Part 22 (1/2)

”That's right. Where were you born? Where'd you grow up?”

”It'll cost you dinner with me.”

He was smiling at her, waiting for an answer. Something in his eyes chilled her.

She called, ”Kim?” Kim looked up. ”Let's get a picture of Mr.

Nichols to go with our story.”

”Sure thing.” Kim reached for her camera.

Nichols was on his feet. ”Not today.”

”C'mon,” Nancy prodded, ”it'll only take a second.”

”The dinner invitation is still open. Call me at the ranch.”

He turned and hurried through the store and out the door.

Kim stood with her camera, eyebrows high with surprise. ”Wow.”

”Like Superman and kryptonite,” said Nancy.

”Was he . . . hitting on you?”

”Aw. . .” Nancy turned to her desk. ”I could never prove it to anybody.”

Kim stood there, waiting.

”Yes, he was,” Nancy finally answered, and by now she was shuffling through papers and yellow post-it notes trying to find a phone number. Ah, there it was. Nevin Sorrel, Mrs. Macon's lanky, former hired hand, had said he had something very serious to tell her about Brandon Nichols. At the time he called, Nancy wasn't interested in gossipy stuff from a resentful semiliterate, but she was seeing things a little differently now.

AS FOR WHAT Morgan Elliott was thinking, I hadn't heard-that is, until she called and asked to see me, which was the last thing I expected. I'd mostly been friends with her late husband, Gabe, and apart from the ministerial meetings, hadn't seen much of Morgan after his death. Considering my reputation with the open-minded, liberal, and tolerant faction of the ministerial-and her apparent alignment with that camp-it seemed best to steer clear of her anyway.

Well, so much for that. What she wanted to see me about I had no idea, but I now had an official, three o'clock appointment with Pastor Elliott. I arrived promptly, parked in front of the Methodist church, and went through the big double doors. A lady in jeans was mopping the floor in the foyer and told me yes, the pastor was in her office, located at the front of the sanctuary, through a door just to the right of the chancel.

I'd forgotten how cla.s.sy this old church was, and enjoyed my short walk down the center aisle. This was a building in the old tradition, dark stone on the outside, fancy woodwork and plaster on the inside, with a high, vaulted ceiling and stained gla.s.s windows. The pews were stout and hand-carved, the deep red cus.h.i.+ons a later improvement. The original floorboards under the carpet had been squeaking in the same places for decades, and overhead were the black iron chandeliers that came by s.h.i.+p and rail from England in 1924-Gabe told me all about it.

The door to the pastor's office was open and I could see Reverend Morgan Elliott seated at her desk in a dark suit, white blouse, and dark blue scarf. Her long, curly hair was pinned back today and she was working intently, her round gla.s.ses perched on the end of her nose. Feeling some anxiety, I knocked gently on the doorjamb. She looked up and smiled, and then she stood, extending her hand. ”Hi. Please come in.”

I shook her hand and took the chair facing her desk. I had no idea how I should conduct myself: As a friend? A neighbor? A fellow professional? Maybe a condemned heretic. I'd just have to wait and see.

”So how in the world are you?” she asked, setting aside her work and then resting her chin on her fingers.

”Doing all right.” It was a comfortable, generic kind of answer. ”How about yourself?”

She didn't answer quickly, and her answer wasn't comfortable for either of us. ”I have some things I need to talk with you about.”

Uh-oh. I once had a vice princ.i.p.al who said exactly those words in exactly that tone of voice. Not knowing whether to expect a chat or a lecture, I ventured, ”This is kind of unusual, you and I having a meeting.”

She shrugged one shoulder. ”I'm taking a chance that I've read you correctly. If I had this meeting with anyone else, I'd get a party line, predictable answer or no answer at all. But you seem to be in a different place right now.”

”A different place?”

She c.o.c.ked her head to one side and gave an apologetic smile. ”You faced down Armond Harrison in front of the whole ministerial. You organized a picket protest outside the theater when they showed an X-rated movie. You led a March for Jesus down the highway through town. You were pastoring Antioch Pentecostal Mission long before Gabe and I got here, and we always knew what to expect from you.”

I caught her point. ”Things have changed a little.”

”I'm guessing you're on the outside. Things have to look different from out there. Do they?”

I stared at her, off-balance.

”Do they?” she asked again.

I knew the answer, but I was dumbfounded to hear Morgan Elliott asking the question. ”Yes. They do. Things look a lot different. Not always in focus, but definitely different.”

”Then maybe we can compare notes. Things are starting to look different to me too, and I'm not sure what to do about it.” She looked at the ceiling and squinted as if seeing something in the distance. ”I have this picture in my mind. I'm eighteen, getting ready to leave home, and I'm standing out in the yard in front of my parents' house in San Jose. I've got clothes in a big duffel bag and a guitar in one of those cheap cardboard cases, and I'm leaving, heading out on my own. But I'm looking back toward the front door, and my folks and my brother and sister are standing there, calling to me, beckoning, telling me to come back inside. *You don't belong out there, come back inside, you need to stay here.'” She stopped abruptly and asked, ”Does any of this sound familiar?”

Maybe. ”Is there more?”

She looked away, replaying the scene in her mind. ”Part of me wants to go back. I mean, it was home. It was secure. I liked living with my folks. It's not like I was rebellious.”

”Uh-huh.”

”But somehow, I . . .” Abruptly, she reached for a yellow legal pad on her desk. ”Maybe we can talk about that later.” She nervously consulted a list she'd scribbled on the yellow pad. ”I've been wracking my brain all morning-well, for several days, actually- and I've narrowed down the topics to three: My church and I aren't getting along; Brandon Nichols isn't Jesus . . .” That was two. I sat there waiting. She sighed, looked at the wall, built up her nerve, and gave me the third: ”Michael the Prophet is my son.”

I didn't react. I couldn't. I had to hear her say that again. ”Excuse me?”

She looked directly at me. She even leaned into it. ”Michael the Prophet-you know, that crazy guy with the shawl and the staff and the cut-off jeans-”

”And the phony British accent.”

”That's the one. Michael is my son. Michael Elliott.”

Slowly, jarringly, the memory dawned. ”I remember you and Gabe talking about Michael. But I never met him.”

”He didn't come to Antioch with us. He'd left home by then, and had started his, his wanderings. We got lots of letters and calls, but he never came home again. He had to be . . . out there. He took in about a year of college, then traveled to India to discover himself and got dysentery. On the way back, he had himself baptized in the Jordan River. He's, well, he's searching.”

”And now he's found Brandon Nichols.”

She gave a slow, painful nod. ”He thinks Brandon Nichols is Jesus. He told me that to my face.”

I didn't mean to smile. ”And you have a problem with that?”

She huffed in frustration. ”Isn't that the limit? I guess I'm upset because he's my son.”

Now that was fascinating. ”Huh.”