Madeleine's Ghost Read Online Free Page B

and it was said by those present that angels hovered around her bedside just beyond the edge of seeing, ready to bear her soul to paradise.…”
    At this, Father Rose straightens and swings the putter in my direction, his face lit by a sort of madness. A pinch of mortar crumbles from between the stone walls into a half open box of yellow papers.
    â€œI’m not making all this up, Mr. Conti! A short monograph was written in the 1920s and privately published, containing the bare facts of her life and an account of a few of her many miracles. We had a copy in the library upstairs until recently. Somehow it has been misplaced, and I can’t locate another one. But I’m hoping the rest of Sister Januarius’s story might be buried in these papers here. I am particularly interested in contemporary accounts of miracles. It is my conviction that we have an unrecognized saint on our hands. One of the blessed, worthy of a cultus conveyed by the church. As I’ve said, Brooklyn needs a saint. Brooklyn is desperate, its jails are full; its people live without light. You are going to find us one, a saint who will intercede for us with the Almighty.”
    â€œO.K.,” I say, trying to sound reasonable. “How do I go about finding you a saint?”
    â€œIt’s a legal procedure. Ancient, time-honored. A suit of law is pleaded before the tribunal of the Congregation of Rites in Rome. This is a permanent commission of cardinals charged to investigate such matters,but of course, the supreme judge in cases of sainthood is the pontiff himself.”
    I don’t think the pope more than a pious man in a funny hat, but I can’t help it; the back of my neck prickles.
    â€œThe procedure is loaded with formalities and mysteries,” the priest says after a breath. “The defense, if you will, must provide three distinct proofs of sainthood. First, a reputation for sanctity must be established. Second, the heroic quality of the virtues exhibited by the prospective saint must be shown. And third, of course, evidence must be gathered to establish the working of miracles.”
    I eye the thirty moldering boxes of paperwork, most of it more than a century old, illegible and dusty. Lately I’ve been developing allergies. Just the thought of this kind of work makes my nose itch. I pull my handkerchief out of my pocket in time to catch the sneeze.
    â€œBless you,” Father Rose says.
    â€œSeems like kind of a long shot, to be honest, Father,” I say. “And there’s no guarantees. History has a way of confounding our expectations.”
    He nods, strides to one end of the small room, putter behind his back, and strides back again.
    â€œAs a young priest,” he says, “I remember coming across a letter in the archives at St. Catherine’s that detailed a miracle performed by Sister Januarius. A child born blind was brought before her. Its eyes were turned inward, just a sliver of the cornea showing in the whites. In the presence of witnesses, Sister Januarius removed the child’s eyes with her bare hands, replaced them correctly, and the child could see for the first time in its life. If this letter exists—and I remember it clearly—surely others exist as well. We need them as evidence for Rome. And there are probably newspaper accounts and perhaps other letters in private hands, but that’s your business. Brooklyn is counting on you, Mr. Conti.”
    After he leaves, I am alone in the crypt, and I sneeze again, three times in a row. The stone walls sweat and flake, old mortar drifting through the cracks like sand. It would take six researchers a year to go through this mess thoroughly, to read every page, to dig between thelines. Father Rose believes in Divine Providence, in the intervention of the saints on behalf of a sinful humanity. I remain a skeptic.
    I reach into the nearest box and extract a letter. Its thin, illegible sheets crumble in my