Ollie's Cloud

by Gary Lindberg

  It’s impossible to keep her eyes off the man with the smile, though the smile has now disappeared. She tries to look elsewhere, but her eyes are controlled by demons—or angels. They keep getting pulled in his direction.

  He is so handsome!

  Once, just as the speaker gets to the feet of clay part, the man seems to scan the speaker’s platform and she quickly averts her eyes—had he seen her staring at him?—and finds it deliciously painful to prevent them from rebounding. When she can restrain her gaze no longer, she furtively glances at the man again, but by this time he is studying the big canvas picture.

  For how long had he looked at her?

  At last the piano starts to play and the dignitaries on the platform stand and begin to hum the plaintive melody—all except Alice, who cannot find her voice. It suddenly occurs to her that the end of the service, let alone the End of Time, is near. And this means that the man will soon leave the tent. Perhaps she will never see him again. My God, she prays, what should I do? Her stomach turns over and her palms grow sweaty. And then, as the tearful repentants begin to stream toward the pulpit, the man leaves the tent. Just like that.

  What should I do? she pleads to God, looking for a sign. And then she hears the preacher speak these words: “Tarry not, for time is too short for indecision. Be bold, and claim what God has promised for you.”

  In that moment, Alice knows what to do.

  Ollie strides from the tent, his mind stirred into a boiling stew by the very mention of the name Gordon Cranston. Memories begin to simmer on the flame of his emotions. Cranston the missionary. Cranston the lover. Cranston the patient teacher, the selfless rescuer, the fortunate mate-to-be of an heiress. All of it lies and deceit. Every devious action calculated to advance a plot hatched in London.

  This long-awaited day will finally relieve Ollie of the awful bitterness that he has carried for so many years. This evening the true face of Gordon Cranston will be exposed to the thousands who have come to hear his lies. Of all the devils who wear the cleric’s mantle—Walter Nettleship, Reginald Pennick, the unfaithful camp-meeting preacher and so many others—Gordon Cranston is the king of religious whores. And he is still perpetrating his spiritual atrocities on unsuspecting victims!

  His strides have shortened and now he stops, takes a deep breath. The comforting scent of pine and freshly cut wood calms him. What a perfect venue for the completion of his mission.

  A quiet voice from behind startles him. A feminine voice. “Excuse me, sir,” it says.

  Ollie turns to see a plain but pretty young woman looking up at him. She looks vaguely familiar.

  As he catches her eye, she looks down at her shoes. “Sorry to bother you,” she says.

  “No bother,” Ollie says with a smile.

  Alice looks up and sees the smile. Yes, there can be no doubt. What had the preacher said? Oh yes, Tarry not. Be bold. She has no idea what to say next but opens her mouth, confident that God will control her tongue. “I believe, sir, that you have come here to find someone.”

  There. It’s done.

  But as Alice immediately considers the words she has just heard herself speak she is horrified. My God, what manner of introduction is this? He will think I’m a lunatic!” She fights to retain her faith in God.

  Misunderstanding her, Ollie is astonished at the statement. How could this woman possibly know about Gordon Cranston? Even Jonathon is ignorant of his plans. “Actually,” he mumbles, “the truth is yes, I came here to find someone.”

  Ollie’s friendly tone restores Alice’s confidence. The man did not go racing off! Rejoicing in this small miracle, she finds the strength to reply. “I was quite sure of it. Very sure.” Well—that was inane.

  “I don’t believe we’ve met before,” Ollie says. “May I ask how you knew my intentions?”

  There is the hint of an accent in his speech—English, perhaps?—and it has a most soothing yet provocative effect on Alice. A man of the world! Would it be too bold to wrap her arms around him and smother him in kisses?

  “God,” she says.

  “Pardon me?”

  “God. He sometimes shows me things, and he showed me you.”

  Ollie’s eyes widen. This was not an answer that he expected. The woman makes no sense. Or perhaps she is an oracle. For just an instant Ollie feels that God is calling him out, letting him know that his actions are being noted.

  Alice senses his confusion and says, “I’m sure that makes no sense, does it? But you see, I’ve been asking myself why I recognize you but you don’t recognize me. I believe that you were led here by God for a reason that you don’t yet understand.”

