The Presence

by T. Davis Bunn

  He bowed his head and began, “I thank you, Lord, for bringing me here today. It’s a miracle that I’m here in this man’s office. Shoot, my whole life’s just one big miracle. Here I am, a hick from the backside of nowhere, sittin’ in this fine office, doing deals with the best of them. It’s all your doing, Lord, and I just want to thank you. Give me the strength to see what it is you want me to do with all this, and to live my life like you’d want me to. I ask all this in the precious name of Jesus Christ. Amen.”

  A balloon of pressure swelled in the center of TJ’s chest, so big he could barely breathe, much less talk. Lord, Lord, help me, he said to himself. I have no idea what I ought to say. His heart sounded like faint thunder in his ears.

  “Heavenly Father,” he prayed, and heard a calm strength in his voice. It steadied him, eased the pressure, made it easier to continue. “You have brought two strangers here before you, as different as Simon the zealot and Matthew the tax collector. Yet here we are, Lord, praying to you together. We cannot be doing this ourselves. It is only your presence here with us, filling us with the Holy Spirit, that makes this prayer possible.”

  TJ heard himself saying the words, but he had no idea where the thoughts were coming from. None at all. It was like listening to someone else pray.

  “We know that all things work for the good of those who love the Lord and are called according to His purpose. Are you calling us to a higher purpose, Father? If so, then give us the strength and the wisdom to do your holy will. Let us see clearly what must be done, and then enable us to carry out our tasks with joyous hearts and with voices that proclaim your wondrous name.”

  TJ paused to swallow hard. The lump was coming back to his throat. He wished he could stop, yet knew there was more to be said.

  “Whenever two or more of us are gathered in your name, there you are also. You are with us here today, Lord. Be with us always. May every time we come together be blessed by your strength, your presence, your light to guide our way. In Christ’s holy name we pray. Amen.”

  TJ raised his head in time to see Jeremy Hughes give his eyes a backhanded swipe behind the curtain of his hair. He felt like doing the same thing, but made do with a series of fierce blinks.

  “Well, sir,” Hughes cleared his throat, “I’m not sure I caught everything you said. I was too busy hearing something louder.”

  TJ permitted himself a smile. “I didn’t say a thing.”

  Hughes laughed and whacked a dusty thigh. “Now if that ain’t the truth.” He inspected TJ frankly, said, “Excuse me for askin’, but I’d as soon have this out in the open right now. You got anything against workin’ with a white man?”

  “No. Not one bit,” TJ replied, glad he could answer truthfully. Holding his own gaze steady, he asked, “Do you mind having a black man for your lawyer?”

  Hughes searched an inner pocket, pulled out a bulky sheaf of papers, handed them over, said, “Naw. The Lord turned me color blind ‘bout two minutes ago.”

  ****

  TJ slid the cruiser’s cabin door shut behind him and stepped out into the first faint hint of dawn. He knew Catherine was awake, but she would lie and doze for another hour. This was a daily gift she gave him. She guarded his hour of solitude more fiercely than he did, claimed it was all done in her own best interest. Catherine called it his hour of sanity. Remind you what’s important, she would say, before you go out and let the world beat cymbals upside your head. You’re what’s important, he always replied. Now you’re talking truth, she’d say. You just see you don’t forget it.

  He uncovered the portable Bunsen burner, filled a saucepan from the fresh-water container, lit the stove, and set the pan in place. From the cupboard under one of the seats he pulled out a mug, a flashlight, a spoon, a jar of instant coffee and his Bible. Catherine had arranged all the items before going to bed. Years ago, when they had first started using Jeremy’s boat, TJ would jokingly ask her if she had remembered to put out his survival kit. Now it was simply unspoken habit.

  The boat was far too big for the lake. When Catherine first saw it, she told Jeremy that fishing the Inland Waterway in it would be like putting a whale in a swimming pool. Jeremy replied, yeah, well, anybody who don’t like it don’t need to come back. That boat has more bathrooms than my momma’s house, Catherine told him. But does your momma’s house float, Jeremy asked. It would, Catherine replied, if she spent as much on it as you did on this. I need a boat big enough for my kids, Jeremy explained. Gotta have room for my kids.

