An Imperfect Miracle by Thomas L. Peters Page A

the time. And the karate place and Joe’s novelty shop and the 7-Eleven in back still had dirty pictures and words scribbled all over the walls that anybody walking by could see. But I kept my mouth shut like Mom wanted.
    â€œOn the other hand we’ve received a petition with over a thousand signatures on it asking that the image be allowed to remain as a permanent part of the town and its heritage. Indeed, some of our leading citizens have suggested that if properly handled, the image could be a real boon to the town.”
    I whispered to Mom about what a boon was, and she whispered back that it had to do with money. She said that everything had to do with money sooner or later.
    â€œOur police department has conducted an exhaustive investigation of the image, and has found no evidence that it was placed there in an unlawful or manipulative manner.”
    The mayor must have been able to tell that some of the townsfolk, like me, for instance, had no clue what he was talking about. He cleared his throat and tried again.
    â€œWe don’t believe that it’s a scam. Either God placed the image there, or Mother Nature did. Either way, we feel comfortable in saying that it’s not part of some fraudulent scheme.”
    â€œSee, I told you so,” I whispered to Mom.
    Mom was about to whisper something back to me when Mr. Grimes stood up and hollered that it was all a bunch of silliness. But the mayor told him to sit down and that he’d have his chance soon enough. As snobby and stuck up as he was, Mr. Grimes actually sat down without grumbling too much, although his back must have still been hurting him because he started rubbing it a little. Then the mayor said that the meeting was now open for what he called public comments. He pointed to a mike that had been set up in front where he said people could come and ask questions.
    â€œOne at a time though, and please be polite while others are talking.”
    The moaners and groaners, as Mom called them, all rushed up at once, and they elbowed and shoved each other to get to the mike first. The only one I recognized was Mr. Markle from our street, who when it was his turn griped that people from out of town were always parking right in front of his mailbox.
    I glanced over every once in a while at Carlos and Father Tom, but they didn’t seem to mind all the complaining and looked pretty loose and relaxed. I expected Mom to get up and embarrass me by talking about property values sinking or something stupid like that. But I guess she decided that the gripers had pretty much covered it all, because she didn’t budge off her chair. After some guy finished whining about the sewer drains always backing up, which I didn’t see had much to do with Mary, this lawyer in a dark, shiny suit strutted up and snatched the mike away like he knew what he was doing. I recognized him because Mom had gone to see him right before Dad ran out on us. Mom said he’d fixed it so that if Dad ever showed up anywhere near our house again the cops would toss him right into jail. Then I remembered that he was Marcie’s dad, and I wondered whose side he’d take, since according to Marcie he was no fan of religion.
    He started off by saying that there was some empty land about a mile from the center of town that could be turned into a big parking lot, and that the town could charge outsiders to park there and then shuttle them up in buses to see Mary. He said that visiting hours at the shrine, which was what some religious folks like Mrs. Marcella were beginning to call Mary’s little place, could be from ten to four, or something like that. He said then there wouldn’t be any noise to bother the townsfolk early in the morning when they were still sleeping, or in the evening when they were trying to eat supper. He said that with all the new money pouring in from ticket sales and parking and bus fees and such, the town could afford to hire a few more