Cradle and All Read online

  The torrent of rain had been mercilessly flooding the desolate sheep pasture since before dawn. Thousands of dark umbrellas shrouded the crowd against the chill, numbing rain. The smells of gamy, half-cooked lamb, chicken, and onions thickened the air.

  A miracle was expected, and at that time people still believed in miracles.

  At five past one in the afternoon the three children finally appeared. They were wide-eyed and trembling, inside a tight procession of severe-looking nuns and priests. Behind them came more priests in dripping soutanes, holding flickering red torches and gold crosses.

  The children — Francisco, Jacinta, and their cousin Lucia — suddenly began to point toward the whipping, black skies.

  This was their sixth and last appearance.

  “Put down your umbrellas and she will stop the rain!” ten-year-old Lucia cried out.

  The little peasant girl’s urgent command passed through the swelling crowd.

  “Please, madame, your parasol.”

  “Senhor, your umbrella, please.”

  At 1:18 P.M., October 13, 1917, the black thunderclouds that had cloaked the sky since dawn suddenly separated.

  The sprawling festival of people stared upward with open mouths and widening eyes.

  A golden glow fanned out at the cloud edges. The sun then appeared with blinding brilliance.

  “Look! The sun has come out!”

  “Our Lady is here!”

  Thousands knelt in the thick mud. And as it would soon be reported in the New York Times and everywhere else, the afternoon sun began to tremble and spin at a terrifying speed toward the earth.

  Brilliant light rained down on the transfixed crowd as they watched it spiral back up to the sky.

  “Please pray to Our Lady,” begged little Lucia. “She says the world war will end soon! She says the Devil will be stopped this time as a sign!”

  The horde of men and women surrounding the three children pounded their breasts and began to scream. “I see her! She is so beautiful! The Mother of God has come back to Earth here at Fatima!”

  His Holiness Pope Pius XIII cherished the memory. He had been right there as a young boy. He’d been sitting on the shoulders of his father. He had been too young to truly understand.

  But it had happened.

  The Lady had spoken to him. The Lady had appeared. And she had foretold everything that was happening now — all of it!

  The seizure ripped through the cerebrum of the most revered man in Christendom, canceling all but one regretful thought: He would never know which virgin bore the divine child.

  Chapter 23

  I AM A PRIEST. I’m here on important Church business.

  Father Justin O’Carroll stood in a patch of bright sunshine at the foot of the Beavier driveway and tried to catch his breath. This was going to be a challenge.

  I am a priest.

  His face was crinkled up, but the thin smile had more to do with the harsh glare than happy anticipation. He would be seeing Anne Fitzgerald here at the house, and he wasn’t sure that he wanted to. It had taken him a long time to get over Anne. He didn’t want to relive the heartbreaking experience.

  He was a believer in fate, however, and here he was, in close proximity to Anne again. He knew she would be at the house, since he was at least partly responsible for her being here. He’d recommended her to the cardinal, who agreed immediately. John Rooney said that Anne was tough, perhaps even cynical at this stage of her life, and that was what was needed in Newport.

  The last time he’d seen her, Justin had absolutely believed he would never see her again. He could still recall her anger when he’d shown up at the girls’ school where she worked. She was right to be mad, but God, had she let him have it with both barrels.

  Anne is a trial, he thought to himself. A trial he had earned. Perhaps he’d been selfish before. This time, he wasn’t going to inflict his feelings on her.

  “Jesus, God,” he muttered suddenly. “There she is.”

  He watched a lithe, strikingly attractive young woman coming over the dunes toward the main house. He wasn’t quite ready for it, but there she was. He had the same thought he always did: He still loved this woman. Only now he was sensible enough not to show it.

  Anne’s surefooted stride was achingly familiar to him, as was the way her thick black hair whipped around in the breeze. She seemed to be walking in slow motion — there could be no other logical reason why it took an eternity for her to reach him.

  He felt his insides shift. No amount of rehearsing and girding himself had prepared him for this actual moment.

