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  “Too bad Gabriel Richard didn’t dabble in miracles,” she reflected. “But then, he was having too much trouble with the cholera epidemic.”

  “That’s part of it,” Cox said. “Who the hell is this ‘Father Robert’? He may be a Catholic and he may be a priest, but then what? My Catholic colleagues at the Freep tell me he is definitely a minor leaguer. He doesn’t belong to any of the—what?—big orders . . . does he? Name some.”

  She smiled. Religion was not Cox’s long suit. “Jesuits, Dominicans, Franciscans, Redemptorists, Passionists . . . no, he doesn’t belong to any of the more established orders. But that’s part of the story: where he came from and whether he’s real or a fake.”

  “Real or a fake! Do you mean to tell me you actually believe he could be for real?”

  “I don’t know. But it doesn’t much matter. Say he is real. In that case, I bequeath my story to the religion department while you and I head for vacationland. If he’s a fake, he’s either funny or dangerous.”

  “Funny? Like the tortilla caper?”

  “Exactly. And don’t forget that the tortilla was a good enough story so that people remember it. Just listen to some of the stuff I got from our library this afternoon—all from the News files. Here’s one datelined May 13, 1977: Spiritual leader Cushing Smith, ‘doctor of metaphysics,’ author of the book, ‘I Can Heal Myself and I Will,’ is not feeling well these days.

  “Or, how about this one from ‘73: Faith Healer ‘Sister’ Katherine Wayne swindled Flat Rock man and his wife out of $105,000 by telling them that ‘purifying’ their money might cure his terminal illness.”

  “So the Nixon gang were not the only ones ‘laundering’ money.”

  “Not hardly. But there are others. Datelined 1947, Vandalia, Illinois: Faith healer talked to by a tree when he was eleven.

  “Or, here’s one of my favorites. Datelined 1960, UPI: Faith healer Kivado Nti, who said he could vanish into air, was arrested and taken to jail on fraud charges yesterday.”

  “That’s it?”

  “The entire story.”

  “It took a lot of guts for old Kivado to hang around and go to jail when he could just as easily have gone up in smoke.” Cox checked the odometer. “God! Ten minutes to go on this wheel of torture and I’m already exhausted.”

  “It’s good for you. It’ll take those love handles off your middle. Besides, I’ll do my half-hour after you’re finished.”

  Cox looked appreciatively at all those curves so clearly defined by a minimum of covering. Everything was just where it should be according to God’s best plan. “Honey, you need this machine like Dolly Parton needs an additional size bust.”

  “It couldn’t hurt.” But she smiled as she continued to page through her notes.

  “Don’t you have anything there about my favorite healer?”

  “Lemmee see; that would be Oral Roberts, wouldn’t it? Yeah, here’s a clip about Oral’s facing a deadline by God to raise eight million bucks or die. According to this item, he got 1.3 mill from a Jerry Collins from Florida who owned two greyhound racetracks. For a while, Oral was undecided about accepting money from a gambler.”

  “A very brief while.”

  “And then he took the money and ran.”

  Five minutes to go. Cox figured there was hope. “But what did you say before: something about if the healer were a fake, he’d be funny or what . . . dangerous?”

  “You bet. Here’s a 1945 story about a guy who was killed by a rattlesnake that was used as part of the religious practice of the Dolly Pond Church of God in Chattanooga, Tennessee. Says he was struck in the hand by the snake he was lifting from a box at one of their religious ceremonies. Says he continued to preach for ten minutes. Then he complained of feeling ill. He died an hour later.”

  The high-pitched beep signaled an end to Joe Cox’s self-inflicted torture. “Poor guy just didn’t have enough faith. That, or the snake didn’t believe.

  “Remember the one about the guy who falls off a cliff? About fifty yards down he grabs onto a bush growing out of the side of the cliff. So he’s fifty yards from the top with no way of getting back up, and with a thousand-foot drop beneath him.

  “He yells, ‘Help! Help! Is there anybody up there who can help me?’

