The Visitation

by Frank Peretti

  “But your smile does mean you’re pleased at this moment.”

  I nodded.

  “Just wanted to deepen my own understanding, of course, in case someone should ask me what I’m understanding these days.” “Of course.”

  Such conversations didn’t happen every day, and they never seemed planned, at least by me. Brother Smith and I would pass each other on campus, a perfectly normal thing to do, and sometimes he just happened to be a trifle more chatty. Once we passed each other in the chapel foyer and he asked me my opinion of the shrubs by the front steps. “Think they ought to be pruned back?”

  I looked through the window and saw shrubs, most of them bare this time of year. “Well, pruning never hurts.”

  “That reminds me: Loren Bullard has a friend thinking of getting a haircut. Loren thinks it would be a great idea, but the friend thought a second opinion might be helpful. Did I say something funny?”

  I wiped the smile off my face, but it came right back. “They want my opinion?”

  He shrugged and looked away as if totally uninterested. “The friend wants your opinion—but that’s just my understanding.”

  I thought it over. “I think Loren should get used to his friend having longer hair.”

  He nodded. “I think the shrubs could be pruned back, though.”

  I looked at them again. “Sure. The shrubs could be.”

  ONE SATURDAY NIGHT in December, I came so close. Chapel had ended, and I was sitting near the back because Marian and her friends usually sat near the front. The altars were filled that night, but as the hour grew late, the crowd dwindled to two guys and one girl praying separately, and the trio praying in their usual spot on the right side. I watched and listened as Chris and Julie just kept hammering away in tongues, their hands on Marian’s shoulders. It could have been an exact repeat of so many other occasions, except that this time, sooner than I expected, Julie and Chris called it quits, gave Marian a little hug, and left her there alone.

  Then it was just two guys praying, me sitting near the back, and Marian weeping at the altar. Alone.

  Sister Dudley had to be watching. I looked around the chapel and saw no one else, but those grim, narrow eyes had to be somewhere. If God wasn’t watching, she was.

  I sat glued to the pew as Marian wiped her eyes, stood up, and started for the door. I didn’t wave to her or make a sound. I even slouched a little as if trying to hide.

  Obedience. The word pounded in my mind. To obey is better than sacrifice.

  Rebellion. I could feel the pang of guilt turning my insides. Rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft.

  Submission.

  Authority.

  Sister Dudley.

  I sat there until Marian was gone. Now it was just one guy praying and me sitting near the back, and Sister Dudley watching even if God wasn’t.

  And I bawled like a baby, my forehead resting on the back of the pew in front of me.

  ON DECEMBER 22, at three forty-five in the afternoon, I held my pen high above my paper, began to hum the Hallelujah Chorus, and brought the pen down in slow-motion to place a period on the last sentence of my last final exam for the fall quarter. For me, the quarter was over. I had mail to pick up and some packing to do before going home for Christmas, but somewhere, sometime in the middle of all that, I absolutely had to see Brother Smith.

  I hurried to the front of the classroom, set my exam on the prof’s desk, told her Merry Christmas, and got out of there.

  Brother Smith was waiting in the hall outside, still in his coat and scarf.

  I hesitated. Was he really waiting there for me? I smiled, said hi, got into my coat, and just about walked on.

  He wiggled his finger at me, beckoning.

  My pulse quickened though I tried to act cool and collected. “Yes sir?”

  He gave me a gentle shove on the shoulder, leading me toward the door. “The quarter’s over, son. Now listen, things are happening quickly and we’re going to be cutting it close. Did you hear about Loren and Marian?”

  Oh no. I braced myself. “No sir.”

  We pushed our way out the door and into the cold December afternoon.

  “Their relationship is a thing of the past. It was over a long time ago.” He had to nudge me. “Keep walking.”

  “It’s over? You mean they broke up?”

  He sneered and rolled his eyes. “There was no enduring relationship in the first place. The appearance was there, but listen, I’ve watched students match up for years and I knew they were heading opposite directions.” He snickered. “And him losing the contest to you and Marian didn’t help.”

