Page 8 of Iron Heart

“I mean… you’re telling me youdo?” I sputter.

The woman, whose name is Mildred, looks at me sharply.Shit. I probably shouldn’t have said that. I’m just supposed to be covering this story, after all, not inserting my opinions into it. Even so, I’d been expressing some skepticism about this so-called miracle a minute ago, and she was not happy with me at all.

“Sure I do.”

The man dips his head in a brief nod.

He gives me a smile that somehow looks so genuine it can only be fake.

Then, as I watch in stupefaction, he looks reverently down at the ground, lifts a tattooed arm and actuallycrosseshimself.

A loud snort escapes me before I can stop it. Okay, now I know he can’tpossiblybe serious.

Mildred gives me another glare. Then she turns to offer a denture-perfect smile at the dark-haired con man. “Thank you,” she says sweetly to him, a simper on her face.

“You havegotto be kidding me,” I mutter. I can’t figure out why this guy is humoring these two. It cannot be healthy to actually pretend to believe them. They’re obviously touched in the head. Or else they’re just trying to get their fifteen minutes of fame. Either way, this isn’t a news story, no matter what my editor says. And this guy is not helping me by pretending it is.

“Youdon’t see it either?” the dark stranger asks my photographer Jake, cocking a brow. But Jake just raises his hands in adon’t ask megesture, his camera in one of them.

“Hey, I’m just here to take pictures,” he objects.

Coward.

The woman’s son, Eddie, pipes up now. “We come out here yesterday, just like usual, just like any other ordinary day,” he tells the man, an earnest look on his face. “And there it was, big as life. A miracle, right in our own backyard!”

This is almost word for word what he said to me just a couple of minutes ago. It’s obvious from the way the sentences rush from his mouth, the same inflections as before, that he’s practiced them many times. This is a quote Mildred and Eddie have come up with, which they mean for me to put into the story verbatim.

I roll my eyes so hard, I think I just saw my brain. “Is that right?” I snark. “Just like that?”

But now that they have a more sympathetic audience, my sarcasm seems to bounce right off them. “Yes indeed!” Mildred supplies, tilting her face slightly upward now, toward the sky. “The Lord has truly shone His light on us!”

I cut my eyes at the stranger, half-expecting him to say, “Amen!” But to my relief, he stays silent.

With the handsome stranger here, his dark, smoldery eyes on me, my irritation at the whole situation is starting to turn into a strange sense of embarrassment. Suddenly, more than anything I just want this interview to be done, so I can escape the penetrating weight of his gaze, which is making my face flame hot.

I look over at Jake, who is staring intently at the screen of his camera, as if he’s ready for this to be over, too.

Unfortunately, the best way I can think of to finish this quickly is to treat the damn interview as if it’s legitimate. Which is what I’m supposed to be doing anyway. After all, Frank expects me to write the article, and he’ll just make me re-write it if the tone makes it clear I’m mocking the subjects.

So dammit, let’s just get this over with.

Sucking in a deep breath, I turn to Mildred and Eddie, pointedly pretending the dark stranger is invisible. I proceed to ask them the rest of the questions I prepared:Why do you think God has chosen your back lawn as the site of this miracle? What do you think the message is? Did you tip Jesus for mowing your grass, or dock his pay for missing some spots?(Okay, I didn’t ask that last one.)

When I finally have enough info to gracefully end the interview, I turn to Jake and tell him to snap some photos of Mildred and Eddie in front of the apparition, and to try to get at least a few shots where the face in the grass is visible. But before he can get the two of them into position, Mildred holds up a dimpled hand.

“Eddie, you go on inside and change your shirt. That one’s got jelly on it,” she says briskly, pointing. “I’m gonna go fix my hair.”

The two of them amble inside. Jake wanders off a few feet and starts to fiddle with his light meter, squinting at the grass and squatting as he contemplates angles.

This leaves me alone with the stranger — who for some reason is still here, smirking at me.

“So, come on. Now that they’re inside, you can’t tell me you seriously believe this, can you?” I challenge, rounding on him and trying not to let my eyes stare at that sensual, curved mouth of his.

He shrugs. “No. And they probably don’t either. But what’s the harm?”

“What’s the harm?” I bristle. My four years of journalism school rise up inside me in indignation. “Are you saying it’s fine to just print lies in a newspaper?”

But the stranger just starts to chuckle — a deep, rich sound that starts my heart thumping it my chest.

---