  Ollie finds this thought most unappealing. He certainly knows why he came here. The idea that God led him here for some other purpose—well, that’s pretty much out of the question. Nothing will prevent Ollie from his ultimate act of revenge.

  “My name is Oliver Chadwick,” he says, changing the topic. “From London, by way of New York City.”

  “I’m very happy to meet you, Mr. Chadwick. I’m Alice Crenshaw, one of the speakers at this grand event.”

  They politely nod to each other. “My mother frequently spoke at meetings of Evangelicals in London,” Ollie says, knowing that Alice will misconstrue this as a prideful boast.

  Alice replies, “I’m the only offspring of my father, a long-time preacher in these parts. Originally from Vermont. I learned from listening to him, never expecting that one day he would become unable to preach and I would take his place. Kind of an unwitting protégé, I guess you’d say.”

  “Miss Crenshaw, why did you seek me out just now?”

  This startles Alice. She was just easing into comfortable small-talk and then, bam! He put her on the spot. She hopes God has more words for her to speak. But instead of words, she receives insight. As she looks into this man’s eyes, deeply for the first time, she can see things. Disturbing things. She can see unhappiness hidden beneath the handsome countenance, anger swirling in the wake of his smile, a quiet desperation smoldering behind his eyes, and pain—such intense pain that she can feel it herself.

  “I apologize for my abruptness,” Ollie says in the uncomfortable silence. He fears that he has offended this poor woman, and he hadn’t meant to. He rather likes her. “I’m just tired from a long ride here, please forgive me.”

  Alice rubs her arms as if wiping out the pain that had been transferred to her. In a flash she understands what is going on, and it is so much more wonderful than she had imagined.

  “There is nothing for me to forgive, Mr. Chadwick,” she says. Her tone is lower, more soothing and confident. She smiles and her smile warms Ollie, as if the sun had just emerged from a cloud. “I’m afraid I was mistaken. You see, I had thought that you were sent here for me.”

  Ollie looks at her quizzically.

  “But now I see that the truth is quite the opposite,” she adds. “I was sent here for you.”

  Chapter 29

  In the food tent, Jonathon can see Ollie and a young woman he recognizes from the speaker’s platform. With a casual gait, he approaches the table and says to the woman, “Good evening, I’m Jonathon Fury, nice to meet you.” The words sound more spiteful than intended, he thinks, then worries that his chief motive may be jealousy.

  Ollie steps into the breach and says, “Alice Crenshaw, this is my assistant. Actually, the finest daguerreotypist in the country.”

  “Nice to meet you,” Alice says, “but I’m afraid I don’t know what a daguerreotypist is. I assume, though, that if you work with Ollie it has something to do with the newspaper business.”

  Jonathon smiles broadly and, he hopes, not too insincerely. “I make pictures to illustrate his stories,” he replies.

  “Drawings?” Alice asks.

  “No, something altogether new,” Jonathon explains. “In fact, I have my camera just outside the tent. Perhaps you will allow me to demonstrate.”

  Jonathon leads the pair out of the tent and reveals that the c
amera obscura is already set up on its tripod. In great detail he explains the technology of the camera and shows samples of the stunning images he has made at previous camp-meetings.

  “I wonder if you would allow me to take your picture,” Jonathon says.

  “Oh goodness no,” Alice says. “I’m not anything that someone would like to look at.”

  Ollie interrupts. “I think you’re beautiful. I would like to have a picture of you, to remind me of this occasion.”

  “Well then, maybe—” she says.

  “Excellent!” Jonathon shouts, and begins to give her instructions.

  As Alice shyly cooperates, Ollie studies her face. She is not a mesmerizing beauty like his mother or Mary Brown, but she has kind and attractive features. Plain, yes, but fresh and wholesome. And then it strikes Ollie—she shuns make-up. And jewelry. That’s the difference. Her beauty is not aided by paint and powder, nor framed by glittering beads or fabulous wigs. Everything about her is genuine Alice. And now, the way that the late afternoon sun burnishes her face with a buttery glow, she seems somehow angelic.

