And then I started to shake. I didn’t know if it was I doing it or the Lord, but my arms were twitching and quivering as I held onto Andy’s head. The kids around me were getting excited. Andy sat there with his eyes closed in prayer, his hands clasped in his lap. The praise raised in intensity. Hands went up. Tongues started rolling. Clay agreed with me aloud, not asking, but demanding healing in the name of Jesus. This went on, then it went on some more, and I just kept shaking. Finally, when we all felt we’d done enough, our prayers subsided, the noise died down, and we rested.
I removed my hands and opened my eyes.
Andy sat there motionless, dazed, staring ahead. Nobody said a word.
“You okay, Andy?” Bernadette asked.
He didn’t answer. He only got up slowly, shakily, and returned to his seat.
Everyone had a strong impression that something had happened. Bernadette put an arm around him. David patted him on the shoulder and said, “You’re healed, buddy. You’re going to be all right!”
“Let’s thank the Lord,” said Mrs. Kenyon, and we praised him again.
Karla spoke up. “I’d like prayer for my eyes. I’m nearsighted and I hate having to wear these stupid glasses.”
“Get up there,” said Amber, indicating the chair in the center of the room, the “hot seat.”
I laid my hands on Karla’s head and we did the whole thing again, shaking, praising, praying, demanding, and ordering that nearsightedness out of her. When we were finished, Karla took her place again, and removed her glasses. No one asked her how things looked. A song started and we all sang. I sat down, strangely glad it was over.
But I did hear Karla tell Amber that nothing had changed.
“Just give it time,” said Amber. “God will accomplish it.”
7
ROUND AND ROUND, round and round, water sloshing, suds swirling, a steady rhythm of gush, hiss, gush, hiss, gush, hiss. It wasn’t that boring a show, Norman Dillard thought, especially if you placed bets on which garment would flop against the glass on the next tumble, the red shirt or the pair of jeans. Sitting here in the laundromat was actually a welcome break. The motel had been so busy over the weekend that he and Mona had to take turns sleeping and eating to handle the flow of guests and the calls from those still coming. Mona was running the motel’s washing machines full time to handle the used linens from all—that’s right, all—ten rooms.
So here Norman sat, enjoying a little escape on a Monday morning, watching his and Mona’s clothes tumble round and round. As far back as he could remember, he’d never been squeezed out of his own washing machines. It was a nice problem to have.
And this time it’ll be the jeans—come on, baby, come on, let’s see those jeans—Yes! We have a winner!
He was thinking about the sightings, the pilgrims, the clouds, and the faces everywhere, all the craziness of it. It made him sigh and give his head a little wag. Why couldn’t it have been UFOs and ETs, some real sightings, and real contacts? That would have been exciting—and believable too. Religious stuff was hard to get excited about when he didn’t believe it.
Well, that doesn’t matter, he reminded himself. What matters is business.
The motel needed a whole new paint job, some upgrades on the plumbing, some rewiring. The sign out front needed several bulbs replaced. The grounds needed grooming, planting, and fertilizing.
The rooms—oh, those poor, pitiful rooms!—needed new wallpaper, carpets, fixtures, everything. All of this stuff was important if he was going to attract guests, but the bank saw no future for a motel in a town like Antioch, and there had never been enough guests to pay for the improvements so he could attract more guests.
But now things were different. People were coming to see Jesus in the clouds and in the hedges, and even in the mildew on the shower tiles.
Norman laughed, slapping his knee. As silly as it was, it was sweet, wonderful business. He’d waited a long time for this.
There went the jeans again, flopping past the glass, right past the face of Jesus.
Norman froze.
He couldn’t really be seeing this. He leaned forward, staring at the glass porthole on the front of the machine. The clothes and suds inside were still tumbling over and over, but the face remained on the glass, looking at him. He could see dark hair parted down the middle and falling almost to the shoulders; a beard; a white tunic. He’d seen pictures. He knew the standard configuration.
Hypnotic suggestion, he thought. All this talk around town is getting to me.
He leaned to the left, watching his own countenance move to the left and then pass in front of the Jesus-face, obscuring it. It was a reflection of something behind him!