  “And a deep voice says, ‘Yes, I can help you. I’m God and I can save you. All you have to do is believe and then let go of that bush. Then I can save you.’

  “The guy thinks this over. Then he yells, ‘Is there anybody else up there?’“

  “‘O ye of little faith,’ eh? But this faith-healing stuff can be pretty brutal, especially when kids get involved. Here’s a 1973 story about an eleven-year-old diabetic boy who died a painful, lingering death after his supply of insulin was thrown out and the kid was treated by a faith healer. And here’s another one—goes back to 1959—datelined Hagerstown, Maryland. This Bible-quoting father claimed he was doing the Lord’s will in not letting modern medicine step in to try to save his five-month-old daughter. She died of pneumonia.”

  “Good God, his own kid!”

  “It can get pretty dicey. But, would you believe this UPI story from 1976? It says that witch doctors and other traditional healers play a crucial role in caring for the sick in poor countries. Then it quotes a report, ‘Health professionals have much to learn from traditional healers regarding their practice of psychotherapy.’“

  Cox, dripping perspiration, slowly dismounted from the exercise machine. “Did I ever tell you about this buddy of mine in the army? He was stationed in southeast Asia with not a hell of a lot to do. So he drank . . . a lot . . . sometimes a very lot. After one such historic night, Ralph ended up with the emperor of all hangovers. He tried everything short of suicide . . . and he was close to that.

  “Then, someone mentioned the local witch doctor. Ordinarily, Ralph would have been insulted that anyone would even suggest anything so bizarre. But—and this is a testament to how awful he felt—he decided to give it a whirl.

  “The witch doctor put him in a hammock near a deep precipice.

  First the doc put on a huge cape. Then he hid something under the cape—but he wouldn’t let Ralph see what it was. Then he approached Ralph, who was taking this in with all the attention he could muster.

  “The doc came right up to Ralph, and three times he flashed him with the object under the cape. Well, it turned out to be a cage containing a creature the doc had sewn together. It was half mongoose and half chicken. After flashing Ralph three times, the doc went over to the edge and threw the cage and its contents off the cliff.

  “The idea was that the evil spirit who was inhabiting Ralph would get so curious and intrigued by the weird creature the doc had created that the spirit would leave Ralph’s body and follow the goblin over the cliff.

  “And you know what? Ralph was cured. He felt great right away. Can you believe that?”

  “In a word, no.”

  “No?” Cox paused in his toweling.

  “That’s about the tenth time you’ve told me that tale.” She held up her hand to forestall a herniated disclaimer. “Oh, it’s a great story and I certainly don’t mind hearing it again. It’s just that I’ve grown accustomed to your buddy, Ralph, even though I’ve never met him.

  “He is not the type guy to have a psychosomatic ailment. You know what I mean? If he were a woman, he’d never have a hysterical pregnancy. So when he complained about a hangover, he had a hangover. And in this case a world class hangover. So when the witch doctor threw his bizarre little creation off the cliff, well, whatever happened, it wasn’t a psychosomatic cure. Ralph’s hangover was not in his mind; it was all over his gut.”

  Lennon slipped on a sweatshirt and headband. She was serious about her exercising. She set the timer, adjusted the seat, and prepared to ride nowhere in particular.

  She continued. “I don’t know what the hell you’d call whatever it was the witch doctor did for Ralph. I’m a little reluctant to call it a miracle. But maybe that’s
my Roman Catholic background coming out. We Catholics tend to believe we’ve got a corner on the miracle market . . .” but she smiled her disbelief at the statement. “I was looking through a book this afternoon called The Faith Healers, by James Randi.”

  “‘The Amazing Randi,’ the magician? You really have been busy.”

  “Gotta.” Lennon picked up her pedaling. “I’ve got a time frame on this story. Got to get it done by vacation time.”

  Cox winced. Now? Almost; wait till she really gets going on the bike.

  “Anyway,” she continued, “Randi pretty well dismisses all faith healers and, for that matter, all faith healing. He’s got some pretty good arguments, although it’s hardly a definitive work. For instance, there’s Lourdes.”

  “Back to the Catholics.”

