by Joan Hess
“It might be better to let him stew for a day or two,” Harve said. He stuck a cigar in his mouth, got it lit, and assessed my reaction through a cloud of smoke. “Besides, you still need to find a link between him and Seraphina Hope—unless you’re going to convince the prosecutor there are two murderers out in Maggody, both using the same method.”
I grabbed a folder and fanned the air in an unsuccessful effort to keep the smoke out of my face. “Malachi Hope won’t let me question Chastity without an attorney. She must know something important, but damned if I can even guess what it is.”
Harve and I were looking at each other when the door opened and LaBelle stuck her head into the office. “Arly, honey, your mother’s on the phone. She says it’s real urgent.”
“Tell her I already left,” I said.
“But I told her you were in here talking to Harve.”
“Tell her I left through the back door.”
“We don’t have a back door.”
“Don’t tell her that,” I said, then waited until LaBelle retreated before I told Harve about Lottie Estes’s driving mishap. “Is there a chance I can nail Malachi Hope with practicing medicine without a license?”
Harve shrugged his beefy shoulders. “Call the prosecutor if you’ve a mind, but I don’t know if calling on Jesus to heal folks is in the same league with peddling pills and home-brewed tonics.”
“I suppose I’d better find out what he is doing,” I said as I started for the door.
“Who knows—maybe you’ll get yourself some religion.”
“If I do,” I said with a grimace, “I’ll find myself a nice, quiet convent where nothing ever happens.” I could hear Harve’s chuckles as I left (through the front door).
Kevin was on his knees in the middle of the kitchen, battling back tears as he watched his love goddess shovel down forkfuls of chocolate cake. He waited until she paused to wipe crumbs off her chins, and said, “If you won’t go to the clinic, at least say you’ll go talk to Malachi Hope and make sure he understands how delicate your condition is. Considering how you’ve kept your figure so far, he might not have suspected, you’re pregnant.”
Dahlia flung her napkin on the table and glared down at him. “Are you saying Jesus doesn’t know I’m pregnant? He sits right there on the throne next to God, and God knows everything. Don’t you think God might have told Jesus if there was a reason not to cure my diabetes? What would your pa do if he heard how you were spouting off this kind of blasphemy?” Having settled that, she resumed eating. “The cake’s real tasty, Kevvie. Are you sure you don’t want some?”
“Please let me take you to the revival tonight,” he said with such intensity that Dahlia came close to jabbing herself in the lip. “Malachi Hope was the one who said you were cured. Maybe he was confused about what Jesus was doing. Jesus could have cured someone else’s diabetes.”
“Are you planning to stop at the Dairee Dee-Lishus afterward?” she asked slyly.
“Oh, yes, my beloved wife!”
He looked so pitiful that she took mercy on him and said, “I don’t reckon it can hurt to go to the revival. It was kinda fun watching those crippled people staggering all over the stage. Do you recollect that man with the snake tattoo that was so blind he had to be led onstage? I know for dead certain he was cured, because I saw him driving down the road this morning in one of those Hope Is Here trucks. If he was still blind, do you think they’d let him drive?”
Kevin was forced to agree.
Eula Lemoy was limping as she made her way to Elsie McMay’s car. “I appreciate you giving me a ride to the revival,” she said as she got in the front seat. “How’s Lottie doing?”
“She said she was feeling poorly and was going to go to bed early, but I think she’s embarrassed about running over that old woman from the county home. I know my face would be as red as a tomato.”
“I heard tell that Arly won’t allow Lottie to drive until she gets new glasses,” said Eula.
Elsie turned down County 102. “That borders on sacrilege, her doubting that Jesus cured Lottie of the astigmatism. Then again, Arly doesn’t attend church or even come to the Christmas pageant. She very well may be an atheist.”
Eula looked at her ankle. Surely it was less swollen than it had been earlier in the day. She of all people was not an atheist.
“I’ll bet there’ll be a bigger crowd tonight,” Earl Buchanon said as he turned down County 102. “Maybe that murder at the high school gym got folks to worrying about getting into heaven without having made a reservation.”
