by Bill Myers
“Could he have made himself any clearer? It’s right there in black and white, Julia.”
The young man cleared his throat, preparing to read his copy, but the older gentleman raised a hand and cut him off.
“Ms. Preston knows what it says.”
Julia blinked as a tear spilled onto her cheek. Her hand shot up, hoping to wipe it away before it was seen.
The gentleman continued. “Please, Julia, tell me if I’m missing something. Here we have a man who will never be able to think, who will never be able to feel, who is virtually—”
“But he spoke,” Julia blurted out before she could stop herself. “I distinctly heard words.”
The two men exchanged glances, then looked over at Ernesto who watched soberly.
“So I’ve been told,” the older gentleman softly answered.
“But what type of words? What exactly did you hear?”
“He said . . . well, I mean I thought I heard him say . . .”
She swallowed. “I thought I heard him say ‘Jesus Christ.’”
Another pause.
“You thought he said Jesus Christ?” the gentleman repeated.
Julia nodded, brushing away another tear. “Or something like that.”
The younger lawyer stepped in, incredulous. “With the respirator hose shoved down his throat, with it taped to his mouth . . . you heard words?”
Julia tried to hold her ground. “It may not have been those exact words, but I heard something.”
Another moment of silence hung over them. The older gentleman resumed. “Ms. Preston, Julia, are you a religious person?”
“No, not at all.”
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“Is your father?”
“Are you kidding?”
“Well, then, why would he—”
“I don’t know—maybe he was swearing. How should I know? But he said something.”
Ernesto spoke from across the room. “The doctor thinks it was just a grunt or spasm.”
The young lawyer nodded. “Some sort of reflex.”
“Exactly.”
“Julia . . .” It was the older gentleman again. “Can you look at me a moment? Julia?”
Reluctantly, she raised her eyes to meet his.
“You’re under a lot of stress here. That’s apparent to everybody. And rightfully so. May I ask, when was the last time you slept?”
“It’s been—” She cleared her voice. “It’s been a while.”
He nodded in quiet understanding. She glanced away. If she had more strength she would have risen to the defense.
But any strength she’d had was already gone.
“Julia . . .” His voice was gentle, sincere. “I don’t know what you heard, but I must tell you it could not have been words. That is physically impossible.”
She scowled, but he was not affected.
“My suggestion is this. Find a hotel. Get some sleep. And then in the morning, when you’re fresh and rested, we’ll talk again.”
“I know what I heard.”
He nodded. “I know you think you heard it. But I also know what is physically possible and impossible, and I know what the doctors have stated. Even more importantly, I know what your father ordered in his advance directive.” The gentleman paused one last time. “And if for whatever reason you are incapable of carrying out his order, Julia, then it is your responsibility to relinquish your power of attorney.”
“And if I don’t?”
She knew the answer before it came.
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“Then you will be legally removed and replaced by someone who can.”
v
“Where did all these people come from?” Kristi Burke, the high-strung, somewhat anorexic producer of Cathedral Time cried. She and Conrad had just entered through one of the side doors of the Cathedral of God, a massive auditorium of honey oak, gleaming chrome, sunlight, and people—lots and lots of people.
“I told you to expect a crowd,” Conrad chuckled.
“Yes, but not this, not . . . these.”
He looked out over the audience, not entirely sure what she meant. The doors to the Cathedral had been open less than twenty-five minutes, and the 5800-seat auditorium was rapidly filling. He turned back to her and asked, “What do you mean?”
“What do I mean? What do I mean?” She waved her hand toward the front rows. “Look at them!”
Conrad turned his attention to the front. These were usually the rows that filled up the fastest whenever Eli spoke. It was here that the neediest often sat, the ones who’d lined up for hours waiting for his appearance—hoping for a word, a prophecy, a healing. Conrad shook his head. “I’m sorry, I still don’t—”
“Look at them. Right there. And there. And there!”
Now he saw it. Scattered among the clean and smartly dressed congregation were pockets of others who were—
well—not so clean and smartly dressed. Some sported frayed collars or matted sweaters. Others wore torn and dirty trousers. A handful appeared unshaven. For many, it was obvious that soap and shampoo were not always an attain-able luxury. Conrad was not surprised. The caravan had been on the road fifteen days now. And lately, the poor and homeless were showing up more and more often—partially because they needed Eli’s message of hope more than others, hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 118
118 and partially because Eli often sent Suzanne, Maggie, and members of the group ahead as an advance team specifically to invite them, often using the group’s own cars and vans to bus them in.
“No.” The producer shook her head while motioning to the head usher near the back doors. “This will not do, this will not do at all.”
“You’ve got a problem with the poor being here?” Conrad asked.
“Of course not.” She snapped her fingers discreetly, insisting the usher hurry. “Everyone’s welcome here. But not in the front rows. I’ve got an estimated fifty million potential households who are watching nationwide. It would be unfortunate to give the impression that these people are the primary attendees of our service.”
