"Danny-"

"Sammy," my father said, leaning into my face, "do you want to go on this trip?"

I was twelve years old, and I was in a terrible jam. The truth of it was that I wanted to attend a school dance that was being held on Friday night. I'd never been to a dance before, and all the kids in my cla.s.s were going to be there, including Margaret Thompson, and I'd been lying awake nights thinking of ways to ask her to dance.

She was the prettiest girl in my cla.s.s, maybe the prettiest girl in the world. She had green-blue eyes and perky ears and blond hair that she wore in pigtails, and a giggly laugh that just about made me swoon. All the guys liked her, and I knew they'd all be asking her to dance.

She barely knew I was alive. Once she asked if she could borrow my eraser, and when she returned it to me her fingers brushed the palm of my hand, and I d.a.m.n near fainted.

Would I pa.s.s out if I tried to dance with her? I didn't know, but I was willing to try. At least I thought I was.

Then came the Bleeding Jesus of Scranton, and suddenly my mother wanted me to go with her. The only good thing about that was that I'd miss school on Friday. The bad thing was that I'd miss the dance. The worst thing was that no matter what I wanted to do, I didn't want to disappoint either of my parents, and that was an impossibility.

My father had me locked in his gaze. "Don't look at your mother. Look at me me and tell me-do you want to go on this trip?" and tell me-do you want to go on this trip?"

I swallowed, put my fork down. "Well, there's this dance at the school tomorrow night."

"There you go!" my father said. "He wants to go to the dance, like any normal kid!"

My mother looked at me. "Samuel. There'll be plenty of dances."

"Oh, for Christ's sake!" my father roared.

"And I really don't want to travel alone, Samuel."

"Alone!" My father snorted. "You'll be with your own kind! A bus full of Holy Rollers, going to see a phony miracle!" My father snorted. "You'll be with your own kind! A bus full of Holy Rollers, going to see a phony miracle!"

She ignored the insult, didn't even look at him. She was smiling at me in a way that was both motherly and seductive. "It's up to you, Samuel," she said softly. "You choose."

My head was pounding. I wanted to break a window, run outside, scream at the sky. My father was glowering at me. My mother looked at me as if she'd known what my answer would be all along.

And she did, of course. I couldn't let her go alone. I couldn't disappoint my mother. I couldn't do what I really wanted to do, any more than I could flap my arms and fly to the moon. "I'll go with you, Mom."

My father threw down his fork and got up from the table. "A hundred bucks shot, instead of fifty," he all but snarled on his way out the door.

"It's not your money, Danny!" my mother called after him, but I doubt he heard her. She was stroking my cheek the way she did whenever I was a very good boy.

I was the only child on the whole d.a.m.n bus. The pa.s.sengers were mostly women and almost entirely elderly. Canes and crutches filled the overhead racks, and the reek of Ben-Gay arthritis cream was enough to make my eyes tear. Every seat on the bus was full, with the exception of two in the back, which were being used to transport folded-up wheelchairs.

One old man named Harry Campbell wore jet-black sungla.s.ses. He was stone blind. Why was he making the trip if he couldn't even see the bleeding crucifix?

"He has faith," my mother explained. "He has the faith to believe in a miracle, even if he can't see it."

He has fifty bucks, my father would have said. He has fifty bucks for the bus and the motel.

I had to hide a smile, thinking of what my father would have had to say if he were along for the trip. It would have been a lot less spiritual but a lot more amusing.

Maybe that's why my mother wanted me to come with her so badly. I would be a teenager in less than a year-the sap was rising, the hormones were brewing. Maybe she sensed that her grip on my soul was loosening, and that a trip like this would strengthen it. Maybe, maybe, maybe....

Our motel room had two narrow beds, a bureau, a window overlooking the highway we'd just come off, and a bathroom with a shower, but no tub. There were two gla.s.ses on the bathroom sink, wrapped in plastic pouches. There was a paper band around the toilet seat that was supposed to a.s.sure us that the thing was clean, that our a.s.ses would be the first to make contact with it since the gray-haired Irish maid we'd pa.s.sed in the hallway had given it a swipe with a disinfectant-soaked cloth.

My mother put our small overnight bag on the bureau, and then we stretched out on the beds for a little rest. Everybody from the bus would be gathering downstairs in about half an hour, and then we would all walk to the church to bear witness to the miracle.

We lay there staring at the ceiling, a checkerboard of perforated white tiles. I wondered what we'd be having for dinner. I was thinking ahead, past the miracle. I had never been to a buffet. The thought of it was a lot more exciting to me than a bleeding Jesus.

"Samuel?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

"I'm glad you're here with me. Are you glad you're here?"

"I guess."

"We're very lucky to be seeing what we're about to see. People all over the world wish they could be here."

"Uh-huh."

"Samuel?"

"What?"

"I want to apologize for your father."

I didn't like what she'd just said, or the way she said it. "Apologize for what?"

"What I mean is...I'm sorry he's not a better man."

