Part 47 (1/2)

With a steady, pounding cadence he went down the universal list of vices, added a few of his own-sports on Sunday and cable TV-and condemned them all. He warned the President, he warned Congress, he warned Hollywood, and he warned the game shows and soap operas. He dealt in depth with the horrible things G.o.d had planned for sinners like us and told us he'd learned how hot h.e.l.l was-at least ten times the heat of a nuclear blast, the difference being, it lasts and lasts. With help from the song leader he took off his suit coat and then wiped the sweat from his brow. He kept going, hot and heavy, wheeling from one side of the platform to the other, his weak and faulty arms swatting invisible bees, his voice bouncing off the walls.

For forty minutes he scared the bejeebers out of us, and when our terror of G.o.d and judgment had reached just the right level, he brought Jesus into it, rolling along at such a clip that ”Jesus” was ”Jesus-uh” and ”judgment” was ”judgment-uh.” The place was rocking with the rhythm of his words: He'd say it, we'd answer; he gave it, we took it; he shouted, we praised; back and forth, back and forth, yea and Amen. Finally, he gave the invitation and folks began moving to the altar to pray as Sister Cantwell, white-haired and serene, softly played ”Almost Persuaded” on the organ.

So this was Sister Lois Cantwell. I had to wonder about her. She seemed so gentle, so small, such a contrast to the fiery, rough-hewn reverend. She was dark-skinned too, probably of Hispanic or Native American descent. Recalling Mrs. Sullivan's advice, I thought I might approach her first.

I got my chance as the service ended and the refreshed and rededicated saints filed out. ”Sister Cantwell?”

She was still seated at the organ, just saying good-bye to a sister in the Lord. She extended her hand. ”h.e.l.lo. And you are?”

”Travis Jordan. I was wondering if I might have a word with you and your husband?” I dropped a hint. ”I'm from Antioch, Was.h.i.+ngton.” That didn't faze her. ”My, you're far from home, aren't you?”

”Yes, ma'am.”

”So what brings you here?”

I braced myself, lowered my voice, and said, ”Justin Cantwell.”

That did faze her. She placed her hand over her heart and I thought she'd stopped breathing. ”Who are you?”

”I'm Travis Jordan,” I repeated. ”I'm a schoolteacher from Antioch, Was.h.i.+ngton. I was also a minister in the Pentecostal Mission church for over fifteen years.”

”Have you seen my son?” she nearly whispered.

”Yes, I have. He's in Antioch. We've visited on many occasions.”

She was obviously starving for news, any news. ”Is he all right? What's he doing?”

”h.e.l.lo!” With a booming, gravelly, slurred voice, the reverend rolled up. ”Ernest Cantwell!” He offered his bent, half-limp hand.

”And who might you be?”

”Travis Jordan,” I said, knowing his toothy smile was going to vanish the moment I said more.

Sister Cantwell said it first. ”He knows our son.” The reverend seemed perplexed. She further clarified, ”Justin.”

The smile vanished and that glare intensified. ”So what are you doing here?”

With my eyes I indicated that other people were still around.

”Is there someplace we could talk privately?”

”What about?”

”About Justin,” his wife whispered with a plea in her voice.

”Conway!” the reverend hollered, and a man near the door immediately turned our way. He was big and had those cold, animal eyes required of any good tavern bouncer. Oh brother, I thought, I'm going to get thrown out of here.

”Ernest . . .” Sister Cantwell pleaded.

Reverend Cantwell spun his chair around and started wheeling toward the center aisle, zigzagging between folks visiting and praying. ”Conway, open up the office. We have to meet with this, this, whatever he is.”

I stood there. Sister Cantwell gave me a gentle touch on the arm, prodding me. ”Please.”

I weaved past the pet.i.tioning saints and down the center aisle with Sister Cantwell right behind me and Conway the bouncer dead ahead. He had opened a door on the left side of the foyer and now stood there while the reverend wheeled inside. I followed the reverend, and the reverend's wife followed me.

We were in the pastor's office. He wheeled himself behind his desk and hollered to Conway from there, ”You want to hang around, Conway? I might need you.”

Conway nodded a slow, insider's kind of smile, and closed the office door as a sheriff would close a jail cell.

”Have a seat,” said Cantwell.

His wife already occupied one of the two available chairs. I planted myself in the other, my Bible and valise in my lap.

The reverend glared at me a moment, then at his wife, then snapped at me with a flicker of his hand, ”So, speak!”

I reached into my valise and pulled out the photos and news clippings again. This was getting to be a routine. I pa.s.sed the photos to Mrs. Cantwell, explaining who I was, where I was from, and what was going on up there-and how a young man had come to town acting like some kind of new, improved messiah. At first sight of the photos, Mrs. Cantwell gasped, her hand over her mouth. Tears filled her eyes.

”Conway!” the reverend yelled, and the door burst open. Conway looked ready to pummel me. ”I want to see these pictures!”

Conway walked right in front of me, grabbed the pictures from Mrs. Cantwell, and handed them over to the reverend.

”Stick around,” the reverend ordered, and Conway took his place against the door like an obedient, 280-pound Doberman. Cantwell studied the photos one at a time, his hands inept and fumbling. Then he threw them spitefully on his desk. ”So what?”

My eyes drifted to a picture on the bookshelf: Reverend and Mrs. Cantwell in their earlier years. Reverend Cantwell was standing.

Cantwell didn't appreciate my looking at it. He reached over and tried to grab it, fumbling the picture frame so that it fell face down with a loud smack. The cuff of his s.h.i.+rt sleeve was unb.u.t.toned. I saw a jagged scar on his forearm, but looked away before he knew it. Conway stepped in and positioned the picture safely on the shelf, face down.

”Is this man your son?” I asked, indicating the photos.

”Our son is dead.”

Mrs. Cantwell groaned in anguish. ”Ernest, don't say that!”

He only reaffirmed it. ”Justin is dead as far as I'm concerned. He's dead to this house, dead to this church, dead to this town. We don't want to see him again.” He used both hands to gather up the pictures. ”And we don't appreciate your bringing him back!” He handed the photos to Conway, who handed them back to me.

”Sir, I'm not so sure I want him in my town either. I'm not here to defend him or meddle with the past-”

”Then don't!”

Mrs. Cantwell pleaded, ”Ernest-”

He pointed a jagged finger at her. ”And you be still! I've said all I'm going to say about this.

Conway, show this man to the door!” Conway opened the office door and, valuing my life, I took my cue. I packed up my photos and clippings and got out of there. I could hear Mrs. Cantwell sobbing as I left, and her husband barking at her, ”Stop that! Just stop that right now! He's dead! He's dead!

” Conway not only showed me to the door, he accompanied me clear across the street to my car. I scanned the surrounding street and sidewalks. Some people were still around, meaning there would be witnesses if this guy clobbered me. Unfortunately, they seemed to be making it a point not to look in our direction. We reached the car and I pulled the keys from my coat pocket.

”Uh, listen, Conway, I'm not trying to stir up trouble. I have trouble and I'm trying to get some help. If you know anything-”

”Let me give you some advice.” These were the first words I'd heard Conway speak. ”Go home and take care of your own problems, and don't bring 'em back here again.” He lowered his voice but didn't sound any kinder. ”Justin Cantwell is pure poison. That's all you need to know. I ran him in several times and I never saw anybody come closer to being the devil than that kid.”