Sweet Jesus (31 page)

Forget that people used to be successful farmers in this region, Sandy said.

Or that we have a rich local history of religious and political dissent, Beverly said. Now all the farmland is owned by multinational corporations, and we’re under the thumb of right-wing evangelicals. Beverly took off her baseball cap and put it on the table. She pushed her hands through her thick grey hair and massaged the back of her neck. There’s still a big deception afoot, she said. Four years ago, good Christian working-class people heard his moral rhetoric and thought McCain had their best interests at heart because they’re on the same page when it comes to abortion. But the Republican Party hasn’t changed. It’s still an exclusive party representing the interests of the wealthy elite. Only they don’t like to talk about that anymore because being rich isn’t the proud mark of superiority it once was.

If it was up to the state of Kansas, Beverly went on, Obama would never have won in the first place. McCain would have got into the White House, and the lies and misinformation perpetrated after 9/11 would never have come to light. But it’s not over. There’s still a lot of crap flying around, what with the right-wing media and bullshit from preachers like this Fred Phelps guy we have here.

Oh, my God, Sandy said. He’s so horrendous!

This guy, Beverly said, rounds up a group from his church whenever he hears that somebody’s died of
AIDS
. They go and picket the funeral with signs that say, God hates fags. They chant
faggot
at the top of their lungs near the graveside, right in front of the grieving family and friends. Can you believe that?

Zeus shook his head. He was clawing the sticker off his beer bottle.

Sandy squeezed his arm gently, in sympathy. She said, This morning I was reading about the latest university campus shooting, and recognized in the list of victims the name of one of my professors. He was a prominent biomechanics researcher. Maybe one of the top five researchers in the country. He was working on movement dynamics in cerebral palsy. I saw him a few years ago at a conference on socialized medicine. A good man like that gets shot, while the Phelps of this world seem protected.

They’re protected by the people they can bully, Zeus said. His fury seemed barely contained.

It’s true, Beverly said. Look at how
cowed
we all are. Where are all the free thinkers, willing to put themselves at risk? Why aren’t we all more outraged, all of the time? Like that Chinese student who stood in front of the tanks in Tiananmen Square. That’s what we should all aspire to be. As brave as that solitary, determined student, with his white shirt sleeves rolled up, carrying his briefcase.

C
onnie started to eat a damp tuna wrap she’d bought at the snack bar in the lobby. The eating area was full, so she wandered outside, where she chucked the rest of her sandwich in the garbage and thought about going back to the hotel to see how her mother was doing. She looked at her watch. It was ten past two. After the service, she’d been prayed for and it had left her feeling tired but thoughtful. She must have written in her journal for over an hour. It was coming up to her appointment time with the prophecy team and she didn’t want to be late for that. What would it be like? she thought. Would God speak to her through the agency of a prophetic counsellor, and would she recognize it if he did? She so badly wanted to feel, on this trip, like she’d got some irrefutable proof, beyond her own decision to believe in him, that God existed. Other people spoke with such certainty about hearing the voice of God, but she’d never even gotten close. She wondered where her sister was, and if she’d make it on time.

To her left, a small group of people were gathering around a van. The back doors were propped open and a girl of about ten, in overalls and a sweater, was standing there, clacking a pair of metal tongs. There was a steel coffee urn in the van and a tower of styrofoam cups. A woman held out a white paper napkin, and the girl used her tongs to pluck a cinnamon bun from a sticky metal tray and hand it to her.

You gonna have one? a man asked. He seemed to have magically appeared at Connie’s side. I recommend them.

They smell good.

My wife makes them.

She must be a good baker.

She’s the best.

The man extended a hand the colour and texture of a worn baseball glove. But then I did marry her. The name’s Dashiel Flander.

Connie Foster.

You’re not from around here, are you.

Vancouver Island.

God seems to have called people from the four corners of the globe to come here this weekend. He pushed back the crown of his trucker’s cap. You’re smack-dab in the heart of the United States of America, here in Wichita.

