Miracles in Maggody

by Joan Hess

  “I wasn’t asking if it was hot enough for you, Brother Verber. Do you know anything about him and his plans?”

  “Just what I heard at the potluck,” he admitted as he pulled out a handkerchief to mop his forehead. “He’s looking into buying land out past the bridge so he can build some ridiculous park. I saw a flyer over at the barbershop about a tent revival next week. Do you reckon I should call off the Sunday evening service and the Wednesday evening prayer meeting so folks can go?”

  “You are not thinking this through,” Mrs. Jim Bob said, her impatience increasingly hard to miss. “Canceling a couple of services for the revival is one thing, but consider what’ll happen if Malachi Hope goes through with this project. Where do you imagine most everybody in town will go on Sundays—to the Assembly Hall to hear Lottie Estes fumble through hymns on a piano, or to a big, glitzy church where they can wander around afterward, riding the Ferris wheel and eating cotton candy?”

  Brother Verber sank down on the steps of the porch, his fat face all puckered up as he mulled over what she’d said. Lottie Estes got most of the notes right, but she was liable to lose her place in the refrain and they’d have to start all over. The Assembly Hall was hot in the summer, drafty in the fall, and colder than a witch’s tit long about January. In the spring, most folks brought umbrellas. He himself always looked forward to the potluck suppers after the Sunday evening services, but the same green bean casseroles and gelatin salads showed up just about every week, and he’d heard some tart remarks lately. There wasn’t near enough in the coffers for a cotton-candy machine, much less carnival rides.

  Sighing, he looked up at Mrs. Jim Bob. “I reckon it’s gonna be the end of the Voice of the Almighty Lord Assembly Hall, Sister Barbara. There ain’t no way to compete.”

  “Once he gets it built, you’ll be lucky to fill the front pew,” she said without sympathy, “but this Hope fellow doesn’t own so much as a square inch of land—yet. I don’t know about Bur Grapper and Wharton Estes, but Jim Bob got a long letter a while back. Jim Bob happened to be off in Hot Springs at one of those municipal league meetings, so I took it upon myself to open the letter just in case it was important and I needed to call him.”

  “You are so saintly,” Brother Verber said, shaking his head in admiration. “I would never have thought of that.”

  “Well, I did. The letter was from a man named Thomas Fratelleon, who claimed to be Malachi Hope’s business manager. It was all a lot of complicated jargon about the southeast quarter of the northwest quarter, but as far as I could make out, he was asking if Jim Bob would sell that parcel for a hundred dollars an acre.”

  “Generous offer, I suppose. It’s nothing but scrub and rock out that way, and the only thing it’s good for is duckweed. After ol’ Mrs. Wockermann ran off to Mexico with Merle Hardcock, her nephew sold that pasture beside her house for more like fifty an acre.”

  Sometimes Mrs. Jim Bob wondered if he was exactly the right person to be the spiritual leader of the congregation. However, it was a thought unworthy of a pious Christian, and everybody knew she was the most pious Christian in town and maybe the entire county.

  Brother Verber shivered like a wet dog. “Like I said,” he continued in the sonorous voice he used for funerals and the till-death-us-do-part moment in wedding vows, “there’s no way to compete with a cotton-candy machine. If I lose my congregation, I won’t be able to take a modest percent of the offering to support myself. I might ought to write the seminary out in Las Vegas and see if they know of a vacant pulpit someplace else. It breaks my heart to think about having to leave my cozy little rectory over there under the sycamore trees.” He was so choked up he had to clear his throat like a bullfrog. “And you, Sister Barbara. You are such an inspiration to us all, what with your soul as pure as the Lord’s rain and—”

  “Malachi Hope can be stopped,” she interrupted, since he wasn’t saying anything she didn’t already know. “If you’d been paying attention, you’d have realized the significance of what I just said. He doesn’t own any of the parcels as of now, and even if Bur and Wharton agree to sell theirs, Jim Bob’s two hundred acres are in the middle of them.”

