On my way to the car, I decided to have a look at the church. It was mostly curiosity, a desire to see the place where Duff—if it had been Duff—had committed the outrage.

It wasn’t a very large church, possibly of a size to accommodate three or four hundred people. The furnishings and decorations were fairly plain—no pads on the kneelers, for example—and the wall paintings of the Stations of the Cross were small and amateurishly done. The altar furnishings were simple too—no statues or paintings behind the plain wooden altar, no carpet on the floor.

The shrine was in a small chapel which, in contrast to the rest of the church, was garishly decorated with woven tapestries depicting the life of Mary and a large seven- or eight-­foot statue of Mary at the back. It was of marble, not very well carved, but impressive, considering its surroundings. I imagine it was imported, and probably represented the major portion of Aunt Hannah’s contribution.

In front of the statue were a half dozen stands of vigil candles, all but a few of them lighted. There were no displays of discarded crutches, leg braces and wheelchairs, such as one sees at Lourdes and other Marian shrines. Evidently Mrs. Scaravelli’s miracle was the first one to happen here, or else the first one a recipient wanted publicized.

There were eight to ten people kneeling at prie-­dieux in the chapel, most of them elderly women. The one young woman present seemed especially fervent in her devotions. She was saying her rosary with her eyes fixed on the statue, and her gaze never wavered as I knelt at the prie-­dieu next to her.

It was the first time I had knelt in a church in more than twenty years, although I had visited a few old ones during our vacation in Europe in 1974. At that time, I had no reason to pray. My life wasn’t particularly happy, but there was nothing much I wanted either, other than relief from occasional boredom.

This time—and I was a bit ashamed of myself for it—I prayed. My doubts about my former religion hadn’t been swept away, but I was afraid to take any chances. I prayed that what Father Fogarty had suggested not be true, but that if there were such things as devils, they be kept away from me and my family.

After a few minutes I decided I was being ridiculous. If there was such a being as the Mother of God, she could hardly be expected to respond to someone who had no faith in her. I got up from the prie-­dieu abruptly, but then was instantly fearful that I would see the General again as a punishment for my lack of faith.