  Jeremy never went on the water without at least a dozen children screaming and scrambling over everywhere. The owner of the dock where he kept the boat called it a fisherman’s worst nightmare come to life. Every time Jeremy came to pick up the boat, the fellow would stick his head out of the office and say something like, be sure to check it good for bombs.

  Some of Jeremy’s kids were from the two area orphanages, others were children of local tobacco sharecroppers. There were also a few local Indians, especially the ones whose parents hung around street corners and drank up welfare checks as fast as they came in. The boat was called Asylum, which Jeremy was quick to point out meant “a place of refuge.”

  Ever since Jeremy’s wife died of cancer eleven years ago, his life had revolved around his business interests and his kids. He was the unnamed sponsor of both the orphanages, as well as founder of a regional summer camp for the underprivileged. Whenever he was asked if he had any children of his own, Jeremy always replied, at last count, four hundred and sixteen.

  ****

  TJ filled his cup with boiling water, spooned in coffee, flicked on the flashlight, and opened his Bible. He was working his way through Hebrews, but he always began his days by simply opening the Book and reading whatever passage caught his eye. He would then drink his coffee, meditate on the passage for a time, and pray. With his second cup he would begin his regular study.

  The first passage he opened to was in Isaiah: “I heard the voice of the Lord, saying, Whom shall I send, and who will go for us? Then said I, Here am I; send me. And he said, Go, and tell this people, Hear ye indeed, but understand not; and see ye indeed, but perceive not.”

  TJ switched off the flashlight and looked out across the water. I haven’t done enough, he thought, giving way to a familiar guilt. I have everything in the world. Everything. And I still waste most of my time worrying over things that don’t mean squat. Here I am with a wonderful wife. Two angels for daughters. Five lovely grandchildren. A good job. More money than I know what to do with. The best friend in the world.

  He sipped his coffee and nodded his head. I waste too much time worrying about things of this world. What I’ve given back isn’t even a drop in the bucket.

  Almost in reply, he caught fleeting glimpses of his life. The retainer Jeremy paid him was more than enough to live on. Over the years he had gradually shifted other clients to his partners and taken on an increasing number of defendants who could not pay.

  A stint on the local school board had led to his election to the city council. From there to the county board of commissioners. Ten years later he was elected to the state legislature.

  In moments of strength, as he had watched the destruction of this second career over the seven longest months of his life, he had felt deep in his heart that he was following the principles set out by God. In weaker moments, which were many, he could only pray that he was.

  He remembered what his grandfather had told him on the eve of his first election to the state legislature, just three months before the old gentleman had passed away. I’m so proud of you I could burst, he had said, but I’m gonna tell you something I don’t want you ever to forget. Don’t ever look to politics as a source of income, son. Do that and you’re on the road to destruction. Keep yourself on the straight and narrow, a shining example to all those pride-swollen, idol-worshiping fools. And the instant you find yourself needing the money or the position or the title beside your name, quit! Stay on, and sooner or later you’ll sell y
our soul to the devil called compromise. Stay in the service of your people only as long as it really is service. When it stops being service and starts being a job, get out!

  The first Christmas after TJ’s election, Catherine had stitched a needlepoint plaque for him. It read: “Whosoever will be great among you shall be your servant,” a verse from the Gospel of Mark. TJ hung it in his legislative chambers, directly across from his desk. When visitors commented on it, he told them it was his lifeline. Now it was upstairs in the attic gathering dust, along with all the other debris from his political life. Once he could look at it again without feeling a pang of loss, he would probably hang it in his law office.

