finding a Californian who smoked would be like finding a priest who wasn’t nervous in the present climate of scandals.
She said,
“No, but I used to.”
Then tittered, I mean actually tittered, as if she’d escaped from a chick-lit scene, admitted,
“In my wild days, oh sweet Lord, I was a rock chick.”
Keefer would be a match (no pun much intended) for her.
I asked,
“What kind of nun are you? I mean, what order: Carmelites, Poor Clares, you get the gist.”