He jumped up quickly and nearly knocked over his chair.
A man stood there, leaning on a row of toploading washers, smiling back at him. With his hair, his beard, and that loose-fitting, long-sleeved, open-necked white shirt, he was a dead ringer for— Norman got over his shock, and then he started laughing. “Ohhhh man! Oh man, that was good!”
The man laughed too, almost as loudly as Norman, showing a pearly white grin.
Norman felt he’d better explain. “You know what’s been going on around here, right?”
“Oh yeah.” The man nodded.
Norman pointed at the washing machine. “I was watching my laundry, and all of a sudden I see your face in the glass—” He burst out laughing again and could hardly finish the sentence. “And I thought, you know . . . hey, has anybody ever told you you look just like Jesus?”
“I’ve been told that.”
“Oh man, you had me going. You had me going!” He wiped tears from his eyes. “Wait’ll I tell Mona.”
The man wiggled his index finger in Norman’s direction. “Nice glasses.”
“Huh?”
“The glasses. Nice glasses.”
Norman sneered. “Yeah, for Boy Scouts starting fires. My eyes aren’t very good.”
“May I see them?”
Norman took them off and the world became a blur, the man by the washers a dark-topped smudge above a smudge of white. He extended the glasses, and saw the smudge reach out to take them. Their hands touched. There was a tingle.
Norman stumbled. “Oops!” He put out his hand to catch himself.
He blinked.
His hand was perfectly clear, as was the chair he was leaning on. Had he put his glasses on? He looked up. He could make out every detail of the man’s face, every hair of his beard, the depth of the dark brown eyes.
And the man who looked like Jesus was holding Norman’s glasses. “Can you see okay?”
Norman looked, and saw, and replied with wonder, “Yeah.”
“Good.” The man folded Norman’s glasses, set them on a washer, and turned for the door.
“Hey, wait. What did you do? How’d you do that?”
The man only looked back once, smiled, and gave Norman a little wave. Then he went out the door and was gone.
Norman blinked several times, then rubbed his eyes. What had happened? What was this? He looked up and could read the instructions on the washing machine. He could clearly make out the reverse-painted hours on the glass of the front door. What was the trick? He felt all over his face for some kind of device. Nothing.
He reached for his glasses, unfolded them, and put them on. The prescription was so strong and the image so distorted it made his eyes water. He took them off and the world was crystal clear again. Jesus, he thought, not swearing. Jesus.
He’d read the paper. He knew what the “angels” had been saying. Had it really happened? Was this a sighting like the others?
No. It was more than that. A lot more. If it had really happened.
He looked every direction, gawking at what he could see with no lenses before his eyes. The prices on the wall, the selections in the candy machine, the pattern of the linoleum. Old Mrs. Tobin came in, her same crabby self, and found his stare offensive. “What are you gawking at?”
“
You look beautiful!” he exclaimed.
“Yeah, well put your glasses on!”
He giggled with glee. “They are on! I mean, it’s like they’re on but they aren’t! I can see you! I can see everything! It’s a miracle, that’s what it is!”
She put out her hand. “Stay away from me.”
He ran to the door and burst out of the building. The whole, beautiful, clear-as-a-bell town of Antioch lay before him. He clasped his hands to the sides of his head, crazy with joy and amazement. He was staggering, stumbling, turning in every direction. He could read anything and everything. VCRs repaired. Main Street, 200. In loving memory of John Nathan Anderson, husband, father, and friend. No parking within twenty feet. Kiley’s Hardware. Hey! His friend, Matt Kiley! Matt had to see this! What am I talking about Matt seeing this! I’m the one who can see! This is incredible!
He ran across the street and burst through the door. “Matt! Matt, you won’t believe it! I can see! I can see!”
MATT WAS STANDING behind the counter, his hands resting gently on the cash register to steady himself. He was trembling, gasping in shock and disbelief, his eyes darting everywhere. A few feet away, his wheelchair stood empty.
Bev Parsons, an employee, came out of aisle two with a question. “Matt, we don’t have enough—” Her hand flew over her mouth.