  “Well why didn’t you tell me?”

  “I couldn’t burden you with it. You would have violated probation and you know it.”

  Suddenly I felt scared. “Oh brother. Now what do I do?”

  “You listen real careful, that’s what you do.” We hurried down the brick walkway from the chapel, watching for ice, the bare, black branches of the maples overshadowing us. It seemed so still and deserted now. At least half the student body had finished the quarter already and evacuated the place. “Marian’s out of the trio too. They asked her to quit.”

  “What?”

  “Sister Dudley wouldn’t divulge the details—”

  “Sister Dudley!”

  “—but it’s my understanding that there’s something amiss in Marian’s life, something she refuses to deal with. Julie and Chris felt it best to let her go.”

  “You didn’t tell me that either!”

  “Same reason. But I’ve got one more item for you.”

  I cringed as I said, “Okay.”

  “She’s leaving West Bethel. She won’t be back.”

  “She won’t— ”

  He nudged me again. “Can’t you think and walk at the same time?”

  “What happened?”

  “I don’t know, but I’m not sure she’s making the right decision. She’s hurt, fed up, devastated, whatever. That’s why you need to talk to her, and that’s why I came and got you.”

  “Where is she?”

  “I saw her packing her car in the parking lot out in front of the women’s dorm.”

  I was getting nervous. My hands were shaking. “Man . . . I haven’t talked to her in months.”

  We were coming to the women’s dorm at that very moment. The parking lot was just on the other side. “Well, take my advice:

  Skip talking about the weather.”

  “Brother Smith.” I stopped walking again. This time he stopped instead of nudging me. “Do you think she loves me?”

  He pointed toward the parking lot. “The quarter’s over. Why don’t you ask her?”

  He remained where he was. I ran down the walkway and around the D. R. Smedley Residence Hall. There were a few cars left in the parking lot and I immediately recognized Marian’s blue VW fastback. The back was open, there were suitcases and clothing inside. I planted myself by that car and waited.

  When she came out, she was dressed in a blue ski jacket, a crocheted blue stocking cap . . . and a pair of jeans. She was carrying only a small, overnight case, her last item. I was hoping she would be glad to see me, but the smile she gave me was brief, and strangely guarded. As she walked to her car, her eyes seldom left the pavement.

  “Hi.” She tossed the small case into the back of the car and closed the rear door. Then she shook my hand. “Long time no see.”

  “Up close, anyway.”

  She looked down again. “Yeah.”

  “I heard you were leaving. I mean, leaving for good.”

  There it was again, that strange, evasive fidgeting. She looked around, looked back at the dorm, anywhere but at me, and said, “Things haven’t worked out.”

  “I’m real sorry.”

  She looked at me again, probably thinking the subject had closed. “So am I. I guess I’ll go home for a while, get a job, just wait and see what the Lord wants me to do.”

  Now I started to fidget. “Think
we could take a walk?” She hesitated. “Just a short one?” She still wouldn’t answer. “Hey, after this, it’s good-bye, you know? We may not get another chance.”

  She thought for a moment, and then joined me. We headed for the lower end of the campus where the big maples formed a majestic canopy over the groomed lawn and park benches. The wooden benches were cold and deserted. Red leaves that had fallen after the caretaker’s last raking lay scattered on the grass.

  “So, I hear you and Loren have parted company,” I said, afraid as I spoke each word.

  “We’re still friends.”

  “That’s good.”

  Then we walked in silence. It became clear that I would have to carry this conversation. “Listen, for whatever it’s worth . . .” Brother. Was there no subject I could start easily? “I know you’ve been having some kind of difficulty. I mean, I heard you were asked to leave the trio, and I saw the three of you praying after chapel . . .” She just looked away. “But I want you to know, that means nothing to me. I don’t care. I mean, I still love you and I accept you and you’re still my friend, okay?”

  She sniffed a little chuckle. “Chris and Julie told me the same thing.”

