“I’ll have to see if he is in,” said a stout, white-­haired woman with a German accent who let me advance as far as a small vestibule. “He isn’t too well, you know, and he don’t like to be bothered by strangers. You’re not here about the miracle, are you?”

No, I had never even heard of their miracle.

“Father John was pestered quite a lot about that miracle, even by reporters from Cleveland and Columbus. He don’t like to talk about it now, though I think that’s partly Father Jackson’s fault. Father Jackson don’t believe in the miracle at all. You’re not selling something—church candles or something like that, are you?”

I assured her I wasn’t.

“ ’Cause we don’t need anything. And Father John will be madder than blazes if it turns out he’s in and you’re really a peddler.”

“I’m honestly not selling anything. I just want to ask your Father Fogarty a couple of questions.”

She stared at me for another moment, then sighed and led me into a small office just beyond the vestibule.

“Wait here,” she said. “I’ll see if he’s in, but don’t be too disappointed if he isn’t.”

After about five minutes I heard the shuffling of slippered feet and an old priest came into the office. He had a day or two’s stubble of beard and he was wearing a half-­unbuttoned cassock on which was a plentiful supply of ashes from the cigar he was smoking, and probably several previous cigars. He looked eighty or more but his eyes were bright.

“What’s your name?” he demanded.

I told him.

“Caine,” he said, still watching me. “That’s a well-­known name here. This town was founded by Caines.”

“My husband’s ancestors.”

“Indeed. But you’re not from around here.”

“No, we’re from Scarsdale, New York, but we’re living temporarily in my husband’s family home.”

“Are you now. Are you a Catholic?”

“I used to be.”

“Hah.” He relit his cigar stub with a hand that was shaking so much I thought he would burn his lip. “If you want to go to confession, you’ll have to see Father Jackson. I’m too tired to be cooped up for a half hour or so in the box.”

“I don’t want to go to confession.”

“Hah. It’s that way, is it? Well I’ve run across your sort before. You’ve come here to defy the Lord and His Mother. You’ll want me to show you the shrine now so you can mock the Mother of God. It would take nothing less than another appearance by her, and even then you wouldn’t believe it.”

“When did she appear the last time?” I inquired.

“You know. It’s why you’re here.”