Although Conrad didn’t think it was possible, his dislike for the woman increased. Part of that was due to his natural sense of justice, but he also suspected part of it had to do with Eli. Of course, he still had problems with Eli’s operating procedures, and it looked like he always would. Yet there was something so true and uncompromising about him. And it didn’t stop there. Because the more Conrad remained in his presence, the more he found himself changing. It wasn’t intentional, but gradually, day after day, he was starting to see things differently. He was starting to act differently.
“Well . . .” Conrad glanced at his watch. “The service starts in less than ten minutes. There’s not much you can do now.”
“We’ll see about that,” she responded.
The head usher finally arrived. He was a bald, intimidating man who could just as easily have passed for a bouncer, were it not for the perma-grin attached to his face.
“Listen,” she ordered, “I need you to move these people in the front here, you see them? I need them to trade places with our regulars. Put them in the back, out of the lights.”
He nodded.
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“And do it fast. We’re on the air in eight minutes.”
The usher signaled for two of his colleagues to join him.
Immediately all three headed for the front.
Without a word, Kristi Burke spun on her heels, dashed up the steps, and was out of the sanctuary doors. Conrad followed, catching up to her in the hallway. “Listen,” he said, “I don’t know if that’s such a good idea.”
“Relax, our ushers are professional.” They arrived at the elevators and she pressed the up button. “They’ll have everyone reseated in plenty of time.”
The doors opened and they stepped in. “Actually,” Conrad answered
, “I meant moving the people toward the back like that.” She pressed the third floor button and the doors slid shut. “Eli’s kind of partial to the poor. In fact, I think if he had a preference, he’d—”
“Well, then, he’ll just have to be a good guest and play by our rules, won’t he?”
The elevator had started to rise.
“My point is—”
“I know what your point is, Mr. Davis. And when your friend has his own ministry to support, especially one this large, then he’ll understand the importance of maintaining a sizable and influential donor base.”
“Meaning . . .”
“Success breeds success. People won’t support us if they tune in and think they’re giving people like your friends in the front row a free ride.”
The elevator doors opened, and she headed down the hall toward the director’s booth, her heels clicking on the expensive, tumbled marble tile. Conrad followed and said nothing more. They arrived at the door to the back of the booth and entered. It was an adequate room, located dead center on the third balcony. In some ways it reminded Conrad of the press club seats at Dodger Stadium. He stayed against the side wall, moving past the director and switching board until he arrived at the tinted glass that looked down upon the auditorium.
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“Okay, we’re at two minutes,” the director spoke into his headset. Conrad turned to survey the equipment. It was a smaller operation than the Charlene Marshal Show, but definitely state of the art. They had everything they needed . . .
and then some. The director, a seasoned pro in his fifties, continued, “Let’s place Reverend Snyder and his guest, please.”
Conrad looked back out the glass as, down on the stage, two opposite doors opened. Reverend Snyder, a trim, distinguished man with coal-black hair, was ushered in and seated on the left by one stagehand while Eli was ushered in and seated on the right by another. They were separated by a good thirty feet of plush burgundy carpet, and a large oak altar with two man-sized candelabras on either side—each supporting a dozen white, lit candles.
Down below, the team of ushers was just finishing their replacement of people—escorting the poorer ones to the back, bringing the more affluent ones to the front.
“How’s the reverend’s wireless?” the director asked.
“Up and running,” the pudgy sound man to his right answered.
“And the guest’s?”
“Checked.”
“Okay, gentlemen, we’re at one minute. Stand by pre-roll intro.”
“Standing by.”
Conrad was impressed at how clean and professional the operation was run. There seemed little difference between it and any secular broadcast.
“Hold it.” The director pointed to one of the monitors before him. “What’s he doing?” He spoke into his headset.
“Larry, tell our guest he has to be seated, we’re about to go on the air.”
Conrad turned back toward the window. His stomach tightened as he saw that Eli had risen to his feet and was walking to the front of the stage. The floor director scrambled over to intercept him. Conrad watched as they spoke.
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“What’s going on?” Kristi Burke’s nervous voice demanded from the back of the room. “What’s he saying?”
The director shouted back into his headset, “What do you mean he’s leaving?”
Conrad watched numbly as Eli patted the floor director on the shoulder, then started down the steps toward the audience.
“Get him back up there!” the director shouted. “We’re on in thirty!”
Once again the floor director scurried to Eli’s side and once again they spoke.
“Larry? Larry!” The director turned to the sound technician and barked, “Open up the guest’s mike, I want to hear what they’re saying!”
But the conversation had already finished. Eli had already turned and started up the aisle toward the exit.
“What’s he doing? Bring him back! Bring him back!”
But Eli was not coming back. Instead, he continued moving up the aisle.
“Where’s he going?”