Eilene took a tissue from her purse and surreptitiously wiped the corner of her eye. “I’m so upset about Dahlia that all I did today was pace around the house, hoping Kevin would call to say she was willing to go to the clinic. He never did. I called over there while you were in the tub, but nobody answered.”
“She’ll come to her senses once the sugar wears off.”
“I’m not so sure. Maybe Brother Verber was right about Malachi Hope coming here to con us out of our money. Don’t you go putting another ten-dollar bill in the bucket, Earl Buchanon—not unless you fancy fixing your own meals and ironing your own shirts while I spend the next three months with my sister in Arkadelphia.”
Earl opened his mouth, then closed it before he said something stupid.
Ruby Bee sighed as she turned down County 102. “I didn’t see Arly’s car at the PD. I suppose she could have parked behind the antiques store, but her apartment was dark. I left a passel of messages on her answering machine to call me. I feel awful that we haven’t told her about Chastity and Cory Jenks.”
“It’s her own fault,” Estelle said promptly. “If she can’t bother to return her own mother’s calls, she’ll have to get along without a vital clue.”
“Why’s it vital?”
“How should I know? Arly’s the one always carryin’ on how she’s a trained professional. Do you think Malachi Hope is gonna bring his wife back from the dead?”
“That is the most awful thing I’ve ever heard-you say, Estelle!” Ruby Bee said, punctuating her sentence with a snort.
“Wasn’t there some fellow down by Van Buren who put his wife’s body in a glass coffin and made his cult followers pray over it all the time?”
“There was something in the newspapers along those lines, but I can’t seem to remember what happened.”
Estelle waved at a customer, then dropped her hand and said, “They lost both her and the coffin.”
“How can you lose a coffin?” countered Ruby Bee.
They continued discussing the possibilities all the way to the turnoff.
12
I parked my car at the bottom of the hill (position has its privileges, and I wasn’t going to give myself a ticket) and trudged up the road, noticing as I passed Bur Grapper’s house that the curtains were drawn. At the top of the hill, there was an impressive crowd, some in their Sunday best and others in clean work shirts and neatly patched jeans. Everyone seemed to be in a lighthearted mood as they called to one another and munched popcorn. Souvenir tables were doing a brisk business; I might have been the only one there not excited about the chance to buy an autographed copy of Invest In Jesus!, by none other than Malachi Hope.
Nodding and acknowledging greetings, I made my way to the tent. Darla Jean, Heather, and a few other girls from the basketball team were milling near the entrance, each wearing a large, round badge that identified her as an usher. One of the Dahlton twins grabbed an elderly lady and guided her down the center aisle. Seconds later, the other twin grabbed Eula Lemoy’s elbow and took off with her.
Darla Jean gave me a perplexed look as I arrived beside her. “Evening, Arly,” she said. “I’m kinda surprised to see you here. My ma says she heard you’re an atheist.”
No suitable retort came to mind, so I settled for a vague smile and said, “I thought I’d see what’s going on. Did you hear about Seraphina Hope?”
“It’s awful, isn’t it? I met her only las
t night, but we all feel real bad for Chastity. Now she’s practically an orphan. Do you think Malachi will send her off to a boarding school?”
“I have no idea.” I watched Heather capture a stout woman in a plaid housedress, excessive makeup, thick glasses, and a floppy straw hat adorned with plastic flowers. “Have you spoken to Chastity since she got back from Farberville?”
“I’m not supposed to stand here and talk. Let me take you to your seat.”
“On the last row, by an exit,” I said as we went into the tent. A Broadway theater it was not, but the deli at the SuperSaver did not compete with Zabar’s, and the view from my apartment window was hardly a spectacular skyline. The odds on receiving a copy of Playbill were slim. Then again, the price of admission was nowhere near sixty or seventy-five dollars. We don’t fall for that kind of crap in Maggody.
The benches down front were packed, and there were at least a dozen people in wheelchairs directly in front of the stage. Conversations competed with music from speakers on scaffolds at both sides of the stage. High school boys with badges identical to Darla Jean’s moved up and down the aisles, selling Bibles and cassettes. Traci nearly ran over my toes as she maneuvered a wheelchair around us and rolled it toward the stage.
“Are you okay, Arly?” Darla Jean asked in a concerned voice. “You look a little pale.”