Norman touched Matt’s shoulder. “You—you’re—” He stopped. “He was here, wasn’t he? You saw him.”
Matt just nodded. “Yeah. Yeah. A guy with long hair and a beard.”
Norman squealed, his face red with excitement. “It was Jesus!”
“Jesus . . .” Bev whispered in shock.
Matt scowled. “You’re crazy.”
“You’re standing! Get a clue!”
“I’m standing,” Matt admitted.
“You’re . . . standing.” Now Bev’s hand was over her heart.
“What’d he do, what’d he do?” Norman urged.
Matt lifted one hand from the counter. His legs were steady under him. He reached toward the shelves behind him, reenacting the event as he described it. “He came up here, and told me he wanted a screwdriver set—you know, these little jeweler’s screwdrivers—”
“Yeah? Yeah?”
“I said, ‘Go ahead and grab one and I’ll ring you up,’ and he said, ‘Grab ’em yourself,’ and then he poked me with his finger.”
Norman slapped the counter.
“And I did,” said Matt. “I wasn’t thinking, you know . . .” He was recovering from his shock. His voice was getting strong. He was beginning to believe it. “I stood up. I got up out of the wheelchair and I grabbed the screwdrivers!” By now he shouted it. “I grabbed the screwdrivers! I grabbed ’em!”
Norman shook Matt by both shoulders. “Look at me, Matt! You see any glasses? You see any? No glasses, Matt! I can see! I can see everything!” His eyes fell on a pen on the counter. “Pilot Precise V7 Fine Rolling Ball! See that? I can read it right where it is!” Then it occurred to him. “Where’d he go?”
Matt looked around. “I don’t know.” He looked at Bev. She just shook her head, still staring.
Norman was desperate. “Where’d he go? Which way?”
Matt shrugged. “I don’t know. He paid for the screwdrivers and he left.”
“Come on, we gotta find him!”
Matt looked at the floor stretched out so far below him.
“Come on, you can walk!”
Matt put his hand on the counter and extended his right foot. It came to rest a short step away. Yeah. Sure. He remembered what this felt like. He’d done it before. He could do it.
He did it. First another step, then another, then two more, and then he was walking, around the counter, out into the store, past the rakes and line trimmers, past the stacks of lawn fertilizer. By now he was jumping a little, flexing his knees. He danced a little jig and Norman went crazy.
They bolted out of the store, Norman reading every sign he saw, Matt hopping, skipping, turning circles, the two of them laughing like idiots.
They encountered a stranger and his wife. Both had cameras.
“Have you seen Jesus around?” Norman pleaded.
Their eyes got wide. “No,” said the man. “Have you seen him?”
Matt and Norman looked at each other. They started laughing and Matt started dancing. “Oooooh, have we!” said Norman.
AT THE FORDYCE HOME, Meg heard Sally answer the phone, gasp, squeal some unintelligible questions, gasp some more, and then run out the front door. It happened so suddenly and loudly that it scared Meg. She ran into the living room and found the receiver dangling off the table and the front door still open.
Something terrible must be happening, she thought. “Sally?” By the time she got to the front door, Sally was in the car and pulling out onto Highway 9, headed for Antioch. “Sally!”
A WILDFIRE HAD BEGUN in Antioch. The first spark ignited in the laundromat, then spread to Kiley’s Hardware and from there into the street. First two visitors heard, then four more, then three customers at Anderson’s Furniture and Appliance. Norman waved down a carload of visitors from Moses Lake and told them. Then the pilgrims at Our Lady’s heard about it, followed by the cloud watchers who presently had no clouds to watch. Pagers began beeping, phones began ringing, and up and down the street, through the storefronts, and back into the neighborhoods, the fire spread: He has been seen. Have you seen him? Where is he?
Brett Henchle got the call he’d been wanting ever since this weird stuff began. Jesus had shown up at Kiley’s Hardware, the caller said. Yeah, Brett thought. It’s him, the guy I’m looking for, my little angelic huckster. He switched on his siren and flashers and got over there.
