by Brian Hodge
“Lock up your children and hide your sheep!” he warned those unseen thousands. “I’m Paul Handler, and I’m in your face for the next four hours, right here at KGRM, FM ninety-two-point-five, Lethal Rock Radio, where music and madness collide. For all I know, they aren’t even insured.”
He sat like a jet pilot in the swivel seat, flying by the proverbial seat of his pants. Soundboard before him, cartridge machine and CD players above it on a rack, turntables at his right. Commercial log open before him, and most prominently, the ever-important microphone. He checked a tiny chalkboard on the wall, got the day’s number.
“We’re into day number five-hundred-sixty-eight of our all-Madonna-free marathon, and today’s burning social question is this: Do you think anybody ever got horny on Gilligan’s Island? And bear in mind that a fat guy in a skipper’s hat who lives with a skinny guy and calls him ‘little buddy’ may not always be what he appears. So what do you think? Phone lines are open and operators are standing by.”
First song, he brought it to life, boosted the volume, tugged his headphones off, spun one complete circle in the chair. Saluted Peter, who leaned in the doorway with a triumphant smile.
“Guess what.”
Paul, palms up, arms wide. Ready for anything. “What?”
“I’ll give you a hint.” Peter straightened to his full height. Made a grand show of clamping his lips together and breathing unhindered gusts through flaring nostrils. He sounded like a bull preparing to charge. “No more stuffhead. I do believe you cured me.”
Paul grinned. Nice gag. Pete had probably cloistered himself in the bathroom, steamed himself open with the shower running full blast hot.
“What do you say we keep this our secret, okay?” Paul cued vinyl on turntable one. “Next thing you know, this gets out and Popeye’ll be in here, begging me to fix his long-rumored impotence. I’ll lay hands on only so much, you know.”
Peter stepped in, bent over to plant a loud smack atop the crown of Paul’s head. “Does this mean my hemorrhoids are out of the question?”
Paul wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Don’t get greedy.”
Moments later, alone again, himself and the music, always the music. Paul looked at his hands. As unassuming and nondescript as the rest of him. Wondering. What if…? Really.
Naaah.
Chapter 2
It was one of the great cosmic wrongs of the twentieth century. Somehow — somehow — Amanda had ended up facedown at the bottom of the stairs. As to how it could have happened, Donny Dawson hadn’t the slightest idea.
This isn’t real, a puny sentiment indeed. Denial, flimsy last bastion of defense. This can NOT be happening.
Then he was shooting down the stairway after her, utterly the concerned husband, two and three steps at a time. Scant seconds, but in that span, a hundred dark thoughts clamored for attention. The concept dead at their forefront.
The house, as well as the compound of nearby buildings, had been built five years ago. A three-story anachronism from the Georgian Court period, Ionic columns gracing its front. A paean to tasteful elegance, each of its nearly forty rooms was a study in sheer romantic overindulgence. It sat on the western fringe of the compound like the Big House on a plantation of the antebellum South, a plantation where saving souls was the order of the day rather than raising cotton. Amanda had been at home here like no place she had ever been.
On the way down the stairs, everything leading up to her calamitous dive replayed in Donny’s mind. Rising tone of voices as they left their second-floor bedroom. Her insistent, “I’m tired of living out lies! I don’t think it’s right anymore!” His angry demand, keep your voice down, don’t raise it to me that way. Her first tread onto that grand ballroom stairway, his grip on her upper arm.
Her tearful twist, to be rid of his touch.
To the bottom, then, express-style. Incredibly endless slow motion trek of flailing arms and unbelieving eyes, too shocked for accusation, too helpless for fear. Finally, worst of all by far, the horrid crack her head had made when it struck the banister.
Donny knelt beside her in numb futility, eyes roving, for once finding himself left entirely to his own fragile devices. The feeling was ghastly, simply ghastly. He rolled her over, gently, gently, recoiling at the rivulets of blood tracing the left side of her face from temple to jawline. And limp, so limp, a rag doll whose stitches were but frayed threads. Donny’s hand shook as he reached for her face and felt the faint warmth of her breath. Thank God.
