Рита Браун - Cat's Eyewitness

"No. The BVM is the Big Cheese." Mrs. Murphy cleaned her whiskers.

"Think any human has ever made a statue to cheese?" Pewter thought honoring food with a statue not a bad idea.

"Not that I know of." Mrs. Murphy intended to join Harry, who had just walked into the living room, but her belly was full and the distance seemed too great.

Harry inhaled. "Pear wood smells fabulous."

Fair smiled, holding out his hand.

She took it and he led her to the sofa. They put their feet on the coffee table, continuing to hold hands.

"Remember the other Thanksgiving when it snowed so much? Not that common. We were in junior high."

"Yeah. Dad had to put chains on the tires."

The fire crackled and glowed. The two cats were fast asleep in the large basket filled with old towels that Harry saved. They were in the kitchen. Tucker managed to totter to the hearth before conking out.

"I remember digging Mrs. Clark out of that big snow. So many of our teachers are gone now. Mrs. Clark died back in 1989. Liver disease, and she never even drank."

"An entire generation is leaving us. Funny how fast time goes." He squeezed Harry's hand. "I don't have anything else to say about what I did, what I learned, where I am at this exact moment. You've heard it all. I want to marry you. I won't ask again. I know making a big decision is very hard for you. You can be so good in a crisis, but you don't like change, and life is change."

"I'm trying. I'm studying viticulture, other ways to make money," she softly replied.

"I know. Skeezits, give me an answer by Christmas Eve."

"This is an ultimatum?" She liked ultimatums about as much as she liked change.

"I guess it is, but I don't think about it quite like that. There's a lot of life left to me. I'm staring at forty. I want to love a true partner. I want a family. I love you." He took a deep breath. "But if I'm not really the man for you, I have to move on. It will kill me, but I have to go. I can't live in limbo."

Harry heard him in her heart, yet she feared making the same mistake twice. And it was true, she feared change. She'd adjusted to single life. She liked it. No, it wasn't as fulfilling as a deep partnership, but could she be that partner?

"Fair, you'll have your answer by Christmas Eve." She paused. "And whatever it is, I do love you."

Tucker, ears sharp, eyes closed, heard every word.

7

The long, slanting rays of the rising sun reached the statue of the Virgin Mary at 7:02 A.M., Friday. The back of her snow-covered robes shone pale pink, then deepened to crimson. The frozen blood on her cheeks glowed dark in the blue light for she faced west and it would be hours before the sun would climb high enough to warm her face.

Brother Mark, trembling in the biting air, again threw himself in the snow. He wept, he wailed, he prayed.

He pulled himself to his knees, his hands bright red from cold. He clasped them together, his face upturned to that most perfect of faces.

"Blessed Virgin Mother, forgive me, for I have sinned. Forgive me for the hours I have wasted, for the destructive things I did. Forgive me for being weak." A persistent memory of himself lying comatose at three in the morning in the middle of Beverly Street, Staunton, crept into his head. He had nearly died from a speedball overdose. "I come to you. I come to your Son. I give my life to this life, to your wishes. Make me your vessel."

He prayed dramatically, fervently. He seemed not to hear footsteps coming up behind him.

"Brother Mark, you'll catch your death," Brother Frank said gruffly.

"My life is of no importance."

Brother Frank was about to say, "Your history confirms that attitude," but instead he said, "Your life matters to our Blessed Virgin Mother, otherwise you wouldn't be on your knees before her. You must stay strong and become wise, Brother Mark. There is much to do and fewer and fewer young men to do it."

A radiance washed over the young man's face at this. He clasped his hands tighter. "Yes, yes, of course. I must be strong. We must bind the wounds of the world."

"What we can." Brother Frank long ago gave up on improving the world. He'd even given up improving himself. "Now, please, Brother, on your feet and come back inside."

"Isn't she beautiful?" Brother Mark couldn't tear his eyes away from that face.

"Yes." Brother Frank remembered only too well the beauty of women. He felt he had been led astray by women. Perhaps he had, but then again, blaming women for one's own weakness was a central part of Judaism and Christianity, starting with Adam and Eve.

As the two men, one middle-aged, stout, the other younger, slight, carefully walked back to the main section of the old stone buildings, Brother Mark alternated between tears and euphoria.

"This sign must be shared. I know it. In my heart."

"Not yet," Brother Frank chided.

"We have to tell the world."

"No. The world is, well, a world away. This is our world now, Brother Mark. We need to think this through before, like Pandora, we open the box."

"Our Lady will overcome all obstacles, including the evils of man."

"Why make her task more difficult?"

"Two women already know. Why should we remain silent?"

"Brother Mark, give me one day. You're a fully stoked furnace and, I confess, I'm embers. But the years give one perspective. Announce this prematurely, and our haven will be overrun, and not just by those coming to worship or coming to Mary for her intercession. The media, the mountebanks, will turn this into a circus, a degenerate entertainment." He drew in his breath, the cold air filling his lungs, painful to inhale. "She deserves better."

Unconvinced, Brother Mark did promise. "Twenty-four hours."

People visited the grounds, the various shops. This was the only mark of the outside world on the Greyfriars. The products the monks made barely kept the order in the black. Some monks had more contact with the outside world than others due to their special skills. All of the brothers, whether totally withdrawn or more "worldly," would feel the impact of people flocking to see the miracle.

The lures of the Internet disturbed the older brothers greatly, partly because the temptations therein could so easily be hidden from others. Each shop contained a computer to keep accounts of their wares, the candles, goat's milk soap, jellies and jams, iron trinkets, flowers, and potent applejack, their best seller. The order sold every kind of apple product, including even dried apples for decoration. Every Christmas the brothers wove huge wreaths, some as costly as five hundred dollars, filled with gleaming red apples and other dried tidbits, wide flat gold and red ribbons adorning the soft pine needles of the wreath itself.

Brother Frank walked down the long, cold corridor to his office. The job of treasurer suited him. He had hoped to find a successor among the few younger men in the order, but no one seemed suitable.

As treasurer, he used a computer for business purposes. He used the telephone sparingly. He found the hidden costs for both on-line and phone service infuriating. He checked his file, then dialed.

Harry, in the barn, heard the silly "Jingle Bells" ring on her cell phone. Fair had programmed it for Christmas. She pulled the tiny cell phone out of her belt.

"Hello."

"Mrs. Haristeen, it's Brother Frank."

Harry sensed Brother Frank did not like women, despite his good manners. "Hello, Brother Frank, how are you this crisp morning?"

"Crisp? It's cold as ice. But I'm well and thank you for asking. How about you?"

"I love the snow."

"Well, at least one of us does. I'm calling to ask you a favor. You beheld an unusual occurrence yesterday, I believe."

"The statue. Yes." She dropped her voice slightly. "Very strange."