  What was I to say to that? I groped for words. I sighed. I got frustrated. Finally I came up with, “Well I’m not them.”

  She didn’t seem overjoyed, but at least she looked at me. “Travis, you don’t know anything about it.”

  “I don’t have to.” We came to a bench. It was dry enough. “Could we just sit down a moment?”

  She sat. I couldn’t. I was too nervous. “Marian, I just, uh, I just want to give you something to take with you when you go, I mean, for whatever it’s worth. I mean, this is it, the last time we’ll see each other, and, well, I just . . .” She was looking at the ground and only occasionally looking at me. “I just want to say that, I’ve had some time to really think about things, and I’ve decided—I mean, I know what’s important to me, more than anything else.” I had to push myself to get it out. I counted the items, all two of them, on my fingers, my hands only inches from her nose. “Serving the Lord wherever he might send me . . .” I couldn’t get to the second one. I was choking up. My voice was quaking as I finished. “And having you with me. Always.”

  Her lip quivered. She broke down. “Please don’t.”

  “No, I mean it.”

  She shook her head. “Please don’t say any more.”

  “I have to. I’ll hate myself forever if I don’t.”

  “I can’t . . .”

  Well, I was going down in flames anyway. “Then just let me say it so I’ll get it said. You can say no, you can walk away, you can go back home and find God’s will for you, whatever it is, but at least I gave it a shot. Okay?” She didn’t answer. I didn’t wait for an answer. I fell to one knee, right there by the bench, right next to that beautiful blue-jeaned girl, and took her hand. It was trembling and one of her tears fell on my thumb. “Marian, I love you.” Now my voice fell all apart again. I kept going. “I love you and I believe God brought us together. Ever since that time we first met you’ve been my girl, my dream, the only one I’ve ever wanted.” I took a breath, but I did it quickly. “Marian, if you’ll have me, I’d like for you to be my wife.” I was still holding her hand. She didn’t say anything. “I, I know we haven’t talked about it before this, but—”

  Her hand squeezed mine. Her eyes were streaming with tears. “I’d like to.”

  I felt she might give a reason why she couldn’t. I was ready for anything: she wasn’t a virgin, she couldn’t have kids, she already had kids, she was wanted for murder in six states. I didn’t care.

  “Travis, I can’t be the kind of wife you need. I’m just not right with God.”

  But I knew the love I had for her was from the very heart of God in the first place. It was so overwhelming, so rich and sweet.

  I could love this woman as God loved, without qualification, without requirement. I spoke gently, imploringly. “Tell me.”

  She whimpered, shook her head, and finally confessed, “I can’t speak in tongues!” And then she let go all her pain, sobbing, her hands over her face. “I don’t know what it is. Maybe I wasn’t being honest with Loren. I thought I loved him, but I was always thinking of you! I didn’t mean it! I love the Lord and I never wanted to grieve him. . . .”

  I went slightly limp. After all the buildup, all the suspense, this was the problem? “Is . . . is that it? Is that what’s wrong?”

  She didn’t want to look at me. “Sister Dudley prayed for me, and Julie and Chris and all the girls in the dorm, and I just can’t get prayed for anymore. I just can’t go through that again.”

  I pulled a handkerchief from my pocket. Thank God, it was brand-new, never used. I gently dabbed her eyes and cheeks and even wiped the tears from our clenched hands.

  Then I kissed her, right on the lips.

  And she kissed me back! A wishful kiss, laden with sorrow that there could never be another.

  I cradled her face in both my hands and looked in her tear-filled eyes. “Marry me. I want you, Marian. I want you to be my wife!”

  SPLASH! Ben told me it was coming and when. We rented a wetsuit and I wore it under my clothes. I pretended to be none the wiser as I walked out of the dorm and into the middle of a laughing, roaring mob. I never thought I’d feel so glad to be carried by all those arms. I never thought I’d rejoice to be thrown into the pond in the middle of January.

  But when I came up out of that water and heard the cheers of my friends from the banks all around me, I felt I’d been baptized all over again. I could look up and see heaven, and God was smiling.

