Why couldn’t this Marie woman be a member of their church? It would have been so much better for the Life Force Spiritual Path if Marie had been a member, Adam thought. After all, LFSP believed in the Second Coming, believed Marie was probably bearing the next incarnation of the messiah. And if the public were more aware of LFSP, more people would surely join. If Marie were an LFSP member, some of the publicity she was getting would slop over onto the church.

Maybe, Adam thought, he needed to make some overtures to her. Adam knew Marie wasn’t religious; her views had been publicized enough that a person would have to live in Outer Mongolia not to know quite a bit about Marie Erlig. She’d been in the paper, in magazines, on the radio, and on TV. She’d been featured in local media, media from nearby areas of Florida, and increasingly in national media as well. True, she hadn’t been on Oprah yet, but Adam supposed that was merely a matter of time. And the church was missing out on collecting fringe benefits from her fame. Thinking about it, Adam sighed loudly. If he couldn’t get Marie to join LFSP, maybe he could at least forge some sort of alliance.

Yes—that was the ticket. An alliance, a beneficial alliance. LFSP would take some sort of a stand in Marie’s favor, thus helping her while bringing their church to prominence at the same time. Now, what did Marie most need?

Of course the media had been having a field day—the reportage had run the gamut of viewpoints. Most of the stories had been pretty straight-ahead, reporting exactly what had happened, giving opinions both in support of and against believing that Marie was pregnant with someone or something out of the ordinary, quoting Marie, her neighbors, church leaders, and others. Adam had been quoted a few times, but most of the reporters preferred to seek their quotes from the leaders of mainstream churches. (Reverend Argyle had certainly gotten his name in the papers enough lately, Adam had noticed. Argyle seemed to be taking full advantage of Marie’s situation—and she wasn’t a member of his church, either.)

Some of the writers, less objective, had fawned over Marie and the impending birth. Still others, also lacking objectivity, had gone to the other extreme. They’d debunked the whole thing so vigorously that they completely ignored any facts that supported belief. One writer had even suggested Marie wasn’t pregnant at all. Was it an “honest” hysterical pregnancy, he wondered in print, imagined but truly believed in by Marie, or was she perpetrating a gigantic and cruel hoax on the miracle-hungry faithful?

Adam decided the best place to start was to go to Marie’s house and see how his church could help her. So one Tuesday at 5:30, Adam rang Marie’s doorbell. He had already been to the Courier’s offices, declaiming to a reporter that LFSP stood foursquare on the side of the believers, that this was indeed a miraculous pregnancy. “And I’m meeting with Marie this afternoon for a coordinating session. I want to see what kind of practical help the Life Force Spritual Path can best provide for her, what we can do that will be most useful,” he added, making it sound like the meeting was already set up.

But when he rang her bell at 5:30 and posed his question, he was dismayed at her answer: “The best thing you can do for me is leave me alone. If you could figure out a way to keep everyone away, that would be even better, but you’d have to work a few real miracles to accomplish that.”

Chagrined, Adam agreed, but he persisted in asking what he could do to be of more concrete service. “Just go home, so I can start dinner. I just got home from work. I’m tired. It’s getting late. My husband’s in the shower. When he gets out and doesn’t smell dinner cooking, he’s not going to be a happy camper.”

Husband? If Marie wasn’t being helpful, maybe her husband would be.

“Maybe I’ll wait a couple of minutes, if I may, so I can talk to your husband when he’s out of the shower. You go ahead and cook and ignore me.”

“I wish you wouldn’t wait. You asked what you could do for me. I told you—leave me alone. Now do it!”

“Maybe we can help organize a drive to collect baby clothes for you,” Adam offered, backing slowly toward the door.

“We don’t need charity. And I’ve got most of the clothes already. They’re all put away in the baby’s room. Mostly yellow outfits that will suit either a boy or a girl.”

“Then you don’t know yet if it’s a boy or a girl?”

“If I did, you would know too. Nothing happens about the baby that doesn’t get reported in newspapers coast to coast and CNN’s headlines. If I sneeze, everyone in the nation hollers ‘Gesundheit’. If I knew what sex the baby was, you would have read about it. The latest baby news is probably today’s headline banner on that building in Times Square. Now please go!”

That hadn’t gone very well, Adam thought as he left Marie’s house. But he was determined to help her anyhow. There had to be something he could do for her, something she would appreciate, something that would inextricably link LFSP with Marie, so they would get the publicity they needed . . . deserved.

“We’re organizing a prayer vigil,” he announced to local reporters at a press conference he called. “We’re praying for the safety of the baby and of Marie. In these troubled times, there are unstable elements who have to be dealt with, whom it’s necessary to be concerned about. God is good, but man can make evil beyond what God can control. Witness the wars that mankind has waged on other fellow-inhabitants of our poor suffering planet. Witness the eons of unrest in the Middle East. And now there are elements muttering about the baby being devil spawn, or the Antichrist. Not to mention all the people who simply doubt the baby’s identity as the Second Coming of the messiah.

