Welcome to Newtonberg (2 page)

"Friends, Romans, countrymen -- lend me your
ears," he said, and a ripple of appreciative laughter went through
the crowd. "I've always wanted to say that. Welcome to the
Sesquicentennial Celebration of the founding of our fair town." A
cheer from the crowd.

"We would not be standing here today,
together, as the community we've become, without the sacrifices
made by our forefathers. On this day each year, we pause to
remember those who paved the way for us. This year, we have asked
local historian and librarian Michael Baldridge to speak to us
concerning the founding of our home town."

He turned. "Mike? Will you do the
honors?"

Michael rose and made his way to the podium
on shaky knees. He shook the mayor's hand and took a deep breath.
They're all your friends
. "Good morning, fellow citizens of
Newtonberg. While doing research for this speech, I discovered..."
His voice caught.

He coughed, cleared his throat and tried
again, his voice trembling. "While doing research..." His voice
caught again.

He took a deep breath. Step two.
They're
all in their underwear
. He looked through the crowd.
Cliff's
in his boxers and a tee shirt
. That was a funny little image.
He glanced at the mayor.
Old Al's in holey BVDs!
He choked
back a chuckle and continued. "In doing research for this speech, I
discovered that if General Newton's memory and sense of direction
had been better, we might not be here at all."

He was doing fine. He went on, made it
through the history and into the anecdotes about their relatives.
As he told them, he'd look at the descendants, imagining them in
their underwear. One about Jeremiah Nelson, Oliver and Orville's
great uncle, who'd had the entire town caught up in fear of a black
panther roaming his property until he'd discovered it was just his
old dog who'd fallen in the oil pit out behind Johnson's Texaco.
(
Oliver and Orville are in briefs and knee socks. Identical.
They're twins, after all!
). Or how Henry Albert Johnson's
second trip to Louisiana actually ended up in Mexico because he got
turned around in the woods. (
The Widow Missus is wearing Fruit
of the Looms and a sports bra.
He had to admit, that one
creeped him out a bit.)

He continued. "Then we come to saga of the
Right Reverend Joseph Carmichael." He glanced over
instinctively.

At Janet.

Oh no.

For the purposes of decency, I won't describe
what she was wearing in his reverie, but suffice it to say that it
choked him up so bad he reached out, grabbed the whiskey, and
downed it in one shot.

He might have been all right after that. He
might have been able to continue the speech and even finish it, if
the cat hadn't chosen that moment to brush past his legs.

Unseen by anyone, a cat had wandered into the
pavilion and had been making its way through the crowd. During his
speech, it had made its way to the stage and come up behind him. It
rubbed up against his legs just as he'd downed the whiskey.

He screamed. What else could he do? He
screamed and dashed out of the pavilion. The cat quietly exited
from the back of the stage, still unseen by anyone.

As the crowd murmured in astonishment, the
mayor did what he could to salvage what sanctity remained.

"Ladies and gentleman, we've heard this
morning about the history of our town and its founders -- even if
the speech did end in a bit of an unorthodox manner. As we go
through the rest of this day, have fun, by all means. Enjoy
yourselves. But please take a few minutes to think about why we are
here, and the men and women who made it possible. Thank you."

People filed out of the pavilion, talking
amongst themselves about the strange manner in which Mike had
behaved.
Poor boy. Nervous breakdown, probably. Too much
stress.

Cliff blamed himself. He shouldn't have
recommended the whiskey. The few times Mike had come in to the
tavern to talk to him about town history, he'd never had anything
stronger than a beer, and he never even finished that. Whiskey was
just too much for him to handle.

Mayor Al blamed himself. He shouldn't have
asked the boy to speak. He knew he was the nervous sort, and
speaking in front of the whole town was just too much
responsibility to put on him. Still, up until that last fiasco, it
had been a good speech.

Janet Carmichael let herself out quietly
through the side of the pavilion. She had some thinking to do, and
needed to be alone to do it properly.

