We went to bed in our clothes, didn’t sleep, and were back at the site of the fire at six a.m. Police arrived, as did the fire chief, an arson investigator, and an insurance adjuster.
The fire was out, but the nightmare continued.
I stared at what remained of JMJ and tried to picture what had happened since yesterday morning, when I kissed James good-bye, got into my car with Gilly, and drove to work. Sometime between taking Chloe Tremaine to the hospital and getting word in the ICU that there was a go-home emergency, this devastation had occurred.
I tried to picture that first spark. Had the wiring in the old church frayed and started the blaze? Or had someone deliberately torched our dreams?
The arson investigator, a man with a deeply lined face and a badge pinned to his jacket, stopped us from going into the church. He introduced himself as Walt Harrison and said, “It’s not safe in there, folks. The rest of the roof could fall through. Same for the floor.”
We stood just outside the dripping doorway as Harrison flashed his light around the scorched and ashen interior.
“Here’s what I see. This fire started under the loft. A Molotov cocktail, or something like it, was tossed under there. Superheated smoke and poisonous gases traveled into the bell tower and steeple. As the gases ignited, the steeple, the tower, this section of the roof, collapsed.”
Pale shafts of light came through the open roof and illuminated the ancient church bell, lying on its side on the floor.
Harrison took us to his mobile office inside a van. He asked, “Who do you think would do this?”
James told Harrison about the raging controversy surrounding JMJ, concluding, “Some people”-his voice cracked-“a lot of people think what we’re doing is wrong.”
“So I’ve heard,” said Harrison. “I’d like you to look at some photos that were taken at the fire. Arsonists-if it is arson-are fascinated by the fires they set. They really cannot stay away.”
Harrison turned his computer screen toward us and clicked through shots of the crowd watching our burning church. I skipped over the faces of neighbors and friends and stabbed at the face of a man who hated us.
“I ran into him last night, Walt. His name is Lawrence House, and he told me that the fire was ‘divine intervention.’ Months ago, he pulled a gun in our church. We got it away from him before he could hurt anyone.”
James gave details to Harrison, and I thought ahead to the near future.
Our congregants would have to be interrogated.
The church would have to be rebuilt.
Even the rectory would require rescue.
I thought of my father quoting Nietzsche at my fourteen-year-old self: “What does not kill me makes me stronger.”
This fire hadn’t killed us. We would come back from this. And we would be stronger.
Chapter 101
I WAS painting the new cabinets in the rectory kitchen when Zach Graham showed up without warning, shouting, “Hello, Red!” Totally startled, I knocked over a paint can, which jumped off the counter and beyond the drop cloth, scared Gilly, who burst out crying, and sent Birdie racing across the spill, tracking powder-blue footprints across the ancient wide-board floors.
Zach laughed at the chaotic scene he’d caused, which was right out of a fifties Lucille Ball comedy, with me in the starring role. I didn’t find it funny. He got that, loud and clear.
“Uh-oh. So sorry, Brigid,” said Zach. “I woulda called, but I don’t have your number.”
“That can be remedied, Yank. Got something to write on?”
“Let me help,” he said.
His help with paper towels was pretty hopeless, but Gilly became fascinated with Zach’s attempts and stopped screaming.
“All done,” he said. “The floor can be washed, right?”
I was glad to see Zach and, at the same time, a little freaked out that he’d just shown up in my house without warning. I moved the drop cloth, the bucket, and the brushes out of the way, put on the kettle, washed my hands in the big, old-fashioned sink, and after Zach did the same, I handed him a dish towel.
I sent Gilly out to the vegetable garden with a basket for peas. The garden was safe, fenced in, and I could watch her from the kitchen windows.
“So. How ya been?” I asked Zach.
“Well, I broke a wrist playing pickup hoops. All better now.” He flexed to show me. “I’m taking Italian at the New School. And my girlfriend dumped me because, I don’t know. She said it’s not me. She likes someone else better. My best friend.”
“Oh, man,” I said. “Will you live?”
“In time. Every time a door closes, etc.”
I poured tea, brought cookies to the table.
Zach said, “So, the door that opened is actually a great door. Tall. Wide. With an awesome view.”
“Really?”
“I’ve been offered a book deal. Actually, I mentioned your name, but I didn’t expect a publisher to jump over his desk and push a contract into my hands.”
“Wait. My name?”
“Brigid, I had this idea. The Jesus Mary Joseph movement really is a phenomenon. By my last count, there are nearly a hundred JMJ churches now, is that right?”
“One hundred and two. I think. We’re not always told.”
“I stand corrected. One hundred and two in what? Three years? It’s tremendous. It’s controversial. It’s dramatic, and with new records being set every day for the number of bad things happening simultaneously in the world, people are looking for ways to feel connected to God. You and James are providing answers. That’s what makes this a story that must be told.”
“Zach, you’re not a Catholic. You’re not religious at all.”
“You’re right. But this wouldn’t be about me. I don’t have to be Catholic to believe in all the good you and James are doing,” he said. “You’re on the right side of history. And think about this. If I write a book about the JMJ movement, it would offset the cardinal’s smear campaign. That would be good for you, wouldn’t it?”
Before Zach walked in, I’d been thinking about the fire investigation, which had gone nowhere, but the fire was such a personal attack, it remained lodged in my mind. There was no evidence against Lawrence House, and he was still walking free. I saw him at the grocery store, the gas station, the pizzeria, the thrift shop. He wasn’t on my tail, but he was always around. Sometimes he was accompanied by other men, all of whom looked at me as if I were dirty. There could be another attack. A worse one.
I didn’t want to go far from home.
After the fire, I’d taken a leave from the clinic and was splitting my time between managing the church restoration, consulting with priests who’d come to learn about JMJ, and spending mommy time with Gilly. James had been traveling during the reconstruction, attending services in other JMJ churches, which, as Zach had noted, were sprouting up all over the country.
I really didn’t want Zach to write about us. Our work was about making the Church accessible to everyone. And yet, we were in the public domain. Could I even stop Zach from writing this book?
I stared past Zach to the garden, where Gilly was chatting with the scarecrow. My eyes welled up.
Zach said, “Brigid. Brigid, don’t worry. I won’t do this book unless you and James are behind it.”
“I’ll talk to James,” I said.
“Good,” said Zach. “No pressure.”
Zach was a powerful personality, and his New York Times byline lent authority to all his work. Zach was our friend, right?
He hugged me and kissed my cheek, and I waved good-bye to him from the doorway. A few days later, after a lot of thought and prayer, I forwarded my journals to him with a caution.
“This is just a loan.”