“I’m sorry,” he said. “What was I saying?”
“You were saying I couldn’t imagine the dry spell St. Alban’s has had.”
“Oh, right. Well, to be honest, I can’t really imagine it, either. But I’ve heard the stories, we all have. During the worst of it, our forefathers barely managed to keep their families alive.”
“Why’s that?”
“The town was cursed.”
“Excuse me?”
His words had come too quickly, and he seemed to regret having said them. He hastened to add, “But that was then, and this is now.”
“The town was cursed?”
He smiled. “Forget I said that, it’s just an old wife’s tale, a figure of speech. What’s important is the tide has turned, and it’s a new day, a happy time for our town.”
Pocket sat back in his chair and filled the silence between us by drumming his fingers on his belly. Before long he had a rhythm going where each tap produced a hollow sound not unlike a housewife thumping a melon for ripeness. He abruptly brought his concert to a close and looked at the check again.
“This is valid?” he said.
I nodded.
“And you’re a cook.”
“Cook and caretaker,” I said.
He winked. “Amazing, isn’t it?”
“What’s that?”
“We’ve been holding off this foreclosure for six months, hoping something would work out. We’re days away from filing, and suddenly, out of the blue, you and your girlfriend just happen to show up in time to save Beth’s Inn.”
“So?”
“Don’t you find that amazing? I mean, you being a total stranger and all?”
“I’m just protecting my job,” I said.
Chapter 9
I FIGURED BOB Pocket would be on the phone before I got out the front door. I also figured he’d shit his pants when he found out I could buy not only the bank in which he worked, but the whole town as well. I’d been worth a half billion dollars before my recent score, but now my net worth was north of six billion. What could this tiny bank be worth, twenty million at best?
Two weeks ago I put twenty-five million in Rachel’s account, which meant The Seaside’s waitress could buy Pocket’s bank. So yes, the check was good.
I walked across the street to Rider’s Drug Store and purchased three EpiPens, which cut their supply in half. The pharmacist looked blissful. He said, “I just ordered those EpiPens last week.”
“You sell a lot of them, do you?”
“In all the years I been here, I sold one,” he said.
“That being the case, why’d you order six?”
“Just had a feelin’,” he said.
“Got a feeling when you’ll sell the other three?”
“Nope, but they’ll sell before the expiration date, you can be sure of that.”
I didn’t know what gave him the confidence to make that statement, but a day ago I wouldn’t have expected to buy three EpiPens, or even one, for that matter. Nor would I have imagined myself giving an innkeeper’s banker a check for sixty grand. Maybe Bob Pocket was right. Maybe there was something charmed about this town. I just hoped the cosmic balance didn’t depend on me.
I took a different route back to the Seaside, but I don’t know why. Main Street to A1A would have been a clear shot, but for some reason High Street to Eighth felt more inviting. Maybe I was subconsciously trying to get the feel of the little town.
Something happened when I turned on High Street.
I felt a tingling sensation. A good one, like the kind you feel when you first climb under the covers on a cold night. The further I drove the more soothing it felt. By the time I hit Eighth, I was practically euphoric. This was the feeling I’d had two nights earlier, when I’d followed Rachel down A1A, and again yesterday when I stood behind the B&B, contemplating the caretaker’s job. I drove past an empty tailor’s shop, some old houses, and a boarded-up dry cleaning store. At the intersection to A1A, on the left-hand corner, I saw a lady carrying what looked like a picnic basket up the steps of an old church. I remained there a moment, my eyes transfixed on the church. I’m not a religious man, nor even a spiritual one, but the feeling I was enjoying seemed to come from the area of the church.
I wasn’t alone in this, either.
In the churchyard, standing reverently, but still, like statues, were half a dozen elderly people. Their eyes were turned skyward, or perhaps I should say balcony-ward, since the second floor balcony on the side of the church seemed to be their point of focus. As I sat on my brake at the stop sign I noticed a small line of people turning the corner. They weren’t together, and none were speaking. But all were making their way toward the churchyard. There was also a van parked twenty yards to the side with two guys in the front seat. Like me, they appeared to be watching the statue people in the churchyard. They had almost certainly brought the first group of old people to the church and appeared to be waiting for them. I backed my rental car, turned into somebody’s driveway, put my flashers on, and climbed out. Crossing the street, I approached two elderly women and a man bent over a cane.
“What’s the attraction?” I asked.
No one answered.
Suddenly, one of the ladies sighed deeply and started moving her head around. Tears welled in her eyes and began streaming down her face. She rounded her shoulders as if warming up to take an exercise class. About that time the man’s cane fell to the ground and he slowly straightened his back. A look of ecstasy crossed his face and tears flowed freely from his eyes. The third woman broke into a wide smile and started dancing in a tight little circle of space.
I looked around.
The others were making small movements with their bodies. Some of the new arrivals stood stock still, as if waiting for something marvelous to happen. Their eyes were hopeful and glazed over as if experiencing the type of rapture that comes from contemplating divine things. As I watched their faces break into euphoric smiles I was reminded of a tent show I’d been to as a kid, where a preacher offered to trade the town folk miracles for money.
Only there were no preachers around.
I didn’t want to leave. But apparently the guys in the van had seen me trying to talk to the old folks, because the driver climbed out holding a cell phone to his ear, and within seconds, a cop car pulled in front of the church. I waved goodbye to my elderly friends and to the cops and van guys as well, and jogged back to my car. No sense in ruffling feathers my first day on the job.
I glanced at the church again and saw more people heading there. All were old or sickly, though some were being pushed in wheelchairs by younger, healthy people. All of them: healthy or sick, young or old, looked like they came for a miracle. Silently, I wished them well, but couldn’t help thinking they were the same people who’d travel 50 miles and stand in line to see a piece of French toast that looks like St. Paul’s bullfrog.
I backed onto Eighth, made my way to the corner and turned right on A1A. I’d got about a mile before losing the feeling of euphoria. I didn’t know what the power was, or how it spread, but it seemed to emanate from the church. At least today it did. Of course, yesterday I felt it behind the B&B and the night before it occurred a mile further south. So what had I really learned? My life had been filled with strange experiences, but this one took the cake! If the town wanted to make a killing, maybe they could find a way to harness the energy around that church and sell it. I doubted that was possible, but on the chance it might be, I gave serious thought to heading back that way with an empty bottle and a cork.