What was it about her that upset Mike so
much? Was it just coincidence that he'd had his "episode" just as
he'd looked at her? She thought not. She had seen him glance at her
before, but he always looked away. If she tried to talk to him, he
would suddenly have some pressing business that needed to be done.
Either that, or his answers would be short, curt responses, as if
he didn't want to talk to her.

A shame really, since she thought so much of
him. He seemed like such a sweet man; intelligent and thoughtful.
Not drop-dead gorgeous, or even handsome; but good-looking in a
classical way. She would like to get to know him better, but every
time she tried he seemed to put up a wall.

She had hoped that today might possibly be
the day they'd talk. She'd ask him a little more about the town
history -- not because she was terribly interested, but just to
hear his voice. To hear him talk to her using words that consisted
of more than one or two syllables. Later on, she'd try to steer the
conversation to more personal matters, learn more about him; let
him learn more about her. Maybe they'd have walked around the
carnival together, and maybe at some point he'd take her hand and
they'd walk that way for a while.

And maybe that evening, as the fireworks were
being set off by the Newtonberg Volunteer Fire Department for the
big finale...maybe they would look at each other, look deep into
each other's eyes, and maybe he'd try to kiss her.

And maybe she'd let him.

But they were all maybes, and it didn't
matter now anyway. He had run off, to who knows where, and people
probably wouldn't see him until Monday morning when the library
opened, at the very least. And even then, nobody would mention it
to him, because that's the kind of thing you don't say anything
about. She hoped he was alright.

She turned back toward the square and started
walking back to the crowds of people. She was a schoolteacher,
after all, and would be expected by the students and parents to
join in for this sort of thing. She slowly made her way back into
the Newtonberg Founder's Day celebration.

Alone.

It must have been some time round about
mid-August that Brother Jim Campbell, the pastor at the First
Baptist Church of Newtonberg, saw the sign right outside of town
announcing in bold, capital letters that
THE WORLD-TRAVELING
EVANGELIST ALBERT CHAMBERLAIN'S BIG TENT REVIVAL
was coming to
town, promising
MIRACULOUS HEALING BY FAITH
and
ASTOUNDING ACTS DEMONSTRATING THE POWER OF THE LORD
.

Actually, he saw the sign, the posters around
town, and the full-page advertisement that made up the bulk of the
weekly
Newtonberg Sentinel
, published by esteemed journalist
and boarding-house owner, the Widow Missus Harriet Johnson.
Whichever way he looked at the announcement, however, he got the
point. And he began to worry.

He wasn't afraid of losing his congregation.
The revival was on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday (
AT 7 P.M.
NIGHTLY!
proclaimed the advertisements), so there was no danger
of that. Come Sunday morning, the old faithfuls would be back in
their Sunday School classes and in the same pews that their
families had sat upon since the church was founded. He was worried
because in a town like Newtonberg, people are easily misled.

They were not stupid people. Many of the
locals had college degrees or advanced training in their chosen
profession. They all imparted their knowledge freely to anyone
(sometimes without being asked), and the people in town were well
informed of the latest news (and gossip) by the Widow Missus's
newspaper. But they are very trusting, very gullible; and what they
have gained in book smarts, some of them lack in common sense.

The last time the carnival came to town, he
had to spend three weeks convincing Orville Nelson that a chicken
couldn't play Bingo. The Bingo-playing chicken had really hurt old
Orville. He had lost six games in a row, at three dollars a shot,
before his wife Mavis could drag him away.

So the thought of some shyster who would come
to town with his well-rehearsed stage show and his "cripples"
planted in the audience to be healed had him worried that people in
his congregation might believe it. He had enough competition as it
was with the Methodist and Catholic Churches; but at least that was
"friendly" competition. He, Father Louis Nichols, the Catholic
priest, and Reverend Edward Stanley, the Methodist minister, played
golf every Saturday morning. It sounded like the setup for a bad
joke, but the fact of the matter was that they enjoyed each other's
company and could relate to one another.

