by Corey Mesler

Harry Styrene had worked at the bookstore since a teenager. Now, at twenty-seven he loved books the way most men loved a woman or God. Harry had come to the business a naïf and, after listening to the smarter customers the store catered to, he had learned the names and works of the modern masters: Updike, Roth, Bellow, Garcia Marquez, Murdoch, Fowles.

These books opened doors in Harry. Where once was a man like a plastered wall, solid but blank and uninspiring, there now was a learnéd and worldly fellow who could quote from contemporary literature as if from the gospels. Often he held a stranger's gaze and, with a lightning rod-finger raised, he would reel off a quote verbatim, ending with a name as solid as a period.  

"Anthony Burgess," he might say and look intently at his audience until they nodded or walked away. Harry felt good at these times. He felt as if he were making a difference.

So, though he was still often lonely, and his flesh ached like a sore tooth, he was content. Knowing a new Rabbit novel or another lovely Muriel Spark awaited him when he got off work assuaged some of the desperation of his position. Ah, books! Ah, humanity!

So it may seem that The Powers that Be made an eccentric decision sending the Virgin Mary to Harry's apartment one sere autumn evening as Harry prepared a pot pie and a soda for his bachelor's dinner. Harry was just snapping the legs of a TV tray into place when light surrounded him from behind; he was spotlit.

He spun and there she was, just as if she had transported from the Starship Enterprise. Yet, she was as solid as the eternal rocks.

She was beautiful in her white raiment and cornsilk hair. Her skin was the color of the dogwood blossom and her eyes were periwinkles. She smiled at Harry as if they were old friends. Harry clutched his chest in melodramatic pantomime, when in truth he was indeed awestruck. But, unpracticed in gesture or pronouncement, Harry could only ape a movie star playing a part.

"Harry," the beautiful vision spoke.

"Grg," Harry said.

"Do you know who I am?"

Harry had no idea. This is what comes of secular reading. Harry had never had religion; it was as foreign to him as the foliage of youth.

"Mother," Harry said, weakly. Harry's mother was not dead, nor was she young and beautiful. She lived in Cincinnati and wrote romance novels at the rate of one per month for a publishing company that paid her by the book. "Mother" was a foolish hypothesis.

Yet the radiant woman said, "Yes.  Mother.  Mary."

Now Harry wasn't ignorant. It dawned on him pretty quickly what the vision was implying.

"Pshaw," Harry said.

"No. Not pshaw, Harry. I am. I am the Virgin Mary come to you in a vision, a vision as real as early evening lightning, as genuine as butter spread on stale bread."

"Well, why?" Harry rightly asked.

"Because, Harry," the beautiful woman answered and looked for a place to rest her holy hip, settling on the arm of a truly monstrous easy chair.  "Because you are godless and we need a messenger."

"Godless."

Harry did not take kindly to the word, regardless of its exactitude.

"Godless," the Virgin Mary repeated. "We use the godless for messages."

"We," Harry said. "Who's we?"

"Harry," Mary said, pursing her perfect lips the color of sea-shell.

"You and God?" Harry asked.  Finally, he set aside the half-assembled tray.

"Well, for our purposes, let's say, yes. Anyway, you have been chosen to deliver the message."

"Deliver how, sister? It's not like I have my own talk show."

"Oh. Here and there. Hither and thither. Yon. Tell the customers in your store. Tell the checkout girl at the grocery. Word spreads.  It's how it's always worked. Well, since the, you know, burning bush thing."

Harry sat down in his Lazy-Boy. He ran a hand over his face as if he were washing away dreams. When he looked up she was still there, beautiful and shining and as resplendent as love. Or evil.

"Ok," Harry said. "Sure.  I'll do it."

"That's the spirit," the Virgin M. said. "Come here, Harry."

Harry rose slowly from his chair and shuffled toward his uninvited guest. He looked at his feet where black socks hung as loosely as Cossack pantaloons. The Virgin Mary seemed to glow like phosphorous, white though, like a star. Harry was afraid to look directly at her. She took Harry's hand.

Electricity flowed into him. A feeling like pure joy flooded his whole body as if it had been injected into him with a hypodermic. Her face was so lovely it hurt.

"I knew you were right," she said to him, smiling, well, beatifically.

"Wh-what's the message?" Harry said. His eyes were locked into hers. He couldn't have looked away if his life depended on it, as it may very well have. Her smile was a promise, a deep promise.

"Here it is," she said. "Ignore the media. Life is still full of miracles."

Harry blinked a few times.

"That's it," he said. He couldn't help sounding disappointed.

"That's your message, yes. We do this all the time, sweetheart. Little messages, small steps. From a small acorn a mighty oak grows."

"Right," Harry said.

It was then the Virgin Mary stood up and Harry stumbled a bit backwards. Her hand still held his. The warmth still flowed up into him and he was still comforted, peaceful, happy.

Mary leaned over--and though this was not in the usual realm of her duties--she kissed Harry.

That is how Harry got the birthmark on his cheek in the shape of a mouth. And that is how he became a spokesperson for YHTD, simply by being home when His Hallowed Harbinger called. Just that modestly, Harry Styrene became one of the chosen, a Holy Fool.

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Corey Mesler is co-owner of the historic Burke's Book Store (estab.1875) in Memphis and a widely published writer. A short story of his was selected for the 2002 edition of New Stories from the South: The Year's Best, (edited by Shannon Ravenel). He has published poetry and fiction in Yellow Silk, Pindeldyboz, Thema, Mars Hill Review, and many others. His first novel was published in 2002.

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