The Visitation

by Frank Peretti

  My finger stopped on a promising possibility: The Nechville Church of the True Gospel.

  “Good morning and praise God,” said the cheerful male voice. “True Gospel.”

  “Hi. What time is your service this morning?”

  “Sunday school’s at nine forty-five and morning worship’s at eleven.”

  “Is Pastor Cantwell preaching?”

  “Oh, absolutely. You can’t hold him back. Think you can join us?” “I’ll be there.”

  “Well you’re gonna hear the truth. That’s what we’re all about. And your name is?”

  I said “Thanks a lot” cheerfully and hung up. They’d picked the right guy to answer the phone. If I were them, I sure wouldn’t want the pastor doing it.

  I checked my watch. It was just before ten, so I had an hour. I asked the man at the cash register how I might find the church and he drew me a map. Then I returned to my car and drove through town in no particular hurry. I didn’t want to attend Sunday school because I’d be sitting in the adult Sunday school class where I’d have to introduce myself to everyone else, and most likely Reverend Cantwell would be teaching. I wanted a chance to get a feel for the place first. Now I’d be the timid visitor sitting in the back.

  What happened next had to be the gentle, guiding hand of God. I was driving by a quaint, wide-porched home on Main Street and spotted a sign in the yard: H. K. Sullivan, M.D. I got a hunch, I felt in my spirit that I should stop, and so I did.

  Parked across the street, I took a moment to rethink it. I didn’t know how many doctors were in this town, probably not many. Whenever and however Justin Cantwell got those scars on his arms, this doctor might know about it, or perhaps know the doctor who did. There was a car in the driveway. I thought I saw someone in the backyard. It couldn’t hurt to knock on the door and ask.

  DR. HOWARD SULLIVAN was in his seventies, dressed in work jeans and a tee shirt advertising Imodium A–D. He sat beside Mrs. Sullivan on their couch while I sat opposite them, waiting for the doctor’s verdict on the photographs I’d handed him.

  “So now he’s claiming to be Jesus,” he muttered.

  “He’s allowing people to believe and say that about him,” I qualified.

  The doctor laid the photos out side by side on the coffee table, studying them. His wife held his arm, her eyes troubled.

  “There’s a whole lot I could tell you about him, but I can’t.”

  I closed my eyes and sighed in disappointment and frustration. Don’t be rude, I reprimanded myself. “You do understand my situation?”

  He nodded. “I sure do. More than you think. And I want to help you, but I can’t tell you anything without the Cantwells’ consent. That’s just the way I do things.”

  “Is his name Justin Cantwell?”

  The doctor nodded. “I can tell you that. Yes.”

  “Was he ever a patient of yours?”

  The doctor nodded again but said nothing.

  “Did you treat the wounds in his forearms?”

  I didn’t get a response. Mrs. Sullivan pulled her husband’s arm and said, “I don’t think you’d better go any further.”

  “I did,” said the doctor.

  “Honey, now that’s all!” she warned him, and then she told me, “This is a small, close-knit little town and we watch out for our neighbors. If we violated any trust, we wouldn’t survive here.”

  “Talk to the Cantwells,” said the doctor, picking up the photos and handing them to me. “Please. I want to help you. I want to bring this whole sad story to a close.”

  “They’ll be in church pretty soon,” said Mrs. Sullivan, looking at the mantel clock. “That would be a good place to meet them.”

  “He’d have to behave himself in front of his congregation.”

  She jabbed him. “Honey!” Then she told me, “You may not get far with Pastor Cantwell, but I think Mrs. Cantwell will be sympathetic. Work on her if you can.”

  “All I need is their consent. I need to hear from them that I can talk to you.”

  “It’s the Church of the True Gospel, is that right?”

  “Over on Dunbar Street, two blocks down, turn left, three blocks on the right.”

  IT WAS AN OLD BRICK BUILDING with thick concrete steps and a blue neon “JESUS SAVES” sign bolted to the top of the facade. Worshipers were gathering, moving from the gravel parking lot, approaching from either direction on the sidewalk, dressed in their Sunday best, toting their Bibles. It might mean different things to different folks in different parts of the country, but, for these people in this part of the country, they looked very religious.

