Michael the Prophet became the energy, if not the brains, behind a project to repaint the white line down the center of the highway through town. A local artist joined that crew and painted colorful heads of wheat at each intersection and rain clouds to mark the location of the fire hydrants. “Soon the multitudes will come,” Michael proclaimed as the rented line painter wheeled by, “and springs of water will burst forth upon the land!”
“NO, NO, my life isn’t different, it’s—it’s like it’s real, it’s a life. It’s like I’ve started living after being dead all my life. I just can’t believe it!” a young girl with green, braided hair told a television reporter. She was operating a forklift, placing trees in big planters along the street. “My life used to be such a mess, and now it’s, it’s like it’s just together, you know?”
“We were doin’ drugs,” said a big guy in a red tank top with blue-black tattoos on his arms. He looked at his two buddies installing the park bench near the new swing set in the newly mowed and weeded park with the new sign out front, CEPHUS MACON MEMORIAL PARK. “Yeah, all of us, we were in the drug scene big time, but that was a dead end.”
“And now you’re disciples of Brandon Nichols, is that right?” asked the newspaper reporter.
The man nodded. “It clicked, that’s all. Nichols knows.”
His two friends liked the sound of that. “Yeah, Nichols knows!” they yelled.
Armond Harrison didn’t look good in person and looked even worse on camera, but that didn’t stop him from waxing verbose when given the chance. “We are now coordinating with the local businesses to carry out a major renovation of Antioch’s historic district, hoping it will represent what we are as a people, a melting pot of different backgrounds, convictions, and ideals all living in harmony. This is, I believe, what Antioch stands for, and this is the ideal to which Brandon Nichols has lent his voice. At the core of our hearts, nothing is new here. But the time has come to bring our common vision into a tangible reality. We—” At this point, his lips kept moving but a reporter talked over him. Those who saw the news clip say his lips moved without sound at the beginning also, and the volume didn’t come up until he got to “—this is the ideal to which Brandon Nichols has lent his voice.”
Armond made it a point to get his people involved in the wave of goodness that swept over the town. Many of them were skilled craftspeople—masons, painters, dry-wallers, carpenters, concrete workers—and he wanted them seen as they turned out and pitched in, helping, joining, working hand in hand with the Nichols bunch. He never bothered to mention that he and his people were being paid for the work they did, meaning there was some hard practicality hidden behind all that benevolence. Few of his people asked probing questions, but all understood the money was coming from the direction of the Macon ranch.
Even Penny Adams, the girl with the healed hand, was moving into the realm of goodness. Out of the blue, she walked into Florence Tyler’s little clothing boutique and offered to vacuum and dust. Florence didn’t trust her, at least up until today, but things seemed so magically different in the town that she got caught up in it and gladly handed Penny a dust rag. Penny said nothing about what she expected to be paid. She just set to work, humming quietly to herself. Florence waited on customers, all of whom were buzzing about the changes happening in the town, and she marveled.
I WAS GLAD TO BE ON THE SIDELINES watching when the local ministers started to react to all this. Sid Maher was happy, neighborly, and neither for nor against it. Burton Eddy encouraged his congregation to join up, pitch in, and be a part of it, for this kind of unity, he said, was God’s purpose for all of us on earth. Bob Fisher felt no hesitation in questioning Brandon Nichols’s doctrine and intentions, but apart from that, he kept preaching according to the same format in the same order of service he’d always had at his church. His people, being warned, went ahead with a dessert auction and spaghetti social and hardly felt a bump. Father Vendetti encouraged his people to participate with anything that would be good for the town, but he reminded them that Our Lady also had its own charitable programs that should not be neglected.
Paul Daley was quite flustered when he talked to me about it. “I feel ambivalent,” he said. “Nichols and his people are doing good works and that’s good, but by joining him in doing good, we could be making his teachings and claims look good, which could be bad if Nichols himself proves to be bad, which means it could actually be bad for us to be doing all this good. But in not joining him to do good, we all look bad.” He shook his head. “Whew! He has us over a barrel, doesn’t he?”
