Eli

by Bill Myers

  “Is it that obvious?” McFarland asked.

  “With you, always.”

  McFarland tried to chuckle, though it came out more of a wheezing cough. Again he lowered his voice. “Look, you know how the religious community has been looking for a Messiah. How our country’s been going down the drain and how we need someone to kick a little sinners’ heinie to get this nation back on track with God.”

  “And you think Eli might be the one?” Keith asked.

  Conrad threw a glance at his ambitious young partner. No doubt the kid felt cocky thinking he was on equal footing with such seasoned pros.

  “That’s just it,” McFarland answered. “We don’t know.”

  Conrad replied, “After his arrest at Leon’s party, the law-suits you’ve slapped on him, the disinformation you’re spreading through the media and Internet . . . sounds to me like your boss has more than made up his mind.”

  “He just doesn’t fit the prophecies, that’s all.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “There are hundreds of prophecies in the Bible that talk of a man who will rally the people for God. A great leader who will straighten things out and get people to start doing things God’s way.”

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  “Someone like . . . Dr. Thomas J. Kerston?”

  McFarland gave him a look. “That’s always a possibility.”

  Conrad shook his head, quietly musing.

  McFarland continued. “My point is, your boy here is not fulfilling any of those prophecies. He’s not fitting the profile.”

  “Except for the miracles, the healings, and raising people from the dead,” Conrad said. He couldn’t resist the temptation of pouring more burgers into McFarland’s bag to under-score the point.

  “Yes,” McFarland said, numbly watching the burgers pour in, “except for the miracles.”

  “And you want us to . . .”

  It took a moment for McFarland to recover. “Help us. Help us force him to play his hand. I mean, if he’s the guy we’re all waiting for, Dr. Kerston would be the first to admit that he’s been wrong.”

  “I bet.”

  “He would. Not only that, but he’d be the first to put his sizable muscle behind him. Think what that could do for Eli, for his cause. Who knows, with Dr. Kerston’s political clout, we might even be able to get your boy into office somewhere.”

  “And if he’s not the one?” Keith asked.

  For a moment, McFarland did not answer.

  Conrad repeated the question, “And if he’s not the one you’re waiting for?”

  “Then he needs to be stopped. Before he leads any more people astray.”

  “I see.”

  “We just want him to be straight with us, that’s all. One minute he says he’s God’s son, then a good teacher, then he performs miracles, then he doesn’t . . . either this man is the Messiah we’ve been waiting for, or he isn’t. It’s as simple as that. We just need to know the truth. Help us find the truth, Connie. You’ve been a proponent of truth all your life; it’s your greatest strength.”

  Conrad said nothing. He was grateful that Keith decided to follow his example.

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  “For the good of these people, for the good of the country

  . . . help us find the truth.”

  It was an obvious ploy that Conrad saw through immediately. But still . . . now that Eli had polarized everyone anyway, now that people either loved him or hated him, what would be so terribly wrong with encouraging him to take the next step, to go public with the identity that many suspected of him anyway? And if, as McFarland suggested, they could get the religious establishment behind him . . . well, his impact upon the country would be enormous. Hadn’t that been Eli’s purpose all along?

  Granted, it was just a thought, a cleverly planted one whose source he didn’t entirely trust, but it was a thought.

  v

  The phone rang as Julia opened the front door to the house. She pulled the key from the lock and fumbled for the hall switch, clicking both it and the porch light on at the same time. The screen door slammed behind her, and she elbowed the front door shut. Straight ahead lay the paneled hallway leading to her father’s office. To her right was the arched entrance into the living room.

  She chose the arched entrance.

  The phone rang a second time. She dumped her suit bag onto a chair already covered in books and magazines. She reached over to the end table and snapped on the lamp. The place looked no better in the light. Magazines, newspapers, and stacks and stacks of videotapes lay on the floor in front of a big-screen TV. It’s not that her father was a slob, it’s just that he was always working. And now that he had the house to himself, his work space had naturally invaded his living space. Then there was the stale smell of cigars. He was never much of a smoker, but from time to time he pretended to be.

  The phone rang a third time. She ignored it as she crossed through the dining room, snapping on more lights, seeing more books and papers piled on the old cherry table. She hththt 5/14/01 11:35 AM Page 171

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  headed for the kitchen as much out of hunger as habit—a habit that started in elementary school and continued later when she visited from college.

  She arrived and turned on the light. Another table, another pile of papers. Over at the sink rose a mound of dirty dishes, mostly coffee mugs, precariously balanced. To the right, near the refrigerator, was a garbage bag overflowing with used microwave food cartons and containers. The phone made its fourth and final ring before the answering machine kicked in.

  It was her father’s voice, direct and to the point. “Hi. Leave a message at the tone. Thanks.”

  Beep.

  And then another voice followed.

  “Hi, Julia . . . this is Mom. If you’re there, will you pick up?”

  What on earth? How did she know she’d be there?

  “Julia?”

  Julia dashed out of the kitchen and back into the living room. She brushed the papers off the end table, but the phone wasn’t there.

