Future Home of the Living God(8)
On the way there, we do not speak a word. We park, and go in through the big doors that open underneath the outspread wings of a cast fiberglass eagle. This is all new to me. I’m interested. The air inside is fresh and cool. I breathe in big gulps. I can’t wait to tell Glen and Sera details—fiberglass eagle! We sign ourselves in, and Mary chats with the receptionist, a cousin. Finally, we go into the meeting, sit down at the near end of the table. We are the only ones there without big plastic traveling coffee mugs. We’re first on the agenda. They’re making small talk now, ready to start the meeting. Mary opens a file that she’s brought along.
A woman says a quick prayer, or gives an address of some sort, in Ojibwe, and then Henry “Bangs” Keewatin, heavy, pale, soft, a smoker and classic heart-attack candidate, reads out the minutes of the last meeting and introduces us.
“Mrs. Potts will be explaining this shrine question,” he informs the others. Then Sweetie reads a thumbnail sketch on the life of Kateri.
“Born in 1656 at Osserneon, New York, the daughter of a Christian Algonquin woman named Kahenta. Kateri’s mom married a pagan, of the Turtle clan, and died during a smallpox epidemic that also left Kateri’s face scarred and her eyes weakened. She converted and was baptized in 1670, and thereafter lived a life of remarkable virtue, even, it is said, in the midst of scenes of carnage, debauchery, and idolatrous frenzy.”
“Idolatrous frenzy. Is that something like traditional religion?” asks Bangs.
“Yeah, it is,” says Sweetie. “I’m a pagan Catholic. Moving on?”
Bangs nods.
“She took a vow of chastity and died young,” says Sweetie.
“That’s why I never took one,” says Bangs.
Sweetie raises her eyebrows, sighs, and continues.
“Miracles occurred. She was beatified in 1980 by Pope John Paul II and since then canonized. Besides all Native people, she is the patron saint of ecologists, exiles, orphans, and . . . people ridiculed for their piety.
“I’m going to pass out these financial impact statements from a site that has registered several appearances by the Virgin Mary. This place is located on Long Island, New York. You can see for yourselves what an effect pilgrimage crowds have on the local business community.”
Sweetie slips the papers from the folder and distributes them to each of the members, who eye the numbers critically and come to the end smiling.
“And that’s just a tentative sighting, my relatives. By children. The Blessed Virgin waved her hand over some rosebush. They sell the rose petals from all of the roses planted near the shrine. Here’s one.”
She passes around a small card containing a laminated rose petal.
“Good move,” says one of the members, setting down the figures that Sweetie has written up and copied. Bangs Keewatin smiles. “I’m thinking in light of this world situation we’re seeing there could be increased interest in appearances of a spiritual type of nature, and we’d best be ready. We should take advantage of this saint showing up here.”
“Yeah, she picked us all right,” says Sweetie. “Here’s more figures on how much money the average pilgrim spent in the eateries and motels adjacent to that spot in New York. Oh, and here’s the description of the first two visits.” She hands out sheets of testimony.
“You know, this whole thing would be a bigger deal,” says Bangs, “if this ghost or whatever had not just appeared to small-time losers.”
“That’s always the first caveat most church officials have about the sightings,” says Sweetie.
Caveat? I think. Maybe she’s been coached by Eddy. Or could it be that I’ve underestimated Sweetie?
“The seven people who witnessed Kateri’s visitations weren’t small-timers,” she says sternly. “They had just lost big money at the slots or blackjack tables and were in a state of severe financial shock when the beautiful Indian maiden appeared in buckskins, carrying a cross. She wore a circle of flowers around her head, brandished the lily of purity. She spoke. Actually, she wasn’t comforting. She was forthright, accusing, and even said specifically to Hap Eagle that he’d wasted good food money and his kids would now have to eat from the commodity warehouse.”
“Do they have commodities in heaven?” one of the council members, a guy named Skeeters, asks. “How’d she know about commodities?”
“Saints know everything,” says Sweetie, her voice severe. “Apparently our saint has made a sort of decision here,” she continues, “and who are we to question it? She has decided to appear to nobody but the feckless. Yes, inscrutable, but it’s all we have to work with.”
“Feckless, you go,” I whisper to Sweetie when she sits down.
“I didn’t know she only appeared to virgins,” says Bangs, frowning at the others around the table.
“That’s feckless, not fuckless,” says Sweetie.
She smiles beatifically at the council, keeps talking. “As in irresponsible. If only they’d been affected enough to quit gambling. Nobody redeemed yet, I’m sorry to say. They keep going to bingo with their Bibles at their elbows. Anyway, we’d like to grass in that place you let us keep clear in the casino parking lot. We got a load of sod coming. Here’s the bill.”
The treasurer takes the bill and says he’ll put the appropriation to the vote, which passes. That is that. We walk out and across the highway to the shrine, which is just out back of the newly surfaced and paved casino parking lot. The sacred oval of earth lies between the north and south parking lots, and the committee has decided to begin by grassing it with sod, which was scheduled to arrive an hour ago. The exact place where Sweetie’s saint has consistently appeared is marked by a large boulder, for which a plaque is just now being cast. Behind the boulder, the committee plans to put a statue, though Sweetie thinks that a statue might discourage Kateri from reappearing.