“It is when people start thinking that’s what the shrine is for.” He regarded me balefully. “This shrine was founded as a place where the faithful could pay honor to the Blessed Virgin. Petitioners were never discouraged, but we never gave out that it was worthwhile for them to come either.”

“I don’t understand you,” I said. “I should think that any normal person, let alone a priest, would be happy when suffering was relieved.”

He glared at me for another moment, then sighed. “I suppose I ought to be happy,” he said gloomily, “and I would be if I was certain it was true—and also certain that it came about through the intercession of Mary.”

“Who else’s intercession, if the woman came here to pray?”

He didn’t answer that, just glared again.

“And why do you doubt the cure? Is there any medical evidence that the woman had cancer?”

“Oh, yes, X rays. I’ve seen them myself. The thing was as big as a football. The doctors at Ashland Hospital didn’t even want to operate on her.”

“And has she been X-­rayed since her visit here?”

“Yep, and the thing has disappeared. There’s no doubt of that, it’s gone. All the doctors have to admit it. They can’t explain it, but they’ve signed statements for her, attesting to the before and after condition.”

“Why did she want the statements?”

“To publicize this place.”

“And you don’t want it publicized?”

“I do not! That’s why I’ve chased off the reporters and the television people. It would probably mean a lot of money for us in donations, but I don’t want it.”

“But why?”

“Never mind why. It’s none of your concern. Now you’ve taken up a lot of my time already, without telling me why you came. You say you’re not a petitioner.”

“No, I just want some information. It’s about my son. I think he may have talked with you.”

“That’s possible. I talk to lots of people, though nowadays mostly when I can’t avoid it.”

“We’ve been having difficulties with him. If he did talk with you, I’d like to know what he told you about himself. It might help his father and me in dealing with him.”

“You could be asking me to break the seal of confession.”

“No, no, it wouldn’t have been in confession. Duff isn’t a Catholic.”

“So you’re not raising your children in the faith, either?”

“Oh, really, Father . . .” I arose.

“Sit down.” And when I didn’t do so immediately, “Sit down, dammit!”

I obeyed.

After a while he said grudgingly, “I apologize. It’s none of my business if you want to go to hell and take your family with you.”

“You’re right. It’s none of your business.”

“But, still, you’re asking me to reveal the substance of a private conversation.”