Revival: A Novel

by Stephen King

  “That was different. That four-oh-four son of a bitch tried to caress my butt.”

  “A four-oh-four with good taste,” I remarked, and when she gave me the stinkeye: “Just sayin.”

  “Huh. Last few minutes it’s been all quiet in there. I hope he didn’t give himself a heart attack.”

  “Maybe it was something he saw on TV. Or read in the paper?”

  “TV went off fifteen minutes after I came in, and as for the Camera and the Post, he stopped takin em two months ago. Says he gets everything from the Internet. I tell him, ‘Hugh, all that Internet news is written by boys not old enough to shave and girls hardly out of their training bras. It’s not to be trusted.’ He thinks I’m just a clueless old lady. He doesn’t say it, but I can see it in his eyes. Like I don’t have a daughter who’s taking computer courses at CU. Bree’s the one who told me not to trust that bloggish crap. Go on, now. But if he’s sittin in his chair dead of vapor lock, don’t call me to give him CPR.”

  She moved away, tall and regal, the gliding walk no different from that of the young woman who had brought the iced tea into Hugh’s office sixteen years before.

  I tapped a knuckle on the door. Hugh wasn’t dead, but he was slumped behind his oversize desk, rubbing his temples like a man with a migraine. His laptop was open in front of him.

  “Are you going to fire someone?” I asked.

  He looked up. “Huh?”

  “Georgia says if you’re going to fire someone, she’s taking a sick day.”

  “I’m not going to fire anyone. That’s ridiculous.”

  “She says you threw something.”

  “Bullshit.” He paused. “I did kick the wastebasket when I saw the shit about the holy rings.”

  “Tell me about the holy rings. Then I’ll give the wastebasket another ritual kick and go to work. I’ve got sixteen billion things to do today, including learning two tunes for that Gotta Wanna session. A wastebasket field goal might be just the thing to get me jump-started.”

  Hugh went back to rubbing his temples. “I thought this might happen, I knew he had it in him, but I never expected anything quite this . . . this grand. But you know what they say—go big or go home.”

  “No fucking clue what you’re talking about.”

  “You will, Jamie, you will.”

  I parked my butt on the corner of his desk.

  “Every morning I watch the six AM news while I do my crunches and pedal the stationary bike, okay? Mostly because watching the weather chick has its own aerobic benefits. And this morning I saw an ad for something besides magic wrinkle creams and Time-­Warner golden oldie collections. I couldn’t believe it. Couldn’t, fucking, believe it. At the same time I could.” He laughed then, not a this-is-funny laugh but an I-can’t-fucking-believe-it laugh. “So I turn off the idiot box and investigate further on the Internet.”

  I started around his desk but he held up a hand to stop me. “First I have to ask you if you’ll go on a man-date with me, Jamie. To see someone who has—after a couple of false starts—finally realized his destiny.”

  “Sure, I guess so. As long as it isn’t a Justin Bieber concert. I’m a little long in the tooth for the Bieb.”

  “Oh, this is much better than the Bieb. Take a look. Just don’t let it burn your eyes.”

  I walked around the desk and met my fifth business for the third time. The first thing I noticed was the hokey hypnotist’s stare. His hands were spread to either side of his face, and he was wearing a thick gold band on the third finger of each.

  It was a poster on a website headed PASTOR C. DANNY JACOBS HEALING REVIVAL TOUR 2008.

  OLD-TIME TENT REVIVAL!

  JUNE 13–15

  NORRIS COUNTY FAIRGROUNDS

  20 Miles East of Denver

  FEATURING FORMER “SOUL SINGER” AL STAMPER

  FEATURING THE GOSPEL ROBINS, WITH

  DEVINA ROBINSON

  ***AND***

  EVANGELIST C. DANNY JACOBS

  AS SEEN ON THE DANNY JACOBS HOUR

  OF HEALING GOSPEL POWER

  RENEW YOUR SOUL THROUGH SONG

  REFRESH YOUR FAITH THROUGH HEALING

  THRILL TO THE STORY OF THE HOLY RINGS,

  TOLD AS ONLY PASTOR DANNY CAN!

  “Bring hither the poor, and the maimed, and the halt, and the blind; compel them to come in, that my house may be filled.” Luke 14:21 and 23.