  “Jim Bob wouldn’t turn down a hundred dollars an acre, would he? That’d add up to …” He tried to do the computation in his head, then finally gave up and said, “A right tidy sum of money.”

  “Twenty thousand dollars.”

  Brother Verber whistled through his teeth. “Nothing to turn up your nose at.”

  “It is if what’s at stake is the salvation of the community. Jim Bob is the mayor of Maggody, and his first concern should be the spiritual well-being of his constituents. I watched some of Malachi Hope’s television shows. He preached about how Jesus wants everybody to have themselves a good time in the here and now. From the way he carried on, you’d think Jesus was a camp counselor. I don’t recollect him saying one word about eternal damnation. He had celebrities on his ‘Hour of Hope’ who talked about how they used to be miserable sinners, but as soon as they dedicated their lives to the Lord, they got rich and famous. He even had Matt Montana on his show one time. He sang ‘You’re a Detour on the Highway to Heaven,’ and half the folks in the audience were bawling by the time it was over.”

  “I’ll bet they emptied their pockets when the plates were passed,” Brother Verber said, getting misty as he imagined the scene. “I wonder if I could get—”

  “Jim Bob has a duty to this community, and he is not going to stand aside and allow this charlatan and his hussy to lure everybody away from the Missionary Society after all I did to win a third term as president. I’ll have a word with him this evening. If I can’t persuade him, you may have to throw in some words about Satan and the root of all evil.”

  “You think it’ll work?”

  Her expression was so fierce he cringed. “It will work, Brother Verber.”

  Burdock Grapper watched the trucks and buses rolling up the dirt road next to his house, then took a beer out of the refrigerator and sat back down on the recliner. He was sixty-three, which made him nearly twenty years older than his wife, Norma Kay. He was also two inches shorter than she was. His narrow nose was more crooked than his teeth, which had been aching so much he was thinking about having ’em yanked. He had a full head of brown hair tinged with gray; he dropped by the barbershop every six weeks or so for a trim, but mostly to hear the latest gossip. Not that he’d hear what gnawed at him night and day—the identity of the sumbitch Norma Kay was having an affair with. If and when he found out, the sumbitch and Norma Kay would both be real sorry.

  “You’re late,” he said as she came into the living room. “It’s almost supper time. Where were you?”

  “At school. Where else would I be—over at Raz Buchanon’s house gossiping with his hog?” Norma Kay went into the kitchen and took a pound of hamburger meat from the freezer. “I asked you this morning to defrost this, Bur. Is it too much trouble to get off your butt for one minute and help out? All you’ve done since the day you retired is watch those stupid soap operas and drink beer. One of these days you’re going have a heart attack and die, and I won’t even notice until you start to stink worse than you do already.”

  “Watch your mouth,” he said, finishing the beer. He crumpled the can and tossed it onto the floor with the others. “Why were you at school so late?”

  “The schedule’s a real mess. We were supposed to play Hasty the week after Thanksgiving, but the coach canceled because her best players have to go to a choir competition down in Clarksville. She knows we’ll whip their asses if they don’t have that six-foot-tall center.” She stuck the meat in the refrigerator and pulled out the remains of the previous evening’s casserole. She did so with a smug smile, since Bur hated leftovers more than he did soap and water. “I was on the phone all day trying to line up another team. We might be able to play Emmet, but then I have to figure out how to get us there, since the boys are still playing Hasty. Cory’s not about to let us take the bus.” />
  “Talking to Cory, huh?”

  She came to the doorway and glared at him. “Cory and I have to talk to each other because we have to transport both of our teams to the out-of-town games and we only have the one bus. For pity’s sake, Bur, you were the basketball coach for thirty-three years. Did you ever tell your players to take a cab?”

  Bur shrugged. “So you needed to talk about the bus. How’s he doing as head coach while Amos is laid up over at the nursing home in Farberville?”

  “I don’t know. He just started off-season training today. Some of the first string are on vacation, but there’s a new junior with promise, and the MacNamara boy must have grown two inches over the summer. He’s going to make a good point guard.”