  I was parked across the street. I checked my tie in the rearview mirror—it was black; very safe. I ran a comb through my hair— recently cut, with ears and collar uncovered. I’d already given my face a once-over with a small travel razor. I had a suit coat ready on a hanger and a good-sized Bible on the seat. Hopefully, I would look righteous enough not to disturb anyone.

  I stepped out of my car, slipped into my suit coat, straightened and adjusted everything, and crossed the street, returning whatever smile or greeting came my way. The piano and organ were already playing the prelude. I followed the other folks up the front steps. Passing through the door, I noticed a yardstick tacked to the doorpost for measuring the height of hemlines. I’d heard about that practice, but this was the first time I had actually seen it.

  Being a Pentecostal, I gravitate toward the livelier kind of worship. I’m not a dancer, jumper, or roller, but I like a good tune, a catchy rhythm, and lyrics that express how I feel about my Savior. This church had them. The worship was great—a little protracted and repetitious for my taste, but nobody else seemed to mind, so neither did I. The young fellow leading worship did plenty of jumping, and when he spoke I recognized the cheerful voice I’d heard on the telephone.

  But I wasn’t prepared for the pastor, the haggard, graying wraith sitting in a wheelchair on the platform. He clutched a huge Bible in blue-veined, seemingly palsied hands and glared at everyone. Sure, he smiled frequently, raised his hands in praise, sang the songs, and shouted Hallelujah, but his eyes never lost that steely glare and he never lost that weird hunch either, like a buzzard perched in a dead snag waiting for his next meal to die. This was Reverend Ernest Cantwell? This was Justin’s daddy? I had food for thought already.

  They went through announcements and some testimonies, and then it was the reverend’s turn to preach. When he raised his arms to grip and propel his chair wheels, I saw that big buzzard again, ruffling his wings, ready to fly. He wheeled up to a specially made, lowered pulpit, set his big Bible on it, and then gaffed our attention with those eyes.

  “I would that you were either cold or hot,” he began, and I recognized the voice I heard on the telephone, a coarse, ragged, booming voice you didn’t trifle with, slurring the words. “But since you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will spew you out of my mouth!”

  “Amen,” they said. “That’s right.”

  “The axe is already laid to the roots, and every plant that does not bear fruit will be cut down and thrown into the fire!”

  “Save us, Lord! Amen.”

  “I looked throughout the nation for a righteous man, and I found none! There was none righteous, no, not one, and my anger was kindled against my people and it repented me that I had made them and set them on a hill, but woe to them, for now that hill will be brought low!”

  “Amen!”

  “So come out, my people! Come out from among them and be ye separate, for great is their destruction, and their destruction is nigh at hand, and the smoke of their destruction shall go up like the smoke of a furnace forever and ever!”

  The locomotive started rolling, leaving the station, gaining speed . . .

  “Our nation is ripe for judgment!”

  “Amen!”

  “Our towns and our cities are ripe for judgment!”

  “Amen!”

  “The church is ripe for judgment!”

/>   “Yes!”

  “And you are ripe for judgment!”

  “Amen! That’s right!”

  “Did you hear me? I said you are ripe for judgment!”

  “Lord save us!”

  “You are ripe for judgment!”

  “Amen!”

  “I said YOU are ripe for judgment!”

  With a steady, pounding cadence he went down the universal list of vices, added a few of his own—sports on Sunday and cable TV—and condemned them all. He warned the President, he warned Congress, he warned Hollywood, and he warned the game shows and soap operas. He dealt in depth with the horrible things God had planned for sinners like us and told us he’d learned how hot hell was—at least ten times the heat of a nuclear blast, the difference being, it lasts and lasts. With help from the song leader he took off his suit coat and then wiped the sweat from his brow. He kept going, hot and heavy, wheeling from one side of the platform to the other, his weak and faulty arms swatting invisible bees, his voice bouncing off the walls.