“It is the Life Force Spiritual Path’s position that the truth will be known in time, and that in the meanwhile we need to protect Marie and her unborn child. Whoever and whatever the baby is or isn’t, he is a new life in the making, and he and his mother should be accorded the respect due any new life and the mother bearing it.

“Additionally, we feel that in all probability we will see it proven, in time to come, that this child is indeed the Second Coming. Meanwhile, we will pray for his safety, and the safety of his mother. And if she wants, we are prepared to post a guard of volunteers on twenty-four-hour alert at her home.”

She didn’t want. She didn’t want any such thing at all, of course. Yet the threat of which Adam spoke was not a figment of his hunger for publicity. Connor had been mumbling louder, of late, about the Antichrist, and deception, and the need to not fall for a false messiah.

That it was Connor only made the confrontation that much more enjoyable for Adam; after all, there had been bad blood between the two factions ever since the Church of Repentance had split off from the Life Force Spiritual Path. But even if it had been the Pope himself proclaiming the baby the Antichrist in no uncertain terms, Adam would have taken a stand in support of the baby’s being the Second Coming.

The media flocked to Adam’s press conference. His statement garnered a flurry of publicity. There hadn’t been any real news about the pregnancy lately, and at this point anything connected with Marie and the baby was worth reporting. Marie, seeing that night’s sound bites on TV and reading the accounts in the paper the next morning, sighed aloud and wondered, would they ever leave her alone?

No, they wouldn’t. She tried to go shopping for a crib, the following week. In an attempt to keep it low-key, she went alone, hoping to slip in and out unnoticed. She had as much chance of that as the chances of Secretariat entering a mule derby unnoticed. The salesclerks fawned over her, the shoppers mobbed her, and everyone seemed to want something.

Some just wanted to touch her. Some wanted to talk. Some wanted her autograph. There was an awkward moment when Marie said, “I’m just an ordinary woman. I’m no celebrity. Who do you think I am—Madonna?!” As soon as she said it, she realized any other celebrity’s name would have been a better choice.

A few of the shoppers were not among the awed. “For shame—saying you’re carrying God’s child!” one religious older woman chided her.

“But I never said any such thing!” Marie protested. “I’m not carrying God’s child. It’s my husband’s child. Colton Erlig. Very human. Very earthly. And there’s nothing special or mysterious about my baby. The only mystery is why nobody will believe that. Now will you please leave me alone?” But they wouldn’t, and she ultimately walked out without the crib, leaving it for another day.

Reverend Argyle finally came out in support of Marie. He’d dithered over his church’s appropriate posture, giving statements to reporters when asked for a quote, yet feeling he was missing a larger opportunity for publicity to accrue to his church. While he publicly decried the clergy who were getting involved for less-than-religious reasons, he privately envied the exposure they were gleaning. Surely the ranks of their membership were swelling in response to their being in the public eye.

As he lifted weights early one morning, working out and building up better muscles than are found on most forty-five-year-old clergy, he exercised his brain simultaneously. What was the best approach to take as far as Marie was concerned? He finally hit on what he thought was the best response: He would proclaim that Marie was a beleaguered woman who had made no claims, yet who might be carrying a miracle baby—or not. However, as a pregnant woman, she deserved respect and consideration.  And as a local resident, she deserved the church’s help even though she wasn’t a member.

(Too bad, Reverend Argyle thought. If she were a member, think of all the reflected glory that would fall upon the church. But, since she’s Jewish, there isn’t much chance of getting her to join. Why did God let a Jewish woman become pregnant with the Savior?!)

Yes, as a local woman, she deserved every kind of help the church could give her. Who were those upstart LFSP people anyhow, offering her help? They were taking glory away from a serious church.

What Marie really wanted, of course, was to be left alone. To be ignored, to be left in peace, to have no more press conferences, no more speculation, no more hoopla. But that was a wish that there was no chance of anyone fulfilling.

The tension had blown over by the next day.  Marie got up feeling mildly queasy but decided it was merely a nervous reaction to the previous day’s unpleasantness, not morning sickness. And in fact, she easily wolfed down a cup of coffee, four crisp strips of bacon, two fried eggs, and an English muffin laden with marmalade glowing like jellied sunshine. She consumed it all with no repercussions.

She made pancakes, too, especially for Cole. She didn’t care for them herself, but he loved them, and she thought a treat might spark an improved mood in him.

As they divided up the weighty Sunday paper between them, an item on the front page of the local news section flashed past Marie’s eyes. It was about Share the Harvest, which reminded her that she’d wanted to check her garden to see what she could share. Keeping aside the business, local, arts, comics, and features sections for herself, Marie let Cole have first crack at everything else.

He doggedly plowed through the main news section, saving the sports to savor at his leisure later. Marie curled up in her easy chair, reflecting on the fact that this position would be increasingly less feasible through the oncoming months. As she laughed her way through the comics, she paid particular attention to the ones revolving around families, feeling a special kinship with those parents that she’d never felt before.

