Mira’s voice pitched high. “Daddy’s great. He’s such a workaholic; he was so sorry he had to work late tonight and miss you. But really, this dinner was our idea. You have so many fascinating stories, Father. About the saints, for example.”
“Oh, yes! The saint stories. I’m surprised you girls are interested in the lives of saints. Their stories can be shocking.” He took a long draft from his glass. When he set it down, Mira refilled it. “It’s hard to understand how they could do such terrible things to their bodies in the name of God.”
“Terrible things to their bodies?” said Mira.
“Purification rituals, starvation. Exposing themselves to leprosy,” he said.
“I thought those were stories,” said Mira.
“And then, the things that were done to them! Relentless persecution, by the Diocletians, then the Romans. Saint Tatiana, thrown into the lion cage at the zoo. Saint Agatha—oh. Never mind.”
“Tell us how to prove that someone is a saint, Father,” said Francesca.
The priest settled back into his seat. “I understand. You don’t want to talk about the gory deeds. I don’t blame you. But I believe that’s a mistake. You have to accept saints for what they are, even when the stories of their lives repel you. Separate the horror from the faith system that drove the desperate acts—”
“The pope!”
Father Ernesto drew himself up and looked stiffly over his shoulder. “I’m sorry?”
“The pope. What does the pope say about the path to sainthood?”
“Oh, that’s an easy one. Papal ruling says the path to sainthood involves either of two steps: successful completion of a miracle, or martyrdom.”
Mira’s hand flew to her chest. “Martyrdom?”
“Oh sure!” He leaned back over his plate and resumed eating. “Sacrificing your life for your faith in God. Very big in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries. You don’t see it so much anymore, I suppose. Miracles, though. Those are another thing entirely.”
“How do you know if a miracle really is a miracle? Say a person was … lame, for example. And the saint put his or her hands on them, by accident, even. And the lame person could suddenly walk again?” Francesca asked.
“Miracles having to do with healing are hard to prove. The wheels of canonization grind slowly. To examine claims, the Church looks at hundreds, sometimes thousands of pieces of evidence. There’s no rubber stamp that says ‘Saint.’ The evidence must be incontrovertible. The situation or illness doesn’t have to be terminal or even dramatic. The cure simply has to be rapid, complete, and utterly inexplicable by ordinary means.”
“What do they do, exactly?” Mira said.
“First the original doctors who treated the sick person are interviewed by the Church. Then outside medical experts are hired to independently examine the records. Nothing is left to chance. Mother Teresa herself had to wait nineteen years after she died for them to prove she cured a woman of stomach cancer. And you’d think she would have been a shoo-in,” he said, winking.
Francesca ignored his wink. “You’re saying healings are considered suspect until proven otherwise?”
“That’s it. You see, the problem is, you’ve got these charlatans we call ‘faith healers’ mucking things up. Now there’s a win-win! They heal someone, they get credit. They don’t heal someone, they get to say that person didn’t believe hard enough in God.”
“It sounds hopeless,” Mira said. Francesca looked at her sharply.
“Unless…,” said the priest.
Francesca’s head snapped. “Unless?”
“We stop trying so hard to prove miracles, and accept them as the wondrous things that they are,” he said, gazing mildly at the ceiling.
Francesca’s head dropped. Father Ernesto shook his jowls. “Wait; that’s not what I was going to say at all.” He laughed softly. “I fade sometimes. The train of thought derails. What I was going to say was, it’s much easier to prove a resurrection.”
“A resurrection? From the dead?” Francesca nearly shouted.
“More than four hundred instances of saints resurrecting people from the dead have been recorded and verified. Saint John Capistrano, Saint Ignatius of Loyola, Saint Paul of the Cross. Saint Philip Neri, Saint Francis of Paola, Saint Peter of Alcantara. Saint Dominic! Saint John Bosco. Saint Joseph of Cupertino. Saint Bernardine of Siena, Saint Agnes of Montepulciano. Blessed James Salomoni…”
Francesca pawed at the table blindly, as though reaching for a pen.
“Saint Rose of Lima. Blessed Constantius of Fabriano and Blessed Mark of Modena…”
Mira tried to catch Francesca’s eyes, but they were ping-ponging around the room.
“Saint Padre Pio, Saint Charbel Makhlouf, Saint Francis Xavier, Saint Francis Jerome, Saint James of Tarentaise, Saint Cyril of Constantinople, Saint Felix of Cantalice, Saint Bernard of Abbeville, Saint Gerard Majella, Saint Francis Solanus, Saint Hyacinth, Blessed Sebastian of Aparicio, Saint Martin de Porres, Saint Peregrine, Saint John Francis Regis, Saint Philip Benizi, Saint Pacific of San Severino, Saint Stanislaus of Cracow, Mariana de Jesus of Quito, Saint Louis Bertrand, Saint Margaret of Cortona, Saint Andrew Bobola, Saint Rose of Viterbo, and of course, Saint Patrick, the Apostle of Ireland. To name a few.” He chuckled. “I guess my memory is better in some areas than others.”
Francesca whistled.
“And Saint Vincent Ferrer! How could I forget Saint Vincent Ferrer? Did you know he marched right into a synagogue and converted ten thousand Jews to Christianity? And that was before he raised a dead man.”
“I did not know that,” Mira said.
Francesca stood. “The lasagna is dry.”
Father Ernesto held both sides of his plate, like a child about to have his food taken away. “It’s perfect, dear.”
“Coffee, then. You need coffee. I’ll get it. Is instant okay? That’s what Daddy likes, so it’s what we’ve got. Mira, can you help me in the kitchen?”
Mira smiled apologetically at Father Ernesto. “Do you mind sitting here by yourself?”
“I don’t mind, but I’m not quite ready for coffee, I’m afraid. I’m still working on my lasagna.” His head dropped sadly over his plate. “Though I think it’s gone cold.”
“Let me heat it for you!” Mira gently tugged the plate from the old man’s hands. “Don’t worry. I’ll be back in a sec.”
Mira backed into the kitchen and swung around.
Francesca was pacing back and forth. “Think,” she said, spinning on one foot. “Help me think.”
“About what?”
“About what else to do. We’ll never be able to prove to Mr. Falso that what happened in the soup kitchen was a miracle now that Donata is dead. Besides, she’s already been cremated. I made calls.”
Mira braced herself. Slowly, she set the plate in the microwave and reached for the instant coffee and a mug from the pantry shelf. “Then what are you thinking?” She moved to the gas stove.
“You heard Father Ernesto. My other choice is martyrdom. To die, Mira. For my beliefs. Or else I have to be able to perform a second, confirmable miracle.”
Mira tucked her lip. In times like this it was best to stay quiet and listen to everything Francesca had to say. She turned the gas to medium.
Tick tick tick tick tick.