  For forty minutes he scared the bejeebers out of us, and when our terror of God and judgment had reached just the right level, he brought Jesus into it, rolling along at such a clip that “Jesus” was “Jesus-uh” and “judgment” was “judgment-uh.” The place was rocking with the rhythm of his words: He’d say it, we’d answer; he gave it, we took it; he shouted, we praised; back and forth, back and forth, yea and Amen. Finally, he gave the invitation and folks began moving to the altar to pray as Sister Cantwell, white-haired and serene, softly played “Almost Persuaded” on the organ.

  So this was Sister Lois Cantwell. I had to wonder about her. She seemed so gentle, so small, such a contrast to the fiery, rough-hewn reverend. She was dark-skinned too, probably of Hispanic or Native American descent. Recalling Mrs. Sullivan’s advice, I thought I might approach her first.

  I got my chance as the service ended and the refreshed and rededicated saints filed out. “Sister Cantwell?”

  She was still seated at the organ, just saying good-bye to a sister in the Lord. She extended her hand. “Hello. And you are?”

  “Travis Jordan. I was wondering if I might have a word with you and your husband?” I dropped a hint. “I’m from Antioch, Washington.” That didn’t faze her. “My, you’re far from home, aren’t you?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “So what brings you here?”

  I braced myself, lowered my voice, and said, “Justin Cantwell.”

  That did faze her. She placed her hand over her heart and I thought she’d stopped breathing. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Travis Jordan,” I repeated. “I’m a schoolteacher from Antioch, Washington. I was also a minister in the Pentecostal Mission church for over fifteen years.”

  “Have you seen my son?” she nearly whispered.

  “Yes, I have. He’s in Antioch. We’ve visited on many occasions.”

  She was obviously starving for news, any news. “Is he all right? What’s he doing?”

  “Hello!” With a booming, gravelly, slurred voice, the reverend rolled up. “Ernest Cantwell!” He offered his bent, half-limp hand.

  “And who might you be?”

  “Travis Jordan,” I said, knowing his toothy smile was going to vanish the moment I said more.

  Sister Cantwell said it first. “He knows our son.” The reverend seemed perplexed. She further clarified, “Justin.”

  The smile vanished and that glare intensified. “So what are you doing here?”

  With my eyes I indicated that other people were still around.

  “Is there someplace we could talk privately?”

  “What about?”

  “About Justin,” his wife whispered with a plea in her voice.

  “Conway!” the reverend hollered, and a man near the door immediately turned our way. He was big and had those cold, animal eyes required of any good tavern bouncer. Oh brother, I thought, I’m going to get thrown out of here.

  “Ernest . . .” Sister Cantwell pleaded.

  Reverend Cantwell spun his chair around and started wheeling toward the center aisle, zigzagging between folks visiting and praying. “Conway, open up the office. We have to meet with this, this, whatever he is.”

  I stood there. Sister Cantwell gave me a gentle touch on the arm, prodding me. “Please.”

  I weaved past the petitioning saints and down the center aisle with Sister Cantwell right behind me and Conway the bouncer dead ahead. He had opened a door on the left side of the foyer and now stood there while the reverend wheeled inside. I followed the reverend, and the reverend’s wife followed me.

  We were in the pastor’s office. He wheeled himself behind his desk and hollered to Conway from there, “You want to hang around, Conway? I might need you.”

  Conway nodded a slow, insider’s kind of smile, and closed the office door as a sheriff would close a jail cell.

  “Have a seat,” said Cantwell.

  His wife already occupied one of the two available chairs. I planted myself in the other, my Bible and valise in my lap.

  The reverend glared at me a moment, then at his wife, then snapped at me with a flicker of his hand, “So, speak!”

  I reached into my valise and pulled out the photos and news clippings again. This was getting to be a routine. I passed the photos to Mrs. Cantwell, explaining who I was, where I was from, and what was going on up there—and how a young man had come to town acting like some kind of new, improved messiah. At first sight of the photos, Mrs. Cantwell gasped, her hand over her mouth. Tears filled her eyes.

  “Conway!” the reverend yelled, and the door burst open. Conway looked ready to pummel me. “I want to see these pictures!”