The knowledge of her pregnancy colored everything she read that morning. She found herself reacting to everything differently. There were two items having to do with the local schools, and she read those with particular interest—in more or less six years, she’d have a child entering the school system. That thought sent chills of delight and excitement racing through her.

“I think I’ll start fixing up the guest room for the baby today—or would you rather I clear out the junk room?” she said. And then as soon as she said it, she regretted it. Would her mentioning the baby set off another round of negative comments?

But Cole seemed to be trying hard to curb his reactions and present a positive face. “I’ll get into the junk room and see what I can get rid of,” he offered. “I’ll do it early. I suppose you want to make that your afternoon’s project, so I’ll finish as quickly as I can. What I can’t get rid of, I’ll try to store elsewhere. Maybe I can get some plywood to put across the attic rafters, so we can store some stuff up there. Give me a couple of hours. Then you can spend all afternoon getting your stuff out of there and starting to fix the place up, okay?”

“Actually I’d planned to go to that Share the Harvest thing over at Flamingo Cove Lutheran. It might just be a matter of picking vegetables, dropping them off at the church, and coming right home again. Or something might be going on over there. I don’t know if they’re providing refreshments or entertainment, or if everyone’s stopping to socialize, or if there’s nothing happening. But I can’t see it taking the whole afternoon, in any event.”

Cole was trying very hard. “Why don’t I make a run to the store for the plywood now? I can clean my stuff out of the junk room as soon as I get back. I’ll throw out everything I don’t really need and stow the rest away. Whatever won’t fit anywhere else goes up in the attic. That way we still have the guest room for visitors. Sound okay to you?”

“More than,” Marie answered with a grateful smile.

“You read awhile longer, then go pick your veggies for this harvest thing.”

“Are you going to it with me?”

“I’ll stay and read my paper. You won’t be gone that long, I’m sure. You’ll be eager to get into the junk room—I mean, the baby’s room. And if I spend most of the morning in the junk room, I’ll still have the paper to read, so I’d better stay home this afternoon and get through it.” Cole put the paper down and grunted up from the chair to go clear out a room for the baby. Marie stayed put, reading. She was restless, wanting to get up and get busy, but the thing she most wanted to get busy with was the room, and Cole hadn’t cleared it out yet.

But she found she couldn’t concentrate on the paper; every muscle in her body wanted to get out of that chair and start fixing up that room. So she finally put down the paper. There was no reason she and Cole couldn’t clear their junk out simultaneously.

Cole had already made a noticeable dent in the clutter, having trashed an old chair and a pile of papers. He’d consigned two stacks of magazines to the recycle bin, as well, and was looking through the contents of a box of clothes. “I don’t think these will ever fit me again,” he concluded ruefully.

“Some of them will be out of style even if they do,” Marie agreed.

For nearly an hour, they dug through the piles and boxes and stacks together. “We can refinish this desk and this dresser and leave them in here,” Marie said. “And why didn’t we ever hang this picture? It would go nicely in the hallway.” Finally Cole said he needed to go get the plywood; he had trashed everything he could, not to mention the huge carton of clothes he’d accumulated for the local charity bin. What was left would have to be relegated to the attic.

Marie was sorry to see him leave. She’d relished the peace and harmony in which they’d been working. What a turnaround from the night before! But the change was short-lived. When Cole returned, he seemed in a less positive frame of mind, and when, at length, he came back down from the attic, and Marie commented on the noise he’d made hammering plywood, he said, “You’d better get used to noise if we’re going to have a little rugrat running around the place.” Those same words could have been said in a light, funny, teasing tone. But they hadn’t been. They’d been said with an edge. And the edge cut Marie.

She tried not to let Cole’s changed mood alter her own. She was cleaning out a room for the baby. The baby—their baby—her baby. The baby she had wanted for so long. This time she wouldn’t miscarry. This baby would be born, would be healthy, would be fine.

By the time Marie had done all she could in the nursery-to-be, Cole was comfortably ensconced in his chair, done with the main news and settled in for a long read with the sports. Marie consulted her watch, decided she had time to read a little, and picked up the main news section. She suddenly realized she hadn’t even checked the lottery numbers—she might be a millionaire and not even know it yet! Eagerly, she turned to the lottery numbers and checked them against her ticket. Not even close. Well, never mind—she felt like a winner this week, even if not a one of her numbers matched.

It was getting late. She still had to pick the veggies she needed to take with her to Share the Harvest. She got up, stopped in the laundry room to grab a couple of shopping bags, and drifted out to the garden dreamily. There, with her mind on baby clothes and baby names, she picked vegetables without much thought, taking more to share than she should have. She picked the garden half bare, harvesting carrots, cucumbers, eggplants, and green peppers. Only when she had both bags filled to the point that she feared they would break under the weight did she stop her mindless picking and filling.

She was kissing Cole goodbye when the phone rang. She hesitated, wondering if she should let Cole get it and just head out the door. Then, deciding it might be important, she reached past him to the phone and answered. It was Sheila. “You going to that Harvest thing?” Sheila asked.

“Mm-hmm. I was just on my way out.”

“Want to stop and get me? I’ll go with you.”