  “I don’t know if you’ll get this or not, but Ken said he told you I’d be out in the morning.”

  She zeroed in on the voice. It came from the stacks of books piled in front of the fireplace.

  “My plane’s boarding now. I think it’s the same flight you were on last night.”

  She raced to the stacks, searching for the machine, for anything plastic amidst the pile of paper.

  “It’s a terrible decision you’re having to make and, I know, I know, you can handle it by yourself and you probably want me to keep my nose out of it. But I just don’t think you should be there alone.”

  “Mom?” She pushed the books aside, digging more frantically until she spotted the answering machine. The phone had to be nearby. She grabbed the line and physically followed it through the books.

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  “Anyway, I guess it was stupid, thinking you’d be there. I also left word at the hospital. One way or another, I’ll see you soon, Sweetheart.”

  No, that line led to the wall jack. She had to follow the other one, the one to the phone. “Mom!” Backtracking to the answering machine, she dropped to her knees.

  “I love you, Jules. And I’ll be praying.”

  There it was, on the hearth. She lunged for the receiver and scooped it up.

  “Bye-bye.”

  “Mom?” she shouted into the receiver. There was a click.

  “Mom, are you there? Mom?”

  Nothing. Just silence . . . and then the dial tone.

  “Mom . . .” Her voice wearily faded. She was so drained, so exhausted . . . and so very much alone. She closed her eyes.

  Every inch of her head throbbed. She lowered it, letting out a long, slow sigh. Eventually the phone began to beep, a reminder to hang up. She reached over and replaced the receiver. There, still
on her knees, amidst the piles of books, she thought how easy it would be to stretch out, to just use a book or two for a pillow and catch a little sleep right there, right now.

  But of course, she wouldn’t. That wasn’t her style. Julia Davis-Preston was stronger than that. She had to be. So with another heavy sigh, she rose to her feet and once again did what she had to do.

  v

  The park officials shut the meeting down a little before eight. Just as well. There’s no telling how long Eli would have gone on if they hadn’t. With so many people in need of healing and teaching and explanations regarding the Kingdom of Heaven, he would have stayed there all night. On three separate occasions Conrad and the guys had tried to convince him to quit. But his argument was always the same: “These are the people I’ve come to help . . . and my time is so short.”

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  Yet, as dusk approached, it was obvious that even the great Eli Shepherd was reaching his limit. By five o’clock his voice was going. By seven o’clock it was barely above a whisper. And still he was reluctant to stop, and still the crowd was reluctant to leave. “There’s so much pain here,” he had croaked to the guys. “So much need.”

  Conrad was pleased that McFarland had chosen to stay.

  He was pleased for Eli’s sake, he was pleased for McFarland’s sake, and he was pleased for his own. Truth be told, he enjoyed watching Eli’s logic scramble McFarland’s religious self-righteousness. There were times the man listened with his mouth agape, times he nearly scoffed out loud, and times he could only shake his head in wonder. It was amusing, to say the least.

  What was not amusing was the way McFarland, after the crowd had been dismissed and was heading home, suddenly produced a tape recorder and confronted Eli. Conrad, Jake, and Will had been trying to get him through the mass of people to Maggie’s camper parked backstage when McFarland suddenly appeared, calling and pushing his way toward the front. “Eli? Eli, Gerald McFarland from EBN News. Eli!”

  If Eli heard, he did not respond. Instead he turned and suddenly came to a stop. “Who touched me?” he croaked.

  Conrad exchanged glances with Jake and Will. What was he talking about?

  “Somebody touched me,” Eli’s voice cracked. “Who was it?”

  “Eli.” Jake leaned closer. “We’ve got a whole crowd pushing in here, what do you mean, who touched you?”

  Eli tried to speak louder, his ruined voice croaking and skipping. “Somebody touched me. I felt power leave. Where are you?”

  The small crowd murmured, glancing at one another.

  McFarland took advantage of the moment to try again.

  “Eli? Gerald McFarland from EBN News.”

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  Eli held out his hand, motioning for silence. “It’s important that you tell me,” he tried to shout. He waited, continuing to search the crowd. “It’s important for you.”

  Jake coughed slightly. “Eli, I don’t think he’ll—”

  “Shh,” Eli said. “Give her time.”

  The crowd grew restless. Now there was only the sound of crickets and the nearby highway. Nearly a half minute passed before a slight disturbance began toward the back.

  People stepped aside, making room for someone to pass.

  Finally, an embarrassed woman in shorts and frizzy red hair came into view. She was in her late twenties, perspiring heavily, and very, very frightened. But she continued forward. As she approached, her gaze dropped to the ground, and when she arrived she was breathing so hard she could not speak.

  “It’s you,” Eli croaked.

  She looked up, but only for a moment. “I . . . I’ve . . .” Her voice trembled as she looked back down. She swallowed and tried again, this time in a low whisper. “I’ve had this problem . . . for years.”

  “Go on,” Eli said.

  She swallowed again. “They keep operating and stuff . . .

  but nobody is able to fix it.”

  Eli nodded but remained silent, forcing her to continue.