  Bur aimed the clicker at the television set, having lost interest in basketball right after the buzzer went off to end the final game of his career. He’d never liked his players; the only pleasure he’d derived from coaching was being able to make their lives hell during practices and games.

  Norma Kay returned to the kitchen to stick the casserole into the oven and fix herself a glass of iced tea. She never touched beer on account of her figure, which was holding up pretty good except for a broadening of her rump. She used a variety of expensive creams on her face and took pains to color her hair at the first sign of a dark root. Estelle Oppers was always giving her snooty looks, but Norma Kay was proud of its bright yellow color and the perky little flip like she wore when she was a starter on the Coffeyville varsity team twenty-five years ago. Nobody except parents had ever come to the games, girls’ athletics being a joke back then, but the team always played as if the bleachers were packed and a championship was at stake.

  Thinking about that was enough to keep her entertained as she sat down at the kitchen table and waited for the casserole to burn.

  2

  Dust was hanging in the soupy heat as I drove past the Grappers’ house, bounced up a lane to a pasture, and parked behind the bus. Two dozen men in jeans and sweaty shirts were unloading the trucks. As I climbed out of my car, I was treated to wolf whistles that brought to mind a Manhattan construction site. It was not a warm memory.

  “It’s a cop,” one of them said as he paused to stare. “Can I spend the night in your cell, honey? I’ll bet you got the hottest little cell in town.”

  “Hey, cop,” said another, “want to charge me with exposing myself in public?”

  “If she saw your prick, all she’d give you is a ticket for loitering.”

  “I’d sure like to have the long arms of the law wrapped around me tonight.”

  “Enough of this,” said an older man as he appeared from behind one of the trucks. “This is a pasture, gentlemen. It’s going to be dark in two hours, and you will be unable to see what you’re stepping in.”

  “Bullshit,” said one of my admirers.

  “Precisely.” The man approached me with an apologetic smile. Despite the temperature, he wore a tweedy jacket and a dark tie; he looked so straitlaced that he might have been the headmaster of a prep school on Parents’ Day. He was tall; expensive tailoring minimized his bulk. His face was benignly wrinkled and worn, but his eyes, alert behind wire-rimmed bifocals, focused on my badge.

  “May I help you?” he asked with a trace of wariness.

  “I’m Arly Hanks, the chief of police down the road in Maggody. Are you Malachi Hope?”

  “No, I am not. Are you here in your official capacity, Miss Hanks? Has there been a violation of a local ordinance?”

  “I’m not aware of any violations. I just dropped by to see what’s going on.” I stepped back as two men carried by a massive bundle of canvas. “If you’re not Hope, who are you?”

  “The drive from Little Rock was so tiresome that I have forgotten my manners. I am Thomas Fratelleon, the business manager of Hope Is Here, Incorporated. I handle all the paperwork, including whatever we might require in terms of local permits and variances. It’s my understanding that we are outside the city limits, but we certainly desire to cooperate with the authorities in every way we can.”

  “Oh, really,” I said, unimpressed. “I was told you’re staging a tent revival out here. Where do you and all these gentlemen plan to stay for the next ten days?”

  “Once they get the site prepared, they’ll be at a motel in Farberville except when we need them here. Some of them will undoubtedly have encounters with the local police, obliging me to hire others of their ilk, but that should not concern your department. Our special-effects man and I will set up cots in an area behind the stage in order to discourage trespassing.”

  “And Malachi Hope?”

  “He and his family will stay here, too, but in the RV until we can arrange for something more permanent. Once we get it hooked up to the generator, it’s self-contained and more spacious than you’d suspect. It has a small bedroom, a bathroom, and a living room with a kitchen area. The sofa converts into a bed.” He gestured at the residence under discussion. “Would you like to meet Malachi and Seraphina?”

  I considered his, question while I moved out of the way to allow another large bundle of canvas to be carried by. “Maybe at another time,” I said. “Why don’t you give me a tour of the site, Mr. Fratelleon? How big is this tent they’re putting up?”

