Good Harbor

“I know that statue.” He chuckled. “You’re going to have a heck of a time getting her out of there. Joe poured enough cement to anchor the Washington Monument.”

“Wow,” said Joyce, watching the rain trickle down Mary’s concrete veil and drip prettily onto the ground.

“Why don’t I drop by and have a look tomorrow?” he offered. “Six o’clock okay with you?”

As soon as she hung up, Joyce called Frank and told him he had to come up the next day. “No way I’m talking to this priest by myself.”

The following evening, Frank arrived a few minutes before six, with a good steak, a bag of salad, and a bottle of red wine. He’d had his hair cut and he was wearing the blue shirt she had given him.

Joyce felt a rush of attraction for her husband and wished they didn’t have an appointment with a priest at just that moment. She wished that she felt this way about Frank more often — and closer to bedtime.

She kissed him on the mouth and he held her close for a moment. “I guess you missed me,” he said.

“I guess so.”

They sat on the front stoop and exchanged news: Harlan had a meeting with some California venture-capital guys, who were gung ho last week but now seemed a bit wary. Joyce complained that her writing was going so slowly that she’d begun reading the help wanted ads. Frank reminded her, kindly, that she always felt discouraged in June, but that by summer’s end she was inevitably writing up a storm.

“Yeah, yeah,” Joyce admitted as a rusty yellow Pacer pulled up. Watching Father Sherry get out of the hatchback was a little like watching clowns pile out of a toy car at the circus. He was a tall man in a black wet suit; a pair of red suspenders framed a sizable paunch.

Frank and Joyce walked to the sidewalk to meet him.

He shook hands and said, “Pardon my appearance. I have a couple of free hours and couldn’t resist. The season is so short, you know.”

Barely taking a breath, the priest led them over to the statue. “So here’s Our Lady, freshly whitewashed. And you say you’ve found flowers near her, eh? Probably Mrs. Lupo up the street. Have you met Theresa?”

Father Sherry didn’t give Joyce a chance to answer. “She must really be slowing down if she hasn’t come over to check you out. She used to be good for a covered dish while she gave you the once-over.

“The Loquastos put the Madonna here, oh, ten years ago as a kind of thanks offering.” He crossed his arms over his midsection and shook his head. “One of their kids, Ricky, I think, got caught in the undertow over at Good Harbor and was nearly swept out to sea. The lifeguard got to him in time, thank God, and they wanted to express their gratitude.”

/> He crouched to poke at the pedestal, and Frank hunched down beside him. “Joe was in construction. He had some of his guys come over to do the foundation.

“That was just a few months after I came to St. Rita’s. They asked me over to do a blessing. Hoo, boy, did I ever get the hairy eyeball from the neighborhood ladies. I had to eat everything they offered, just to be polite. And I never stopped, as you can see.” The priest laughed, standing and patting his stomach.

“Theresa Lupo was there that day, and she told me a long story about her mother, who was sick with breast cancer.” Father Sherry’s hand was resting on the statue’s shoulder. “Theresa was heartsick and just frantic about it. The day after the Loquastos put up their statue, she swore she saw a tear on the Virgin’s face. Joe said it was raining, but you couldn’t tell Theresa that. She was sure the Virgin was weeping with her.

“So she started bringing flowers. Mary Loquasto was sweet about it; she’d invite her in for coffee. The mother held on for another six months, long enough to see Theresa’s youngest’s first communion, which Theresa took as a gift from the Virgin of Forest Street. I’ll bet she’s been bringing flowers ever since.

“And that’s the story of your statue.”

Joyce suddenly felt like an anthropologist, or an ugly American, or maybe just a tourist.

Frank whistled softly and shook his head. “What should we do?”

Father Sherry rubbed his chin. “I say we wait until the end of the month, till after the Saint Peter’s fiesta. It’s a madhouse now getting ready, and then there’s that whole week. I’ll call Joe Loquasto, and I should visit Theresa anyway. She’ll like being consulted.”

The priest checked his watch, and Joyce and Frank walked him to his car. “I’ll be back in touch in July, first thing. I appreciate your sensitivity. And once we get it taken care of, you’ll have a great story to tell.”

Tossing off their thanks, the priest folded himself back into his car.

Frank went inside to start dinner, but Joyce returned to the statue for a moment. The mild smile suddenly seemed secretive and wise. “Mary, honey,” she whispered, “can you do anything for my friend Kathleen?”

“HELLO? THIS IS a message for Kathleen Levine? I got your name and number from Rabbi Hertz? My name is Brigid Gallagher-Steinberg, and Rabbi Hertz wanted me to contact you about the library at the temple?”

Kathleen stared out the window while she listened to the string of questions. Back from treatment, with the day ahead of her, she noticed that her tomato plants needed staking.

It was a nice day. But she didn’t feel like walking the beach alone. Joyce was back in the city now, getting Nina ready for camp. Kathleen sat at the kitchen table and glanced at the calendar.

It was almost July, which meant it was almost August.