He took another look at the advertisement in
the paper and decided then and there that he himself might attend
the revival, to head off any problems. He would address it from the
pulpit the Sunday before, and he would discuss the matter with the
Catholic priest and Methodist minister at their golf game on
Saturday.

* * * * * * * *

Saturday morning they were in the early
stages of their game at the Newtonberg Country Club Golf Course,
such as it was. The Country Club itself was actually the Widow
Missus's Boarding House. The dining area was the parlor and the
proper dining room, which together had five or six small tables for
diners. Her boarders were only guaranteed breakfast and dinner in
their signed agreements; lunchtime was reserved for Country Club
members.

Brother Jim had pulled last to putt. The Golf
Course actually only had enough land for three holes, so you played
them six times to make a full eighteen-hole game. Familiarity with
the holes meant low scores were common (when people bothered to
keep score), and holes-in-one happened frequently. Exercise was the
main reason for playing there; real competitive players had to
drive elsewhere.

As they started their second pass at the
third hole (which would have been hole six had they been keeping
score), Brother Jim decided it was time to bring up the problem of
the impending revival.

"Do either of you know anything about this
Evangelist Albert Chamberlain?" he asked as he lined up his
shot.

"You mean the old shyster who's bringing his
traveling circus to town?" replied Father Louis.

"That's the one."

"I haven't met the man personally," said the
Reverend Stanley. "My brother, who has a church in Lewiston, had
dealings with him a few years back. Said he was a nasty piece of
work."

"So, he's totally off the mark?" said Brother
Jim, taking a whack at the ball.
Slice. Darn.

"About as much as you were there," said
Father Louis, and they all had a good laugh at it.

"I never claimed to be Arnold Palmer," said
Brother Jim, as they trudged in the general direction of the sliced
ball. "So, what about this Chamberlain? Do you think we'll have any
trouble out of him?"

"Well, in my brother's experience, what it
mainly did was stir up troubles with the worship service," said the
Reverend Stanley.

"Troubles in the worship service?"

"Yes, you know – hands in the air, shouting
'hallelujah' and 'amen" at inopportune moments, present questions
about the validity of faith healing and of speaking in
tongues…"

"Oh."

"Things like that."

"Well. Do either of you have any ideas to
'head him off at the pass', so to speak?"

Father Louis looked at him. "I don't
follow."

"Are you going to warn your church members
not to go or anything?"

Father Louis sighed. "I don't see where it's
my place to tell them where they can and cannot go on their own
time. I say, let them go, and then let me talk to them and explain
spiritual issues they may be dealing with as a result."

"So you have no problems if one of your
members thinks they were 'healed' as a result of this Chamberlain
fellow?"

"On the contrary, I welcome it. When the heat
of the moment is over, and that old back problem or knee injury
returns to haunt them, it will give me an opportunity to educate
them."

Brother Jim had to admit that was a pretty
sound argument, and Reverend Stanley agreed. But there was still
one nagging thought, and he voiced it.

"What about salvation? What if, as a result
of this traveling tent show, someone thinks they're 'saved' and
then wants to join your church?"

There was a little hemming and hawing, and
then the priest spoke.

"What do you mean, 'thinks' they're
saved?"

"Well, what if they show up on Sunday
morning, say 'I got saved yesterday and I want to join your
church'? What then? I mean, all of our churches require salvation
as a prerequisite for membership, correct?"

"You mean, are they really saved or are they
just under some delusion that they are?"

"Exactly."

There was a brief pause while they thought
about it. Finally Reverend Stanley spoke.

"Well, I guess that's between them and God,
isn't it?"

* * * * * * * *

The Wednesday night before the revival rolled
around, and the few people at church that night were treated to an
exposition from the Gospel of Mark. Those who weren't there were
treated to the sight of
THE WORLD-TRAVELING EVANGELIST ALBERT
CHAMBERLAIN'S BIG TENT REVIVAL
rolling into town, housed in two
trucks and an old bus with JESUS SAVES painted on the side in
chartreuse letters two and a half feet high. Some curious parties
followed the entourage outside the city limits and watched as the
tent was raised and the chairs set up.