  “What did you expect the bottom line would be? Even Randi treads a little cautiously with Lourdes. And for good reason. Everything I’ve read about Lourdes tells me the people there are very slow to acknowledge miracles.”

  “With all those canes and crutches hanging from the walls?”

  “Exactly. The religious authorities were very hesitant right from the beginning to stamp what went on in that cave with little Bernadette as miraculous.

  “And that’s the way it’s been ever since. There’ve been hundreds of claimed cures at Lourdes, but very, very few are recognized by the Church. Every once in a while, though, something happens that can’t be explained by any rational argument.”

  “Like?”

  “Like somebody who has terminal cancer. Maybe goes to Lourdes, gets X-rayed so that the doctors can see the affected internal organs.

  “Then, something happens. The person gets dipped in the stream or gets blessed during the benediction. And that person suddenly feels something fantastic has happened—maybe gets out of a wheelchair or rises up from a gurney. Maybe jumps around.

  “Now, mind you, apparently a lot of this sort of thing goes on at Lourdes. But every once in a while there’ll be that documentary evidence that the person has been eaten up by cancer. Then, the next set of X-rays shows nothing but healthy organs. Every trace of the disease that was evident on the X-rays yesterday is now gone.

  “Even then, they don’t document it as a miracle at Lourdes. Not unless years later the person has suffered no return of the illness.

  “Now, what could be more fair?”

  “Not bad, I must admit. But, playing devil’s advocate, we are just beginning to learn the miracles that nature can perform. Who’s to say that a phenomenon even like that might not be another psychosomatic reaction? Or that the overwhelming emotional reaction triggers as yet undiscovered natural resources to heal?

  “The opposite argument is that while we don’t yet know everything that nature is capable of, we do know the outside limitations of nature. And nature can’t heal itself permanently, suddenly, with no more outside intervention than some water or a blessing, or the touch of some unique person,” Pat concluded.

  “But—”

  “Whatever. In any case, I’m going into this story with an open mind. Even though I know that ninety-nine chances out of a hundred it’s going to end up either a fake or, more likely, a few well-intentioned psychosomatic cures. Anyway,” Lennon began to increase her stationary speed, “it looked like the perfect story to work on for a couple of days before we head for Canada.”

  “Uh . . .”

  “What?” Something was wrong. She knew it.

  All during dinner—all evening—Joe had seemed somewhat inhibited, reacting awkwardly each time the subject of their vacation was mentioned. For one thing, every reference to the vacation had been made by Lennon. For weeks they had made meticulous plans to use every day in Canada to the best combination of pleasure and relaxation. Somehow, Joe had been out of it throughout this entire evening. It was like waiting for the other shoe to drop. And, she sensed, the other shoe was heading for the floor.

  “Uh . . .” Cox repeated, “you’re not the only one who came up with an interesting assignment.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. This afternoon our good old city editor came up with one for me.”

  “Nelson Kane? Oh, I know: you’ve got to be on the Father Robert story too!” Lennon felt a rush of relief. Perhaps her worst fears would not be realized. “Kane almost lives for these ‘miracles.’ He even sent me to Toledo once to check out the image of Jesus on a tabernacle veil. Joe, you sandbagger! You’re on the same story and you’ve been milking me for all my research. Son of a gun!”

  “That’s not exactly it.”

  “Oh?” Her pedaling grew less enthusiastic.

  “Actually, it’s more a reward than an assignment.”

  “Oh?” She was traveling nowhere at less than one mile an hour.

  “It’s a cushy story. Things haven’t been too great between me and Kane lately, as you know.”

  “You’ve mentioned that.”

  “But in the last few weeks, things have improved.”

  “You didn’t mention that.”

  “Well, they have. So Nellie gave me this assignment as a sort of peace offering. He made no bones about that. It was definitely a peace offering.”

  She stopped cycling altogether. “Joe, cut the bullshit and spit it out.”

  She was right. Damn the torpedoes, full speed ahead. “I’m going to cover the Port Huron to Mackinac Race.”