“Mandy. Mandy? Honey, open your eyes.”
He thumbed her eyelids back, found her staring straight ahead at everything, at nothing. No reactive shrinkage of her pupils to light, just a glassy, dull stare. A moment later, he realized that her pupils were of vastly different sizes. The right had dilated into a tiny black button. He released her eyelids, and they slid closed.
Now, at last, the final insult to injury: the stench of her newly loosened bladder and bowels. Dear God, what dignity in this?
“Mandy. Mandy, I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”
Begging and pleading, beseeching and cajoling, none of it had the slightest effect. Donny’s voice trailed away, and she did not care. He quit nervously massaging her hands, and she took no notice.
But there was another way. Maybe. If he was lucky. Again.
And so, as he knelt beside his rag-doll wife, clasping one limp hand between his, Donny Dawson began to pray more fervently than he had prayed in years. Asking God above to hear this prayer of a humble servant, a servant who had at least once upon a time been blessed with the power to heal. Asking God above, please, please, let it happen again, once more make this humble servant the channel for the healing touch, give him the power to bring back this stricken child of Heaven.
Breath coming quicker by the moment, sweat dotting his forehead, Donny felt strangely cold. Ah, but of course: no stage lights this time, no tele-voyeurism of four rolling cameras. And no crush of people packed into an auditorium, looking at him, expecting a miracle. Neither drama, nor theatrics. Just the two of them.
Because this time it was personal. And for real.
Donny held her head in his hands, fingers spread wide to cradle it, touch as much of her as possible. Seeking vital contact as tears brimmed his eyes.
“Open your eyes, Amanda. Open your eyes. God, let it be done!”
Continuing to kneel, to cradle, to stare into the undead face. While she knew nothing of his concern, his efforts, the blood gouting from his own soul. The bottom fell out of his stomach, took him with it.
“Let. It. Be. Done!”
Except…
It wasn’t.
Numb and blank. Abandoned. Stupefyingly so. Donny rose, turned. Paced, thought, paced some more. Not unlike an expectant father, please tell me my baby’s all right. He gazed across the Persian rug in the entry hall and into the parlor, eyes fixing on a table, the item resting atop it. Behold, the telephone. Help is just a phone call away.
And yet. This was not a simple matter of placing the call, waiting for the paramedics to take it from there. Roll in with lights blazing, sirens wailing. Such a public spectacle would not do at all. For the paramedics would know precisely where they were going. And the subsequent check-in at Hillcrest Hospital in Oklahoma City would mean names. Amanda Dawson, they would write. Next of kin? And he would have to answer. Donny Dawson? they would say. Why, the Donny Dawson? Donny Dawson the faith healer? But why are you…?
Only a few days, and it would be a matter of public knowledge and national record. The wire services would pounce on it like dogs after a particularly tasty bone, and Time and Newsweek would laugh it up, while supermarket tabloids would splash it across their lurid covers, sentencing him to doing time with the most tasteless stories conceivable, because gullible minds want to know. He could already see the headlines.
Forget Oral Roberts and his claims of celestial blackmail. Forget Jim and Tammy Bakker, their entire holy rolling soap opera. Forget the carnal dalliances of Jim
my Swaggart. Old news, all of it. Now there’s fresh sacrificial meat on the televangelism altar, and his name’s Dawson. Everybody grab a piece, there’s plenty to go around.
Donny gave it a thorough mental once-over, deciding that when the going gets truly tough, you bring in a second valued opinion. He covered the distance to the phone, punching in the number for the chapel across the compound, where one of the secretaries answered.
“I need to speak to Gabe.” Quell those tremors in his voice, he never sounded this way. Eternities passed before Gabe was located. Donny didn’t ask what he had been doing, didn’t care. Whatever it was, Gabe had no qualms about dropping it and heading for the Dawson house. Good. Oh, good good good.
There in eight minutes. After stepping in through the front door without knocking, he gripped the knob and stared. The sight took some getting used to. Dying sunlight prismed through the beveled glass of the door.
