Songbird

by Lisa Samson

  I said, “Please take it, Grace. You know we’ll take good care of Leo. Are you relying on God for help now?”

  “I’m trying. It all still embarrasses me, to tell you the truth.”

  Outside the street below me lies cold and gray. Washington in February can be so bleak. Some puddles of snow grace the dirty sidewalk and the curb, and I watch as a Rolls-Royce drives by on its way to the parking garage. It swerves as a lady with a rusty shopping cart enters the street. Jumping the curve, it leaves dirty tracks on what was once a pristine blanket slipped down from heaven.

  The phone rings.

  “It’s four-thirty,” the front desk lady says.

  “Thank you.”

  I had tried to nap, but couldn’t sleep.

  I paint my lips one more time and make sure my dress isn’t ganged around me in a twist. I’ve had to let all my dresses out now that I’m eating like a normal human being. Harlan says I’m downright sexy and I feel womanly, too, now that I actually have hips and a tiny bit more up top. And now I can eat corn and put a little butter on it.

  I’m early. Ninety minutes left before I go on. So I turn on the news.

  The scandal is all over the place and it’s all the anchors can do to keep from cheering with glee.

  This whole industry, this whole religious broadcasting business was due for a shake-up. Nothing lasts forever, does it? For the life of me, I just can’t picture Jesus up on TV begging for money.

  God have mercy.

  I am guilty. God have mercy on me, too.

  I will say nothing, I decide. If the press asks me to comment there will be no comment. I can’t afford to.

  The meal is delicious. Hotel fare, but at least green beans almondine or ratatouille didn’t show up on the plate. I listen to the introduction for myself and just smile, hoping against hope there’s no broccoli in my teeth. I got so involved in a conversation with this television station owner from Kansas that the time flew by and I didn’t get to go brush my teeth like I had planned. I turn to the lady beside me, a senior in college scouting for a job upon graduation. I grin. “Any broccoli?”

  “You’re free and clear.” But she looks amazed nonetheless.

  I ascend up the steps to the platform, pick up the microphone and nod to the sound man. I switched accompaniment tracks when I heard the news. It was supposed to be the upbeat hit from my new album called “You Shine.” But, knowing what was going on out there in everybody’s heart and mind, I felt it was time to get back to some basics, maybe remind us all why we’re in this odd life of Christian broadcasting and entertainment to begin with.

  I feel dirty and disgusting as the opening strains of “The Old Rugged Cross” begin.

  And I sing and I remember and I hope against hope that I will possess the heart of Jesus through this whole mess because right then I realize we are about to descend into something unprecedented, something dark and of our own making. The purging has begun, Jesus is clearing the temple of the money changers, He is lifting high His cross and saying “Follow me.”

  “On a hill faraway,” I sing. “Stood an old rugged cross. The emblem of suffering and shame. And I love that old cross where the dearest and best for a world of lost sinners was slain.

  “So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross till my trophies at last I lay down. I will cling to the old rugged cross and exchange it someday for a crown.”

  The music dies down after the fourth and final verse and, a capella, I sing the chorus to one of my favorite songs, “Blessed Redeemer.”

  “Blessed Redeemer! Precious Redeemer! Seems now I see Him on Calvary’s tree. Wounded and bleeding, for sinners pleading, blind and unheeding, dying for me!”

  Doggone it! Why this? Why now? Christ spilled His blood, Divine blood, and we have mixed it with our own sinful excrement and smeared it on His very cross and pronounced it not only good but holy.

  2

  The scandals are everywhere. And Jesus Alive! is no exception. Grandma Min summarizes the article from the Richmond Times Dispatch for me as I make my morning tea.

  “It basically says that Peter Love sent that pilot over there into dangerous territory because he wanted him dead.”

  “You’re kidding me?”

  “No. He was having an affair with that man—Mack somebody’s—wife.”

  “The lady that runs the pool.”

