Six months later
Bryant and Margo sat in the very first pew while Father Joe began his sermon on miracles. The priest was in his Easter white vestments and beaming from the pulpit. Bryant had Margo’s fingers intertwined as they smiled broadly at Father Joe’s antics in front of the altar.
“Miracles,” Father Joe said, accenting his Irish brogue for effect. “Ah, they are so prevalent we can hardly notice them sometimes. Take the 1969 Mets for example. It’s commonplace to call them the Miracle Mets, but the accent goes on the word Mets, doesn’t it?”
Bryant rolled his eyes at that one.
“Good Friday was probably the most famous of miracles, but one of my favorites is when Jesus walked on water. Most people lose sight of the fact that Peter walked on water as well, until he took his eyes off Jesus to pay attention to the storm overhead. That’s when he began to sink. Of course Jesus saved him, but the real lesson here is to keep your eye on Jesus and you won’t sink.”
Bryant squeezed Margo’s hand and received a squeeze back. The bandages were gone and her hair was growing back, but they would never be sure how much brain damage she’d incurred from the gunshot wound. Her speech was improving and her long-term memory was returning as well. There was speculation she wouldn’t be able to use her clairvoyant talents any longer which made everyone happy. Finally the voices were gone.
“And so we must all keep our eyes on the Lord, or we will certainly sink,” Father Joe said into the microphone.
At that very moment Bryant thought of how embarrassed the priest would be if his parishioners knew that he wore nothing but his red underwear beneath his garments to prevent him from stuttering. An old OCD routine which he’d never been able to break. Bryant thought of bringing that up the next time Father Joe spoke about miracles. He smiled to himself.
Suddenly Margo gave him a hard elbow to the ribs.
It startled Bryant.
When he looked at her, she admonished him with the glare of a mother disciplining her child.
“I see,” Bryant whispered, rubbing his side.
“So do I,” Margo said, looking up at the ceiling. “So do I.”
If you liked this book check out other books by Gary Ponzo.