“Donny?” he said. “Is she…?”
“She’s alive. But Gabe, I … I…” His theatrical voice failed him once more. He stood by her, arms outstretched as if to show nailprints in the palms, wounds of future media crucifixion.
He needed to say no more, for Gabe seemed to comprehend everything, the obvious and the implied, in a single glance. Gabriel Matthews, right-hand man, priceless appendage. He was only thirty-two, but Donny considered him to have the acute instincts and business acumen of a man older by two decades or more.
The silence was more than Donny could bear. “I don’t know what happened, one second we were talking, all we were doing was talking, and then…”
“Donny. Shhh. Just let me think a minute.”
Gabe quietly shut the door, moved forward. Not a tall man by any means, but compact, solid without being bulky. His sandy hair was full in front, trimmed close on the sides, the back. He had a wide mouth and his lips were often clamped tight. His deep-set eyes were generally serious, and this was appropriate: The saving of souls could be a serious business.
“What are we going to do?” Donny slumped onto the bottom step, elbows on knees and head in hands. Shell shock. “What are we going to do?”
Gabe reached down to clasp Donny’s hand, soul-shake style. Power and strength. “Get hold of yourself. Think. I’ll call Irv Preston. You provide him with enough tax write-offs, he’ll be good for a favor even if he didn’t have the Hippocratic Oath weighing on his conscience. We’ll let him take care of Mandy, decide what she needs. And I promise you, I’ll make certain he understands the need for discretion.”
Donny perked up, the light of a glorious new dawn beaming into his head. “That’s a good idea…”
“As for now, you’ve got a show to tape.”
Donny uttered a startled little chuckle, slowly shook his head. Hands starting to quake anew. “Oh no. I can’t go over there now, I can’t tape a show, not this evening, I—”
Gabe’s wide mouth, now a pacifying smile. “Think a minute, okay? You’ve got nearly three thousand people coming into the chapel. If you want to delay things, fine, we’ll make some kind of announcement about equipment problems, and they’ll be happy to sit there all night if that’s what it takes. But if you send them home, there’s all that revenue lost. There’s credibility that goes with it. There’s unnecessary attention called to the ministry. And in the end, you’ve still got a show to tape sometime.” Gabe waited for the bulk of this to settle in, slow going. “It’s up to you, of course, but there’s not a lot you can do for Mandy as a basket case. Don’t you think she’d want you to carry on tonight?”
I’m tired of living out lies!
Donny watched his hands knead one another. Hands of clay. Feet to match? He refused to believe that. “I suppose she would.”
“Then there’s nothing more for you to do here. Mandy will be fine, I’ll see to that. And you? You go see to your show. That’s where you belong right now. Where you’re needed.”
Donny nodded, telegraphed a quick prayer, mandatory strength. He let his legs carry him through the house, drifting, while vaguely aware of Gabe’s voice on the phone, quiet, urgent, diplomatic. Donny followed his legs out of the house and across the back porch, the double-seat swing and minor jungle of potted greenery. Farther beyond sprawled the English country garden, and at its far edge, in their pen, a pair of Irish setters yapped happily at him. Adam and Eve. Donny mounted a modified golf cart that whisked him along a tarmac path leading away from the house, the protective seclusion of its surrounding oaks. Soon he was puttering through the compound, more open and airy, the trees younger and more spindly. Green velvet lawns rolled among a scattering of buildings that resembled a miniature brown brick college campus: main office building and production studios, dormitories for some of the ministry’s workers and wards, and at the far edge, the chapel. Just past the chapel, the parking lot appeared filled near to capacity. A steady tide of people channeled toward the main entrance in the chapel’s north end, some in wheelchairs, some hobbling along on crutches. Just as they would leave.
Donny parked his cart on the south side, entering through the rear to find himself thick in the usual backstage hive of preshow bustle. Before stopping by for makeup, he sought out the stage manager and director, had them delay kickoff by a half hour. Blame it on whatever’s convenient, equipment malfunction if that’s convenient enough, but don’t plan on getting off the ground until seven-thirty, at the earliest. There were no questions. They followed orders like buck privates in the presence of a general.