“Sure. I don’t know how long I’m staying, though. Is there anything, you know, happening there, or is it just dump-the-food-and-leave?”

“I don’t know, but I’m flexible. We can play it by ear.”

“’K. I’ll pick you up in a few minutes.”

As they drove to the event, Sheila asked, “So—did you tell him?”

“Yeh.”

“And—?”

“Well, he wasn’t what I’d call thrilled, but I guess it could’ve been worse. He sorta came around today. He was a little testy later on, but . . . I think it’ll be okay.”

They pulled up in front of Flamingo Cove Lutheran. The parking lot had a goodly number of cars in it, but Marie turned in, navigated the lot, and found an empty space not too far from the entrance. Sheila helped her, carrying one of Marie’s two shopping bags as well as her own single, not-too-full bag. Marie protested at this. “Hey, if I’m eating for two now, I should have the strength of two, too,” she teased.

“The strength of too-too—you’re telling me you’re a twain?” Sheila teased back.

Marie laughed. “Man, that babytalk’s going to come naturally to me soon enough; I’d better stop laughing at it,” she grinned. And then she insisted on carrying both of her own bags.

They got inside and were met at the door by a greeter, who said, “Thank you for sharing,” as he took the bags from the two women. He passed the bags to another volunteer, who immediately began breaking down the contents, sorting carrots from cukes from eggplants from peppers. Suddenly he stopped short.

“Holy—” he started to swear, then lamely finished, “Holy cow!” His voice was loud, commanding attention despite the mildness of the epithet.

“Did I give you a wormy pepper?” Sheila apologized.

“Was it me?” Marie worried.

“Whose bag was this?” the volunteer asked, holding up a large brown paper shopping bag with a colorful green design.

“Mine,” Marie answered meekly, expecting a reprimand. She felt all the worse because a few people had gathered around and were watching and listening intently. “What’s wrong? Is it moldy? Wormy? Dirty? I wasn’t paying attention when I was picking them. I was distracted.”

“Yes—she was thinking about her baby. You can all congratulate her. She’s pregnant.”

“Bigmouth!” Marie hissed at her friend.

“Go on! It’s something to crow about. Tell the world! You know you want to.”

“Yes,” Marie admitted with a guilty grin. Then she remembered the man with the veggies, and a worried frown eclipsed the grin. “But what’s the problem?” she asked him. “I’m terribly sorry, whatever it is.”

“It’s not a problem . . . .” The man’s brow was furrowed, and his eyes glinted with a strangely excited light. Then he held up an eggplant. As he did, he asked carefully, “You said you’re pregnant?” Marie nodded her head. “This is your eggplant?” Marie nodded again, wide-eyed, wondering what on earth was going on. “Look. Everyone—look!” He held the eggplant up, letting the growing group that was gathering around them see for themselves.

Marie and Sheila saw it too. It was hard to miss. The eggplant had brown scarring running across the surface. Marie had seen that before. Nothing unusual there. But she had never before seen scarring that formed an almost perfect picture of the Virgin Mary!

“It’s a sign,” one woman in the crowd proclaimed.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph!” another woman exclaimed, crossing herself repeatedly. “Wait till I tell Father O’Rourke!”

“You’re pregnant—and this is your eggplant?” another woman asked. “It’s a miracle baby. It’s a sign. This baby is destined for great things.”

The one remaining woman stepped closer and touched Marie’s stomach as if touching a holy relic. With the exception of that woman, the rest of the crowd, which was still increasing, took one step backward as if to accord Marie respect.

“What’s your name, hon?” a motherly woman asked.

“Marie. Marie Erlig,” Marie answered.

“Marie. That’s a variant of Mary. It’s a sign for sure.”

“Do you think—do you suppose—do you think she’s carrying a holy baby?”

“You mean—the Second Coming?”

“Oh, my God!”

“Don’t jump to conclusions.”

“But it has to be! Her name—the eggplant—and she’s pregnant. It has to be.”

“I’m calling the newspaper. And the TV stations.”

“No, please don’t!” Marie begged. She might as well have been trying to stop a tidal wave with her bare hands.

“Let’s get out of here,” Sheila said. Taking charge, she clasped her hand around Marie’s and pulled the pregnant woman behind her. The crowd blocked them, forming a human obstacle. “She doesn’t feel well,” Sheila called out in clarion tones. “Let us through.” And, obedient to the time-honored dictate, the crowd broke apart to make way for the pregnant woman.

They drove home, hoping they’d heard the last of it, yet knowing they hadn’t. And sure enough, not half an hour after Marie had dropped Sheila off and gone on home, the doorbell rang.

Marie hadn’t said anything to Cole about the eggplant. His reaction to the pregnancy had been problematic enough. She feared what his reaction would be now if she told him a group of churchfolk were aghast at an eggplant she’d brought to share with the needy, an eggplant that bore (she could hardly deny it herself) the image of the Virgin Mary. Not to mention that more than a few seemed convinced it was a Sign—perhaps a Sign that she was bearing a holy child in her womb.