I can feel it, Connie said. I take it you live around here?

Dashiel turned a little and pointed beyond the big hall. We’re about thirty-five miles southwest. My wife and I run a residential detox centre. We’ve been hearing about Chad Dorian and his ministry for some time now. Got wind of this here jamboree and thought we’d check it out. See if we could help. See if anyone needed hot coffee, he laughed. Cinnamon buns are a real ice-breaker. My daughter and I call them my wife’s ministry muffins. You got kids?

Three, Connie said. One girl, younger than yours, and two boys.

Bet the boys are a handful.

Emma has her way of keeping me busy too, she said. So what do you make of this here jamboree?

Well, I had a poke around inside, Dashiel said, and I think we’ll take part in the service tonight. But this here is what I’d call some large-scale evangelicalism.

There’s something about a crowd, Connie said.

Oh, yes, there’s powerful energy in a crowd.

And support.

You hit the nail on the head there, Connie. Now
that’s
something there just ain’t enough of in this world. That’s why I opened up the detox centre. Had a little stint with the booze myself when I was younger. Booze and pills. Wound up on the streets in Fort Worth. Oh, it was the best of times, Dashiel said and his delivery was comical. It was the worst of times. You see, I had no support. There ain’t two ways about it. My parents had both passed away and you never think you’re gonna end up one day without a friend in the world to help you get by, but you’d be surprised how many people find themselves in that position.

When I finally crawled back home, he said, with my tail between my legs, I knew what it was like to be homeless and rebuked. Dad’s farm was still in the family name, but it had fallen into disrepair. I wasn’t up to the new farming methods and that’s when God must’ve looked down on me and thought, Okay, now there’s a sinner I could use. I found myself in the Salvation Army building one night, sitting in a little circle of men. They were all chain-smoking and sucking back this terrible black coffee, and every time a man raised one of those soft white styrofoam cups to his mouth, his hand shook so bad the
coffee would spill all over his knuckles. When I took a sip from my own cup, I realized I was no different from those guys. I’d turned into one of them. That night, I accepted Jesus Christ as my Lord and Saviour and was born again. Three months later, I opened the farm to some other addicts who wanted a chance to get clean, without the hassle of the streets, you know, pushers and other addicts.

The neighbours were less than thrilled, but they’ve come around. We started offering volunteer manpower at harvest time and try generally to keep our guests productive. That’s the best therapy. We now have about forty residents. Two barns converted into dormitories, one for the women, one for the men. Six extra beds in our own home, for residents with children.

Sounds like you’re doing a terrific job, Connie said.

Oh, you know, Dashiel said, it’s not me. It’s really the people who come and get clean that deserve the credit.

I’d like to be involved in something like that.

Connie, the need is great. These people are so poor. Last month, we delivered a baby. The mother didn’t have any medical insurance. She’s a recovering heroin addict. Well, the baby, you should have seen her. Came out yellow as a Chiquita banana, so we called her Chiquita. She’s as healthy as a peach now.

Connie smiled and said, not self-pityingly, but with true humility, You make me feel like a fraud. I’ve never done a good generous thing like that in my whole life.

Connie walked back inside and followed the arrows for the prophetic ministry, up a set of stairs that led to a small second storey, the kind of floor where a boss might look out over his factory workers, safe above the thundering sound of a thousand industrial sewing machines. At the top of the stairs, a woman sat behind a desk collecting appointment cards. It smelled like
air freshener, a bubble-gum smell. Can I keep mine? Connie asked and opened her bag and showed the woman how she’d already stuck her card into her journal. The woman said, Oh, you’re good. Look at you. Aren’t you good.

She directed Connie down the hall towards what looked like a classroom. There were rows of wooden chairs and about fifteen people sitting around, some talking in low voices while others read their Bibles or simply sat and stared. The sound was of a hushed expectancy. Connie took a seat in the third row, and a woman with brassy dyed hair came in wearing a dark green wool wrap, which she flung over her shoulder before pointing to a row of four people and saying, Come with me.