  “Thank you,” Jonathon says, abruptly halting Ollie’s reverie. “I’ll leave you two now. I want to get a few more pictures before the light is gone and the evening service starts.”

  As Jonathon leaves, Alice turns to Ollie and says, “Would you like to sit with me this evening? I don’t have to be on the platform.”

  “I’d like that very much,” Ollie says instinctively, then realizes that he has sabotaged himself. How can he humiliate a friend of this wonderful young woman while he is sitting next to her at the service? What would she think of him? He cannot do such a thing, at least not this evening. Fortunately, Gordon Cranston will be speaking for the next three nights. Ollie will find the right time.

  “I would like to stretch my legs a bit. Will you walk with me?” Alice asks.

  “Of course.” Ollie realizes that he seems to have no will of his own while he is with Alice. He is drawn to her goodness. She lives in a world of superstition that he has rejected, but he senses a refreshing pureness of spirit that he has never encountered before.

  They walk through the camp-grounds. He hears praying from some of the tents, children laughing, scripture being recited. An old woman sings a hymn, her voice cracking in emotion. The camp-grounds contain everything that Ollie has come to despise—the piety and emotionalism, the delusions of divine grandeur, the intellectual manipulation, the fraudulent belief in a kind and beneficent God—yet with Alice at his side these things seem less detestable. How can he hate what seems to bring an abundance of joy to a woman of such decency?

  She takes his arm, and the warmth of her hand is like a candle illuminating the darkness of his soul. For several minutes they just walk, without words, and she seems completely at peace, as if the weight of the world had been lifted from her and she could float above the tents. How Ollie would love to float with her, but he is tethered to the ground, to the rock of revenge, and all he can do is wonder at her happiness.

  It has been wearing on him, this matter of Gordon Cranston, and how Alice had come to know him. Ollie knows it may break the dreamlike mood, but he has to know. “Alice, have you known Cranston for a long time?”

  “Oh my, what a question,” she says. “Now I have to think, and I was having such a good time simply enjoying the present company without thinking.”

  “Sorry,” he says.

  “No, that’s all right. Let me see now. Gordon is an Englishman, did you know that?”

  “I did, actually.”

  “Worked as a missionary for some time, then lived in France for a while. Apparently he found France disagreeable for some reason and came to the New World for a fresh start. He met my father one evening when the Reverend was a guest speaker at a church service in Boston. He was so moved by the sermon that he answered the call and came forward, though he was a minister himself. He said that he had fallen out of favor with God and had been in league with the devil. Had done some horrible things, he said, that had injured people he loved, and when God visited upon him terrible trials in France, he saw that he was deserving of it and came near to taking his own life in remorse.”

  Ollie listens carefully. When Alice pauses, he asks, “He seemed sincere?”

  “Oh my, yes. I was there that evening. He sobbed and sobbed. And the next day he came by and talked to us some more. Wanted a fresh start, he said. He didn’t know how to make amends to those he had hurt except to help a multitude of others come to know Jesus. Daddy—the Reverend—gave him the job of helping prepare his sermons. Gordon knew his Bible, I can tell you that much. Before long he was delivering sermons himself, and people were responding to his message. Daddy said he had a gift.”

  “A gift,” Ollie repeats.

  “He works for no pay, just expenses. But still, there is a sadness in him. As though there is unfinished business that he must attend to. I hope I’m not being too bold, Oliver, when I say that I see the same kind of sadness in you.”

  Ollie looks at Alice without speaking. Too many thoughts are spinning in his head. Is it possible that a rogue like Gordon Cranston could be transformed? “Did he ever say who it was that he hurt in England?”

  “Did I say they were in England? I guess I did. No, he never mentioned them by name. But wait a minute, we’re at my tent. Let me get something.”

  Alice rushes into the tent and after a moment flings back the flap and emerges with a book. “He gave me this book,” she says, handing it to Ollie. “Said he knew the folks in the story from his days as a missionary. He never said as much, but my guess is that the people in it have something to do with his sadness.”