So, still in the dark about the eggplant, Cole was totally baffled when the reporter from the Flamingo Cove Courier showed up at the door. “Is this the home of Marie Erlig? I’m with the Courier. We want to do a story on this eggplant and the possible tie-in with her pregnancy.”

“Huh? I mean, sorry, yes, this is Marie’s home, but—what eggplant? What are you talking about?”

“Are you Mr. Erlig?”

“Yes. Colton Erlig. Call me Cole.”

“Yes, well . . . did you see the eggplant, Cole?”

Cole was getting very annoyed. “What eggplant?” he asked.

“Your wife grew an eggplant with brown scarring that gives the appearance of—well, it resembles the image of the Virgin Mary. I’ve just come from Flamingo Cove Lutheran.  I saw it myself. It doesn’t look like . . . well, like she altered it in any way.  I’d really like to talk to your wife. Is she in?”

Cole scowled. He viewed the caller as an intrusion and his news as foreboding—it held the promise of future intrusions. Lots of them. Surely if one newsperson was here, others wouldn’t be far behind.

But before he could ask him to leave—which was certainly Cole’s intention—Marie came to the door, wondering who had rung the bell. “Are you Marie Erlig?” the reporter asked her, explaining again who he was and why he was there.

Oh, hell . . . I wish there’d been no one there who knew who I was. They would go and tell him my name and address!

The rest of the afternoon and evening seemed to be a parade of reporters. There were two local TV stations, Channel 3 and Channel 11, and both of them sent reporters. Two stations from cities within reasonable driving distance sent reporters as well. Even one of the local radio stations sent a newswoman. And a nearby town’s newspaper sent a reporter as well.

Van Jordan got word of the furor over the eggplant and hopped right into the Channel 11 newsvan, calling his wife on his cell phone on the way over. “This story has all the scent of the Big Time,” he eagerly told her. “I bet this is the story that puts me into a big city. We’re on our way to the network, babe.. My name will be known after this. And to think I was bitching about having to work on the weekend! This is our big break.”

Marie had been much more willing than Cole to be nice to the reporters—at first. While Cole was all for slamming the door in their faces, Marie recognized that they were just trying to do their jobs. But after the sixth reporter interrupted their attempts to assemble something resembling a meal—their intended dinner having long been abandoned in favor of something they could throw together quickly and gulp down informally—Marie, too, ran out of patience.

Unfortunately for her, it was then that Van Jordan showed up. He was suavely pushy and took command right away.

Marie had just eased the most recent reporter, from a small local weekly, out the door. “I’m sorry, but we really want our privacy at this point. There’s no story here. I’m not carrying anything but a normal baby. My name is Marie, not Mary. I certainly couldn’t be carrying the Second Coming of the Messiah—I’m not even Christian; I’m Jewish.”

“So was Mary,” Van said, coming up behind the weekly’s reporter on the front stoop. As the other reporter, under Marie’s insistence, reluctantly returned down the walk, Van brashly pushed his way inside the house, a cameraman in tow. “Marie Erlig, would you call yourself a religious woman?”

“In my own way, yes, but I’m not a practitioner of any organized religion.”

“You were born Jewish— is that right?”

“Apparently you’ve done some research on me. You tell me!” Marie snapped. Then, immediately, she was contrite. “I’m sorry! It’s just—everyone’s been here, everyone’s been asking questions. I’m not even used to the idea of being pregnant yet, and all of a sudden everyone’s trying to make this pregnancy out to be something it’s not. Some miracle birth.  Some Big Event. And all because of a silly little eggplant. I didn’t do anything to that eggplant. I had nothing to do with the way it looks. And I certainly don’t believe a vegetable can predict a supposedly miraculous event.

“It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever—well, how would you and your wife like it if it was your life being turned upside-down like this? My husband’s angry, we’re both tired, we’re feeling very imposed on, and although I’ve been trying to keep my patience, I’ve really about run out.”

The camera kept rolling. Van Jordan kept the microphone near Marie’s mouth. Viewers of the eleven o’clock news were going to get an earful.

“We had to grab a makeshift dinner ’cause nobody even gave me a chance to cook, and then nobody gave us a chance to eat. Yeesh—what are you going to do for the next nine months?”

And then a shudder went through Marie as she thought about it. What were they going to do for the next nine months?!

Marie still didn’t know for sure, but she was late. That was a good sign! She had kept her hopes to herself for nearly three weeks now—it was apparent that Cole didn’t share her joy at the prospect of parenthood. She had confided her situation to just one person: her best friend, Sheila. They were seated in the bedroom that day, a Saturday. Marie opened her bottom dresser drawer, and from way in the back, she pulled out her “secret stash.”

“Baby clothes!” Sheila marvelled. “Boy, you’re not even sure you’re pregnant yet, and already you’re buying clothes.”

“Already as in four years ago,” Marie admitted with a grin. “This sweater I got way back when I went to the flea market in the park one time. The crawler is a purchase I made at a Christmas crafts show two years ago; it’s handmade. This shirt I saw in a catalogue, and this one, too. And the pants were in a store window just last month.”

