14
If you hadn’t paid good money to come on this outing,” Hank said in his booming voice as he leaned against the rim of the fire pit, “I might be able to make you a promise that your very own prayers will be answered here at the sight of Mathilde’s Miracle, but both God and the state of Colorado frown on that, so all I can guarantee you today is a good story.”
All the boom of his voice seemed to come from the depths of his large belly. He was a jovial man, which Garner had always thought accounted for some of the assembly’s popularity.
“Nevertheless,” Hank said sagely, “I can say that many people who come here leave as changed people. I’ve seen sick people get better and sad people made happy. It’s a simple thing, they tell me: they believe that anything’s possible.”
Hank’s version of Mathilde’s tale was the “simpler” and “more sensitive” one, he’d often boasted to Garner. He left out the “stop sinning” part, because who ever said such a thing anymore, especially of a person like Mathilde, who was as pure as the Rocky Mountain air? And who would know or care what such a command meant, or tolerate the threat that followed it? Wasn’t being attacked by a ferocious wildcat enough terror for an innocent soul to bear?
Garner didn’t mind. He knew the full story—it had been published in a book sold at Nova’s store, and it was posted in a classy museum format out in the foyer for anyone who was interested. He wasn’t sure how many people had read the full text of the placards. But this slant toward sugarcoated entertainment was one of many reasons why Cat Ransom refused ever to attend services with Garner: “Even if Mathilde Wulff wasn’t a complete crock,” she would sniff, “the people who want to make money off the tourists sure are. It’s best not to believe any of it.”
Garner was more willing to give Hank the benefit of the doubt. Who would give up a half hour of his day seven days a week all summer long for a sham? There had to be something worth believing in here, however commercial it had become.
He listened attentively to Hank’s version of the story. Years of repetition had refined it to a very entertaining point, and he even found himself rewarding Hank with amused laughter on cue.
But his smile fell with the long hand of the clock to the bottom of the hour. Hank was wrapping up, and Garner still had not heard the thing he had hoped to hear, even though he couldn’t say exactly what that was.
“The power of belief is a great force in the universe,” Hank said. “Belief has given feet to terrible evils, but also to even greater good. What do you believe about the miracle you seek? Do you deserve it?”
Yes, Garner thought. I never forced Rose to go. I respected my daughter. She was the one who ran away. I’ve waited patiently for her return.
“Will the fulfillment of your miracle bring others goodness—happiness, peace, and joy?”
Yes, Garner thought. To the whole family. He wasn’t so sure about Abel.
“Then believe and you will receive,” Hank said. “Believe and receive. This is the true beauty of a miracle, its magnificent simplicity.”
Garner didn’t remember if this was something Hank had drawn from the pages of the Wulff journals or from Hank’s own brilliant mind. Something about it didn’t sound right. Some missing element made it insipid. Garner couldn’t put his finger on it.
All Garner wanted, amid all the other wants and needs transported from the accordion doors of the tour bus into the sanctuary of the church, was for that rancher who stole his daughter to die; for his Rose to return to her father’s love. And then he’d stand down by that fire pit of Mathilde’s and whoop and shout, “Look what God has done!”
Cat had bet Garner one hundred dollars that the pair of them would come up with a cure for cancer before he’d ever hear those words burst spontaneously from anyone.
After a dramatic pause Hank raised both hands like a priest giving a benediction.
“Thank you all for coming today. We are so pleased to be a part of meeting your life’s deepest needs. You are welcome to stay here and seek your miracle for as long as it takes, or until the bus departs from downtown at two thirty.” His smile was so paternal and warm. Garner smiled back. “And because I sense the great size of the hearts here today, your great capacity to give as much as you receive, I will beg your indulgence as I draw your attention to the donation boxes positioned by each one of the doors around the building. If you have been blessed today—if you seek bigger and bigger blessings—yea, miracles—across the course of your life, then please consider what part you might play in the continuance of our work. He who gives much will receive much. And that’s a promise I can make. Thank you all. Go in peace.”
Garner remained in the pew while the visitors trickled out. He needed a moment to ponder Hank’s closing words. He who gives much will receive much. It sounded like it might have been from the Bible, but it was so long since Garner had cracked the spine of his that he couldn’t be sure. Still, it sounded right.
Maybe that was his problem. Garner had the means to make a generous donation, though he never had. He was a smart businessman, a wise investor. But what was his net worth doing for him these days? Nothing but sitting in a bank somewhere—far more than he needed for this simple life he’d chosen, in which he didn’t need to support anything.
Maybe that’s what God needed him to do after all. Give up the worldly treasure to get the spiritual one. That sounded right too.
Garner rose from his seat and made his way out into the foyer. The church was a product of mid-twentieth-century architecture, built in the fifties when Jonathan Wulff’s children decided money could be made off the location, if properly packaged for the public. It was a hulking low building with a roof that was also a domed skylight, and glass bricks for windows that both allowed light to enter and closed off all view of the outside world. The red tile floors were dull but spotless.
He lingered here for a time, thinking. Mathilde’s story, original pages from her journal, photographs of the family, and drawings she herself had sketched were all documented and matted and framed and hung on one side of the museum-like foyer of the little church. Few people ever lingered over them. What changes to this place might bring them closer to what they actually sought? What updates might reveal the revelations that Miracle Mattie might have to give them?
Garner shook his head. He was seventy-three years old. He’d die soon enough, with or without Cat’s skills to slow it down. What else was that money going to do for him? He might as well put it to some useful good.