The Presence (33 page)

She made a final dab at her face, muttered, “Like trying to take the wrinkles out of the Rockies.”

TJ knew better than to offer a compliment when she was suffering from a case of nerves. “Now if you don't like this place, we can always change and go somewhere else.”

“That's the fifth time this morning you've told me,” she said. “Come over here and zip me up.”

He knotted his tie and moved into the bedroom. When the little clasp at the top of her zipper was fastened, she lifted her face, said, “Kiss me before I put my lips on.”

He kissed her, watched her expression in the mirror as she ran the lipstick over her mouth, said, “I'm really glad you're up here, honey.”

She gave herself one more critical glance. “Don't be so worried. I've been going to the same church since I was old enough to walk. This is just something new to me, and it's going to take some time to get used to it.”

“I just want you to be happy.”

She rummaged through her purse, said quietly, “I'll be happy when all this is over and we can go home.” Catherine raised her head, her eyes hard, her chin set and determined. “Ready to go?”

****

“Gonna talk about the fifteenth chapter of Luke today. Can I have me an Amen?”

The congregation called out their response. It was already warm, the air close and sweet with hair oil and perfume. Fans sporting various advertisements were waving from the hands of older members.

The reverend was a sinewy man, there was no other word for it. He moved with strength. When he shot his hand up in the air and the robe fell back, the exposed arm was taut and wiry. When he gripped the podium's dark wood, the hands clenched and tightened and seemed ready to tear chunks out of the sides.

“Jesus gave us three parables, stories about the lost ones in this life. Let me hear an Amen. Yes. Weren't no verses and chapters when these stories were told. Nowadays we let these things get in the way. Yes. The Lord told these three parables together, and that's the way we're gonna look at them today.”

At a nod from the reverend, a deacon rose from the front row, walked to the microphone by the altar, read from his Bible:

“What man of you, having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbors, saying unto them, Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost.”

When the deacon was finished and seated once again, Reverend Wilkins went on, “We get all silly when people talk to us about being sheep. Yes. Think that's some kind of compliment. Folks, let me tell you, there ain't no animal in this whole wide world that's dumber than a sheep. Can I have me an Amen. Yeah. The Lord wasn't complimentin' us, He was tellin' it like it is.”

The church's first row was filled with men, mostly heavyset and somber—deacons ready to get down in the pit and struggle and sweat and fight as the devil was brought out and banished. The second row was filled with the deaconesses, mostly wives of deacons plus a few others of special merit and years of service, attired in white and full of the Spirit. They led in song, led the responses to the reverend, ministered to the weeping women who brought their troubled selves forward.

“Some of us get lost just like sheep. Blind, dumb, helpless, and too weak to get out of trouble once we've gotten in. Most of 'em don't mean to get lost, nossir. They just wander off, nibblin' at this piece of grass, seein' something else they like, wanderin' over a little farther. Just movin' from one pleasure to another, nibblin', nibblin'. He ain't doin' no wrong, no, Lord. He just ain't payin' attention.

“Then before he knows it, he looks up, yes, you listening out there? He looks up and sees it's gettin' dark. He don't know where he's at. He's lost, Lord, lost and lonely and the flock ain't anywhere to be found.”

TJ started to feel Catherine tremble beside him. He shot a quick glance over her way, saw that her eyes were alight and her lips parted, totally immersed in the message.

The reverend leaned far over the podium, waited until the congregation had quietened, growled, “And then, you know what happens? Yes. All us sinners know, don't we? He hears a wolf howl out there in the darkness. And suddenly the poor little sheep is scared right outta his wool.”

The congregation rewarded him with laughter and clapping and calls. The reverend was having none of it. He stood and glowered them into silence, then nodded for the deacon to come forward once more.

From the front row the heavyset man with his wreath of graying hair and three-piece suit and gold watch-chain rose and came forward and read in a sonorous voice:

“Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently till she find it? And when she hath found it, she calleth her friends and her neighbors together, saying, Rejoice with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost.”

The congregation was caught up now, filled with the thrill of the Word. Yet the more vocal they became, the more sternly Reverend Wilkins spoke to them. He was their anchor, their hold on the Truth. I don't want you to just fly up and forget, his arched brow and frowning demeanor seemed to say. I want you to learn. To remember. To act.

“Coin gets lost from someone else's carelessness,” he said, having to raise his voice to make the words clear above the congregation's groaning chant. “Somebody else is responsible here. Somebody else had to make sure it was safe. You folks listenin' to me? When our Lord walked this earth, Roman coins carried the imprint of Caesar. Y'all know that. Yessir. Just like you know how your child's gonna carry your imprint.” He leaned far over, growled, “All his life.”

A voice rose above the general clamor, crying, “Tell it, Jesus, yes, tell it.”

“I'm tellin' it, I just wonder if anybody's listenin',” Reverend Wilkins retorted. “You folks out for a good time, out for a little Sunday high ‘fore you go back to your week of sinnin', you better wake up and pay attention.”

He reached into his pocket, brought out a sheet of paper, said, “Got a letter here I want to read you. Found it on my desk last Sunday after the service was over. Y'all better be listening. Yes, Lord, all you parents out there, want you to listen like it was your little girl who wrote this.

Dear Reverend, You know me, but I'm not going to tell you who I am. I come to Sunday school and church here all the time. I've been listening to you preach, and I know I ought to make a profession of faith. But I sit toward the back with my friends, and in order to come forward I would have to walk past my father.

I know that people here think he is a great man, but you don't know him like I do. He comes home drunk, and my mother sends me next door to hide so he won't beat me. He beats my mother and uses terrible language. I cannot walk by him because he is in my way. Please pray for me.

Reverend Wilkins raised his head, his look truly terrible. “It's signed, ‘A Teenager.'