A man at the back said, What about the people who’ve been here since one-thirty?

Who’s been here for more than an hour? the woman said.

Half a dozen hands rose into the air.

Okay, sorry, folks, she said to the first group of four, who sat down again, looking disgruntled, and led the other six people out of the room.

It doesn’t usually take this long, Connie heard a woman say.

A man mumbled, What is this, the gates of heaven?

Connie felt as if the room had suddenly turned into a gypsy tent, with paper lanterns and strings of red chili-pepper lights. What was she doing here? What was she after? She wanted a mystical experience of God, but is this where she was going to find it? In this assembly line? The tone was so crass, it made the whole thing seem ridiculous.

Now a man was taking an informal census of the people in the room, trying to figure out who had waited the longest and who should go next. I used to be a crossing guard, he joked, directing a few people to get up and sit near the front.

Another man laughed and said, You have the gifts of administration and provenance.

Connie closed her eyes. When it was her turn, she followed the lady with the brassy hair out of the room and passed Hannah on her way. You came! she said, holding back nothing of her relief. Come with me, she said and grabbed her sister’s arm. Have you been drinking? she whispered.

We went into town, Hannah said.

Where’s Zeus?

He’s outside somewhere.

Connie shook her head and led her sister into the prophecy room. Inside, there were two circles of chairs, one on either side, tape recorders on some of the seats – the kind with the flip-up cassette slots – and maybe twenty people.

What are the tape recorders for? Hannah asked.

You get a recording of what they say to you, Connie said and suddenly realized she didn’t want Hannah to overhear what the prayer counsellors might tell her. This should be private, she said, for both of us. We should probably separate.

Fine, Hannah said and headed off, seemed to remember something, came back and handed Connie a letter. It’s from Harlan, she said, and Connie quickly pressed it against her chest with a look of panic.

Don’t read it now, Hannah said. It’ll colour your experience.

I guess so, Connie said.

It’s not urgent, Hannah said. It’s a letter.

You’re right, Connie said and slid the envelope into her Bible.

Hannah made her way across the room and, as she slipped between two chairs to take a seat, turned and gave Connie a goofy wave, as if they were both climbing into different cars on a rollercoaster.

Connie felt such affection for her sister then. She loved it when Hannah was funny. Two women on her right stood up and put their hands on a man’s head and started praying over him. Another man was kneeling in front of a black woman, in a pale blue business suit, and prayed while holding her knees. It’s loud, Connie thought. It sounds like the sea. All those susurrating voices. She tried not to stare as four people prayed in a muscular, energetic way over a young man, kneeling on the floor in the corner of the room. He was bent forward with his forehead on the carpet and Connie heard someone say, God loves you, Kurt. And it reminded her of Harlan’s description of his own conversion, twenty years ago, at a Leighton Ford crusade.

Across from her, a Chinese woman sat with an older couple who must have been her parents. An attractive couple, with kind, gentle faces – even their posture had a cheerful grace about it. The father in a pressed white shirt and olive-green, high-waisted slacks. His wife in a navy blue windbreaker. Their daughter had her arm in a sling, and a bearded man was praying for her.

I see a town crier, he said.

The young woman didn’t know what he meant.

That you will cry Jesus to the people, the man explained. Tell people all about him.

As if jolted by an electrical current, she rose up in her chair and cried out a sustained musical note, like a ribbon pulled across the room. It was joyous and painful, as lonely as a train whistle, and then it subsided and she sank primly back into her seat, as glassy-eyed and limp as if she’d just had an orgasm. A moment later, she cried out again, singing her one ardent note, oblivious to anything else, carried out of herself by some divine power.

I want something like that to happen to me, Connie thought, and she looked across the room at Hannah. Already a woman had sat down with her, to impart a message. Connie started to feel sorry for herself. Even here, she wondered, in this place, am I to be overlooked? I want, she prayed, to feel blown away by you, Lord. Crush me, if you have to. Devastate me. Just don’t ignore me!