  Conway walked right in front of me, grabbed the pictures from Mrs. Cantwell, and handed them over to the reverend.

  “Stick around,” the reverend ordered, and Conway took his place against the door like an obedient, 280-pound Doberman. Cantwell studied the photos one at a time, his hands inept and fumbling. Then he threw them spitefully on his desk. “So what?”

  My eyes drifted to a picture on the bookshelf: Reverend and Mrs. Cantwell in their earlier years. Reverend Cantwell was standing.

  Cantwell didn’t appreciate my looking at it. He reached over and tried to grab it, fumbling the picture frame so that it fell face down with a loud smack. The cuff of his shirt sleeve was unbuttoned. I saw a jagged scar on his forearm, but looked away before he knew it. Conway stepped in and positioned the picture safely on the shelf, face down.

  “Is this man your son?” I asked, indicating the photos.

  “Our son is dead.”

  Mrs. Cantwell groaned in anguish. “Ernest, don’t say that!”

  He only reaffirmed it. “Justin is dead as far as I’m concerned. He’s dead to this house, dead to this church, dead to this town. We don’t want to see him again.” He used both hands to gather up the pictures. “And we don’t appreciate your bringing him back!” He handed the photos to Conway, who handed them back to me.

  “Sir, I’m not so sure I want him in my town either. I’m not here to defend him or meddle with the past—”

  “Then don’t!”

  Mrs. Cantwell pleaded, “Ernest—”

  He pointed a jagged finger at her. “And you be still! I’ve said all I’m going to say about this.

  Conway, show this man to the door!” Conway opened the office door and, valuing my life, I took my cue. I packed up my photos and clippings and got out of there. I could hear Mrs. Cantwell sobbing as I left, and her husband barking at her, “Stop that! Just stop that right now! He’s dead! He’s dead!

  ” Conway not only showed me to the door, he accompanied me clear across the street to my car. I scanned the surrounding street and sidewalks. Some people were still around, meaning there would be witnesses if this guy clobbered me. Unfortunately, they seemed to be making it a point not to look in our direction. We reached the car and I pulled the keys from my coat pocket.

  “Uh, listen, Co
nway, I’m not trying to stir up trouble. I have trouble and I’m trying to get some help. If you know anything—”

  “Let me give you some advice.” These were the first words I’d heard Conway speak. “Go home and take care of your own problems, and don’t bring ’em back here again.” He lowered his voice but didn’t sound any kinder. “Justin Cantwell is pure poison. That’s all you need to know. I ran him in several times and I never saw anybody come closer to being the devil than that kid.”

  “You ran him in?”

  “I’m the cop around here.”

  “Oh.” That did not make me feel safer.

  “He’s probably told you some really juicy tales about us, but he’s a liar. He’ll lie to you like you wouldn’t believe. Everything he says is a lie.”

  I thought of the scars on Cantwell’s arms and asked, “How did Pastor Cantwell end up in a wheelchair?”

  “Car wreck, six years ago.” He jerked his thumb toward my car door. I unlocked the door and climbed in. Conway held the door open so he could deliver his final message. “Get out of town, Mr. Jordan. Get out fast, and don’t come back, you got it?”

  I nodded and started my engine. “Got it.”

  So ended my visit to the Nechville Church of the True Gospel.

  BUT MY VISIT to the town of Nechville was not about to end so abruptly. Morgan, Kyle, and I had assumed I would actually be able to talk with someone and would need the time, so we included one night’s stay at a motel in the budget. I’d flown all night and driven all morning and I was tired. I was going to spend that money. I found a little motel at the far end of town and got a room. It was cheap but it was clean, and the bed was more than adequate for a man whose eyes were burning for sleep and whose heart was pained with frustration.

  I lay there on top of the bedspread, my wrist on my forehead, my eyes closed. The glaring expression and harsh voice of Reverend Cantwell kept replaying in my mind, as well as the tears and timid pleadings of Justin Cantwell’s mother. If “Justin Cantwell” was the question, the answer was sealed behind her tears and her husband’s defiance. I saw in her a mother mourning for a wayward son; I saw in him a dog growling, barking, and lathering from inside a parked car.