Seclusion, then, the low-ceilinged maze having led him to his dressing room. Donny relished the time alone, away, the familiarity of weekly ritual. Compose thyself. And bring this terrible night into perspective.
I couldn’t hack it. Not when it was real.
God’s will, he offered in rebuttal. It’s just God’s will. I’ve done it before. I’ll do it again, surely, when the time is right.
Sure, sure, that other voice, redolent of skepticism. Do we care to place any bets on this?
Do not put the Lord thy God to a foolish test, and that shut the skeptic up for the time being.
Later, when the stage lights came up and the music swelled and the choir sang and the theatrics held sway over all, Donny Dawson knew he was precisely where he belonged. Momentary fears surfaced — who would take Amanda’s place on the hidden FM transmitter, its receiver a tiny hair-concealed plug in his left ear? But Gabe was back, taking over as proficiently as if the job had been his all along.
They would make it through the night, he knew this now. For he was on display before the lost and the searching, his stage the focal point of an auditorium whose rows of seats stretched before him in immense wedges, the aisles between like the spokes of some huge wheel. The machine of his own creation. And Donny, epicenter of attention, tall and fit and resplendent in his white suit and toting his oversize Bible. His golden-brown hair swept back from his forehead, his chin strong and assured. Eyes radiant with promises of a better life everlasting. Making it through the night, all of them.
You could take that to the bank.
Chapter 3
Lorraine’s eyes lit up while she was on the air, as distinct as throwing a switch. She could come in, batteries dead from an already-tiring day or lack of sleep the night before. Then turn her loose in the booth and regeneration was automatic. Those so green eyes, glowing with film noir neon. There was something immensely endearing about such an expression on the face of someone who so passionately loved what she was doing.
Paul wondered — not for the first time since his arrival here back in the winter — if she looked this way while making love.
The poor timing was classic: Lorraine Savage had been a nine-month newlywed when Paul first defected to KGRM. He had come to St. Louis after a stint at a station in Indianapolis; if only he had sought employment at KGRM first, instead of waiting a year. He could then have had three months to subtly get her to reconsider her choice of spouse.
She retained her own surname for air continuity, which he
took as meager hope. Paul had met the guy a couple times, briefly, at station functions she had coerced him into attending. Craig Sheppard, nice slurpie name for a slurpie kind of guy, corporate holdover from the greedy eighties. Complete with BMW and button-down collars and a University of Hitler Youth haircut. An overdrive personality fueled by a high-octane ego. Craig Sheppard, here to take the world on his own terms. Paul couldn’t stand him, and only occasionally felt guilty about it.
Friends. He’d tried friends first, keeping his feelings confined to that level and no deeper. Losing battle. Surrender had come in February, some concert at a venue called the American Theater, not yet three months after his arrival at KGRM. The station had sent a delegation to a concert by the Indigo Girls, whom Paul revered, and the Ellen James Society, about whom he had heard nothing, and of whom he’d left a committed fan.
A magic holy night, femme-folk, femme-rock, absolutely no artificial concessions to commercialism, and Greenpeace in the lobby. Seating was dinner-theater style, and six of them from the station sat clustered around a tiny table, far more intimate than standard arena seating. Paul sat beside Lorraine, absorbing everything. Her throaty laugh. The animation of her hands. Soft loose curls corkscrewing past her shoulders as he wondered if the streaked blonde was natural.
Opening set, the Ellen James Society, and Lorraine was the only other one at their table who had caught the reference to John Irving’s The World According to Garp. The two of them sat watching some lone dancer down front, when all of a sudden Lorraine nudged him, leaned in, deadpan, and said, “Wouldn’t it be funny if she was into stage-diving, instead?” And the image leveled him, one lone stage-diver, arcing off toward the audience with no one to catch her, splatting to the floor. Again and again and again. It was so cruel he couldn’t help but laugh.
Friends? Surrender. Just admit it, he was smitten. But not to act on it, curbing that passion, content to worship from afar.