  Ollie takes the book, Midnight March to Freedom by Anne Chadwick and Herbert Eaton. “Have you read it?” he asks.

  “Oh yes. Amazing adventure. It’s supposed to be true.”

  “Really?” Ollie says. “Mind if I borrow it?”

  “Not at all.”

  Ollie is anxious to remove the book, with its many references to Anne and Ollie Chadwick, from Alice’s possession.

  He is not sure why. But some things are best kept secret.

  Chapter 30

  Jonathon finds Ollie tending to his horse, a muscular chestnut bay. He watches for a moment as Ollie caringly strokes the animal with the palms of his hands, then begins to firmly massage the massive leg muscles with his strong fingers. Big muscles, big pain, Ollie had once told Jonathon. They can’t speak, you know, so it’s up to us to look out for them.

  The horse sighs.

  Jonathon is fascinated that his troubled friend can be so tender with animals and so cruel to people. From their conversations on the trail, he gathers that Ollie despises the self-proclaimed men of God in particular because they are supposed to look out for their suffering flocks, but too often end up fleecing them instead. Big pain, big opportunity. He suspects, though, that Ollie’s bigger problem is with God Himself.

  Inspired by Ollie’s thoughtfulness to his horse, Jonathon steps across the straw-covered ground and begins to deeply massage his black mare. The horse winces.

  “Start out gently,” Ollie says. “and you’ll find where the pain is. She’ll let you know when you can work it a little harder.”

  “How’ll she do that?”

  “She won’t kick you.”

  “Oh.”

  Jonathon gently skims his hands over the animals flesh. “Seems like a pretty nice girl.”

  “Keep doing that and she’ll be in love,” Ollie replies.

  “I was talking about Alice.”

  “Alice? Yeah, she’s nice. A good conversationalist.”

  “Uh-huh. She seems to like you.”

  “She’s a preacher. Wants to save me, I suspect.”

  “Maybe.” Jonathon finds a sore spot in his animal’s rear leg and begins to work it gently. “Are you going to tear her down like the other preachers?”

  Ollie sternly faces Jonathon. “What are you talking about?”

  “I
’m talking about the preacher back in Albany.”

  “He deserved it, you can’t say that he didn’t.”

  “And the liquor stands and the mobs.”

  Ollie silently turns back to his horse, his fingers kneading deeply into the throbbing muscles.

  “I’m talking about the vandalism,” Jonathon says. “The drunks cursing in front of the children. The innocent people hurt. And the manipulation. Ollie, can’t you see it? The very thing you hate in these preachers you’re guilty of yourself.”

  Ollie’s horse screeches in pain, then kicks and stomps as Ollie’s fingers probe too deeply, too angrily. Ollie backs away with a flushed face and wheels to face Jonathon again. “I have my reasons,” he says, restraining himself.

  “Sure you do. Everyone has reasons.”

  Now that Jonathon has finally spoken up he can’t stop. His pent-up anger explodes with sarcasm. “So what’s your reason here? Maybe I know. You’ve never shown up a woman preacher. Got some goods on her?” God, it feels good to lash out like this. “When will you take it to her, Ollie? Tomorrow morning when she’s at the pulpit? Or maybe you’ll wait, it’ll hurt worse the more she likes you. What is it this time, she a whore?”

  Ollie lunges at Jonathon. They crash into a wooden railing and fall into the prickly straw, wrestling, Ollie on top. Jonathon rolls him off and jumps to his feet, but Ollie grabs a leg and pulls him back down, cracking Jonathon’s head on a spot of bare ground. Ollie clambers back on top, sitting on Jonathon’s chest and raising his fist to strike a blow to the face. But he hesitates as he sees Jonathon open his eyes and look up at him.

  Jonathon says, “Hit me then. Take it out on me like you do the preachers.”

  Ollie lowers his fist, grabs the front of Jonathon’s shirt with both hands and shakes the man like a rag doll.

  When it is over, Jonathon says, “It’s still not enough, is it? Never will be. You can’t punish God by punishing His creation.”

  Ollie releases Jonathon’s shirt, bends over to look him in the eye, then says, “Don’t ever call her a whore!” He stands up and storms out of the stable.