  “That’s her. She’s pregnant, too. And it’s not Mack’s baby. He wasn’t able to sire children.”

  “Poor Vinca.”

  Grandma’s mouth turns down. “I guess so. I’d be shocked to death if she didn’t know about the affair.”

  I shrug. “It’s hard to know these things, Grandma.”

  She sets the paper flat on the surface of the table. “Mark my words, sweetie, they’re coming after you and Harlan next.”

  “Why would you ever think that? We’re a couple of nobodies.”

  She shakes her head. “The article says they’re investigating everybody associated with the ministry.”

  I think of all the times I sang on their show. “But I’m just a singer.”

  “A singer whose husband has a television show.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “I hope not.”

  “Me, too.”

  I set a teabag in a floral cup and wait for the water to boil. “Do they mention uncovering anything else?”

  “Unfortunately, yes. Apparently they were dishonest in their solicitations for donations. They’d say they were going to use the money to help people starving Lord knows where and then only give a tiny percentage of it away. They’d keep the rest.”

  “Oh, my lands.”

  “Terrible. So here you think you’re sending in a hundred dollars to feed starving children in third-world countries, and just a few dollars actually gets there, if any sometimes. Not to mention they oversold their time-shares just like at Heritage USA.”

  “And here I was singing on that show week after week.”

  “Just goes to show you even the most discerning of people can get snowed under.”

  I roll my eyes, thinking of the beautiful restaurant I ate at, the Olympic-size pool, first class all the way. “I feel sick.”

  “So do I. I was almost fooled by those people.”

  “What about personally?”

  “They took huge salaries.”

  A toupeeless Harlan enters the kitchen, still in his robe and slippers. Grandma hands him the paper and he reads, leaning against the counter. He shakes his head every so often and sighs in between.

  He Finishes and looks up.

  “Grandma thinks we’re next.”

  He nods. “We are. They’ve already started talking to people around Mount Oak.”

  “Who?”

  “I think he said he was a reporter from the Washington Post.”

  “Oh, great, Harlan. The Washington Post?”

  Oh, my Jesus.

  “I’m making a call to them this morning,” I say. “If they want to know about us, they can come straight to the source.”

  3

  Thy will be done” is a tough prayer to pray and really mean it. Jesus prayed that, and ended up crucified. Now, that hurts my heart to think of Him hanging there like that, in such agony. He sacrificed everything even bearing separation from His Father on that dark Friday.

  How He must be grieved.

  Vinca Love left Peter and returned to her family in Richmond. Peter’s been on all the talk shows trying to repair the damage, but he invariably ends up blaming Vinca for all the problems in their marriage, from their infertility to his infidelity.

  I thought even he’d be above that. It makes me sick.

  But oh, my! The people crawling out of the woodwork. Although, that’s not fair. Because some of their allegations are more than allegations. They ring truer than the bells of St. Mary. Construction workers were asked to put down their gear, move to the side while Peter gets on and says, “We’ve had to stop work until the funds come in.”
<
br />   One of those construction workers was someone Peter led to the Lord in the old days when he had a prison ministry. He walked off the job that day.

  I don’t blame him.

  The first interview I am granting will take place today. It’s true. The Washington Post has already interviewed a bunch of people in the ministry behind our back. Tanzel told me.

  Tanzel hears everything.

  The doorbell rings on this March day. A week ago Jim Bakker resigned as the head of PTL and in the meantime Jerry Falwell is stepping in so Jimmy Swaggart can’t do a hostile takeover. Who knows what the truth is? It makes my head hurt. And now the entire world has read of the excesses and we’re all asking the same questions. Who could follow Jesus and screw people like this?

  Maybe that sounds harsh. But it doesn’t deserve a nice clean verb, in my opinion.