I sat up on the bed, staring straight into her shining eyes. This was the sort of thing she never could have said in our house, or in that rickety cabin in the Poconos. She was telling me she was sorry she'd allowed Danny Sullivan to be the father of her child, instead of someone worthier of the role than the wisecracking, beer-swilling lout she'd permitted to impregnate her.

It was a h.e.l.l of a thing to hear, especially in a boxy little room like the one we were in, so close to the Pennsylvania Turnpike that the whine of traffic was as constant as a heartbeat.

What could I say? I felt sorry for her and furious at her in equal measures. If she had that kind of scorn for my father, how could she feel about me, me, the fruit of his loins? the fruit of his loins?

No-no, I was wrong about that. She was looking at me with what appeared to be unqualified love. She obviously didn't think of me as a part of him-and after this special road trip together, I'd be hers more than ever.

"Samuel. Have I upset you?"

"I'm okay."

"I'm not criticizing your father. He's a certain type of person, that's all. He's not much like me...or you."

I wasn't going to respond to that. I was starting to think about the dance I'd be missing, and the way my father wanted me to go to the dance. It was enough that my mother had gotten her way and hauled me along on this crazy trip. It wasn't necessary for her to tear him down. So I remained silent, staring at the perforated ceiling, wondering why there were holes in those tiles and why my parents couldn't get along.

My mother rose from her bed. "We should go downstairs and join the others. Do you have to go to the bathroom first?"

I did have to go. I snapped the paper band off the toilet seat, took a p.i.s.s, washed my hands and face with a tiny bar of motel soap, and then I was as ready as I'd ever be to see the Bleeding Jesus of Scranton, Pennsylvania.

It was a three-block walk to the church, but it took us the better part of an hour, at a crutches and wheelchair pace. Inevitably my mother wound up leading the blind man with the jet-black gla.s.ses, his bony hand clutching the crook of her elbow, and though a local church guide had been sent to lead us it was obvious to all that my mother was the one in charge.

She appointed (or should I say anointed?) me to push one of the wheelchairs, containing what was left of a once-vigorous woman named Helen Paulsen, who claimed to have been a member of the U.S. Olympic swim team during the 1920s. She blamed her decrepit hips on all those years of kicking her way up and down swimming pools, but she had no regrets-G.o.d was good, she said, G.o.d will look out for me.

G.o.d, and the pension left to her by her late husband, who'd been a member of the Steamfitters Union before lung cancer claimed him.

"Oh, Samuel," she said, looking straight ahead as I pushed her along the sidewalks of Scranton, "it is so awfully awfully good of you to push me this way." good of you to push me this way."

For some reason Mrs. Paulsen, a lifelong resident of Flushing, had acquired a half-a.s.sed British accent.

"I don't mind, Mrs. Paulsen."

"And aren't you a lucky lad to be taking part in this thrilling expedition?"

You'd have thought we were hacking our way through a jungle on our way to find Dr. Livingstone. She turned her head to look at me. "I said, aren't we lucky-"

"Yes, ma'am, we sure are lucky to be here."

"Why, you're the only child on the trip! Are you aware of that?"

I was aware of it.

The church was a small gray building with a plain metal cross out in front, over the front doors. Buses with logos from all over the Northeast were parked along the curb, and a steady stream of people was flowing in.

They were prepared for it, too-a makeshift ramp had been built to cover half the stone stairway leading into the church. I joined a line of wheelchairs at the ramp and slowly pushed Mrs. Paulsen into the cool, incense-smelling church. To my right, my mother was leading the blind man up the steps. We inched along at an identical pace, side by side. My mother winked at me, her partner in this mission of mercy.

It was now five o'clock in the afternoon. All the kids from my cla.s.s were at home, getting ready for the dance. I was pushing a cripple, on my way to watch a statue bleed.

We shuffled toward the altar, where flashbulbs popped. Mrs. Paulsen rocked from side to side, unable to contain her excitement. A pale priest with a b.u.t.terfat face but a slim body stood in front of the altar, smiling benignly at the approaching hordes. He wore rimless gla.s.ses that seemed to be buried in the flesh around his eyes. I could smell the Vitalis that held his thinning, slicked-back hair in place.

"Keep moving, please," he said softly, to n.o.body in particular. At last we were in front of the altar, where our shuffling steps came to a halt before the strangest sight I had ever seen.

A huge cross stood behind the altar, bearing a life-sized wooden Christ figure that was held to the cross at the hands and feet by nails that seemed to be the size of railroad spikes. The figure must have been made from some kind of fruit wood, a dark brown color that had never tasted paint or varnish. The only real color was the bright red liquid that dripped from the holes in Christ's feet into a golden bowl that had been placed on the floor below.

I didn't know what to feel. I suppose I should have felt afraid-I mean, how creepy was this? this?-but before I could feel anything, here came the voice of my mother, all but choked with joy, describing the sight to the blind man who clutched her elbow: "He's bleeding from his feet...there, a drop just fell...Oh, Mr. Campbell, it's an amazing sight...the blood falls into a little golden bowl on the-there! Another drop just fell from his feet! It's very bright red...absolutely beautiful..."