“Talk about being prepared!” Sheila chuckled. “Does Cole know you’ve got all these?”

“All these what?” It was Cole, standing in the bedroom doorway.

Marie’s face flushed. “I thought you were fishing with a client,” she said.

“The guy got a fishhook in his hand. Don’t ask. We were only out half an hour when we had to head back and go to the E.R. He’ll be okay—and hopefully I haven’t lost the account. What don’t I know you’ve got?”

Marie displayed the baby clothes for him.

“Who’s pregnant?” He scowled.

“I don’t know. Probably nobody. But whenever it happens, I’ve got a head start on buying clothes,” Marie answered in a falsely cheery voice.

“Don’t you think you should wait to spend money till you’re actually pregnant?”

“Why not buy a little at a time? It saves putting a huge dent in the bank account all at once.”

“But what if you don’t get pregnant? Ever?”

“I will!” Marie said with determination. Cole replied with a look of . . . what was it? Marie finally decided it was disgust. But he sat down on the bed in order to be near her, and Marie knew any chance to talk privately with Sheila was gone.

“What are you going to name the baby?” Sheila asked.

“If there’s a baby,” Cole said.

“We haven’t discussed it, yet,” Marie said.

“What religion will you raise it as?” Sheila asked.

“We haven’t discussed that yet, either.”

“Come join the Sunrise Congregation now!” Sheila insisted. “You want to raise the child as something.”

“Why? Let me raise him or her as a good person who treats other people decently and respects and worships God. That’s all that’s necessary. It works for me.”

“If there’s a baby.” That was Cole, again.

“You really don’t have a name picked out yet?”

“First let me learn if I’m really pregnant. Then let me wait till I find out if it’s a boy or a girl. Then I’ll pick a name.”

“Well, you must have some names you favor.”

“You’re just angling for me to name the baby after you, like Mom did with me,” Marie teased.

“What do you mean?” Sheila asked.

“Marie’s mom named her after her college roommate,” Cole explained. “She was Elinor’s best friend.”

“Marie? Does Elinor have a friend named Marie? Funny, I never heard anyone mention her before,” Sheila said.

“She died a long time ago, right after college. I guess that’s why Mom named me after her. They were roommates for four years, and best friends besides.”

“I always wondered how a Jewish girl got a name like Marie. But I never thought about it while you were around. I always figured I’d ask you the next time I saw you. And then the next time, I always forgot again.”

“Well, now you know.”

“So—you really think you might be?”

“Pregnant? Yeh! I’ve got tender boobs. I’m late. It’s possible. Real possible.” Her mind went back to the night she had tricked Cole into making it possible. Cole’s mind must have gone to the same scene; he snorted, got up, and left the room.

The women left, too, shortly after that, going out to the living room. It was five o’clock, and Cole turned on the TV. The newscast was coming on. The lead story was a local government scandal—a pol on the take, a government department exposed as corrupt. What else is new, Marie thought, her mind wandering back to baby things. Then Van Jordan began the second item. Marie mentally tuned in when she heard Van say, “. . . and though the girl’s brother later denied having seen anything out of the ordinary, young Jessica insisted that her brother, too, had seen what she saw—whatever it may have been—in that field.

“With us this evening is Reverend Robert Argyle, of the Church of the Redeemer. Reverend Argyle is Jessica’s minister. Reverend Argyle, what, in your opinion, is the chance that these kids—or at least Jessica—could actually have seen a manifestation of the Virgin Mary?”

“Well, Van . . . I hesitate to make a definitive pronouncement either way. Our church is founded on faith, of course, and if I don’t believe miracles are possible, I’m in the wrong calling.” He gave a self-deprecating chuckle. “And I’ve known Jessica most of her life. She’s not an overly fanciful child, and she’s not untruthful. But of course, kids have vivid imaginations. She may think she saw something, really believe it, and be wrong. Or, of course, she could have actually seen something, but not what she believes she saw.”

“Would you care to speculate on what she could have seen that could be mistaken for an apparition of the Virgin Mary?”

“A woman in costume for a party or an event of some sort, a play, or . . . well, I don’t honestly know all the events that were going on around here at the time. There were no public events that could account for it, but a local resident could have been having a private party, a costume party, and this woman could have been an attendee. It could have been a prank. I don’t mean on the part of Jessica, but on the part of the woman Jessica saw.

“You know how so many seemingly inexplicable events have simple explanations once they’re made known, Van. Everything from UFOs that turn out to be swamp gas to instances of miraculous healing that turn out to be cases of mind over matter. Now, I’m not saying these kids didn’t see the Virgin Mother, but I’m not ready to accept on pure blind faith that they did. Let’s keep an open mind. Let’s see if there are any further sightings—or any explanations offered. Certainly it’s possible. God moves in mysterious ways—and I am a man of faith.”

“Thank you, Reverend Argyle. And continuing our spotlight on religion, Channel 11 looks now at some of the less-traditional religious groups in our community. Tonight, we’re focussing on the Church of Repentance. Leader Connor McLaughlin, who was raised a Roman Catholic, was originally a member of the congregation at yet another less-traditional group, the Life Force Spiritual Path, which we’ll be spotlighting tomorrow.

