An Imperfect Miracle Read Online Free Page A

Then they started laying cut flowers on top of the cart and lighting candles there too, red, blue, orange and plenty of white ones. Some of the candles were fat and squat and sort of cheesy, and others were tall and tapered and kind of expensive looking for a bunch of old farts from St. Sebastian’s to be carting them around. But after stepping back and surveying the scene, I had to admit that it all looked kind of pretty if you forgot about the beer cans and gum wrappers and the other garbage lying around.
    I decided to come back after school when I was hoping there wouldn’t be such a crowd. But that afternoon it was even worse. There were folks actually lining up to see her now, all the way past the chiropractic center almost to the old Laundromat that had just closed up. Some of the ones in front had cameras and were snapping pictures of their friends and relatives standing next to Mary. Others were busy fingering these little metal crosses wrapped in strings of fancy beads, sort of like the ones Mrs. Marcella had been rubbing that morning. A few people were even looking up at the sky and moaning and squealing like they had knives rolling around in their bellies, although I didn’t figure they were on drugs or anything because they were dressed too respectable for that. And instead of just some scraggly flowers lying on the cart, there were bunches of red and yellow roses and white lilies and purple and orange mums spread out all over the place, like the town was getting ready for some big funeral.
    I didn’t recognize hardly any of the folks lining up to see her, and I thought they were dressed a little too fancy to all be from Millridge. One person there I knew was Carlos, who was always standing right outside St. Sebastian’s every Sunday morning greeting the people coming in. I’d see him when Mom and me drove by on the way to our church, which was about a mile farther out right where the woods took over from the town, and it was a little far for Mom to walk. I asked her once why we didn’t go to St. Sebastian’s because it was so much closer and we could save money on gas, since Mom was always griping about the bills. But she said she’d tried it one time and that it wasn’t her thing.
    â€œToo much structure,” was about all she said.
    I asked her what she’d meant by structure, and I guess she couldn’t really explain it because she told me to mind my own business. Anyway, Carlos was sitting behind a card table set up about ten feet off to the side of the concrete steps. On the table were crosses and beads and other Catholic-looking stuff that he was selling to people as they walked by. He’d take their money and drop it into this big gray tin box he had sitting right next to him, and then he’d get them to sign this long sheet of paper.
    I almost went up and asked him if he was still working in the church office over at St. Sebastian’s for Father Tom, but he looked kind of busy and I didn’t want to bug him. Then he spotted me and waved me over. He smiled at me real bright too, which made me feel kind of special. According to Mom nearly everybody in town thought pretty highly of Carlos on account of the good he was always doing, helping old ladies across the street and refereeing dodge ball games on the playground and stuff like that. Then he shoved the paper at me and handed me a pen.
    â€œYou, Nate, of all people should definitely sign the petition. If it weren’t for you, we might never have known that our Blessed Mother had deigned to pay us a visit.”
    I scratched out my full name as best I could on the only blank line left on the page, handed him his pen back, and then tried to rub the blue ink off my fingers because the pen was leaking a little. I didn’t even bother reading what the petition said, because I figured Carlos knew what he was doing and wouldn’t ask me to sign anything I shouldn’t.
    â€œYou’re