A Private Little Miracle

Frank Butler sat motionless; a little man, very erect and sitting well back from the seat in front of him. He seemed exceptionally confident and pleased with himself, and so he was. In approximately three-quarters of an hour he would touch down at Ossun Airport, just a stone’s throw from Lourdes, France, and then embark by automobile to the religious edifice.

He looked around the interior of the First Class compartment. Most of the passengers he had never seen before – just like he had never seen the Vandergrafts until that fateful day in June, during one of his much too frequent sales trips. His mind drifted back to the accident and remembered how it all seemed to happen in slow motion—

How the Vandergrafts’ family limousine suddenly lurched into his lane as it rounded a sharp turn, brakes totally gone, and torpedoed into the passenger side of his Volkswagen. He recalled clearly how, due to the downpour, his own brakes had squealed loudly, ominously, as both cars battered through the restraining rail and plummeted down the muddy embankment. How he lost consciousness as they cascaded down the slope and overturned onto the sharp bed of rocks below. How he awakened to find himself in the midst of a team of paramedics who were carefully moving his bruised body onto a nearby stretcher. A dull ache throbbed behind his temples. Rain and blood trickled down his cheek. A clash of thunder. A flash of lightning.

Something glinted on the ground beside him. He strained to focus his spotted vision. A paperweight – one given him by a coworker after a recent trip to France – had obviously been jettisoned from his car during the crash.Surprisingly unscathed, it revealed a tiny ceramic landscape – the shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes – magnified by the clear crystal hemisphere encasing it. For a fraction of a second, the distance seemed to telescope, his eyes transfixed on the ornament as scraps of his life seemingly floated by, flowing across the polished glass surface of the orb in a mosaic of shimmering waves.

It was at that precise moment that he decided to put an end to the misfortunes of a lifetime that lay behind him; to once again restore the peacefulness, the tranquillity he had experienced as a younger man. He no longer wanted either intrigue nor politics. He did not want hardships. Not ever again. And this fateful act would be his ace-in-the-hole. He knew deep inside he could effortlessly pull it off. After all, wasn’t a salesman, by his very nature, an actor?

“My legs! I can’t move my legs!”

Butler’s mind snapped back to reality like a balloon encountering a lighted cigarette, the clear impression of being watched springing to the forefront of his concentration. He stole a glance around and caught sight of a tall stooped man in his late forties staring cautiously back at him. Butler recognized the sandy mustache and bald pate.The man had been following him since his departure from Rome, as his presence undeniably proved. He was definitely a Private Investigator.

The man immediately looked away and began inspecting a tray of liquors that was now being shuttled down the aisle, as if to draw away any suspicions rising up within his quarry.

“A Private Investigator,” Butler pondered shrewdly. “No doubt hired by Mr. and Mrs. Vandergraft.”

He knew damned well they were on to his scheme. Yet there was nothing they, nor the courts for that matter, could do about it.He took another sip of the French Chablis set before him and cocked his head slightly to peer out the window at some thin wisps of cloudcover. His mind faded into obscurity as he again drifted into another train of intense thought—

He envisioned the twisted look of horror he had seen on his wife’s face when she learned of his “dreadful fate.” Her shock at first hearing the word paralyzed. The bitter disbelief that his body had betrayed him so completely. The cold fear. And how that look of dread rapidly faded as he secretly told her of his plan.

At first, Frank Butler expected total resentment and a drastic unmasking of his charade. Instead, he found astonishment; relief; total agreement; an awe-filled surge of power.His wife felt them all as a sly involuntary smile slowly formed on her countenance.

Until that very instant, he had never really known his wife. She was rapidly becoming fond of the idea. After all, it was owed them. They deserved it. It was a gift horse she did not intend to look in its mouth. For the first time in his life, Butler realized the woman was just as conniving as he.Within the next few days, his wife became quite insubordinate, defiant. She definitely liked his plan. And together, they could pull it off. They had to.

His train of thought returned to the here and now, and he once again focused on the tall, stooped man who was still trying to act inconspicuous by feebly scanning a magazine he was pretending to read. Butler would have to be extremely cautious. The tiniest mistake, the slightest movement of his legs in the presence of his newfound overseer could prove most detrimental.

However, this curse could also turn into a blessing if utilized in the right fashion. What better way to conclude his charade than with someone witnessing his remarkable recovery at Lourdes?Especially when that witness was sent by the very people who were trying to trip him up, to prove that it was all an act.

“And a damned good act,” he admitted to himself, nodding with self-satisfaction.Modesty was never one of Frank Butler’s shortcomings. His recent past again flooded upon him in rapid, flowing images—

He was now back in the courtroom. Judge Trumble had just reentered after a short recess and was about to take his seat.The bailiff made the typical announcement and all in the courtroom rose to their feet – save Frank Butler, of course – and all seated themselves once again. The gavel fell and the judge pronounced his decision. The medical results and related testimony falsified by his wife’s cousin, a down-and-out physician lacking in both assets and scruples, had done the trick.