  Finally, they stood facing each other in front of the Beavier house. Somehow, the impressive and dramatic locale seemed appropriate for their meeting.

  Anne stared at him, wordless, perhaps furious with him for having surprised her again. He could have called, he knew. Given her a warning.

  “Hello, Anne,” Justin said. He was uncharacteristically tongue-tied. “I’m archdiocese staff too. Part of all this intrigue.”

  At last, she murmured a quiet “Hello, Justin.” That was all. She apparently didn’t have anything else to say.

  He stared into her brown eyes a little longer than he ought to. She looked better, wiser, prettier than she ever had. It made his heart physically ache to see her again.

  “I’m sorry about just coming like this,” he offered, “but you don’t just say no to the cardinal.”

  “I know, Justin. I’m here for the same reason.”

  He stood rooted to the driveway, blood pounding in his forehead, watching her features for some small sign of her feelings. Would she tell him she was glad to see him? Or would she turn and walk away? Or suddenly begin to shout?

  When her smile finally came, he felt as if he’d been blessed.

  Anne held out her slender hand to him. Formal, yet with the warmth of friendship. “I’m glad to see you, Justin. We’ve got a great deal to do here. Kathleen Beavier is an amazing young woman. But I don’t believe she’s going to be the mother of God.”

  Chapter 24

  LES PORTER WAS WIRED in the best way he could imagine. The Daily News reporter stubbed out his second cigarette that morning and put the ashtray back on the nightstand. From his wide double bed in the Newport Goat Island Sheraton, Les had a pretty neat view of the gently arching Jamestown Bridge.

  “What hath God and the News wrought?” he muttered under his breath. There was a traffic jam from hell on the bridge — and he used that term advisedly.

  Who were these people rushing to Newport? Believers? Curiosity seekers? Ambulance chasers? All of the above?

  The virgin-birth story had certainly caught fire in a hurry. Fox, Hearst Entertainment, and Warner Brothers had all tried to nail him down for film rights only a split second after he’d signed on with UTA. His new agents, Richard and Howie, had licked their collective chops and assured him that the Kathleen Beavier story was going to do huge things for him. He’d already known that. This was front-page material out into the indefinite future.

  First, speculation before the birth, with all of its ingredients of mystery, controversy, religion, and sex — or the possibility thereof.

  And then the spectacle of the birth itself.

  Was it a hoax?

  Or was it for real?

  And then what?

  Personally, he thought Kathleen was the other side of Tawana Brawley, but from his point of view it didn’t matter if the Beavier girl was a virgin or a clever fraud.

  He’d broken the story, but he couldn’t own it. He could, however, put his fingerprints all over it. And that’s what he meant to do.

  Les Porter dressed quickly in cords and lamb’s wool and an Irish oilskin jacket. His clothes cost more than the maintenance in his co-op apartment. He’d always had a thing for good clothes. Only now, for the first time, the expense was justified. Cameras were going to be pointed at him today.

  His rental car was waiting outside the Sheraton, and as he pulled out of the par
king lot he found himself doing something he couldn’t remember having done for fifteen or twenty years.

  Les Porter, graduate of Regis High School and Manhattan College, quietly said the Lord’s Prayer. It wasn’t that he believed in the virgin. It was just that . . . with all of his bravado, he couldn’t quite not believe.

  Chapter 25

  THE CROWDS HAD STARTED to gather early around the Beavier cottage. The Newport police were there in numbers, and I spent half an hour out on the barricades talking to them. Most of the cops were highly skeptical and cynical of the so-called virgin birth. Same as me.

  One of the more verbose of the patrolmen told me, “This is just rich people turning adversity to their advantage.” It was a funny line, but I think the cop was dead serious, and maybe dead right.

  As the hour of the press conference approached, reporters and a few family friends were allowed onto the grounds of the estate. I talked to several of the Beaviers’ friends and relatives, but no one could shed any more light on the mystery.

  I was working hard at this but not getting very far. The people I talked to were strictly divided between believers and aggressive skeptics.