  WITNESS GOD’S POWER TO CHANGE

  YOUR LIFE!

  FRIDAY 13TH: 7 PM

  SATURDAY 14TH: 2 PM and 7 PM

  SUNDAY 15TH: 2 PM and 7 PM

  GOD SPEAKS SOFTLY (1 KINGS 19:12)

  GOD HEALS LIKE LIGHTNING (MATTHEW 24:27)

  COME ONE!

  COME ALL!

  BE RENEWED!

  At the bottom was a photo of a boy throwing away his crutches while a congregation stood watching with expressions of joyous awe. The caption below the photo read Robert Rivard, healed of MUSCULAR DYSTROPHY 5/30/07, St. Louis, Mo.

  I was stunned, the way a person would be, I suppose, if he caught sight of an old friend who has been reported dead or arrested for committing a serious crime. Yet part of me—the changed part, the healed part—wasn’t surprised. That part of me had been waiting for this all along.

  Hugh laughed and said, “Man, you look like a bird flew into your mouth and you swallowed it.” Then he spoke aloud the only coherent thought I had in my brain at that moment. “Looks like the Rev’s up to his old tricks.”

  “Yes,” I said, then pointed at the reference to the Book of Matthew. “But that verse isn’t about healing.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “I never knew you were a Bible scholar.”

  “There’s a lot you don’t know,” I said, “because we never talk about him. But I knew Charlie Jacobs long before Tulsa. When I was a little boy, he was the minister at our church. It was his first pastoral job, and I would have guessed it was his last. Until now.”

  His smile went away. “You’re shitting me! How old was he, eighteen?”

  “I think around twenty-five. I was six or seven.”

  “Was he healing people back then?”

  “Not at all.” Except for my brother Con, that was. “In those days he was straight-up Methodist—you know, Welch’s grape juice at communion instead of wine. Everyone liked him.” At least until the Terrible Sermon. “He quit after he lost his wife and son in a road accident.”

  “The Rev was married? He had a kid?”

  “Yes.”

  Hugh considered. “So he’s actually got a right to at least one of those wedding rings—if they are wedding rings. Which I doubt. Look at this.”

  He went to the band at the top of the website page, put the cursor on MIRACLE TESTIMONY, and clicked. The screen now showed a line of YouTube videos. There were at least a dozen.

  “Hugh, if you want to go see Charlie Jacobs, I’m happy to tag along, but I really don’t have time to discuss him this morning.”

  He regarded me closely. “You don’t look like someone who swallowed a bird. You look like somebody gave you a hard punch to the gut. Look at this one vid, and I’ll let you go.”

  Halfway down was the boy from the poster. When Hugh clicked on it, I saw the clip, which was only a little over a minute long, had racked up better than a hundred thousand views. Not quite viral, but close.

  When the picture started to move, someone shoved a microphone with KSDK on it into Robert Rivard’s face. An unseen woman said, “Describe what happened when this so-called healing took place, Bobby.”

  “Well, ma’am,” Bobby said, “when he grabbed on my head, I could feel the holy wedding rings on the sides, right here.” He indicated his temples. “I heard a snap, like a stick of kin’lin wood. I might have passed out for a second or two. Then this . . . I don’t know . . . warmt
h went down my legs . . . and . . .” The boy began to weep. “And I could stand on em. I could walk! I was healed! God bless Pastor Danny!”

  Hugh sat back. “I haven’t watched all the other testimonials, but the ones I have watched are pretty much the same. Remind you of anything?”

  “Maybe,” I said. Cautiously. “What about you?”

  We had never discussed the favor “the Rev” had done for Hugh—a favor big enough to cause the boss of the Wolfjaw Ranch to hire a barely straight heroin addict on the basis of a phone call.

  “Not while you’re pressed for time. What are you doing for lunch?”

  “Ordering in pizza. After the c&w chick exits, there’s a guy from Longmont . . . sheet says he’s ‘a baritone interpreter of popular song’ . . .”

  Hugh looked blank for a moment, then slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. “Oh my God, is it George Damon?”

  “Yeah, that’s the name.”

