“Where do you want to go, Moe?” Margie asked. “We can’t stay here. We’ve got to take care of you.” She looked deeply into his eyes. He seemed to be attempting some form of communication. Perhaps ESP. “Home?” Margie asked.
Green appeared to relax. He nodded.
“Then it’s home,” Margie said.
“I don’t think so,” said the EMS crewman.
“What?”
“We don’t take people home. Just to the hospital.”
Margie was annoyed. “Then we’ll get an ambulance. Young lady …” She addressed Pat Lennon. “… would you please call an ambulance service?”
“Sure.” And Lennon did.
“Lady,” the EMS man said, “takin’ him home might not be your smartest move. This guy needs some attention …. I mean, he was gonna get buried.”
“He’s a doctor, a physician,” Margie said angrily. “He wants to go home. Any law against that?”
He shrugged. “You’re the boss.” The EMS crew gathered its paraphernalia and left.
While giving the family and the two priests room to breathe, many in the crowd continued to jockey for a better vantage. Some few stood apart, feeding on the rumors and sightings of those up front. At least no one was shouting or shoving now.
Aunt Sophie, by this time, had regained her feet and was regaling a captivated audience with her essential role in these truly extraordinary events. It was, she insisted, her voice that had penetrated her brother’s lifeless ears and called him back from the dead.
As the EMS crew packed up to leave, Sophie became aware that decisions were being made-decisions that lacked her input. This was not acceptable. By anyone’s measure, she was the moving force in this drama; but for her, Moe would be proceeding toward his grave. “Why,” she demanded, “is Moe not being taken to the hospital?”
“Because,” Judith said, “he doesn’t want to go.”
“Doesn’t want to go! Then where-?”
“We’re taking him home,” Margie said testily. “That’s where he wants to go.”
Sophie pondered that for a very few moments. “Okay, that makes sense. He’ll be hungry. I’ll fix him some soup. You got any chicken, Margie? Never mind; there must be a butcher shop in this god-awful city. It won’t be kosher. But that’s okay … I’ll fix it.”
Margie chewed on her lip. She wasn’t going to say what she felt like saying. Finally she said firmly, “David, make sure your Aunt Sophie has a place to stay for tonight. One of the downtown hotels should be all right. And arrange for her air transportation back home tomorrow. That’s a good boy.”
“What?!” Sophie exploded.
David winced. The battle was joined. And he was monkey in the middle.
Father Reichert was oblivious to this or any other distraction. He had his miracle and it had driven him to his knees in silent awe.
Father Koesler moved far enough apart so that while he could not shut out the angry voices entirely, he was at least not pulled into the dispute. Pat Lennon crossed to his side. With him, she stood staring at Sophie and Margie. “Who’s going to win this one?”
“No doubt whatever,” said Koesler. “Mrs. Green.”
“I don’t know; that aunt seems like a pretty dogged dame.”
Koesler smiled briefly. “You are not acquainted with Mrs. Green, then.”
“Only at various celebrity functions. You have a different experience with her?” She flipped open her notebook and stood with poised pen.
Koesler looked pointedly at her reporter’s tools. “This is just what I most feared would happen.”
“Father,” Lennon said reasonably, “face it: This is a major news story. This could be the greatest thing since Lazarus. There’s nothing you can do to stop it; it’s going to be reported.”
“Oh, I know that. That isn’t exactly what I had in mind.”
“Oh?”
“I was on a bit of thin ice when I agreed this afternoon to permit the wake in church. The understanding was that everything would be low key, brief, to the point and, most of all, over speedily. The considerable size of this crowd was a major surprise. But this …” He gestured toward the central scene, where, with Margie cradling her husband, it was beginning to resemble a secular Pieta… marred, of course, by the angrily contesting women.
“I know this is going to be reported,” he said. “I suppose we’re only minutes away from being invaded by a whole slew of reporters-TV and radio people. That will complicate things for me. But the reporting of this incident is not what I meant when I said I was scared of what might happen. The incident-any incident that would call attention to what I kind of reluctantly consented to-that’s what I was afraid might happen. And it has-in spades.
“But …” Koesler smiled at Lennon. “… I really couldn’t ask for a better reporter to be first with this story than you.”
He meant it. As the first reporter on the scene and the only one actually present during the event, it was Lennon’s story. She knew how to run with it.
Her record spoke of her professionalism and capability. If there was more than one side to a story, she covered each side. She would not exaggerate for the story’s sake. On top of everything else, she could write correct English. Koesler was fortunate this would be her story. And he knew it.
Without including any detail he judged to be of a private or privileged nature, Koesler gave Lennon the basic facts. The reason for the request for the parochial wake. The Catholicism of widow and children. That none but the redoubtable Aunt Sophie, from the deceased’s side of the family, was likely to attend. The search for direction from Church law.
And the agreement to keep it simple.
Koesler watched as Lennon scribbled. He knew just enough to know that what she was writing was not standard script. Nonetheless he envied her ability to use any form of shorthand. That, coupled with a good ear for speech patterns and dialects, added to her accuracy.
As if on cue, the ambulance arrived just as Koesler concluded his account. Lennon thanked him and, in parting, added, “Now, let’s see if my calling EMS and the ambulance gets me a ride with the family.”
She entered the inner circle and said a few words to Mrs. Green, who hesitated briefly, then nodded.
The ambulance and two cars sped off. The ambulance carried Dr. and Mrs. Green and Pat Lennon. One car contained Judith, the other, David and Aunt Sophie, whose pride was sore afflicted.
The thought occurred to Koesler that he might lock up the church and take refuge in the rectory before the media arrived. The thought died aborning. There was no sign that the spectators were anywhere close to leaving the scene of tonight’s circus. Especially since no sooner was the ambulance out of sight than the TV crews arrived and headed directly for Koesler as the figure in charge. The TV crews had actually been preceded by members of the print and radio media. But the pecking order was established and pretty much followed.
Koesler did his best to answer their not-well-phrased questions. None of them seemed to know exactly what he or she was looking for.
As the reporters spread out through the church interviewing eyewitnesses, the word “miracle” was uttered with abandon. Later, on the ten and eleven o’clock newscasts, some anchors would tease their way into the story by labeling it “The Miracle on Jay Street.” The tag would be copied by some of the newspapers and radio stations.
Eventually and mercifully, the media as well as the crowd began to thin. At last Koesler could lock up after an evening he would never forget. He wanted to believe that somehow his role in all this was close to over. He knew this was wishful thinking.
He passed among the pews-empty. He searched the nooks and crannies-empty. The only other person still in the church was Dan Reichert, who stood, head bowed, where earlier he had knelt to do reverence to the “miracle.”
In truth, his constant reference to it as a miracle was the major source of the media’s loose use of the term. In the news reports tonight and tomorrow morning, Father Daniel Reichert, a senior priest of the Archdiocese of Detroit, would be quoted as stating that this was, indeed, a miracle. Over and over the statement would be attributed to him.