“Connor, tell me a little about your break with Life Force. Why did you feel the need to start your own congregation—what’s different about the Church of Repentance?”

“Well, Van, I respect Adam and the organization he leads, but I don’t believe his way is the answer. We must take a firm stand against the encroaching ills that afflict our times. We must repent our errors and our evils; we must return to the ways of an earlier day, when people were closer to God, when we worshipped the Lord instead of lusting after fame and fortune, when children obeyed their parents, when a house of worship was more than a social hall.

“Adam and his church try to put a nice face on everything. They’re trying to work from within the system to change the world. We recognize that this is impossible. We’ll have to change the system from the outside in—change the ways we worship, the things we believe, the life we live. We must all revert to the rock-solid values of an earlier time, a simpler time. There is wickedness throughout this world that the Almighty Lord created, and we are despoiling this fair Earth he gave us.

“LFSP has the right idea there, in promoting ecology, Earth awareness, kindness to our Earth as part of their religion, but they don’t go far enough. They are trying to help the citizens of our planet to change their thinking and change their ways. But my esteemed brother doesn’t realize that people are inherently wicked, innately lazy, and born selfish. They won’t change with just a gentle prodding.

“In all things, in all aspects, there is a great wickedness in this world. We must revert to the stricter ways of an earlier day. Children must obey their parents. Wives must obey their husbands. And we all must obey the mandates of our just but demanding God.”

“Connor, it sounds like a very regressive church. Are you strict and literal interpreters of the Bible?”

“We’re not entirely regressive, Van. Our music is not only the traditional liturgical music; we incorporate rock and even rap hymns in our church. We are going back to the days of a more literal interpretation of God’s commandments, yet our Commandments Committee is actually studying what changes we might make in updating the Ten Commandments.”

“That sounds a bit ironic, or should I say contradictory. You say you’re reverting to an earlier day’s ways, yet you want to change the very foundation of the Judeo-Christian ethic?!”

“We wouldn’t throw out any of the existing commandments, but we might consider adding to them—either adding instructions to the existing commandments, or adding additional commandments to the original ten, or possibly doing both. After all, the world is a different place now from the way things were when God handed the commandments to Moses. There are sins being committed now that hadn’t even been conceived of at that time!”

“You mean, Thou shalt not carjack? Thou shalt not view porno tapes? Thou shalt not promote worthless stocks to thy friends? Thou shalt not falsely describe thyself in an online chat room? Thou shalt not fraudulently increase thy bank account by hacking into thy bank’s computer?”

“Well, not literally, but you have the general idea—an update to the original ten, preserving them but adding on. We are in a time of great wickedness, and God will wreak his vengeance, and with a fury, if we do not repent, repent and change our ways. We must change our ways radically, or God will surely destroy us all.”

The trio watched the fervent religious leader, each with his or her own reaction. Sheila, as a Catholic who’d married a Jew, was interested in different beliefs and ways of worshipping. She watched the most objectively of the three. Cole’s reaction was much more subjective—his prime concern was what Connor and “his crowd” would do for business: Would having “religious nuts” in their midst give their community a bad name? Would that, in turn, drive people away? That would be bad for his business. And Marie watched and wondered, if Connor established a serious stronghold here, what kind of a place would this be to bring up a baby?

Pastor Hemmings infinitely preferred coffee to tea, but he wasn’t going to be impolite or ungracious.  As he sipped the lapsang souchong that Reverend Argyle had given him, though, he was grateful for the lemon. It added bite to the smoky, warm liquid. Pastor Hemmings preferred a more robust drink—strong coffee, unalloyed by milk or sugar.

At the last meeting of the countywide Interfaith Council, Rabbi Birnbaum had brought up a matter that had led to a spirited debate between Reverend Argyle and Pastor Hemmings. Argyle had invited Hemmings for a further discussion over a cup of tea this afternoon. So here they were . . . and there they still were when there was something of a commotion out in the hallway.

The two men rose and went out to see what was up. Two kids—a brother and sister from the look of it—were loudly arguing. The girl was smaller and presumably younger, but she was standing her ground: “Did too see her! Where’s the minister?” the girl insisted.

“I know, but—you don’t want to go telling people things like that!” the boy protested.

“You saw her too!” the girl insisted in clarion tones.

“You want people to think you’re crazy?”

“Don’t care. It was her! I saw her!”

“Who did you see?” Reverend Argyle asked. He put a hand on the young girl’s shoulder and looked at her with mildly curious eyes. Pastor Hemmings felt more caught up in the drama, but this was his colleague’s church, so he took a back seat and let the other man take charge.

“The Virgin. Mary. Jesus’s mother. I saw her.”

Reverend Argyle permitted himself a small smile of amusement. “Somehow it doesn’t sound like you’re talking about our stained glass window. Did you see an actual woman who looks like Mary?” He patted the girl on the head tolerantly.