  As expected, Harlan and I have been lumped into the entire mess. I guess I should have been a little less flamboyant with my dresses. Already I’ve read some op-ed pieces on the entire mess, and they’ve targeted my hair and purple outfits. “Lavishly awful,” one woman said. “To think she’s put out money like that for such tasteless garb.” Viewers don’t know I sew them myself. Maybe Harlan shouldn’t have been so forthright about the whole “What’s Really Eating at You?” business either because they’ve sure zeroed in on that even though he revamped his message almost a year ago.

  We set ourselves up as easy targets and didn’t even know it. I feel like a couple of cartoon characters.

  My car was keyed in front of Bill D’s.

  Last night our house was egged.

  Can’t they see it’s just a little house with a rusted swing set in the back? Don’t they know there are kids living inside? And a grandma?

  The phone calls have been so mean.

  I pray that’s all the backlash we’ll get. I don’t know how much more blood I can lose through my nose!

  Its why I agreed to today’s activities. To set the record straight as far as our ministry is concerned.

  I have an appointment, an interview with that reporter from the Washington Post, a person I knew years ago, a person I ran away from years ago, the first person that made me think of myself as a woman.

  I open the door and I see those lapis eyes that are now hemmed in by tiny crow’s feet. That thick head of hair looks just the same.

  Ten years fade to nothing.

  “Charmaine!”

  “Richard. Come on in.”

  Richard Llewellyn stands on my porch steps, wearing khaki pants, a white broadcloth button-down, and a loose blue-and-gold striped tie.

  “Would you like to sit here in the living room or back at the kitchen table?”

  He looks all around him. “How about the kitchen table? Then I can write more easily.”

  I show him through the living room and back into the kitchen. I bought a pretty lavender cloth for the spring—$5.99 reduced from $7.99—and the place is scrubbed clean as usual.

  “This is cheerful,” he says.

  “Thank you. It sure beats life on the road. Although, sometimes I think I’m back in that RV more than not.”

  “Yes. I’ve been following you for quite some time.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “I saw an ad for a Gospelganza Festival a long time ago and there was your picture. Different last name, of course, but there’s only one person that looks like you and is named Charmaine.”

  “Hey, you were the one who suggested I go by Charmaine. That was the best thing I ever did.”

  Well, sort of. Harlan might differ with that.

  I’m trying to charm the snake but I don’t know how good of a job I’m doing.

  He asks me questions about singing in Gospelganza, my albums, the church, the Port of Peace Hour. And we actually have a good time! It amazes me what can happen when people are mature enough to put the past behind them.

  The time just flies by and I realize we’ve been sitting here for two hours. So I figure it’s time for me to start questioning him a little bit.

  “Are you married, Richard?”

  He shakes his head. “You know me, Charmaine. I’m not the settling-down type.”

  “That’s for sure.”

  “I’m actually a little surprised you agreed to see me after all that went down in Vermont.”

  I shrug. “That was over a decade ago. I’ve made out okay. It got me out of Lynchburg and for that I am thankful.”

  “You’re something.”

  “That’s what I hear.” And I smile into his eyes, realizing with thankfulness that I really had left that part of my life behind me. How freeing.

  He fills me in on Clarke and Cecile whose life sounds exactly the same as when I left and, “What about that gang at the cabin?” I ask. “Whatever happened to them?”

  “The guys started a computer company together and Lady Andrea went back to England.”

  “Guess she couldn’t slum it forever.”

  “Nope.”

  “Oh, Richard, even though we didn’t leave on the best of terms, this sure has been nice!”

  He’s drinking a cup of tea and I’m slurping on Diet Sprite, my new drink of choice, since it doesn’t have caffeine. “It has. Can I give my aunt and uncle your regards?”

  “Please do. I hope our running away didn’t affect them.”

  “Not at all. Only that you were their first and last foray into the foster care system.”

  “They really weren’t cut out for that kind of life.”

  “You’re right.”

  Harlan comes home from church. “Hey, y’all.”

  “Harlan, this is Richard Lewellyn, from the Washington Post.”

  Harlan extends his hand. “Well, good to meet you, Richard.”