  Her mouth opened but nothing came out for a moment. Then, “What?”

  “The race. The sailboat race.”

  “You’re not in Sports. That’s sports.”

  “It’s not going to be a sports angle.”

  “What . . . ? What the hell else is there to a boat race?”

  “Human interest.”

  “Human interest! Wait a minute. Before I operate completely on intuition, let’s get some basics settled. Okay, so you’re going to cover the race from a human interest angle. That means a couple of days of preparation before the thing starts. What the Sunday sailors and their hangers-on are doing to get ready for the race. Good grief, Port Huron is only an hour-and-a-half—two at the outside—from here. You can commute, for God’s sake.

  “So you get a peace settlement with Kane and a sweetheart assignment. There’s no problem. We can finish these stories at about the same time and head off for vacation.” She paused. “Then why do I have this awful, sinking feeling?”

  “There’s something to be said for intuition.”

  In a low, ominous tone, she said, “Go on.”

  “Well,” he took a deep breath, “Sports found this one crew that enters the race every year, but not only have they never won, sometimes they don’t even finish. Or they finally get there, but two or three days late.”

  “Hmmm.” She fixed him with a baleful gaze.

  “The point is, why do they do it every year? And how do they manage to botch it so badly? See, almost everybody else is very serious about this race . . .”

  “At least after it gets started.”

  “. . . but what are these guys? Misfits? Clouseaux? The living embodiment of Murphy’s Law? That’s the hook.”

  “And you? Your part in all this?”

  “I’m going to be one of the crew on this tub. Do the story from their rather relaxed point of view. It’ll make a good story. We’re all convinced of that.”

  “We are, are we?”

  Cox had seen her like this before. She was angry; indeed, furious. It was still all just below the surface. But it would erupt any minute.

  “So,” she continued, “you’re going to leave for Port Huron tomorrow . . .”

  He nodded. “But to the Black River, not Lake Huron.”

  “Uh-huh, the Black River. And you’re going to take up residence aboard the I-Don’t-Give-a-Damn frigate.” Her emphasis on the last word clearly bristled with allusion to a similar sounding phrase. “. . . and you will stay aboard the goddam boat until your particular race is concluded.”

  He nodded.

  “
And that should be a matter of a week or more—including the parties on Mackinac Island.”

  He nodded, without ebullience.

  “Then what, dearest, of our vacation!”

  “I haven’t forgotten that.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve let you. That’s what we’ve been talking about these past several weeks.”

  “So what’s so awful about postponing it a week, ten days, two weeks at the outside? Canada is not going to disappear.”

  “No, but you are. Do you think I can switch my vacation at the last minute because you want to play sailor?”

  “You don’t have to tell them that. You could be sick.”

  “Then I take sick leave, stupid, not a vacation. But you’re right about one thing: I am sick—of you. And what about all those dates we’ve made? Reservations? All carefully planned and coordinated!”

  “We can rebook them.”

  “Like hell we can. You wanted this story!”

  “I told you: It was a peace offering from Nellie Kane. How could I turn it down?”

  “How about, ‘Thanks, Nellie. I appreciate your giving me this nice piece of fluff. But, as you already know—because you pay attention to these things—I’m up for a vacation in a couple of days. And my live-in, Pat Lennon—you know her, she used to work here—she and I have been planning this trip. We’ve got all our reservations and we’re ready to leave. So, again, while I appreciate your thoughtfulness, I’m afraid I must decline your kind offer. I’ll just go on my vacation. If I were to change it at this late date, it would screw up a whole bunch of other people’s vacation schedules. And the International Newspaper Guild would not be happy about that.’. . . Would you like me to write you an idiot card so you can deliver the message to Kane?”

  “You’re not trying to understand.”

  “Oh, I understand, all right. You just can’t resist a party, can you? You’ll never grow up, Joe Cox, never.”

  “Pat, be reasonable.”

  “You’ve got a choice, Joe. Take the couch tonight or, if you prefer, I’ll move out.”

  “Oh, okay; have it your way. But you’ll be sorry. What are we gonna do about our trip?”