AT THE END OF THE DAY, Florence Tyler was beginning to feel some ambivalence of her own. After Penny Adams had dusted, vacuumed, and left, Florence went to a dress rack to show a customer a cute flowery dress and discovered the dress was gone. She said nothing to the customer, but did take a look at the accessories rack, where she discovered a bracelet and necklace were also missing. The customer left without buying anything, and Florence, convinced she could have sold that flowery dress, began to imagine how right it would be for Penny’s healed hand to be crippled again.
IN THE BACK of the Antioch Harvester and Office Supply, Nancy Barrons was bent low over her desk, carefully checking some contact prints with a magnifier. Kim Staples, her assistant, reporter, photographer, and lab tech, stood nearby to hear Nancy’s verdict.
“I can’t believe how everything’s happening all at once,” Nancy commented, her face only inches from the photo sheet.
“I ran my legs off today,” Kim reported, “and I still didn’t get it all. I just got word there’s a roofing party going on over at Maude Henley’s.”
Nancy looked up from the prints. “You’re kidding.”
“I think it’s the same people who fixed up the flower beds in the park.”
“The Berkeley transplants?”
“Yeah.” Kim pointed to a sheet of prints and Nancy took a close look with her magnifier.
“Heh. Yeah. Kim . . .”
“Yeah?”
“Is that really that guy’s rear end sticking out?”
“Oh, did that get in the picture?”
“Man, with all this charity going around you’d think someone would give him a decent pair of pants. Oh brother.”
“What?”
“There’s Armond Harrison again.”
“He was there. What can I say?”
Nancy straightened up to scan all the contact sheets before her. “He was at the sandblasting in the ‘historical district,’ the painting of the Wheatland Motel, the placing of the trees on Main Street. . . .”
Kim pointed, “And he was there for the refilling of the white line painter.”
“How many Armond Harrisons are there?”
Kim gave a little shrug. “He likes to have his picture taken.”
Nancy gave an irritated huff. “We ought to be charging him for all the free PR.” She started circling her selections with a white marker. “Okay, let’s run this one of the sandblasting, and this one of the tree planting. Is there a picture of the park without Armond in it?”
Kim tapped on one.
Nancy circled it. “And then maybe you can get a shot of the roofing job at Maude Henley’s. But no Armonds and no rear ends!”
“You repeat yourself.”
Nancy laughed. “I wasn’t going to say it.” The bell over the front door jingled. “Ah, a customer.”
Kim took two steps into the store area and stopped dead in her tracks. “Oh . . .”
Nancy stood and looked around the room divider.
As soon as the customer walked closer and removed his baseball cap, she recognized Brandon Nichols.
“Hi,” he said.
Anyone else could have come through that door and Nancy would have felt relaxed and neighborly. The sight of Brandon Nichols made her feel instantly . . . objective. “Hello. What can I do for you?”
“I was wondering if you might have a few minutes?”
Nancy looked down at he
r desk. “Um . . . I guess so.” He approached her as if he would offer his hand. She nodded toward the chair. “Have a seat.” He veered to the chair, his hat in his hands. She sat at her desk and put on a business smile. “Well, I never expected to see you come in here.”
He smiled. “You look great.”
“Thank you,” she replied, taking it as flattery. She was wearing a loose knit blouse and jeans, something appropriate enough for the office, but not striking.
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “The reason I came is, first of all, to thank you for your fair and understanding treatment of everything we’ve been trying to do. Obviously, it’s easy to be misunderstood by the public at large and by the press, but I think your reporting on our efforts has been a credit to your paper and a good boost for the town.”
“It’s been interesting. Exciting. But do you mind if I ask you, where’s the money coming from to pay for all this labor and material?”
“Donations. A lot of the folks who’ve come to the ranch had money but no purpose in life. Now they have a vision to embrace, something worthwhile to invest in.”
“Which is?”
“Excuse me?”
“Why are you fixing up the town? What’s the purpose?”
He smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes. “Maybe it’s to get as close as we can to heaven on earth, a clean and lovely place for the spiritually seeking. And the work itself is a healing salve in people’s lives. It gives them the ability to create change with their own hands and resources. In today’s world that means a lot.”
“I suppose a cleaner, brighter town would enhance your marketability.” “It would be good for everyone.”
“Okay.”
“But . . .” He nervously rubbed his hands together. “What I said about the spirit of the town . . . that’s another reason I’m here. If I may, I’d like to speak up on Kyle Sherman’s behalf.” She made a curious face. “I know that he tends to be a little blunt—”
“A little?”
He chuckled and flipped his hands palms up. “Well, you know and I know . . .”
“We know.”
“But I didn’t come to Antioch to divide people. Mine is a mission of peace and brotherhood, and given time, I have hopes that Kyle Sherman and I can work things out.”
“That’s a lot of hope.”
He gave a little shrug. “Well. We have to start somewhere. I’ll go first.”
“So you didn’t care for my editorial?”
He slid his chair closer and lowered his voice a little. “It was brilliant, almost surgical in its precision. But it was cutting.”
“No pun intended?”
He laughed, gazing at her. “Oh, perhaps intended.”
She felt his eyes on her, but tried to quell the uncomfortable feelings that assaulted her. Of course he was looking at her. They were talking. “Um. . . I felt that Reverend Sherman was trying to bar you from the neighborhood on purely religious grounds, and from where I view history, that’s something we’ve seen too much of already.”
“Oh, I agree. It’s people that matter, not what they believe.”
“So are you Jesus Christ?”
He chuckled. “It depends on who you ask. People who wish to believe that may do so.”
“And if they don’t?”
“They just don’t.”
She leaned toward him. “I want to know who you are really.”
“Brandon Nichols, ranch hand from Missoula.”
“Who used to work at the Harmon ranch?”
There was the slightest pause before he answered, “That’s right.”
“I talked to the Harmons. They say you worked there for five years. Why’d you quit?”
“It was time to move on.”
“They never saw you do any miracles, either. What changed? First you’re in Missoula herding cattle and horses and the next thing anyone knows, you’re in Antioch acting like Jesus.”
He smiled knowingly. “At first, Jesus was a carpenter in Nazareth, and the next thing anyone knew, he was preaching in synagogues and turning water into wine.”
“Got any family anywhere?”
He slid his chair closer. “I can see we have a lot to talk about. We should get together for lunch sometime, or perhaps dinner at the ranch. I’d feel freer to discuss such things”—he reached out his hand—“if there weren’t other people around.”
She had a pencil in her hand. She held it out to intercept his hand gently. “Could you do me a favor? I’d like you to refrain from touching me.”
He withdrew his hand and leaned back in the chair. “Certainly.” “I’ve seen what happens when you touch people. Brett Henchle’s never been the same.”
He seemed pleased at her observation. “No, he certainly hasn’t, nor have the hundred or so others I’ve touched. But what I’ve done for individuals I want to do for the whole town. This town needs a special touch and I hope to provide that over the weeks and months ahead.”
“Where are you from originally?”
“You mean, before Missoula?”
“That’s right. Where were you born? Where’d you grow up?”
“It’ll cost you dinner with me.”
He was smiling at her, waiting for an answer. Something in his eyes chilled her.
She called, “Kim?” Kim looked up. “Let’s get a picture of Mr.
Nichols to go with our story.”
“Sure thing.” Kim reached for her camera.
Nichols was on his feet. “Not today.”
“C’mon,” Nancy prodded, “it’ll only take a second.”
“The dinner invitation is still open. Call me at the ranch.”
He turned and hurried through the store and out the door.
Kim stood with her camera, eyebrows high with surprise. “Wow.”
“Like Superman and kryptonite,” said Nancy.
“Was he . . . hitting on you?”
“Aw. . .” Nancy turned to her desk. “I could never prove it to anybody.”
Kim stood there, waiting.