“Wish I could have five minutes with that father,” he said, ignoring the plaintive moans rising from the congregation. He searched the people with his eyes, hunting, hunting. “Lord in His wisdom keeps that man hidden, ‘cause He knows I'd endanger my very soul if I found him. All I can do is pray for that poor fool, yessir. Pray he comes to his senses and realizes where he's headed. Y'all better be listenin'. Ain't just him I'm talkin' to. Every one of you better be sure you don't stand in nobody's way.

“Child don't learn the meaning of love from a parent. Christian fails to witness to a person in need. Somebody out there don't set a proper Christian example. Teacher don't teach a class what Christ taught. Man afraid for his job don't stand up for Jesus. Now just how many people you think this describes? How many people you figure here have failed our Lord at one time or another?”

His face glistening with perspiration and clenched with the effort of driving the message home, Reverend Wilkins leaned far over the podium. He waited a long moment, the only sound in the church a whimpering baby, then rasped slowly and heavily, “All—of—us.”

He straightened, gave his face another wipe, asked them, “Does the Lord give us what we deserve? Are we gonna be punished for all eternity?” The reverend shook his head. “First He sends His Son to die for our sins, since He knows we'll never get ourselves outta this mess alone. And then what does He do? Does He cry about it? Does He moan about how tough it was to bring us back, how long He had to fight and struggle and suffer and sacrifice? Look at these stories. Look at them. How do they end? Rejoice! Brothers, sisters, rejoice! What was lost has now been found!”

Catherine raised one hand over her head, cried, “Yes, Lord, yes!” She raised her other hand, clapped them above her head, cried, “Praise God!”

TJ leaned back with a small smile on his face, fairly certain now that everything was going to be just fine.

Congressman John Silverwood's Monday was a typically frantic day. Far too much to do in far too little time. Nothing received the attention he would have liked to give it. Quite simply, almost every issue required a full-time commitment.

He was dictating a letter to an irate constituent and giving less than half an ear to the television on his coffee table. A midwestern congressman on the screen was taking overly long to come to the point. He was playing to the House, only most of the House wasn't there. They, like Silverwood, had already decided how they were going to vote and were using the speech as an opportunity to do some pressing homework. Silverwood figured the man was good for another fifteen minutes minimum, time enough for three more letters and, if he was lucky, a couple of calls.

Bobby stuck his head through the door, mouth pressed out of shape by the ever-present pen. He wore his bug-eyed expression, which marked something urgent. Silverwood stopped the dictation machine, looked a question.

“Senator Atterly's on line one,” Bobby said.

“You're kidding,” Silverwood said, dropping his feet to the floor and reaching for the phone.

“Afternoon, Congressman. Thought I'd find you in. It's the farm bill's third reading this afternoon, isn't it?” Even over the phone the senator had a commanding presence.

“Almost finished, sir,” Silverwood replied, eyeing the TV set. “I'd give it another half hour at the outside.”

“Won't keep you, then. Just called to say some friends and I are getting together for a prayer circle tomorrow evening. Thought you might like to join us.”

“A prayer circle,” Silverwood repeated dully. He watched Bobby roll his eyes and slide from the room.

“That's right. A good friend's been going through a right hard time recently. Rather not say who it is over the phone. You know him, or at least know of him. Some people from my Bible study group had the idea of getting together, having a Bible reading and praying for help and guidance. You'd be surprised how much that can do for someone in need.”

“I'm sure I would, sir,” Silverwood said, trying to sound interested. “I'm honored that you would think to invite me.”

“Well, ordinarily I wouldn't, you know, invite a comparative stranger to something like this. But I've found myself thinking quite a lot these past few days about your friend Case. Then it struck me this afternoon that I ought to see if you'd be interested. I've learned to follow these hunches. Some call them ‘the leading of the Spirit.' “Silverwood kept his voice casual, asked, “Have you been seeing much of TJ recently, Senator?”

“Try to make every one of his morning prayer meetings that I can. The man's—well, I remember how I felt when my own staff told me about it. You've got to see it to believe what goes on there. I tell you, the Holy Spirit is there in that room. Man, is it ever.”

“I see,” Silverwood said, toying with a pencil on his desk. “You're probably right, sir. I really should try to make it over there one morning.”

“You do that.” The voice was once again brisk and in command. “Now then. About tomorrow evening. We'd planned to meet here in my office at half-past seven. Should be through by eight, eight-thirty at the latest.”

“Just a second.” Silverwood glanced at his diary, saw the evening was clear, said, “Senator, I'm terribly sorry, but tomorrow night is just not going to be possible.”

“What a shame,” Senator Atterly seemed genuinely disappointed. “Tell you what. Let's get together after one of the morning sessions, I'll introduce you to a few of my Bible study group. At least a handful are there most days.”

“That's very kind, Senator. Thank you for the invitation. This week's kind of tight, but I'll be sure to make time just as soon as I possibly can.”

They exchanged goodbyes, and Silverwood hung up the phone. Morning prayer sessions, evening prayer circles, Bible study, probably church on Sunday too. Silverwood shook his head, turned back to his dictation, wondered where a man that busy found the time.

****

The taping of TJ's interview for
Good Morning America
took place late Monday afternoon.

First someone called and obtained his agreement not to appear on another network's program until theirs was aired, in exchange for limiting their questions to educational issues only. With the pressure off, they decided to do a nationwide build-up by playing segments of the WBTV interview on the news programs of ABC affiliate stations. TJ kept waiting for someone from higher up to pounce, call him in, ask him what on earth he thought he was doing giving unauthorized interviews to the media. But he heard nothing.

John Nakamishi drove him to the WBTV studios, the Washington station where the interview was to be taped. “Nervous?”