The Butlers had won their case, had won the game. They had “passed go and collected two-hundred dollars,” as they say – or in this case, close to a cool three million. They had taken the Vandergrafts for nearly everything.Their plan had gone off without a hitch.

Their opponents sat there wide-eyed and wondering, somewhere between tears of anguish and the laughter of disbelief. Their high-priced lawyer stood hovering over them, flat-faced as a door, impalpable, futilely shuffling his papers. Butler knew they suspected, but – as always in cases such as this – had no proof, as his recent victory had proven. With a flick of his joystick he gracefully guided his wheelchair out of the courtroom with his wife following in close pursuit.

He had a lot of his life left to live. A life without hardships, his ace-in-the-hole acquired by the demise of another. Yet, to him it was duly fair. He spun his chair to face a hallway, his warped ego envisioning him a victorious paladin on horseback as he glided his mount down the long, narrow corridor with his retinue in close tow.

Butler focused once again on reality. He squeezed his wife’s hand tightly, gave her a gingerly smile. She smiled back, a triumphant glow in her grey eyes. Yes, she was definitely just as conniving as he, and she showed it.And that made her dangerous. He had never seen her this way. He wondered if he could trust her when the game concluded, wondered if she was capable of turning on him, if she would attempt to take it all away. She would definitely have to be watched – and possibly dealt with – in the future, but for now he had more pressing matters to deal with.

He snapped back to the present. A slight glimmer of guilt raced across the frontal lobes of his brain, but was quickly discarded. After all, what was done was done. And rightly so. He had succeeded in doing to them what they had done to him all his life. He deserved it. They owed it to him. They.The proverbial they. Not even Frank Butler knew who they represented. He quickly tossed the notion aside and, instead, glanced back defiantly at the portly man who had been following him.

Butler knew very well what his newfound shadow desired: a chance to prove his quarry a fraud. One little mistake. A twitch; a slight movement; reaction to pain – anything to trap him. The erstwhile salesman laughed to himself, knowing that his friend would get his wish. He would not only see Mr. Frank Butler stand, but also walk! The investigator would soon witness a modern miracle: a cripple, a paraplegic cured miraculously by the healing waters of Lourdes! And who was to say it wasn’t a miracle, nor divine intervention from the Almighty? There was no way they could prove it was or wasn’t. It would be, for all intents and purposes, an act of God.

He paused momentarily to remove the paperweight from his jacket pocket, briefly pondered the unusual scene: a world within a world, suspended in crystal and imprisoned for eternity. There were those, he thought, who would consider such an object a simple desk accessory. Others would prize it for its beauty, elegance and, possibly, its rarity. To him, however, it was now so much more; his talisman, his inspiration – the Muse to his current performance.

The plane jerked slightly, jogging his senses as the landing gear was lowered.Their air speed was being reduced.Ahead lay Ossun Airport. He smiled and closed his eyes.

* * *

The landing was relatively smooth and Butler, being an “invalid,” was aided in disembarking.The limousine he had requested was precisely where the terminal attendant had said it would be and, to his surprise, was on time. It took a few moments to transport him from the wheelchair to a comfortable seat in the limo and for his chauffeur to store their baggage properly, much to Butler’s enjoyment. His wife mumbled some French – straight from her tourist’s phrase book – and the driver pulled away from the curb, nodding his capped head in approval.

After a few seconds of mental self-flagellation for not insisting on an English-speaking chauffeur but instead placing trust in his wife’s high school French, Butler peered through the rear windshield and caught sight of a familiar bald pate hailing a taxicab. He laughed in triumph and glanced back at the limousine driver who was already taking the car onto a narrow, country road in compliance with his orders.

* * **

Butler was awakened by the sudden startling impact of sunlight on his face. He looked around as the limo passed what seemed like millions of white ducks, and what the chauffeur announced as the “Lac de Lourdes.” He caught a brief glimpse of a highway marker which, as far a he could make out, read “N21.” He turned sharply. The taxi was still following.

Soon they would arrive at Lourdes. Fishing village. Religious edifice. The site at which numerous miracles had occurred – or so they said.

Supposedly, it had all started in 1858, when an apparition of the Virgin Mary first appeared to Bernadette Soubirous, a little girl fourteen years of age, and mysteriously revealed to her a sacred spring. Since its onset, Lourdes had counted thousands of reported healings of individuals who became well after washing in or drinking from the spring’s waters, some even being declared miraculous by ecclesiastic authorities.

Lourdes. With it’s strange assemblage of sanctity, shops and sightseers. Thousands flocked to the famous shrine in the heart of the Pyrénées each year for just as many obscure reasons.

Soon, he would be there. Soon, the multitude of unsuspecting pilgrims – Butler’s shadow included – would witness an act of God.A twenty-first century miracle.Frank Butler’s personal miracle.Today, they would see a crippled man walk!

