stood. The world was probably quite a different place for him than it was for her. She wondered what it was like to have such faith, to be moved to joy by the imagination of color. She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt joy—in fact, wasn’t sure if she ever had in her adult life.
“Have you lived at this church all your life, Mr. Alonzo?”
“Yes, I was raised here by my uncle. Our quarters are behind the church. I suppose it’s an unusual situation, but I help him with the business of the church and accompany him with my guitar at mass.”
“And heal the sick?”
It was a guerrilla tactic, she knew, to lull people into security with innocent questions and then drop from the trees with something more direct. Juno laughed a little and shook his head. It was a laugh of resignation, with just a hint of annoyance.
“Like I said, Ms. Strong, there are people who believe I have that power.”
“What do you believe?”
He leaned against the doorjamb and appeared to be looking above her for the answer. “I believe that God can heal. People have claimed, though I myself am unconvinced, that my touch has helped them. But I believe that if even one in a million people are helped or believed they are helped by my touch, what right do I have to turn anyone away? There are far fewer people who come now. And you are the first writer I have spoken to in over a year. Only to say what I have just said to you.”
“How can it be that you don’t know if you have this power or not?”
Juno paused, as if considering whether to answer her or not. Lydia knew reporters had tried and failed to get him to tell them as much as he had already told her. Maybe he had sensed that her interest as a professional wasn’t in his curious abilities, and that is why he was so open. She didn’t think she would get any more from him and was surprised when he then went on to tell his story.
“One afternoon, after my tasks had been completed, I was reading the Bible in my room when I heard the sound of a woman’s faint sobs from the church. The sound was so hopeless, so despairing. I closed the book and rose quietly and walked toward the sound.
“The air in the church was hot and thick, and the afternoon sun, burning over a hundred degrees that day, was beating in through the west windows. When no one acknowledged me, I continued toward the pews. I could tell from the direction of the sound that the woman was sitting in the first row. I walked over and sat beside her. I could feel her misery as if it were my own. It seemed to radiate from her like a fever.
“It was Allison Drew, a young woman I had known for years through the church. The same age as I am, she had attended almost every Sunday mass with her father since she was ten years old. She had also come for the catechism classes my uncle conducted following the noon mass. She had been in a car accident that was a result of her drunk driving. The other driver had been killed and Allison was badly injured. Charges against her were pending. She had lost her vision but, according to what her father told us, she would probably gain it back. That had not happened yet.
“I did not ask her any questions but slid closer to her and put my arm around her shoulder. She leaned her head against me, and wept. She sensed that there was no need for her to speak, and there wasn’t. I could feel her pain, her shame, her hopelessness for thefuture, her sorrow for the life she took. I knew no words would comfort her. So, instead, I kissed her forehead gently and breathed into her all the love and forgiveness I knew God would offer her.
“ ‘God has already forgiven you, Allison. Forgive yourself,’ I told her.
“Four days later, Allison regained her sight. She told people that I had healed her, that I had told her of God’s forgiveness. She told them that I knew her feelings without words. People believed. They began to seek me out for guidance.
“I was very uncomfortable with
“Have you lived at this church all your life, Mr. Alonzo?”
“Yes, I was raised here by my uncle. Our quarters are behind the church. I suppose it’s an unusual situation, but I help him with the business of the church and accompany him with my guitar at mass.”
“And heal the sick?”
It was a guerrilla tactic, she knew, to lull people into security with innocent questions and then drop from the trees with something more direct. Juno laughed a little and shook his head. It was a laugh of resignation, with just a hint of annoyance.
“Like I said, Ms. Strong, there are people who believe I have that power.”
“What do you believe?”
He leaned against the doorjamb and appeared to be looking above her for the answer. “I believe that God can heal. People have claimed, though I myself am unconvinced, that my touch has helped them. But I believe that if even one in a million people are helped or believed they are helped by my touch, what right do I have to turn anyone away? There are far fewer people who come now. And you are the first writer I have spoken to in over a year. Only to say what I have just said to you.”
“How can it be that you don’t know if you have this power or not?”
Juno paused, as if considering whether to answer her or not. Lydia knew reporters had tried and failed to get him to tell them as much as he had already told her. Maybe he had sensed that her interest as a professional wasn’t in his curious abilities, and that is why he was so open. She didn’t think she would get any more from him and was surprised when he then went on to tell his story.
“One afternoon, after my tasks had been completed, I was reading the Bible in my room when I heard the sound of a woman’s faint sobs from the church. The sound was so hopeless, so despairing. I closed the book and rose quietly and walked toward the sound.
“The air in the church was hot and thick, and the afternoon sun, burning over a hundred degrees that day, was beating in through the west windows. When no one acknowledged me, I continued toward the pews. I could tell from the direction of the sound that the woman was sitting in the first row. I walked over and sat beside her. I could feel her misery as if it were my own. It seemed to radiate from her like a fever.
“It was Allison Drew, a young woman I had known for years through the church. The same age as I am, she had attended almost every Sunday mass with her father since she was ten years old. She had also come for the catechism classes my uncle conducted following the noon mass. She had been in a car accident that was a result of her drunk driving. The other driver had been killed and Allison was badly injured. Charges against her were pending. She had lost her vision but, according to what her father told us, she would probably gain it back. That had not happened yet.
“I did not ask her any questions but slid closer to her and put my arm around her shoulder. She leaned her head against me, and wept. She sensed that there was no need for her to speak, and there wasn’t. I could feel her pain, her shame, her hopelessness for thefuture, her sorrow for the life she took. I knew no words would comfort her. So, instead, I kissed her forehead gently and breathed into her all the love and forgiveness I knew God would offer her.
“ ‘God has already forgiven you, Allison. Forgive yourself,’ I told her.
“Four days later, Allison regained her sight. She told people that I had healed her, that I had told her of God’s forgiveness. She told them that I knew her feelings without words. People believed. They began to seek me out for guidance.
“I was very uncomfortable with
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