Mrs. Paulsen turned around to look at me, her eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with tears. For a moment I thought she might spring from her wheelchair and run up to embrace the dripping Christ figure, but instead she just smiled and said, "Thank you, thank you, thank you, Samuel, for bringing me." Samuel, for bringing me."

"You're welcome," I replied automatically, and a moment later we were moving to make way for the crowds behind us. There was no time to get a really good look at the crucifix, so it all seemed like a dream. We moved past the altar and hooked around toward the back of the church-wheelchairs to the left, ambulatory people to the right. Silent nuns stood at the corners of the church with collection baskets, into which everybody dropped paper money and coins. My mother had given me a dollar to contribute, which I dutifully donated.

We would all meet out front to begin the walk back to the motel, and our already-paid-for buffet dinner. My mother had the dreamiest look I'd ever seen on her face. She was literally happier than I'd ever seen her-or had I ever seen her happy at all before?

I was troubled, though. I had questions I wanted to ask, questions I didn't want Mrs. Paulsen or the blind man to hear. I would have to wait until later.

Dusk was coming, and with it a chill in the air. I helped Mrs. Paulsen put a shawl across her shoulders before beginning the push back to the motel. My mother was a big woman, but suddenly she seemed as light and graceful as a ballet dancer. Her feet seemed to barely touch the ground, and I half expected her to take wing and fly back to the motel, with Mr. Campbell hanging on like a pilot fish.

"Oh, Samuel," she said, bending to kiss my cheek, "wasn't that just amazing? amazing? Aren't you just..." Aren't you just..."

She paused, struggled to find the right word, found it at last "...tingling?"

"Yes, Mom," I lied. "It was amazing."

"Are you hungry?"

"Yes." At least I was telling the truth about that.

"So am I," she said. "Hungrier than I've ever been!"

She looked wide-open, innocent, joyous-all the ways she could never be in my father's presence.

I thought that maybe I shouldn't ask her the things I wanted to ask her. I didn't want to wreck this perfect experience for her. But I was a kid, and I was curious, and in the end I went ahead and did it.

At least I waited until after we'd eaten.

The motel buffet was a lot more dazzling to me than the Bleeding Jesus, a long row of metal pans heated from below by flaming cans of Sterno. There was lasagna (overcooked, not nearly as good as my mother's), southern fried chicken (tasty but a bit greasy), creamed corn, french fries, breaded flounder fillets (for Catholics who still adhered to the no-meat-on-Friday ban, even though the pope had lifted it), and string beans (straight from the can, and limp as a priest's handshake).

There were also bowls of cold stuff on offer-potato salad, sliced beets, coleslaw, and sliced dill pickles. Everything had a large metal spoon in it, and you just helped yourself.

I stuffed myself with chicken and creamed corn, while my mother must have fired down half a dozen fish fillets drenched in tartar sauce. It was hard to tell exactly how much she'd eaten because the fillets were boneless, while I had a mountain of chicken bones on my plate that testified to my greediness.

Everybody stuffed themselves. Apparently nothing stokes an appet.i.te better than a good old-fashioned miracle. The conversations were loud, almost raucous, as if we'd all just been to an exciting ball game. The motel staffers cheerfully refilled the food pans as they emptied. The Bleeding Jesus was bringing in the kind of business this small town had never known before. For a little while I was glad to be here, and then I was jabbed by thoughts of the dance. Would I ever have worked up the courage to ask Margaret Thompson to dance? This was a question I'd never be able to answer. Who would be holding her in his arms, instead of me? That was a question that would torment me all night.

When we'd laid waste to the main meal, out came the desserts-chocolate cakes and cherry pies, gallon containers of chocolate and vanilla ice cream, plus chocolate and b.u.t.terscotch sauce in squeeze containers, whipped cream in cans, rainbow sprinkles, and a huge jar of maraschino cherries.

My mother built us the biggest ice cream sundaes I'd ever seen-three scoops apiece, topped by whipped cream, sprinkles, b.u.t.terscotch sauce, and maraschino cherries. We were certainly getting our money's worth from the Bleeding Jesus package deal. The crowd got even louder during dessert, probably from the sudden sugar rush. It was almost like being at a pep rally. In the midst of the noise and halfway through my sundae, I chose my moment.

"Hey, Mom, can I ask you something?"

"Of course you can, sweetheart."

"How come Jesus wasn't bleeding from his hands?"

The smile fell from her face. A bit of whipped cream on her upper lip was giving her a white mustache, but I didn't think this was the time to mention it. Instead, I plunged ahead with more questions.

"I mean, shouldn't he be bleeding from his hands, too? There are holes in his hands, aren't there?"

"Of course there are."

"But the hands weren't bleeding. And what about the crown of thorns on his head? The thorns made Jesus Christ's head bleed, didn't they?" I swallowed. "Well, the head of the wooden Jesus wasn't bleeding," I said in a voice that had suddenly become a whisper. "I just don't understand...why it wasn't bleeding in those other places."

My mother detected the whipped cream mustache on her lip, wiped it off with a napkin, rolled the napkin into a ball, and tossed it on the table.

"Samuel. Why must you ask these questions?"