  “Quite large,” he said as he took my elbow and guided me between the trucks. “We can seat a thousand worshipers on benches, and another two hundred on folding chairs at the back if necessary. Our stage and equipment take up nearly eight hundred square feet, but we’re hardly an old-fashioned tent show making its way around the salvation circuit. People are too sophisticated these days to be satisfied with a single charismatic preacher and a dozen choir members. Our special-effects man used to work for rock bands out in California; he’s a real wizard when it comes to adding elements of drama to the service.”

  In front of us an enormous tent was rising as if it were a sienna mountain. Hydraulic winches were stationed at strategic corners, and cables thicker than my wrist strained as the tent poles inched skyward. Canvas sagged, then snapped into symmetrical lines. The workers barked orders at one another, but the exchanges were perfunctory (and vulgar, even by Maggody standards). Other workers walked unconcernedly beneath the listing poles, intent on their own assigned duties.

  “When do you bring out the clowns and elephants?” I asked.

  Fratelleon gave me a wry look. “There is a certain similarity, I must admit, but selling religion takes showmanship as well as a calling. Don’t make any stereotypic assumptions about Malachi until you meet him. You may be surprised.”

  “What about you, Mr. Fratelleon? Surely you haven’t done this all your life.”

  “I was an accountant in a large manufacturing firm for more than thirty-five years. When I neared retirement, the board of directors chose to discharge me rather than give me a gold watch and a pension. I found it impossible to find steady employment and was doing menial temp work when I met Malachi two years ago. His offer was too tempting to turn down.”

  “Peddling miracles,” I said.

  “I was earning no more than fifteen thousand dollars a year as a temp. Now I earn a hundred thousand in salary and bonuses. I live frugally and invest prudently, and should the future unfold as we envision it, I will retire in five years as a multimillionaire. That, Chief Hanks, is a miracle.”

  I was about to ask him for the name of his broker, when an olive-skinned young man in jeans, a black T-shirt, and a black leather vest came over to us. His dark hair was combed back into a 1950s ducktail, and a pack of cigarettes bulged in a rolled-up sleeve that partially covered a tattoo. He obviously fancied himself as a latter-day James Dean—or a character from a production of Grease.

  “I’ve got to go into the nearest big town and find an electronics store,” he said to Fratelleon. “A fuse blew in the dimming-control panel. I was gonna take my bike, but if you want me to pick up other stuff as long as I’m there, I’ll take one of the cars.”

  “Miss Hanks,
this is Joey Lerner, the special-effects wizard I was telling you about a minute ago. Joey works some amazing miracles through electronics.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said as I realized he’d been the black-clad motorcyclist in the caravan and that his bowed legs were not the result of years of riding the range. He had Harley-Davidson legs, as well as a cute derriere.

  “Me, too,” he said without interest, then looked back at Fratelleon. “So what do you want me to do, Thomas? I’d like to get the fuse right away so I can start fixing the panel.”

  “I haven’t spoken to Malachi since we arrived,” said Fratelleon. “If they need groceries or such, I shall send someone back to that supermarket we passed. Take whichever vehicle you prefer.”

  “Joey!” cried a girl as she came down the steps in front of the RV that purportedly housed Malachi Hope and his family. Waving frantically, she stumbled across the weeds, ducking under cables and barely avoiding collisions with the workmen. “Wait a minute!”

  “Shit,” hissed Joey. Fratelleon looked no more pleased than he, but settled for a sigh.

  I studied her curiously as she neared us. She was in her middle teens, with brown hair pulled into a sloppy ponytail and a scattering of acne on her forehead that the heavy pancake makeup failed to conceal. Her halter and skimpy shorts made no attempt to conceal a well-endowed bustline, a somewhat thick waist, and heavy thighs. With an afternoon at Estelle’s Hair Fantasies and a supervised trip to a department store, she might have been attractive. At the moment, a scowl did nothing to enhance her appearance.

  “I gotta get out of here,” she said, grabbing Joey’s arm. “It doesn’t matter where—just any place but here.”

  “I don’t know,” he mumbled unhappily.