“No! It was her! I saw her!” The young girl’s voice rose with her insistence on what she had seen. “She was standing in the empty field. And then she disappeared.”

“She walked away?”

“No. She didn’t go anywhere. She just went. She just, you know, went away. Disappeared.”

“How do you know it was Mary?” Pastor Hemmings finally spoke up.

“She looked like her. Her face. Her clothes. It was her!”

“Couldn’t it have been someone dressed for a pageant?” Pastor Hemmings suggested to Reverend Argyle.

“I don’t know of any churches having pageants today.”

“Well, maybe not a church. Is there a medieval play being put on in one of the schools today? Is there a Renaissance fair going on somewhere? Anything where people might be dressed in flowing costumes?”

“It was the Virgin Mother. I know!” the girl shrieked insistently.

“I told you they’d all think you’re nuts,” her brother chimed in.

“I don’t think you’re crazy,” Reverend Argyle said, stroking her shoulder comfortingly. “I’ve known you since you were born. You’re not crazy. But I do think you’ve made an honest mistake.”

“Is there a problem?” It was Edna Waltham, the choir leader, who had come in in advance of choir practice and had heard the young girl’s shrieks.

“Jessica here saw someone that to her eyes resembled the Virgin Mother,” Reverend Argyle explained.

“No, it was her!” Jessica insisted.

“Tell me about it,” Edna said, crouching down as best her aging knees would let her. Jessica repeated her story, embellishing it with every detail she could remember.

When she’d finished, Reverend Argyle gave a short laugh at the girl’s vivid imagination, but Edna creaked to an upright position and faced the minister squarely. “Who are you to scoff at the possibility of miracles?!” she demanded nose-to-nose. “Maybe she saw exactly what she says she did!”

“That’d put Flamingo Cove on the map,” Pastor Hemmings chuckled. “Look at that apparition on that building’s window a few years ago.  Headline news from coast to coast. And then there was that so-called nunbun.”

“Sure, our town would be famous—for a week. And then we’d be old news again,” Edna said dismissively. “But maybe we ought to pay attention.  Suppose just for the moment that these kids saw exactly what Jessica says she saw. Why is the Virgin appearing? And why here in Flamingo Cove?”

“Maybe it’s all those fringe groups. Maybe she’s unhappy with them,” Reverend Argyle ventured.

“She didn’t look unhappy. She was smiling,” Jessica offered timidly.

“Did she say anything to you?” Edna asked.

“Not exactly.”

“What does that mean? Did she speak or not?” Reverend Argyle sounded cross now.

“Her mouth didn’t move. But I heard her in my head.” Now Jessica sounded hesitant to speak, as if even she believed now that she would be thought crazy.

“What did she say?” Pastor Hemmings asked. He still didn’t really take this account with too much credibility, but nevertheless . . . .

“She said two things. She said ‘Peace.’ And she said, ‘He is coming.’”

“Who is coming?” Edna asked.

Jessica looked at her with clear and earnest eyes. “She didn’t say.”

“Who do you think she meant?” Reverend Argyle asked.

“I have no idea, Reverend. But she looked so happy when she said it.”

• • •

“This’ll cause a stir,” Pastor Hemmings observed when the kids had left.

“Maybe she won’t say anything to anyone,” Reverend Argyle said, not sounding as if he believed it.

“Not a chance!” Edna opined. “She’s way too caught up in . . . in whatever it was that she saw.”

“Do you suppose . . . ?” That was Pastor Hemmings, but before anyone else could answer him, he answered himself with a dismissive laugh and a shake of his head. “Not likely, now is it?” he said.

“Who said all the miracles belonged in the olden days?” Edna snorted. “If anyone ought to believe in miracles, you ministers ought to!”

“Not everyone who claims a miracle really witnessed one,” Reverend Argyle offered.

“All the same, I’d be prepared for a flurry of attention from the press,” Pastor Hemmings put in.

Reverend Argyle cocked his head and lifted an eyebrow. Edna could tell he was seeing this whole incident in a new light.

“It’ll get attention for the church,” the minister finally concluded. “And that’s not altogether a bad thing.” Sunday attendance had been down, and membership was sagging.

“You’ll be temporarily famous,” Pastor Hemmings teased. “Everyone gets his fifteen minutes—isn’t that what they say? I think you’re about to get yours.”

Reverend Argyle didn’t look entirely displeased by that prospect. Thinking, I’m overdue for a haircut anyhow, he consulted his watch, then said to his colleague, “Well, there’s nothing to do but wait and see what happens.” His tone of voice said, “Let’s wrap this up,” and Pastor Hemmings took the hint, wishing a good day to Edna and Argyle, then leaving as quickly as his portly girth would permit.

Edna hurried off to the meeting room where the choir would rehearse, and Reverend Argyle left too, headed for the barber’s, wondering how to turn around the probable publicity to the church’s best advantage. Maybe it had been an apparition of the Blessed Virgin; maybe it hadn’t. Either way, though, maybe God had sent the church some help for its sagging membership, if only in the person of a small child who thought she had seen Jesus’s mother.