Miracleville Read Free Page A

has never said more than “Good morning” or “Good afternoon” to us. Not even when we were little and Mom forced us to wish him a good day or ask him how he was whenever we passed him.
    Eventually, even Mom gave up on trying to be friends with Marco. Which is unusual since Mom can make friends with a lamppost. Mom and Marco grew up together, but she says he pushed her away—that he pushed a lot of people away—over the years, and that even if it hurts, you’ve got to respect a person’s feelings.
    Marco owns the whole house. He inherited it from his parents. He lives upstairs—probably because the balcony is good for spying on his neighbors. The downstairs is rented out. He must have one of those electric stair lifts to get downstairs, but he sure doesn’t use it much. Colette and I have never seen him leave his apartment. Not even once.
    Marco gets his food delivered from the IGA, and once a week a nurse from the clinic comes to check on him. Once in a while he has other visitors. Mostly guys. I guess he hasn’t gotten around to pushing them away yet.
    We hear more creaking as Marco’s wheelchair creeps along the edge of the balcony. I’ve heard how prisoners on death row pace in their cells. Marco “paces” back and forth in his wheelchair along the edge of his balcony. He paces all day and sometimes at night too.
    He also lifts weights. In summer, most people here line their balconies with pots of geraniums; Marco lines his with free weights—dozens of chrome dumbbells that glimmer when the sun lands on them. Often, when we’re biking to Saintly Souvenirs, Colette and I see Marco on his balcony. Then all at once, his head will disappear as he leans down to grab a weight in each hand and press it slowly to his chest.
    Marco’s lower body must be shriveled. I get grossed out if I even try to picture it. He got run over by a train when he was seventeen; Mom says it was because he had been drinking. But Marco’s upper body looks like Arnold Schwarzenegger’s, with muscles in places you didn’t even know had muscles. In summer, Marco wears tight white undershirts that make the disproportion even creepier.
    Marco has a rickety old wheelchair with thin worn tires—which explains the creaking. Because it’s nearly dark, it’s hard to make out the exact shape of the wheelchair, or of Marco sitting hunched in it. From where we are on the sidewalk, it’s as if Marco is a giant bird of prey waiting for the right moment to pounce on us.
    Mom says we shouldn’t be afraid of Marco. “What harm can he do? The poor man has been confined to a wheelchair for nearly twenty years. We need to keep him in our prayers.”
    Dad says Marco is living proof there’s no such thing as miracles. “If Saint Anne really was capable of miracles, wouldn’t she have healed Marco—a man who has lived in her town all his life—by now?”
    We’re heading downhill, but the creaking and the raspy breathing sounds seem to be following us.
    Colette grabs my arm.
    I don’t want to look back, but I feel this urge to make sure Marco’s not following us—even though I know he can’t be.
    When I turn around, I can see, even in the dim light, that Marco has inched his wheelchair to the very edge of the balcony. His knees press against the railing.
    When he speaks, his voice is even raspier than his breathing. The words come out like a bullfrog’s croak.
    â€œYou two,” he says, “are growing up.”
    And for a moment, I wish we weren’t.

Three
    C olette throws her shoulders back as we grab our milkshakes and head for our usual booth at McDonald’s. I swear it’s because she wants Maxim to notice her chest. Sometimes I can’t believe we’re related. If I was the one with grapefruit boobs, I’d never show them off like that.
    Maxim is wearing a navy polo shirt with the collar