  ****

  Through the faint veil of dawn the nearby shoreline slowly grew visible. Clumps of muhly grass hugged the waterline, and a dogwood painted with autumn colors nestled between two stumpy pond pines. Beyond that, red cedar and spindly pine trees rose like ghostly sentinels in the morning mist. The air was close and breathless, the water utterly still. It was warm for November, and TJ was comfortable in his flannel shirt and jeans.

  Little Frying Pan Lake was the worst-kept secret in North Carolina, and wasn’t really a lake at all. It was set snug in the heart of a marsh that lay off the Inland Waterway. The place could be reached only through a very narrow, very deep passage that was impossible to find unless somebody showed the first-timer how to line up the old cedar stump, the derelict pier, and the correct point on the compass.

  From the air, Little Frying Pan and its entry channel looked like a skillet with a bent handle. The body of water was a half-mile wide and lined with meandering marsh banks, muhly grass, and rotting trees hung heavy with Spanish moss. It was the best spawning ground for large-mouth bass this side of the Everglades. Trouble was, the place had simply become overfished.

  Local fishing guides swore customers to absolute secrecy, took them in, and hoped for a big tip. The customers in turn brought friends they wanted to impress with their knowledge of local lore. Stories about fair-sized catches grew into legends about an Indian guide who caught a large-mouth bass so big it sank his canoe.

  Jeremy sometimes talked about how it had been twenty years ago, when local fishermen would never have dreamed of entering the haven under power. Back then, they cut their motors halfway down the channel and rowed in. It was an unspoken rule, like not talking in church. A hushed silence hung over the place, and fishermen greeted each other with solemn waves and hand signals. Lifting the stringer from the water meant you had a good catch. Details were kept for the boat dock.

  Nowadays on a summer Sunday the passage looked like an interstate highway. Boats swooped up and down the channel with high-powered outboards whining and rumbling, their wakes swamping the muhly grass. Fresh arrivals glared at other boats as though they were trespassing on private property. Most of the local fishermen and almost all of the fish had long since departed.

  But during the rest of the year, the early mornings still held the awesome hush of a sanctuary. Jeremy Hughes loved to maneuver his boatload of kids down the passage, after first stopping and carefully explaining to all and sundry that he would personally strangle the first nonbeliever who dared disturb the haven’s silence.

  Jeremy always tried to arrive right at dusk, after all the fishermen had given up in disgust and gone home. He would send the kids to bed with a Bible passage and a story. He tried to instill a pride of heritage in the Indians, a wonder of history in the sharecroppers’ sons and daughters, a reverence for nature in them all.

  TJ and Catherine had made the trip with Jeremy and the kids once a month until the crisis of the past half-year had begun. They always departed ever humbled by the wisdom of this uneducated man.

  Jeremy lavished all the love he had on these children who had been fed the dregs of affection. There’s three words you’re gonna learn the meaning of, he told them time and again, even if I gotta drill holes in your thick skulls and stuff it in. And what are they, he would roar. Faith, hope and love, the children would shout back, laughter shining from their faces. And what’s the greatest of these, he would ask. Love, they would cry in unison. Right, he would say. I guess I won’t drown you after all.

  ****

  A distant whooping echoed through the soft autumn morning. Soon the air would be filled with a thousand birdsongs, a choir that TJ had enjoyed since childhood. He breathed a deep sigh and gave silent thanks for the wonder of another dawn.

  Then it happened, and his world was changed forever.

  With a grace and ease that made the power even more awesome, a silence descended upon him. It was not the stillness of the morning. It was a presence that flooded his heart, his mind, his entire being and commanded him:

  Be still.

  As gentle as it was powerful, as loving as it was demanding, the Presence was all-consuming. And the Presence was God.

  The dawn became a holy fire. The lake, the sky, the shore—all were filled with a holy light.

  Blinded by the all-transforming power, yet knowing without question what he was witnessing, TJ fell to his knees. He was filled with a single thought: I am unworthy.

  In the mirror of this perfect light came a clear and total vision of life’s purpose. He was created to worship God. All else seemed a shabby pretense of sham and indulgence. A sin. A lie.

  I am unworthy.