“It was so simple,” he thought to himself.Soon he would be putting on the greatest performance of his life. A performance befitting the late, great Lon Chaney in The Miracle Worker! He paused and again gazed out the window, unconsciously fondling the glass orb in his jacket at the same time.

They were now nearing the shrine of Our Lady of Lourdes. He could barely make it out due to the large number of tourists scampering frantically to and fro in search of better vantage points. The limousine halted, with the cab not far behind.

The chauffeur turned abruptly. “Monsieur et Madame Butler, nous sommes arrivés” he blurted as he opened the car door. He removed the collapsible wheelchair from the trunk and aided his passenger in moving from the limo back to his mount.

Butler looked around in utter fascination at the crowds of pilgrims and tourists alike who had turned out en masse, the entire scene a massive duplicate of his own glass-encased diorama. As his wife slowly wheeled him towards the ancient lazaretto, he quickly caught sight of a priest, arrayed in the traditional alb and chasuble, offering Mass at the entrance to the hollow.Diagonally behind the altar, a nearly life-sized statue of the Blessed Virgin peered down from an upper niche in the grotto, overlooking a lofty pyramid of ivory-colored candles. On the figure’s weathered, stone plinth read an inscription: Que soy era Immaculada Concepciou – “I am the Immaculate Conception.”

Above them The Basilica of Our Lady of Lourdes loomed majestically atop the grotto. And nearby, a group of elderly women clustered in a semicircle prayed intently, rosaries in hand, their wizened fingers tracing a languid rhythm across each bead as the words to the Hail Mary floated quietly to the heavens.

Butler sat in awe for what seemed like an eternity, then slowly, patiently made his way through the crush of pilgrims and moved on to the softly flowing waters of the spring – the spring that had first been revealed to Bernadette over a century ago. He remained motionless, thinking, contemplating his fateful perdition. A loss that would soon end in the midst of a hundred witnesses – witnesses that would all agree they had seen a miraculous event right before their eyes! No one could accuse him. They could prove nothing.

He remained there for what seemed like hours, days, deeply engrossed in “prayer” alongside the others. Then slowly, cautiously, he leaned forward ever so carefully until his hand was but a few centimeters above the blessed waters. He took a deep breath. His heart pounded rapidly, its cadence reverberating through his entire body.Out of the corner of his eye, he caught sight of the Private Investigator inching towards him.

Butler paused momentarily, exchanged a final predatory look with his opponent, then slowly shifted his gaze back to his task at hand. Another deep breath. Then another.Finally, his fingers delved into the cool, glistening water, touched them to his legs. This was it. He had endured immobility long enough. It was time for the climax of the whole endeavor: his own private little miracle.

He carefully pushed away the chair’s leg supports and slowly placed his “lifeless” feet on the ground as, one by one, his onlookers glared at him with amazement and curiosity. All eyes were on him. He leaned forward, grasping the arms of the chair firmly. Soon the charade would be over and he and his wife would be free to spend the rest of their lives in sheer luxury.

He stood up, slowly, shakily, a look of confusion on his face as though an outside force were controlling his movements. He staggered forward – and fell. His wife’s eyes opened wide as a short yelp emerged from her throat. Her heart clutched in surprise as she instinctively darted forward to help him.

Butler realized it was a cruel thing to do to her, but he needed to for shock value, for realism. He needed to guarantee that as many eyes were on him as possible. Butler motioned her away. He lifted himself up, less shakily this time, and took a cautious, wobbly step forward.

“It’s... it’s a miracle,” he murmured. Then raised his voice and shouted. “It’s a miracle! I can walk!”Swept up by his own performance, he paused and stared at his audience, as a hazy vignette appeared around their perimeter.

“I can walk!”

He stole a quick look of triumph at the portly bald man who had been following him.It was over. He had pulled it off without a hitch. He turned to face his wife who was putting on a performance of her own, and smiled slyly, a Cheshire cat. They had pulled it off together. His personal little miracle. He looked up again at the silhouette of the woman before him, and then up to the heavens, letting out a well-practiced shout of praise. To him, it seemed that the sky had become quite overcast, the grotto shadowy. To others, it was a bright, sunny day.

“I can walk,” he said triumphantly one last time. He turned to the horde of onlookers and, as his world mysteriously went totally black, suddenly let out a blood-curdling shriek as he stumbled into a tiered candle stand. Another chilling shriek. The frantic motion inexorably forced the paperweight from his pocket, let gravity take its toll. Cylindrical masses of wax cascaded across the tiled flooring, soon joined by myriad shards of glass and ceramic as the crystal orb shattered upon impact.His wife grasped his arm to steady him, confused. A soft buzzing murmur rose up from the crowd.

Frank Butler had wanted an act of God. And, indeed, he had gotten one. One that made up for all his lies, his deceipt.

Frank Butler was now totally blind.