From where Brett parked, Matt’s store looked like a stirred-up hornet’s nest. People in tight little clusters were squeezing past each other as they came and went through the front door. More were arriving from across the street, up the highway in both directions, and from the quiet neighborhood behind. And just as many were leaving, eager to fan out in all directions and spread the news, whatever it was. They were agitated, talking excitedly, creating a constant buzz in front of the building.
Brett got out of the car, nervously checked his handcuffs, and felt for his gun. Then he crossed the street. Those on the fringes greeted him, “Have you heard? Have you heard?”
“Everybody take it easy,” he cautioned, putting just enough edge in his voice to let them know there would be no unruliness today. “Excuse me, please,” he said, and worked his way through the door and into the store.
He’d never seen so many people in Matt’s store at one time, not even during the big Christmas Open House. The front of the store was packed, but no one was shopping. Some he knew, some were strangers. All were excited and chattering. Cameras were flashing, camcorders were blinking their little red lights. He could hear Sally Fordyce whining from somewhere in the crowd, “You don’t understand! He’s come here for me! We have an appointment!”
“He’s come here for all of us,” someone responded, and everyone wanted to know, Where is he?
“Let’s get organized and start searching,” one man suggested.
Finally, Brett could see Matt through the crowd, standing by the checkout counter, answering questions and looking wide-eyed. Hold on. Matt was standing?
“Brett, have you heard?” said Don Anderson.
Brett was staring at Matt when he replied, “Tell me.”
Jack McKinstry told him secondhand, then Norman told him almost secondhand, prefacing it with his firsthand account of what happened in the laundromat. When Brett finally made his way up to Matt Kiley, Matt saw him coming, stepped out from the counter, and did a little jig. The crowd went crazy.
Matt told Brett his story. He’d shared it countless times by now, but it hadn’t gotten old and he hadn’t gotten tired of it. Neither had the visitors pressing in close to hear it again.
As Brett listened, he almost felt foolish coming in here as a cop with handcuff
s and a gun. Just moments ago, he was on a case, hoping for a lead in catching the hitchhiking con man. Now, as he heard Matt Kiley’s account and saw him standing, even dancing, the hitchhiker’s words took on a whole new meaning. Brett remembered them clearly, and now had to steady himself against the counter as he muttered, “My God. . . .”
“Yes, exactly!” several responded.
By now Sally was crying. “You don’t understand . . . I need him. . . .”
JIM BAYLOR was an ex-marine in his forties with a crew cut he’d kept ever since boot camp and a low, growly voice befitting a former drill sergeant. He wasn’t a tall man, but he was built like a solid, immovable rock and had a personality to match. Right now he was a surveyor, but he’d been several other things over the years: draftsman, carpenter, mechanic, plumber, electrician, painter, oil well worker. His garage workshop was worth visiting because he still had every tool he’d ever used in all those trades. He could build a house with the carpentry tools that hung on the wall. He could fix any vehicle with the automotive tools and specialized gizmos he kept on the workbench and in a big red metal cabinet on wheels—things like a wheel puller, a spring compressor, and a spark plug wire puller. In case anyone in Antioch needed an oil well fixed, he still had adjustable wrenches big enough to turn a tree. If nothing else, he could tell you how long, wide, tall, or deep something was because he always carried a twenty-five-foot Stanley tape measure clipped to his belt.
Jim was a hunter who stuffed his own trophies and had a room full of them. He was a storyteller who could share his marine, hunting, building, plumbing, and Alaskan oil adventures for hours, never raising his voice but keeping you enthralled from beginning to end. He enjoyed his friends, liked to get involved in projects that helped others, and wasn’t much of a whiner. He was a reasonable, logical kind of guy.
And he was married to Dee Baylor.
As near as I can recall his account, he first met Dee when she was tending bar at a tavern near the marine base. She was as crusty and feisty as he was in those days and could hold her own in any stare-down or shouting match with any grunt or officer, she didn’t care. She won Jim’s heart by showing an interest in him to the exclusion of every other man who’d come through the place— something he took as a real compliment. He always liked her because, though he could scare most anyone else, he couldn’t scare her. They were right for each other.
The Visitation Page 11