  I saw three teenage girls being refused admittance to the grounds and raising a pretty big stink about it. They were dressed in the familiar urban-female style and looked as if they might be friends of Kathleen’s. I hurried over to them.

  “Can I help you girls?” I asked across the wooden barricades set up by the Newport police.

  “Who are you?” one of the girls asked defiantly. She had on carpenter’s jeans, work boots, a camouflage-patterned parka. All three of the girls had WWJD fabric bracelets on their wrists. I knew that the WWJD acronym could mean either “What Would Jesus Do?” or “We Want Jack Daniel’s.” Or both.

  “Who am I? Well, right now, I’m the one on the inside of these barricades. Are you friends of Kathleen’s?”

  “We used to be. Before this,” said the group’s designated spokesperson.

  “Before her parents cut her off from everybody,” said a tall blonde. “Her parents, and that evil witch Mrs. Walsh.”

  “We’re her New England–style ya-yas,” said the third girl. I assumed that had to do with the book Divine Secrets of the Ya-Ya Sisterhood, which I happened to love.

  “All right. Well, come on in and join the party of the year.”

  I opened a space for them, and my new cop friends figured it had to be all right with the Beaviers.

  “Where is she being held?” the ringleader of the girls asked.

  “Down in the cellar. Actually there’s a lower cellar that’s particularly dingy and ice-cold,” I said. “I’m Anne. I’m part of the establishment around here, but at least I have a sense of humor. And I did get you ladies in here.”

  “Sara,” said the tall blonde.

  “Francesca,” said the roly-poly one who looked Italian.

  “Chuck,” said the ringleader.

  “Okay,” I said to them. “Let’s go see your friend.”

  Chapter 26

  KATHLEEN COULDN’T BELIEVE that I’d broken the rules and brought her friends to the house, but she lit up wonderfully when she saw them grouped at the bedroom door.

  “It’s just your ya-yas, darlin’,” Chuck drawled, and then they were all hugging one another in the bedroom.

  I left the girls alone for several minutes, but then I figured we had broken enough house rules and it was time to get them out again.

  “Thank you, thank you, thank you, Anne,” Kathleen said at the door, and she hugged me tightly. “Did I say thank you? Well, thank you very much. I owe you one.”

  We passed Mrs. Walsh in the hall, and she gave us the look.

  I took Sara, Francesca, and Chuck down the back stairs to the pantry and I talked to them on the way.

  “So why were the three of you banned from the house?” I asked.

  “The Beaviers are incredibly uptight assholes,” Francesca spoke up. “They are the worst. Carolyn treats Kathy like one of those porcelain dolls all over the formal living room.”

  “Rooms,” Chuck corrected. “Living rooms. Plural.”

  “And?” I asked.

  “We, uh — we helped Kathy with the abortion attempt. We went and checked out the clinic for her. We set it all up.”

  “But she went there all by herself. Why did you let her go alone?”

  Chuck got angry. Her eyes were dark, tiny beads. “She told us her appointment was the next day. We would have gone with her. Are you kidding?”

  When we got down to the pantry, I stopped walking and looked at the girls. I could tell that they were comfortable with me — up to a point.

  “So who are you?” Sara asked.

  I hesitated, then said, “I’m somebody trying to make some sense out of this.”

  “Yeah, well, join the crowd. This is beyond all our comprehension. It can’t be happening,” Sara said. “Ergo, it isn’t.”

  I nodded. “So you don’t believe Kathleen is a virgin?”

  They began to whisper among themselves.

  “No, actually, we do. Kathleen never lies. Never, ever. She has this personal-code-of-honor thing. No lies.”

  “What about the mystery man in all of this?” I asked. “Do you know who he is?” I held my breath.

  Francesca blurted, “His name is Jamie Jordan the third, and he isn’t the F.F. That’s fucking father, by the way. Though he says he is. He’s a total asshole, and he definitely isn’t the father of the new Jesus.”

  All three girls agreed.

  And now, I had a name: James Jordan III.