I brushed her hand off my arm. “I’ll find my own seat, Darla Jean.”
“Oh, no, we’re supposed to escort folks to a seat to make sure they feel welcome and then ask them if they want a prayer card.” She handed me a card that had blanks for a name, mailing address, and specific request. “If you fill it out and say how you’re still brooding about your divorce or despairing of ever gettin’ married again, then Malachi Hope will pray for you.”
“I think I’ll pass.” I gave her back the card and moved a chair to within a few feet of an illuminated exit sign above an opening in the tent. The benches filled up steadily, until latecomers were obliged to accept folding chairs in the back. I recognized some of them, but others must have come from all over Stump County. Ruby Bee and Estelle failed to spot me in my shadowy corner, and were chatting with Heather as she settled them on the far side and gave them cards. Elsie McMay stared at me as she was hustled down the aisle; Earl and Eilene Buchanon waved. I thought I glimpsed Diesel Buchanon, but I quickly closed my eyes. When I opened them, he was gone.
The noise was growing unbearable. I was considering a discreet (okay, cowardly) withdrawal, when the music swept to a deafening crescendo, the overheard lights dimmed, and Thomas Fratelleon bounded onto the stage as if he were an emcee. He was wearing a pastel blue tuxedo and carrying a microphone. Could the Chippendale strippers be far behind?
“Thank you for coming!” he boomed. “It’s so heartwarming to see all you good Christians out there, eager to be blessed by Malachi Hope and help him bring the healing spirit of Jesus into our very midst!”
This elicited a round of applause and pious cheers, but it faded as Thomas assumed a mournful expression. “As many of you know, our beloved angel of love, Seraphina Hope, was taken from us in the early hours of the morning. Malachi and Chastity prayed all day and have found the strength to come out tonight and share with you not only their grief but their belief that Seraphina is watching us from a special place alongside Jesus. She doesn’t want us to weep and wail for her, brothers and sisters. She wants us to celebrate her grand entrance through the Pearly Gates!”
As Thomas left the stage, music began to blare and spotlights splashed onto the stage and curtain. Glitter drifted down from the ceiling like fine snow. The crowd reacted with enthusiasm, clapping and stomping and bellowing out the words to a brisk version of “Shall We Gather by the River.” When Malachi stepped out from the center of the curtain, the decibel level rose so much that I caught myself speculating about the sturdiness of the cables holding up the tent.
I folded my arms and leaned back as Malachi dashed from one end of the stage to the other, always in a puddle of light, exhorting the audience to praise Jesus and open their hearts to the Holy Spirit. He was also exhorting them to open their wallets; buckets were passed down the benches every ten minutes while Malachi raved about “the seeds of prosperity” and the opportunity to “make a touchdown for Jesus” by jumping on “the elevator to heaven.” No one else seemed to object to this peculiar mixture of metaphors or wonder why Jesus needed bribes to bestow blessings.
Malachi finally calmed down and came to the edge of the stage. “I can sense,” he said in the hushed voice of a funeral director, “that someone out there is troubled. That same someone went to the doctor last week and heard bad news, and now is worried that she’ll end up in a hospital. But you know what?”
The crowd dutifully roared, “What?”
“I feel a miracle coming on! You heard me—a miracle is coming on!” He put his fingertips on his temples, closed his eyes, and then threw up his hands. “I want Leslie Biden to come up here and join me as I pray to Jesus to perform a miracle.”
Amidst squeals and shouts of encouragement, Leslie timidly climbed the steps at one end of the stage and allowed Thomas to lead her to Malachi. The latter clutched her shoulders and said, “Leslie, the doctor said you might have an ulcer, didn’t he? He said he could give you some medicine, but this ulcer could get so bad he might need to operate on it.”
Leslie came close to crumpling but managed a faint nod as Thomas stuck a microphone in her face. “That’s right,” she said, looking out at the crowd. “But I haven’t told Fergie yet, on account of him bein’ worried about gettin’ laid off at the poultry plant in Starley City. I haven’t told a single soul except my ma, and she lives in Mississippi.”