  “Christ, I thought that sucker was dead. It’s been years—before your time. The first record he made with us was Damon Does Gershwin. Long before CDs this was, although eight-tracks might have been around. Every song, and I mean every fucking song, sounded like Kate Smith singing ‘God Bless America.’ Let Mookie handle him. They go back. If the Mookster screws up, you can fix it in the mix.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes. If we’re going to see the Rev’s fine and holy shit-show, I want to hear what you know about him first. Probably we should have had this conversation years ago.”

  I thought that over. “Okay . . . but if you want to get, you have to give. A full and fair exchange of information.”

  He laced his hands together on the not inconsiderable middle of his western-style shirt and rocked back in his chair. “It’s nothing I’m ashamed of, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s just so . . . unbelievable.”

  “I’ll believe it,” I said.

  “Maybe so. Before you leave, tell me what that verse in Matthew says, and how you know it.”

  “I can’t quote it exactly after so many years, but it’s something like, ‘As the lightning flashes from east to west, covering the sky, so shall be the coming of Jesus.’ It’s not about healing, it’s about the apocalypse. And I remember it because it was one of Reverend Jacobs’s favorites.”

  I glanced at the clock. The long-legged country girl—Mandy something-or-other—was a chronic early bird, she was probably already sitting on the steps outside Studio 1 with her guitar propped up beside her, but there was one thing I had to know right then. “What did you mean when you said you doubted they were wedding rings?”

  “Didn’t use the rings on you, huh? When he took care of your little drug problem?”

  I thought of the abandoned auto body shop. “Nope. Headphones.”

  “This was in what? 1992?”

  “Yes.”

  “My experience with the Rev was in 1983. He must have updated his MO in the time between. He probably went back to the rings because they seem more religious than headphones. But I bet he’s moved ahead with his work since my time . . . and yours. That’s the Rev, wouldn’t you say? Always trying to take it to the next level?”

  “You call him the Rev. Was he preaching when you met him?”

  “Yes and no. It’s complicated. Go on, get out of here, your girl will be waiting. Maybe she’ll be wearing a miniskirt. That’ll take your mind off Pastor Danny.”

  As a matter of fact, she was wearing a mini, and those legs were definitely spectacular. I hardly noticed them, though, and I couldn’t tell you a thing she sang that day without checking the log. My mind was on Charles Daniel Jacobs, aka the Rev. Now known as Pastor Danny.

  • • •

  Mookie McDonald bore his scolding about the soundboard quietly, head down, nodding, at the end promising he would do better. He would, too. For awhile. Then, a week or two from now, I’d come in and find the board on again in 1, 2, or both. I think the idea of putting people in jail for smoking the rope is ludicrous, but there’s no doubt in my mind that long-term daily use is a recipe for CRS, also known as Can’t Remember Shit.

  He brightened up when I told him he’d be recording George Damon. “I always loved that guy!” the Mookster exclaimed. “Everything he sang sounded like—”

  “Kate Smith singing ‘God Bless America.’ I know. Have a good time.”

  • • •

  There was a pretty little picnic area in a grove of alders behind the big house. Georgia and a couple of the office girls were having their lunch there. Hugh led me to a table well away from theirs and took a couple of wrapped sandwiches and two cans of Dr Pepper from his capacious manpurse. “Got chicken salad and tuna salad from Tubby’s. You choose.”

  I chose tuna. We ate in silence for awhile, there in the shadow of the big mountains, and then Hugh said, “I also used to play rhythm, you know, and I was quite a bit better than you.”

  “Many are.”

  “At the end of my career I was in a band out of Michigan called Johnson Cats.”

  “From the seventies? The guys who wore those Army shirts and sounded like the Eagles?”

  “It was actually the early eighties when we broke through, but yeah, that was us. Had four hit singles, all off the first album. And do you want to know what got that album noticed in the first place? The title and the jacket, both my idea. It was called Your Uncle Jack Plays All the Monster Hits, and it had my very own Uncle Jack Yates on the cover, sitting in his living room and strumming his ukulele. Inside, lots of heaviness and monster fuzz-tone. No wonder it didn’t win Best Album at the Grammys. That was the era of Toto. Fucking ‘Africa,’ what a piece of crap that was.”

  He brooded.