“Yes, he was,” Nancy finally answered, and by now she was shuffling through papers and yellow post-it notes trying to find a phone number. Ah, there it was. Nevin Sorrel, Mrs. Macon’s lanky, former hired hand, had said he had something very serious to tell her about Brandon Nichols. At the time he called, Nancy wasn’t interested in gossipy stuff from a resentful semiliterate, but she was seeing things a little differently now.
AS FOR WHAT Morgan Elliott was thinking, I hadn’t heard—that is, until she called and asked to see me, which was the last thing I expected. I’d mostly been friends with her late husband, Gabe, and apart from the ministerial meetings, hadn’t seen much of Morgan after his death. Considering my reputation with the open-minded, liberal, and tolerant faction of the ministerial—and her apparent alignment with that camp—it seemed best to steer clear of her anyway.
Well, so much for that. What she wanted to see me about I had no idea, but I now had an official, three o’clock appointment with Pastor Elliott. I arrived promptly, parked in front of the Methodist church, and went through the big double doors. A lady in jeans was mopping the floor in the foyer and told me yes, the pastor was in her office, located at the front of the sanctuary, through a door just to the right of the chancel.
I’d forgotten how classy this old church was, and enjoyed my short walk down the center aisle. This was a building in the old tradition, dark stone on the outside, fancy woodwork and plaster on the inside, with a high, vaulted ceiling and stained glass windows. The pews were stout and hand-carved, the deep red cushions a later improvement. The original floorboards under the carpet had been squeaking in the same places for decades, and overhead were the black iron chandeliers that came by ship and rail from England in 1924—Gabe told me all about it.
The door to the pastor’s office was open and I could see Reverend Morgan Elliott seated at her desk in a dark suit, white blouse, and dark blue scarf. Her long, curly hair was pi
nned back today and she was working intently, her round glasses perched on the end of her nose. Feeling some anxiety, I knocked gently on the doorjamb. She looked up and smiled, and then she stood, extending her hand. “Hi. Please come in.”
I shook her hand and took the chair facing her desk. I had no idea how I should conduct myself: As a friend? A neighbor? A fellow professional? Maybe a condemned heretic. I’d just have to wait and see.
“So how in the world are you?” she asked, setting aside her work and then resting her chin on her fingers.
“Doing all right.” It was a comfortable, generic kind of answer. “How about yourself?”
She didn’t answer quickly, and her answer wasn’t comfortable for either of us. “I have some things I need to talk with you about.”
Uh-oh. I once had a vice principal who said exactly those words in exactly that tone of voice. Not knowing whether to expect a chat or a lecture, I ventured, “This is kind of unusual, you and I having a meeting.”
She shrugged one shoulder. “I’m taking a chance that I’ve read you correctly. If I had this meeting with anyone else, I’d get a party line, predictable answer or no answer at all. But you seem to be in a different place right now.”
“A different place?”
She cocked her head to one side and gave an apologetic smile. “You faced down Armond Harrison in front of the whole ministerial. You organized a picket protest outside the theater when they showed an X-rated movie. You led a March for Jesus down the highway through town. You were pastoring Antioch Pentecostal Mission long before Gabe and I got here, and we always knew what to expect from you.”
I caught her point. “Things have changed a little.”
“I’m guessing you’re on the outside. Things have to look different from out there. Do they?”
I stared at her, off-balance.
“Do they?” she asked again.
I knew the answer, but I was dumbfounded to hear Morgan Elliott asking the question. “Yes. They do. Things look a lot different. Not always in focus, but definitely different.”
“Then maybe we can compare notes. Things are starting to look different to me too, and I’m not sure what to do about it.” She looked at the ceiling and squinted as if seeing something in the distance. “I have this picture in my mind. I’m eighteen, getting ready to leave home, and I’m standing out in the yard in front of my parents’ house in San Jose. I’ve got clothes in a big duffel bag and a guitar in one of those cheap cardboard cases, and I’m leaving, heading out on my own. But I’m looking back toward the front door, and my folks and my brother and sister are standing there, calling to me, beckoning, telling me to come back inside. ‘You don’t belong out there, come back inside, you need to stay here.’” She stopped abruptly and asked, “Does any of this sound familiar?”
The Visitation Page 21