  Chapter 27

  THE GIRLS HAD BEEN in the house — those hideous, wicked, scurrilous girls! Blasphemers one and all! The housekeeper, Mrs. Walsh, thought she heard Kathleen speaking loudly in her room once they had left. Talking to whom? she wondered.

  Curious, she dropped the clean white linens on the fruitwood sleigh bed in the guest room. Then she slipped out into the dimly lit hallway and tiptoed toward Kathleen’s room. Her ears pricked up under her cap of white hair.

  Ida Walsh couldn’t clearly make out the words, but it certainly sounded as if Kathleen was talking to someone. But who? She hadn’t seen anyone come upstairs after the blasphemers left.

  Was Kathleen saying her prayers before the important meeting with the news people? Of course she had to be frightened. Even though she was pregnant with a child, Kathleen was still nearly a baby herself.

  Ida Walsh took a cautious step closer to the girl’s room. She hooked her hand around the doorjamb, and as quietly as possible the sixty-year-old woman levered herself into Kathleen’s room.

  “Sweet Sacred Heart of Jesus,” Ida Walsh gasped. Her hands flew to her mouth. She couldn’t believe her eyes, or her ears.

  The housekeeper actually fell backward. Her right hand fumbled at her breasts, searching vainly for the crucifix that always hung from the chain around her neck.

  It was gone! The crucifix wasn’t there anymore! How could it be gone!

  Suddenly she couldn’t see! She’d been struck blind.

  She couldn’t hear! Not a sound! She was deaf!

  She opened her mouth and bellowed wordlessly. She couldn’t speak! She thought she had been struck deaf and dumb or had actually died. She collapsed to the carpeted floor, moaning and clutching at her eyes.

  Then, in a horrible flash of cognition, she knew. She’d done this to herself. She was like Lot’s wife, who had looked back at Sodom and was turned into a pillar of salt.

  She had defied GOD!

  In the split second before she’d been stricken, she had seen Kathleen Beavier talking to someone. Talking out loud. Gesturing with great animation. And then — Kathleen had uttered the most vile curses.

  She’d heard a second voice — and it was very deep — a man’s voice. It kept calling Kathleen “Whore! Satan’s whore!” And she had better admit it, the man’s voice commanded. She should tell everyone at the big press conference.

  On
ly there was no one else in Kathleen’s bedroom. No one Ida Walsh could see.

  And in the young girl’s mirror, the housekeeper was sure that she’d glimpsed rising, licking, gold-and-crimson flames. She had seen the terrifying flames of Hell.

  “Mother of God, save me,” she whispered as she convulsed on the floor like a mad person. She had just seen Hell with her own eyes, and she believed with all her heart that she’d heard the Devil himself speaking to Kathleen.

  Chapter 28

  A WET GRAY MIST and patches of fog washed over Sun Cottage as Kathleen was led down the long flight of wooden back-porch steps. The sky overhead was ash gray, streaked with long purple slashes. It was quite epic-looking. From below, the lamps in the living room windows could be seen glowing warm and yellow, the homey way house lights look on late fall and winter nights.

  Keenly aware of the weather as I was, I thought of the strange happenings around the world: outbreaks of sickness, deadly plagues, a famine. It was all very scary, and I kept searching for a connection to the virgin birth. The Apocalypse? I couldn’t swallow that. Still, I couldn’t keep the images of chaos and evil out of my head.

  I saw Kathleen cover her eyes as hundreds of cameras flashed out across the darkening lawn. What an incredible photo opportunity this was.

  Her family and friends formed a tightly protective wall two-deep around her as she approached the imposing wedge of microphones that had been set up on a twenty-foot-long banquet table.

  On the opposite side of the table were a hundred or more news reporters, some of them recognizable faces, and behind them was a blinding gallery of lights. Videocameras stared with insolent red eyes, and I could see scores of satellite dishes set up on top of news trucks parked along the road.

  A half-dozen news choppers chattered noisily overhead. I worried about the possibility of a helicopter crash.

  Reporters and cameramen jostled and pushed for better positions.