  They shake.

  “Ready for our interview? In light of what’s been going on with the televangelist scandals, I’m hoping you might lend some clarity to the issue.”

  “I’d be delighted. Hey, it’s almost six. What do you say, Charmaine? How about if Richard stays for supper?”

  He shakes his head. “I really don’t want to impose.”

  I bap him on the arm. “Of course, you won’t impose. Grandma’s got some chicken stew in the Crock-Pot and all I have to do is throw in some extra dumplings.”

  Harlan hangs his key on the key hooks I screwed into the side of the kitchen cabinet. “You’ll kill two birds with one stone. I mean, a man’s gotta eat.”

  Richard laughs. “All right. You’ve convinced me.”

  I get up from the table to finish preparing the meal. “Well, I’ve got to say, in all these years I never pictured this scenario!”

  Richard says, “Me, either. I thought you’d hate me.”

  I look at him, mustering up all the frankness I can. “Well, now, Richard, that wouldn’t be very Christian of me, now would it?”

  He smiles and looks me in the eye. And I remember that night at that big house in Lynchburg. I recall those eyes, that smile, and the way he made me feel, so grown up and alluring. I remembered how I thought he could do no wrong.

  “How are you holding up under all the backlash?” Richard asks us as I set out supper. He leans against the counter as Grandma and I flurry the food onto the table.

  I set down the green salad. “I don’t know, Richard. It’s hard to read all that about people you’ve trusted. I’ve tried to live a good life, be nice to folks, raise my kids as best I can, and then to read about myself in the local papers like I’m some sort of singing clown …”

  “It hurts her terribly,” Harlan says.

  Richard nods, his fingers tapping on the fronts of his khakis. “I figured as much.”

  “Hopefully you’ll be able to help straighten things out, Richard,” I say.

  He smiles.

  Grandma lays out the last glass of soda. “Well, everybody, let’s eat! Kids!” she hollers. “It’s suppertime!”

  Two hours later, after the best blueberry cream cheese pie I’ve ever tasted (I
am a much better dessert cook now that I actually eat them myself), I walk Richard to his little black Volkswagen.

  “Before I forget, I’ve got something for you, Charmaine.” He leans into the backseat and pulls out a parcel. “When I told Aunt Cecile I was coming down, she sent this for me to give to you.”

  “And I’ve got something for you.” I reach into my pocket and pull out four ten dollar bills. “It’s the money I took from you all in Vermont.”

  “I can’t take that, Charmaine.”

  “Please, Richard. I need you to.”

  So he shakes his head and does as I ask.

  We say our good-byes and off he goes.

  Well, if this all isn’t just the limit! I’ll be honest, I can use the encouragement, and maybe this will help us and our ministry in the process.

  I take the parcel into the house. Inside rests my photos of the Evanses. I touch Mrs. Evans. Slide my fingertips along her cheek and chin. Smile into her pansy eyes.

  I miss her so badly sometimes I want to crumble.

  A family picture with me next to James is next and I smile. Yep, those were the days.

  And finally, wrapped in layers of newspaper, my plate, Grandma Sara’s willowware plate. Down the center a fissure snakes and as I lift it from the box, it breaks in two, the left side tumbling to the floor to brake into—I count them—six pieces. Seven in all.

  The wall clock ticks and I watch the minute hand move around as Grandma and Harlan clean up the kitchen. I barely realize it when Harlan picks up the pieces. I feel his movement. I hear his breath, but I am lost right now, rolling around in something I cannot name.

  4

  Mama?”

  She is gardening and she looks peaceful here with the earth beneath her grasp, the sun highlighting the white strands of her hair. Although she is bent down on her knees, her spreading behind resting on her heels, she looks like she used to in basic form. I remember her sitting like that as she’d go through the under-the-bed boxes in our room, sorting through clothing, folding and refolding.

  She turns. “Oh, hello, Myrtle.”