Part 16 (1/2)

She really was history. The love we had, transcendent and una.s.sailable, a divine gift, a special miracle forged in the foundries of heaven, ended back in October, as quickly as her resignation. I had refused to accept it, but right now, with my hand still on the telephone, I finally let the truth in: our love was gone. It was over.

And then the dominoes began to fall.

That's the caveat that comes with being ”led by the Spirit”: if you dare to question one thing, you have to question everything. With Amber gone, what did that say about all those visions, signs, and prophecies that G.o.d supposedly gave us? What did the Minneapolis debacle tell me about my encoded prophecy scribbled on the wall of the crab boat? Could I finally admit that boxcars with a big letter ”I” on them belonged to Intermountain Railways and were commonplace in most every major train yard in every major city in the country? Could I admit that a banjo head on special order was bound to arrive sooner or later, G.o.d or no G.o.d, fleece or no fleece? Could I face the fact that Billy Graham and bluegra.s.s having the same initials carried about as much meaning as that license plate with Amber's birthday on it?

When I laid hands on Andy and Karla and prayed for their healing, G.o.d didn't heal them. It wasn't a matter of the healing taking time or them waiting until they had the right degree of faith, or any other explanation we came up with. G.o.d didn't heal them. I thought I had the gift of healing and didn't. I prayed for them to be healed and they weren't. And as for all the shaking I did, well that's exactly what it was: shaking I did.

As to the KenyonaBannister prayer meetings, the original fire had gone out for want of logs on the hearth. The Kenyons and Bannisters were still having their meetings and I suppose Mr. Kenyon was still the bishop of the island, but nothing more remained. David Kenyon had gone back east to college. Bernadette Jones had gotten pregnant-contrary to Mrs. Bannister's prophecy, Barry the boyfriend never became a Christian and they never furthered G.o.d's kingdom together. Karla d.i.c.kens was living in Seattle and pursuing a business degree, while Andy Smith had gotten his girlfriend pregnant, married her, and was currently trying to make a living as a composer and piano teacher. Harold Martin, who once tried to get me to smoke pot, was still smoking pot for all I knew, getting into yoga and eastern religion, and working as a flagman for the county road crew. Clay Olson had gone on to Bible college to pursue the ministry, and Benny Taylor, his pimples now fading, was racking up perfect grades at the University of Was.h.i.+ngton.

We used to be young, unstoppable soldiers of the cross, led by the Spirit, taking the world for Christ as we marched arm in arm. There was going to be a great revival, starting with us. We were on fire and those who were lukewarm would have to get on fire too or eat our dust.

But my fellow soldiers weren't there anymore. While I was chasing visions, signs, and prophecies all the way to Minneapolis, each of them caught a different train and left while I wasn't looking.

In mid-October, I was eighteen, in love, full of the Spirit, and on a train bound for Minneapolis. By mid-January, I was nineteen and a n.o.body with nowhere to go, sitting on the bed in my room at home, plunking absently on a brown, fifty-dollar banjo and feeling a new and frightening kind of loneliness. Jesus seemed far away, and strangely enough, I was content to leave him there. I didn't want to talk to him; I feared and distrusted anything he might say to me.

I was saved, sanctified, born-again, and Spirit-filled, but Jesus and I were strangers.

10.

BRANDON HAD WARNED Mrs. Macon that there would be phone calls and knocks at the door, and his prophetic gifts were right on the money. Ever since that Wednesday afternoon tea, visitors were coming up the long driveway to see the prophet, the Messiah, Jesus, the man claiming to be Jesus, the Avatar of Christ, or anything else people thought he was. On Thursday, just before Mrs. Macon and Brandon agreed that they should get Brandon's ministry-and access to the ranch-organized, scheduled, and restricted, the doorbell rang for the umpteenth time. Mrs. Macon steeled her nerves and opened the door.

A young man stood there, dressed in cut-off jeans and a white tunic, a shawl of some sort draped over his head and a long staff in his hand. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. His beard was immature and wispy, he was lanky, and his face was smooth and unwrinkled. When he spoke, it was in a forced, unnatural British accent. ”h.e.l.lo. My name is Michael. I am seeking the Messiah of Antioch.”

The widow looked over her shoulder and beckoned Brandon with her eyes. He came to the door. ”Yes?”

Young Michael immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed low, his hand on his staff. ”All hail.” He looked up. ”G.o.d has sent me to you. I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord.”

Mrs. Macon had seen a good measure of starry-eyed pilgrims and strange folks come by since yesterday, but this young man was taking strangeness to a new level. She looked at Brandon, wondering what he would do.