Eli traveled some twenty-five paces before he finally came to a stop. Then he began motioning to specific people in the audience. They were directly below Conrad, and he had to press his face against the glass to look down. Now he could see. They were the homeless people, the ones who had been relocated to the back. Eli was motioning for them to stand. He was directing them to come out into the aisle and join him.
“What is he doing?” the director shouted. Turning to Conrad, he practically roared. “Tell me what is going on!”
And then, through the audio monitor, Eli’s voice was heard—gentle but full of authority. “Come with me,” he said, as he began ushering the group toward the exit. “That’s right, there we go. Come with me.”
“What’s he doing? What’s he saying?”
The sound man increased the volume.
“Come with me. Let’s go someplace where we all belong.”
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C H A P T E R
S I X
CONRAD LOOKED UP FROM THE LAPTOP AND REMOVED HIS GLASSES.
He rubbed his eyes and surveyed the passing countryside of southeastern Montana. The “Big Open,” they called it. And for good reason. As far as he could see, there was only grass and wind and sky. At first the scenery had intimidated him.
He was a man who felt far more at home surrounded by buildings and people and frenzied activity. But out here, with a ratio of one person for every three square miles, where the only drama was the way the beige earth collided with the sap-phire blue sky, and where the only activity was the undulat-ing waves of blowing grass . . . well, Conrad was slowly gaining a new perspective. Here he could breathe. Here he could appreciate the grandness of eternity versus the—well, versus the futility of man. He wasn’t willing to believe in God yet, at least not as Eli defined him. But he was beginning to believe in something.
Then there was the silence. Often when the caravan stopped, he found himself strolling away from the group just to listen to the absolute stillness . . . and the occasional mead-owlark whose sharp, melodic song so startled him the first time he heard it, that it literally took his breath away.
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In a place like this it was easy for perspectives to shift, for belief to begin. It was even easy to toy with the idea of walking away from the harried world of TV news altogether, from the very thing that had been his life for twenty-five years. But Conrad knew it was more than just the landscape. It was also Eli. And all his talk about the Kingdom of God and its upside-down principles.
Just yesterday, at lunch, he had called them together and reviewed the major points in what the guys had jokingly called, “The Sermon at Denny’s.” “If you want to receive,” he had said, “then you have to give. Whether it’s time, money, mercy, or whatever the case may be, the more you give of anything in life, the more of life you receive.” It was a strange paradox, but also a truth that resonated deep inside Conrad’s heart—one that he recognized from his own successes and failures.
Other points were equally as strange . . . and true. The idea that if you really want to be the ruler of men, then you need to become their servant . . . or that in matters of the spirit, the poor were far more rich than the wealthy . . . or that you’re blessed if people attack you for doing good . . . or that if you cling to your life, you’ll lose it.
They were unusual contradictions, their logic entirely backwards from the way the world operated. And yet, they had a logic that rang with such clarity and truth that Conrad frequently found himself making mental notes—not as a reporter, but as a person. And, on more than one late evening or quiet afternoon, he found himself pausing to consider the dept
h of what he’d heard.
They’d been on the road just over three weeks now. Nearly two months had passed since he’d first dropped into Eli’s world up in Eastern Washington and later in Oregon. Two months since he’d left his old world of automobile accidents and hospitalization (if there really had been such a world).
Memories of the glitch, which is all it really felt like, were rapidly dulling, fading. This was his world now. Identical to hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 125
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the old one. Well—it was and it wasn’t. Because almost daily, Eli turned it upside down just a little bit more. And, almost daily, Conrad was amazed at how startlingly clear everything looked from this new perspective.
But new perspective or not, there were still some facts that could not be ignored. He sighed heavily, replaced his glasses, and turned back to the computer. Once again, Eli had placed himself in jeopardy, and once again Conrad appeared to be the only one who could bail him out. At the moment he was composing an e-mail, a press release he planned to send to all of the major news organizations and producers—a pre-emptive strike that he hoped to get out before the press and cameras caught Eli’s arrival at the Liberty Compound of America in less than—he glanced at his watch—in less than three hours. Because the news crews would all be waiting for this one. CBN, MSNBC, most definitely EBN. Not to mention the local affiliates of the majors. Yes sir, as many as could be there would be there. It was too good a story to pass up.
“You okay?” Suzanne asked, scooting on the bench seat beside him.
He glanced at her and smiled. He couldn’t help it. Even in times like these, her warmth and concern had that effect upon him. Their friendship had grown. Over the past weeks, it had become more genuine than at any time he could remember during their marriage. He supposed part of it was because they were the oldest in the group, the designated chaperones on this grown-up field trip. On more than one occasion, they found themselves becoming the voice of reason in putting out petty disputes. You couldn’t throw this many people together with this many backgrounds and not expect some turbulence. There were the expected tensions like those between Leon, the black porn producer, and Will, a member of the Aryan Brotherhood. But there were also a dozen smaller fires to be put out on a daily basis. In fact, just this morning there had been a huge blowup regarding Scott and Brent’s mom pressuring Eli into making her boys his right-hand men.
