Reports of these mysteries rekindled the talk in the hallways, and the phone calls from worried parents of the twelve and from those who received the gossip secondhand. Earlier claims had been dismissed as the fantasies of a troubled girl new to the school and the community, but now her tale bore the weight of the parents’ malice and exaggeration. The most ardent churchgoers protested the most loudly, and those who believed in nothing at all were their temporary allies. Fourteen messages awaited Principal Taylor upon his arrival on Friday, and another dozen complaints were transferred before nine o'clock. The non-Catholics scoffed at the weeping statues as some papist hocus-pocus, the literal Bible was invoked, and charges of blasphemy were bandied. The Catholics, though anxious to believe, were offended by the children's trespass. The agnostics and atheists wanted to know why such nonsense was allowed to continue at a public school. Several parents insisted that Norah Quinn was the problem, and one father thundered that he would bring in the American Civil Liberties Union if Taylor could not prevent the exposure of his daughter to this kind of religious talk.
Over the intercom, Mr. Taylor summoned Norah to his office, and she left the classroom during a discussion of prime numbers. Two dozen faces, fascinated by the spectacle of the condemned, watched her exit. Sean imagined her long walk down the corridors, mentally counted her steps past the second graders’ self-portraits hanging on the walls, the shamrocks and leprechauns taped to doors, past the music room and its shelves cluttered with recorders and timpani, past the quiet library and around the corner to the cafeteria. Then on to the principal's office she would tread softly and slowly. But before she arrived, the emergency alarm bells clanged. The students stirred with enthusiasm. Mrs. Patterson looked at the clock and sighed, arranged a single-file line at the door, and mustered them out to the schoolyard in the morning sunshine. By magic, Norah joined the group, smiling at her reprieve.
“Do you think it's just a fire drill?” Sean asked.
She did not answer. Unlike the rest, who stared at the empty building, she looked toward the faculty parking lot and seemed to be counting softly to herself, the numbers trailing down, seven-six-five, barely perceptible on her moving lips. Sean watched the countdown, three-two, his gaze shifting from her mouth to the object of her attention as she neared the end. At zero, a loud metallic explosion caught the crowd's attention in time to see the beginning of smoke curling from the front of a white sports car, and then with another bang, the flames forced open the hood.
“My baby!” Mr. Taylor shouted. He took two steps toward the beloved Mustang and then halted. The fire roared to life, and near the heart of the flames, a bird rose like a phoenix, a huge crow beating its broad wings and cawing madly as it escaped into the sky. Each of the disciples searched for fellow believers, exchanging looks that touched upon the central mystery of their nascent faith. When the firetrucks rolled up their hoses and the drama of fire and water ended, a dozen children encircled Norah, curious to affirm her role in the blaze.
“How did you do it?” Mark asked.
“There's no way,” Matt said. “You were miles from the car like the rest of us.”
Dori broke the ranks. “Funny way of getting out of having to go to the principal's.”
The children pressed closer, and Norah waved them back, creating an invisible boundary around her body. “Best not tick off an angel,” she said, with a wink and a grin.
“I don't believe you had anything to do with that fire,” Lucas said. “My mother says there's no such thing as angels and that you are a crackpot or some religious nut—”
“Don't you remember how I saved you? I see the hesitation in all your hearts, and so I will show you once more.” She lifted her eyes to the glassy sky, warm and foreshadowing spring. The others took notice too of the fine day, the greening of the grass and budding in the trees. “The wrath of angels falls upon a doubt-filled world.”
As the firemen cleaned up the mess, the teachers and students filed back into the building and did their best to restore normalcy to a Friday afternoon. During the final class of the day, the windows began to vibrate and hum. The wind began to blow and the tall trees outside swayed and bowed their crowns. Rolling clouds blackened the sky and cast shadows across the classroom. Bits of debris flew by—forgotten dry leaves, napkins, wrappers, lost homework, and mislaid notes. A jump rope skipped by like a downed telephone line. Returning to her desk from a stint at the blackboard, Sharon Hopper laid her palm against the window and withdrew when it burned, and then tentatively touched the glass again, stunned by its fragile coldness. Bigger objects lumbered about the grounds—trashcan lids, a soccer ball spinning madly, a lunchroom tray, a shattered maple branch. They expected a flying cow, a spinning farmhouse come to rest upon the striped feet of a witch. The hour darkened, near pitch, and in the windows, the children saw their worried reflections.