  “Anyway, I was in the Cats, had been for two years, and that’s me on the breakout record. Played the first two tour dates, then got let go.”

  “Why?” Thinking, It must have been drugs. Back then it always was. But he surprised me.

  “I went deaf.”

  • • •

  The Johnson Cats tour started in Bloomington—Circus One—then moved on to the Congress Theater in Oak Park. Small venues, warmup gigs with local ax-whackers to open. Then to Detroit, where the big stuff was scheduled to start: thirty cities, with Johnson Cats as the opening act for Bob Seger and the Silver Bullet Band. Arena rock, the real deal. What you dream of.

  The ringing in Hugh’s ears started in Bloomington. At first he dismissed it as just part of the price you paid when you sold your soul for rock and roll—what self-respecting player didn’t suffer tinnitus from time to time? Look at Pete Townshend. Eric Clapton, Neil Young. Then, in Oak Park, the vertigo and nausea started. Halfway through their set, Hugh reeled offstage and hurled into a bucket filled with sand.

  “I still remember the sign on the post above it,” he told me. “USE FOR SMALL FIRES ONLY.”

  He finished the gig—somehow—took his bows, and reeled offstage.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Felix Granby asked. He was the lead guitarist and lead vocalist, which meant to the public at large—the portion of it that rocked, at least—he was Johnson Cats. “Are you drunk?”

  “Stomach flu,” Hugh said. “It’s getting better.”

  He thought it was true; with the amps off, the tinnitus did seem to be ebbing. But the next morning it was back, and other than the hellish ringing, he could hear almost nothing.

  Two members of Johnson Cats fully grasped looming disaster: Felix Granby and Hugh himself. Only three days ahead was the Silverdome, in Pontiac. Capacity ninety thousand. With Detroit favorite Bob Seger headlining, it would be almost full. The JC was on the cusp of fame, and in rock and roll, such chances rarely come around a second time. So Felix Granby had done to Hugh what Kelly Van Dorn of White Lightning had done to me.

  “I bore him no grudge,” Hugh said. “If our positions had been reversed, I
might have done the same. He hired a session player out of L’Amour Studio in Detroit, and it was that guy who went onstage with them that night at the Dome.”

  Granby did the firing in person, not by talking but by writing notes and holding them up for Hugh to read. He pointed out that while the other members of the JC came from middle-class families, Hugh was from real money. He could fly back to Colorado in a comfy seat at the front of the plane, and consult all the best doctors. Granby’s last note, written in capital letters, read: U WILL BE BACK WITH US BEFORE U KNOW IT.

  “As if,” Hugh said as we sat in the shade, eating our sandwiches from Tubby’s.

  “You still miss it, don’t you?” I asked.

  “No.” Long pause. “Yes.”

  • • •

  He did not go back to Colorado.

  “If I had’ve, I sure wouldn’t have flown. I had an idea my head might explode once we got above twenty thousand feet. Besides, home wasn’t what I wanted. All I wanted to do was lick my wounds, which were still bleeding, and Detroit was as good a lickin place as any. That’s the story I told myself, anyway.”

  The symptoms did not abate: vertigo, nausea ranging from moderate to severe, and always that hellish ringing, sometimes soft, sometimes so loud he thought his head would split open. On occasion all these symptoms would draw back like a tide going out, and then he would sleep for ten or even twelve hours at a stretch.

  Although he could have afforded better, he was living in a fleabag hotel on Grand Avenue. For two weeks he put off going to a doctor, terrified that he would be told he had a malignant and inoperable brain tumor. When he finally did force himself into a doc-in-the-box on Inkster Road, a Hindu medic who looked about seventeen listened, nodded, did a few tests, and urged Hugh to check himself into a hospital for more tests, plus experimental antinausea medications he himself could not prescribe, so sorry.

  Instead of going to the hospital, Hugh began taking long and pointless safaris (when the vertigo permitted it, that was) up and down the fabled stretch of Detroit road known as 8-Mile. One day he passed a storefront with radios, guitars, record players, tape decks, amplifiers, and TVs in the dusty window. According to the sign, this was Jacobs New & Used Electronics . . . although to Hugh Yates, most of it looked beat to shit and none of it looked new.