An Imperfect Miracle by Thomas L. Peters Page B

dimple when he smiled, just like Mom, and I wondered if that was another reason why she liked him so much.
    â€œI don’t think you have anything to worry about.”
    â€œSo you don’t think she’s a fake then.”
    â€œI don’t really know. Do you think she’s a fake?”
    I hated it whenever teachers at school answered my question with a question of their own. I was hoping that Pastor Mike was better than that.
    â€œI think she’s real, but I can’t prove it. I don’t know how you’d go about proving something like that anyway. The cops even came around asking me questions about her—whether she was a fake I mean. But they didn’t look smart enough to prove much of anything about her one way or another.”
    I noticed Pastor Mike eyeing me up pretty close all of a sudden.
    â€œWhen did they ask you these questions?”
    â€œJust yesterday. They think Carlos and me are in cahoots, but I’m not worried since I didn’t do anything wrong. They didn’t say anything about Father Tom though. Do you think they’re after him too?”
    Pastor Mike’s blue eyes weren’t shining nearly as bright and sharp as before.
    â€œFather Tom is a fine man. So is Carlos. The police should stick to solving real crimes.”
    I remembered what Marcie had told me and decided to ask him about it just to see what he’d say.
    â€œMaybe Father Tom wants to drum up some business for his church. His church isn’t growing near as fast as ours, although I think it’s because our church has a lot better music.”
    Pastor Mike shrugged a little and then took a long swig of his coffee.
    â€œThat doesn’t sound like something Father Tom would do.”
    â€œHow do you think her face got there then?”
    Pastor Mike sipped some more coffee.
    â€œMaybe it’s just a water stain like some people say, or maybe it really is a miracle. But whatever the cause, she provides hope to those who believe in her. We all need hope. We can no more live without it than we can live without food or water. And who are we to deny people hope, regardless of the source?”
    â€œSo you don’t think Mary is just some Catholic thing then like Pastor Bob says, because Mom’ll never let me switch to being Catholic. She doesn’t like all the candle burning and air swishing and the long robes and everything. But Mom can be pretty mule-headed about stuff.”
    Pastor Mike laughed a little and then swilled down the rest of his coffee. He kind of slurped it there at the end, like Mom always did in the mornings when she was still waking up. I remembered thinking that if I ever drank my orange juice like that, she’d have been on me in a second to clean up my manners. I wondered if Pastor Mike knew what he was getting into by hooking up with Mom.
    â€œThe Catholics put more emphasis on Mary than we do, but it’s only out of reverence for her. Maybe I’ll have to talk to Pastor Bob and see if we can iron out our differences.”
    â€œDo you think she can really do miracles?”
    â€œI think we should respect the beliefs of others, just like we hope other folks will respect ours.”
    â€œYou mean when all those old ladies down in the front start lifting their hands way up in the air and swaying back and forth like they’re gonna faint any second?”
    â€œSort of,” he said, and smiled.
    Then he patted me on the shoulder again and looked around for some place to set his coffee mug, like he was trying to shake loose of me. But I still had some more questions.
    â€œDid you quit talking with Mom long enough at the blessing ceremony to see the old guy with the shakes getting healed?”
    â€œI heard about it. And it’s probably more polite to say Parkinson’s disease.”
    I followed him to a window ledge a few yards away where he set his mug. I was hanging so near to him that my legs almost got tangled up