To her surprise, Brandon stepped forward, extended his hand, and rested it on the young man's head. ”Michael, you are expected.” He gently took the young man's arm and prompted him to rise to his feet. Then he looked at Mrs. Macon. ”Michael will dine with us tonight. We have much to discuss.”

THURSDAY EVENING, Jim Baylor was getting hungry and dinner was late. Not that it was ever on time. It happened when it happened. But tonight he came home from work and found little indication that it was going to happen.

The house was messy. It was never really neat, but it had an especially neglected look this evening, as if Darlene, their fifteen-year-old daughter, had pa.s.sed through when there was no one there to yell at her.

Dee was sitting at the kitchen table talking on the phone, and that wasn't unusual either. But this evening she was intensely on the phone, so much that she gave Jim one quick little wave to acknowledge his presence and then went back to totally ignoring him.

”You have to meet him,” she was saying. ”Just one look in his eyes and you know you're in the presence of G.o.d! He has the anointing, absolutely!”

Jim came closer. ”Who are you talking to?”

She waved him off and kept talking. ”Get up here as soon as you can. I don't know if he really is Jesus, but . . . oh, you just have to see him, that's all. Once you see him, you'll know.”

Jim surveyed the cluttered kitchen table. They were supposed to be eating off that table right now, but instead of dinner, Dee had a list of names in front of her with many checked off and many more yet to be checked off. ”Dee, what are you doing? You gonna be on the phone all night?”

By now she'd shared all the information she had with the party on the other end, so she went back to go over every thought again. ”Anyway, that's what we did, we went up to the ranch yesterday and had tea with him and Mrs. Macon-and that place was a palace! I know, some women have all the luck!”

Jim felt the sting of that and went into the living room of the crummy, inadequate house he'd provided. Maybe he could put away some of the things he'd sweated and toiled for so the room wouldn't be such a mess. At least he could clear some s.p.a.ce on the couch he provided for his family so he could sit and read the paper, which he also paid for.

”You should have seen that cute outfit she was wearing! She looks great for her age!”

He sat and perused the headlines, tuning out her voice as he had unconsciously learned to do over the years. A door swung open and slammed shut down at the end of the hall. Darlene came into the room, her expression oblivious, her walk dazed and desultory like a week-old, half-filled helium balloon. ”When's dinner?” she asked.

Jim looked over his shoulder at Dee in the kitchen, still on the phone. Well, he might be able to get a response from his daughter. He directed Darlene's attention to the socks, books, clothing, stuffed animals, and other debris that had somehow blown into the living room. ”Darlene, pick all this stuff up and get it out of here.”

”When's dinner?” she insisted.

”Get all your stuff out of here!” he repeated, and then went into the kitchen again. ”Dee, you have a family, remember?”

She made a face at him but finally closed her conversation. ”Okay. Love you too. Bye.”

She pressed and released the little b.u.t.ton on the phone, clearing it for another call. She consulted her list and started dialing.

Jim pressed the b.u.t.ton on the phone and leaned in close. ”You have a family.”

She slapped his hand away from the telephone. ”Don't you tell me what to do!”

He put his hand over it and kept it there. ”How long have you been talking on the phone here? The house is a mess, there's no dinner -”

”You want dinner, get it yourself!” she snapped, and her voice could be like a trumpet when she was angry. ”You think this isn't important? We're being visited-” She cut off her sentence.

”What?”

”You wouldn't understand.”

The raucous sounds of MTV came blasting from the living room. Jim hollered at Darlene, ”Didn't I tell you to put away your stuff? Now get at it!”

She wailed back, ”When's dinner?”

Dee slammed the receiver down and came unglued. ”I can't believe this family! You think my only purpose on earth is to wait on you two? You both have two hands!”

Having once been a marine drill sergeant, Jim was no stranger to yelling. ”I've been working all day long with these two hands to put the food on this table that isn't on the table! What have you been doing all day with your hands? Have you even been home today?”

Then they got into it, and not even MTV could equal the racket. They yelled, raved, and waved their hands at each other. Jim slammed some pans on the stove and she slammed them back in the cupboards. She tried to tell him how unhappy she was while he tried to tell her how ungrateful she was while Darlene flopped into a curled position on the couch and withdrew from the fight, the family, the whole unkind world.

Only the slam of the front door could break through the noise and get Jim and Dee's attention.

”Oh, great, just great!” Jim fumed, storming into the living room. ”Darlene!” He flung open the front door in time to see her running down the street. ”Darlene, come back here!”

Dee yelled from behind him, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, ”Don't yell! You want the neighbors to hear?”

He grabbed his coat out of the hall closet and the car keys off their hook by the door. ”I hope you're satisfied.”

”Yeah, blame me!”

Dee went back into the kitchen and picked up the telephone again, consulting her list.