  The light and stillness intensified, and the Voice spoke.

  Who will speak for Me?

  There was no doubt, no need to wonder. The request was a perfect gift of total love, and in its answer was the key to life.

  I will, TJ Case replied.

  Then go to your rulers, the gentle Voice said to him. They are in need of Me.

  An instant of confusion. Then a shock of understanding. Washington, TJ said. I am to go to Washington. For a moment his spirit quailed, and he asked aloud, “But what will I say?”

  The light and power began to diminish, drawing down to the Bible that had fallen from his lap. Gradually the world returned to the awakening dawn, yet a passage on the open page continued to shine with a holy light.

  With trembling hands TJ picked up his Bible and read:

  “Behold, I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise as serpents, and harmless as doves. But beware of men: for they will deliver you up to the councils, and they will scourge you in their synagogues; and ye shall be brought before governors and kings for my sake, for a testimony against them and the Gentiles. But when they deliver you up, take no thought how or what ye shall speak: for it shall be given you in that same hour what ye shall speak.”

  Chapter Two

  Congressman John Silverwood, the junior member of the United States House of Representatives from North Carolina, allowed his two luncheon partners to enter the restaurant before him. It was clearly expected and all part of the game.

  The customary period of decompression following his recent election had been cut short by the request to come to Washington for this luncheon. His two colleagues were here because the Republican National Committee was having its first strategy session for congressional committee appointments. They had a hole in their schedules and decided it was a good time to meet with Silverwood. The possibility that the newly elected congressman might find it inconvenient to fly to Washington on twelve-hour notice did not enter their minds. They called and Silverwood came. It was that simple.

  First to pass through the restaurant’s entrance was the senior senator from North Carolina, Reginald Erskins, staunch defender of the right and powerful kingpin on a number of major committees. Senator Erskins was a tall man in his early sixties who hid excess poundage under carefully tailored suits. The mane of silver hair, the self-satisfied expression, the pompous bearing—it all spoke of a man most at home with the mantle of worldy power.

  Following Erskins was Ted Robinson, chairman of the North Carolina Republican party, a man who had stood behind innumerable thrones for more than thirty years. When he had taken on the chairmanship,
the Republicans had been, in his own words, the biggest joke in the state. Finding Republicans in North Carolina, he had once told an interviewer, was harder than finding seashells in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

  But all that had changed, and changed drastically. In these most recent elections Robinson had delivered a Republican governor, fourteen new Republican state legislators, seven new state senators, and the first Republican U.S. Congressman from the eastern district in the country’s history. If John Silverwood held any importance at all in Ted Robinson’s eyes, it was because he represented even better things to come.

  The Monocle was a smallish restaurant on the Senate side of Capitol Hill. Silverwood thought it horribly overpriced, but he was not yet accustomed to the cost of living in this city. The size of the mortgage he was going to pay for his two-bedroom Georgetown townhouse gave him nightmares.

  The maitre d’ bowed and scraped over the senator, barely gave Silverwood a glance, then marched them to what he announced was the senator’s regular table. Silverwood wondered how on earth three people were going to sit at it. Maybe they were expected to hold their plates in their laps.

  The table was about as big as a Carolina serving dish and covered with layers of starched linen. Silverwood had to suck in his belly and scrunch around to keep from bouncing the guy at the next table off the wall.

  Ted Robinson was equally unimpressed. He watched the maitre d’ stalk off, snapping orders at bustling waiters, said, “That is positively the fakiest, most ridiculous Italian accent I have ever heard. What is he, Persian?”

  “Lebanese,” the senator replied, casually glancing through the menu before shutting it and setting it down. It almost covered the table. “The fellow at The Rotunda was Persian.”

  “Yeah, that’s right.” Robinson gave a frosty smile. “What was his name, Alfredo? Alfonzo?”

  “Something like that,” the senator replied. “What a character.”

  “Not anymore,” Robinson said. He looked at Silverwood and explained, “Back, what, eight or nine years ago—”