  She stared at the ground, struggling with each phrase. “I knew . . . if I could just touch you . . . or your clothing . . . I knew I’d get well.”

  “And?” Eli’s wrecked voice whispered back.

  Finally she looked up, tears spilling onto her cheeks. “I am!” she blurted. “I can feel it! I’m completely well!”

  At last Eli broke into a grin. He reached out to embrace her, and she threw herself into his arms. They remained hugging like that for a long moment. When they finally separated, Eli’s face was as wet as her own.

  “Thank you,” she whispered fiercely. “Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

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  He tried to answer, though it was growing harder for him to talk. “Your faith,” he finally croaked, “that’s what has made you well.”

  She hugged him again. Then, abruptly turning, she started back through the crowd. Although she was still embarrassed, she did not look back at the ground. Instead, she kept her head up, beaming.

  Eli watched after her, also grinning . . . until he was again interrupted by McFarland. “Eli? Eli, Dr. Kerston has a question for you.”

  Conrad tensed as he saw Eli slowly turn toward him.

  “Sir, Dr. Kerston has a question.”

  “You’re Connie’s friend,” Eli said.

  “Uh, yes, sir.”

  “Helped us . . .” His voice quit and he tried again. “Helped us to serve lunch.”

  “Well, yes, a little, that’s right.”

  “Did you get anything out of my talk?”

  “Me?” McFarland asked, caught off guard.

  Eli nodded. “What do you . . . think?”

  “What do I think?”

  That’s when Conrad moved in. “Come on, Eli, you two can talk another time.”

  “No,” Eli croaked quietly, “I’d like to hear what your friend thinks.”

  The crowd focused their attention on McFarland.

  “Well, I, uh . . . as far as the teaching, you mean?”

  Eli nodded.

  “Well,” he cleared his throat, “it makes for some very interesting theory. I mean this business of giving to receive, of servants becoming leaders, of praying for your enemies. But that’s all it is, just theory, right?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Why? Why? Well, let’s face it, no one can possibly live by those standards.”

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  “On their own, no. But with God’s power, absolutely. In fact God expects us to.” Eli’s voice was again giving out, but he pushed himself. “Listen to me carefully, Gerald McFarland. My Father expects you to be holy just as He is holy.”

  McFarland blinked, trying to gather his wits. Finally he responded. “And yet you pick followers who”—he motioned across the crowd toward Will, then Leon—“no offense, but who are at the bottom of the moral and social food chain.”

  “Hey!” Leon countered.

  “Yes.” Eli quietly nodded. “But the Will Pattons and Leon Brewsters of the world . . . they know they need my help.

  They know they need God’s forgiveness. Whereas men like you and Dr. Kerston—you are sadly oblivious to that fact.”

  “Men like Dr. Kerston are worth a hundred Leon Brewsters!”

  Eli smiled sadly, then quietly answered, “To whom?”

  McFarland’s anger continued to rise. “Listen, you can’t have it both ways. You can’t talk about God’s holiness and perfection one minute, then His love and forgiveness the next.”

  “Why not?”

  “It’s . . .” McFarland’s frustration grew. “Because it’s impossible, that’s why.” Eli was about to respond, but McFarland wasn’t through. “That’s exactly what I mean about theory versus reality. You can’t have it both ways. Holiness and forgiveness. Justice and mercy. In theory, you can say anything you w
ant. But when it comes down to practical, day-today living, the two are incompatible.”

  “Why?”

  Conrad watched uneasily as McFarland’s wheels turned.

  Over the years, he’d seen this man spin and weave traps for many a prey. He was quite good at it, and this would be no exception. “Take Ellen Perkins,” McFarland finally said. “The little girl they’re getting ready to execute in Texas for the murder of her boyfriend?”

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  Eli nodded.

  “Says she was doped up out of her mind, didn’t know what she was doing when she hacked him to pieces. And now she claims to be all sorrow and repentance over her actions, says she’s—”

  Eli finished his sentence. “—given her life to God. I know,” he croaked, “I’ve been following her story.”

  Conrad moved in to clarify, “He means we’ve been following the story along with the rest of the nation.”

  Eli continued. “And now she’s counseling with drug addicts, speaking to schools over the Internet, and—”

  “So what’s your position?” McFarland interrupted.

  “About?”

  “About whether or not she should be executed.”

  Suddenly Conrad saw it. McFarland was setting Eli up, putting him in a no-win situation. If Eli took the pro-death position, he’d be nullifying everything he’d said about God’s mercy. If he took the anti-death position, he’d be nullifying everything he’d said about God’s justice. McFarland had asked him the perfect lose/lose question. Once again Conrad moved in to the rescue. “Listen, it’s been a long day for Eli, maybe—”

  “So you’re telling me you don’t have a position?” McFarland asked.

  Eli tried to answer, but again Conrad interrupted. “I’m just saying he’s tired and there might be a better time to—”

  “See what I mean?” McFarland forced a grin. “Your words are fine as long as they remain theory and conjecture. As long as they remain high and lofty ideals. But when you get down to practical application, well, I’m afraid they really don’t hold water, do they?”

  “They don’t?”