“And you didn’t tell me,” Malachi cut in. “Jesus told me. He wants to heal you, Leslie, if you’ll let him. He doesn’t want you to worry about your ulcer anymore. He wants you to be happy, to enjoy wealth and prosperity. Is that what you want, Leslie?”
When she nodded, he launched into a prayer of at least three minutes’ duration, begging Jesus to heal her and encouraging Leslie to affirm her belief that it could happen. Just as it was beginning to look as if Jesus was occupied elsewhere, Malachi shrieked, “Thank you, Jesus!” and Leslie fell backward into Thomas’s arms.
The crowd went wild—for the most part, that is. I kept my arms folded and my lips tight as I pondered what I’d seen. Ruby Bee and Estelle were whispering to each other. Darla Jean had a puzzled expression on her face.
Things quieted down only when Chastity came onstage, dressed in a white gown, wings, and a halo that was definitely lopsided. “I’d like to dedicate this to my sister,” she said, “because now she’s with Jesus.” She sang a fairly acceptable rendition of “Amazing Grace,” curtsied, and fled behind the curtain. I may have had the only dry eyes in the tent, but we atheists are notoriously cynical.
Malachi let the applause die down. “I am so touched by little Chastity’s song that I feel another miracle coming on. This time Jesus tells me there’s someone out in the audience who’s enduring the agony of arthritis. Someone’s fingers are stiff and sore.”
An unfamiliar woman from the front bench stood up. “I have arthritis!” she yelled, clearly proud to be the next afflicted party. Several minutes later, Thomas was dragging her limp body offstage. A burly man in tattered overalls and dark glasses was brought onstage and “healed” of his blindness as well as the brain tumor that had caused it. Malachi went into the audience and persuaded a gaunt woman in a wheelchair to stand up and take a few steps. A young woman with a baby was assured her husband would stop drinking and stay home with her. Another woman was assured her daughter would stop sleeping with every trucker she met. (Knowing the girl, I wouldn’t have put money on it.)
It was interesting—from a voyeuristic standpoint. Malachi was dynamic, his voice rising to an ecstatic frenzy, then dropping to a hoarse, theatrical whisper. His candidates had no reluctance about spilling their family secrets, although there might be
regrets in the morning when reality replaced religious fervor. I had no doubt Ruby Bee was taking notes for the grapevine.
“I feel a miracle coming on!” Malachi said for the umpteenth time. “Wilma, I know you’re afraid you’re going to lose your job. Jesus knows it, too. Where are you, Wilma? Come up here with me, and we can pray together that Jesus will make sure you don’t find yourself out on the cold, hard streets, scavenging for food from garbage cans.”
An expectant buzz filled the tent as people craned their heads to locate the hapless soul, but no one stood up. As Malachi came down the steps to the aisle, he said, “You don’t have to be afraid of Jesus, Wilma. He wants me to find you and pray with you.” He pressed his fingers to his temple for a moment. “I can see you in my mind, Wilma. You’re wearing a dress, glasses, and a big ol’ hat with pretty pink and yellow flowers.”
“Here she is!” shouted a woman in the last row, waving her arms over her head as if directing an airplane to a gate. “I reckon this here’s Wilma!”
Malachi approached his next candidate, who was slumped down in her seat with her face hidden beneath the wide brim of the hat. “Wilma,” he said gently, “don’t be ashamed to let Jesus help you. When I asked all these generous, loving Christians to help Jesus, they dug in their pockets and purses and their very hearts. Now Jesus is helping us. Can you feel it?” He put his hand on her back. “Can you feel Jesus, Wilma?”
Wilma bobbled her head, which was good enough for Malachi and the audience. The music came back up, the buckets appeared, and the show went on.
At the end of three hours, Malachi had discarded his coat and his sleeves were rolled up “to work hard for Jesus.” Several people in the audience had fainted and been revived with cups of water provided by the ushers. Chastity had appeared in a pink haze to sing another hymn. Malachi had described his proposed City of Hope, with its crystal cathedral, hundred-foot-tall cross illuminated by five thousand lightbulbs, audio and video recording studios, and the vast expanse set aside for carnival rides, condos, a two-acre artificial lake designed for baptisms (as well as paddleboats), and meeting rooms that could be rented for weddings and family reunions.