  15

  MRS. MACON wasn’t at all happy to see her former hired hand at her door. It was Monday morning, she was tired and cranky, and Nevin Sorrel could only mean trouble. “What do you want?”

  He held his hat in his hands and looked altogether contrite. “I don’t want no trouble at all, Mrs. Macon, no trouble at all. I was just thinking that maybe, you know, since things are bustling so much around here, you could use an extra hand.”

  She began to close the door. “We’re fine.”

  He leaned forward in earnest. “How about Brandon—I mean, Mr. Nichols? There’s work going on everywhere around town. There must be something I could do—and by the way, I apologize for any trouble I’ve caused. It won’t happen again.”

  Then a voice came from inside the house. “Mrs. Macon, would that be Nevin Sorrel?”

  Nevin hollered through the open door, “Yes it is, Mr. Nichols! I’m here to offer my services!”

  Brandon Nichols appeared, looking freshly showered. He studied the lanky cowboy a moment, then asked, “Who’s the boss around here, Nevin?”

  “You are, sir. No question about it.”

  “You know how to run a backhoe?”

  Nevin grinned and nodded. “Been running that very machine for years.”

  “We’re developing a spring up in the willow draw. I have plans drawn up but I need someone to do the excavation, lay the pipe, haul the gravel. . . .”

  “I’ve done all of that!”

  “It’ll pay twelve bucks an hour.”

  “I’ll take it!”

  “And you live here on the place.”

  Mrs. Macon balked at that. “What?”

  Nichols told her, “He can have that trailer the Pearsons donated. We’ll park it out back of my place.” Then he told Nevin, “I want you around where I can keep an eye on you. No more goofing off.”

  “No sir, not one bit.”

  “No hanging out at the tavern and getting into fights.”

  “No.”

  “You’re the kid now, and I’m your old man. Got that?”

  “I’ll try to be worthy of your trust, Mr. Nichols.”

  Brandon Nichols looked him up and down and reached a decision. “Okay. Start today. Make me proud of you.”

  I PULLED UP in front of the little brick police station on the main highway. Bret
t Henchle’s squad car was still parked in front so I figured I’d find him inside. I rattled off the days in my mind as I pushed through the front door: Thursday I found the car . . . Friday, Saturday, Sunday . . . well, maybe he had time to do some checking on Friday or this morning.

  He was seated at his desk behind the counter, going over some paperwork. A cup of coffee sat on his desk, steaming and looking desirable. “Hey Travis, how’s it going?”

  “Oh, fine. How’s the leg?”

  The question seemed to embarrass him. “It’s okay.”

  “Any information on that car in the river?”

  He shook his head. “A dead end. We’ll probably just impound it and scrap it.”

  I could tell he didn’t want to get into it. That didn’t matter to me. I did. “You didn’t find out anything? Even with a license number, a make, a model?”

  “The car was probably stolen and ditched in the river. We can’t find the owner, we can’t find the suspect. End of story.”

  “So who is this owner you can’t find?”

  Now he was irritated. He reached for a file folder on the corner of his desk and opened it. “Somebody named Herb Johnson. He used to work for a wrecking yard in Missoula but he quit. He used to live in an apartment in Missoula but he moved. There’s no forwarding address.”

  He closed the folder and tossed it on the corner of his desk again, his way of saying he’d answered all my questions.

  “May I see it?” I said, indicating the folder.

  He wrinkled his brow at me. “Travis, just what are you fishing for?”

  “I’m—”

  “Just what do you think you’re going to do that I haven’t?”

  I didn’t want to offend him. “Just curious, that’s all.”

  “Well the case is still pending so it’s confidential.”

  “I thought the case was closed and you were going to scrap the car.”

  He leaned back and clasped his hands behind his head. “That’s right. Soon as we pull it out of the river I’ll button up the case and you can read to your heart’s delight.” I was looking at him funny. “What?”

  “The car’s gone.”

  That was obviously news to him. “What do you mean, it’s gone?”