Padre Pio had the stigmata, it said so in the jewel encrusted handwritten holy book, he wore black bandages like gloves that looked like the gloves Glenn Gould wore all the time, without fingertips. A knock came on the door.

Hello, he oozed to the piano tumor.

Well hello, said the piano tumor, slipping in the door.

The bandages covered over the disease ridden open wounds full of pus covered with scabs, and lanced boils on his leg bulged with drains hanging out and there was a smell like old-time doctor's offices and powder.

The untied canvas unrolled spreading the tumor's tools out atop the piano bench.

The priests wore heavy layered vestments, when not dressed for mass they wore the beretta, black shoes and pants, and sometimes a skullcap if they were big shots enough in the hierarchical rankings. Everything gets ranked. Hierarchically. The nuns wore black habits with big rosary belts, and specialized in celibacy that led to desire that led to satisfaction through the grace of God.

The tumor took the front off the old upright piano exposing all the inner works, the gold painted steel frame, the strings.

Grandmother spread white stinking moth balls in the closets, where never used ancient blankets and quilts lay folded way in the back with grandson's glossy magazines hidden underneath and she used a funny kind of footstool when she sat watching TV with her sewing and knitting in a basket beside her that used to be used by the now-dead cat.

The tumor grabbed up his tuning fork and, wincing, struck a perfect painful middle C against his bony worn out knee.

The car repair garage had high-priced insurance to protect against the dangers of the power tools power doors exhaust fumes and the lifts but the insurance couldn't stop the stains of blood and oil and water from forming, from the mechanic's holy stigmata. Blessings like this fall where they may, randomly. He couldn't think why he was chosen but he was a good mechanic who charged fair prices; that must be the reason for the whole thing. Padre Pio must have charged fair prices too, or done something equally evenhanded. In the garage waiting room, with the plastic chair, and the linoleum floor, the unknowing innocent customer went to the coffeepot after studiously ignoring the standard unruly stack of dog-eared outdated magazines with torn covers.

MOTOR TREND

PEOPLE

The tumor gripped his wrench hard, slid it home fast with a bang and savagely turned the stubborn squeaking tuning pegs.

Oho, said Glenn Gould, watching.

He did it all by ear, mostly. Gifted that way. Perfect pitch. We're all gifted different ways.

Onto the crowded Church steps fell the sound of bronze bells during funerals weddings and big baptisms, and the sacrifices of blood and wine made on a daily basis. No injuries. No slash-throated goats. A sterile thing. Oho.

Candle wax made by bees sold by the beekeeper came from the beehive, the beekeeper now and then got a sting, wasps flew around too, ready to settle on any lips that've recently eaten, especially anything containing honey. No amount of money could clean the oily dirty cat face in the small bag in the corner by the plastic wrapped cow skull and the gas tank leaked in the bank parking lot under the car within which sat fever-blistered Sullivan and Tara speaking of holy things. A Kent carelessly flipped by an office rat going back in the office after stepping out to have a smoke rolled into the gasoline. A mighty blast occurred. Sullivan went to heaven. Tara was already there. Sullivan had been an odd duck.

The tumor roughly pounded key after key, listening.

Oho.

Pain pinched and pierced, the push and the snip of it ended up in a slash, enough to give you a headache or a migraine. Hollywood and Bollywood produced movies in the hills, and big snappers can splinter a broom handle easy, so don't leap to your death from the Hollywood sign like she did that's a stupid thing to do because it looks so small from way down here in town so the death is very very unimpressive.

The tumor's hands moved deftly over key, wrench, and tuning fork. Glenn Gould wore a painful looking smile. Padre Pio gazed deeply into his hands.

The holy statue wept blood, a miracle--praying hands gathered outside, some attached to bleach haired biddies, some man with a limp came and some with sores and some with cancer and all with sin. The draperies hung silken and supple in the dark sin room, their golden threads and rings and rods held to the wall with screws set in blue plastic anchors; putting up such a thing can make you sweat and curse, but these chores need to be done.

God damned lousy screwdriver.

The tumor put the front back on the upright piano; dark cracked wood, thick dark stain slathered on. He pounded it home hard, harshly, with a cracking snap.

There!

Glenn Gould sat down and played a simple ditty. It was all he could manage anymore since he was dead. Padre Pio tapped his feet and waved his arms in time.

The St. Jude Store in Somerville had people in it who knew what La Quinta means, and holy books, communion dresses, and big plastic boxes of communion hosts that anybody could buy just anybody for any reason seems wrong doesn't it but that's the way it was. The canvas rolled up tight and was tied.

Bye Glenn.

Bye. Thanks.

The tools rattled in the rolled-up canvas.

Walter whipped Lucas with the heavy broad leather strap to keep him in line, in the room upstairs with the big steel door, the seed and dirt are piled in the back of the truck, they're ready to find whatever they'll find on the pastured cow farm--Mother ended up in the nuthouse because of the silly antics of those silly boys. She just snapped and yelled Enough, enough, enough. Walter's brother Lucas was simple, but still sly as a fox in many ways, with his skinny toothy face tall build and his CAT cap. A bloodshot eye beneath the CAT cap spoke of codeine, otherwise known as cat soap splashing in the syrup, golden. She knelt bitterly praying. The army made up the name.

May holy God place you in his tabernacle in heaven may there be a miracle cure--

Locked in the dark small silent metal box, plead and beg until you snap, but after you snap you remain locked in the box. What happens to you? What happens? What's next after snapping? Your limp body lies mindless?

Terror. Terror.

May you be absolved of your sins, said the tumor making the sign of the cross with his wrench over Glenn Gould before leaving through the heavy oak-framed door.

Oho.

The door slammed. Padre Pio took over the piano. The ditty played on in the sterile room with the cracked crucifix on the wall. The Crucifix's corpus was held on with brass nails through its hands and feet, it wore a crown of thorns and was nearly nude only, through the grace of God. Elevate the monstrance with the golden sunburst holding the body of Christ that the nun said was priceless wagging her tongue in the cool church air flooding the air with her bottled-up desires. A golden ciborium sits overflowing, it had been kept in the tabernacle under lock and key but now it will be manhandled by consecrated solemnfaced bluesuited totally unqualified Eucharistic ministers. It wasn't in the line of sight of the priest during the consecration, though. As such as a holy thing is worthless. But they use it anyway. How will the simpleminded congregation ever know? A host is a host is a host is a host. A Thurible swung stinking and smoking and burning the coiling incense fumes causing much sneezing and coughing. No asthmatics allowed in this church, thank you very much. Hacking and choking with mucous, they flee. The priest donned his alb of pure white in the dressing room while saying the appropriate prayer, kissing the appropriate kiss, the dressing room was by the vestibule and Padre Pio hung bodily on the wall inside a smooth gilt frame looking exactly like Lucas Glenn Gould and the piano tumor; all one and the same.

A miracle; March foo.

So what are you doing today, said the slobbering man, chewing on a straw.

Not much.

Why do you say not much? It looks like you're busy.

Well, I'm not, okay? Leave me be.

Oh.

Scowling, Padre Pio walked away shaking the blood down from his haircovered disgusting unbandaged hands it hit the floor in black droplets as any interesting thing will do.

More Fiction