The Visitation Part 16

She really was history. The love we had, transcendent and una.s.sailable, a divine gift, a special miracle forged in the foundries of heaven, ended back in October, as quickly as her resignation. I had refused to accept it, but right now, with my hand still on the telephone, I finally let the truth in: our love was gone. It was over.

And then the dominoes began to fall.

That's the caveat that comes with being "led by the Spirit": if you dare to question one thing, you have to question everything. With Amber gone, what did that say about all those visions, signs, and prophecies that G.o.d supposedly gave us? What did the Minneapolis debacle tell me about my encoded prophecy scribbled on the wall of the crab boat? Could I finally admit that boxcars with a big letter "I" on them belonged to Intermountain Railways and were commonplace in most every major train yard in every major city in the country? Could I admit that a banjo head on special order was bound to arrive sooner or later, G.o.d or no G.o.d, fleece or no fleece? Could I face the fact that Billy Graham and bluegra.s.s having the same initials carried about as much meaning as that license plate with Amber's birthday on it?

When I laid hands on Andy and Karla and prayed for their healing, G.o.d didn't heal them. It wasn't a matter of the healing taking time or them waiting until they had the right degree of faith, or any other explanation we came up with. G.o.d didn't heal them. I thought I had the gift of healing and didn't. I prayed for them to be healed and they weren't. And as for all the shaking I did, well that's exactly what it was: shaking I did.

As to the KenyonaBannister prayer meetings, the original fire had gone out for want of logs on the hearth. The Kenyons and Bannisters were still having their meetings and I suppose Mr. Kenyon was still the bishop of the island, but nothing more remained. David Kenyon had gone back east to college. Bernadette Jones had gotten pregnant-contrary to Mrs. Bannister's prophecy, Barry the boyfriend never became a Christian and they never furthered G.o.d's kingdom together. Karla d.i.c.kens was living in Seattle and pursuing a business degree, while Andy Smith had gotten his girlfriend pregnant, married her, and was currently trying to make a living as a composer and piano teacher. Harold Martin, who once tried to get me to smoke pot, was still smoking pot for all I knew, getting into yoga and eastern religion, and working as a flagman for the county road crew. Clay Olson had gone on to Bible college to pursue the ministry, and Benny Taylor, his pimples now fading, was racking up perfect grades at the University of Was.h.i.+ngton.

We used to be young, unstoppable soldiers of the cross, led by the Spirit, taking the world for Christ as we marched arm in arm. There was going to be a great revival, starting with us. We were on fire and those who were lukewarm would have to get on fire too or eat our dust.

But my fellow soldiers weren't there anymore. While I was chasing visions, signs, and prophecies all the way to Minneapolis, each of them caught a different train and left while I wasn't looking.

In mid-October, I was eighteen, in love, full of the Spirit, and on a train bound for Minneapolis. By mid-January, I was nineteen and a n.o.body with nowhere to go, sitting on the bed in my room at home, plunking absently on a brown, fifty-dollar banjo and feeling a new and frightening kind of loneliness. Jesus seemed far away, and strangely enough, I was content to leave him there. I didn't want to talk to him; I feared and distrusted anything he might say to me.

I was saved, sanctified, born-again, and Spirit-filled, but Jesus and I were strangers.

10.

BRANDON HAD WARNED Mrs. Macon that there would be phone calls and knocks at the door, and his prophetic gifts were right on the money. Ever since that Wednesday afternoon tea, visitors were coming up the long driveway to see the prophet, the Messiah, Jesus, the man claiming to be Jesus, the Avatar of Christ, or anything else people thought he was. On Thursday, just before Mrs. Macon and Brandon agreed that they should get Brandon's ministry-and access to the ranch-organized, scheduled, and restricted, the doorbell rang for the umpteenth time. Mrs. Macon steeled her nerves and opened the door.

A young man stood there, dressed in cut-off jeans and a white tunic, a shawl of some sort draped over his head and a long staff in his hand. He couldn't have been more than eighteen years old. His beard was immature and wispy, he was lanky, and his face was smooth and unwrinkled. When he spoke, it was in a forced, unnatural British accent. "h.e.l.lo. My name is Michael. I am seeking the Messiah of Antioch."

The widow looked over her shoulder and beckoned Brandon with her eyes. He came to the door. "Yes?"

Young Michael immediately dropped to one knee, his head bowed low, his hand on his staff. "All hail." He looked up. "G.o.d has sent me to you. I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord."

Mrs. Macon had seen a good measure of starry-eyed pilgrims and strange folks come by since yesterday, but this young man was taking strangeness to a new level. She looked at Brandon, wondering what he would do.

To her surprise, Brandon stepped forward, extended his hand, and rested it on the young man's head. "Michael, you are expected." He gently took the young man's arm and prompted him to rise to his feet. Then he looked at Mrs. Macon. "Michael will dine with us tonight. We have much to discuss."

THURSDAY EVENING, Jim Baylor was getting hungry and dinner was late. Not that it was ever on time. It happened when it happened. But tonight he came home from work and found little indication that it was going to happen.

The house was messy. It was never really neat, but it had an especially neglected look this evening, as if Darlene, their fifteen-year-old daughter, had pa.s.sed through when there was no one there to yell at her.

Dee was sitting at the kitchen table talking on the phone, and that wasn't unusual either. But this evening she was intensely on the phone, so much that she gave Jim one quick little wave to acknowledge his presence and then went back to totally ignoring him.

"You have to meet him," she was saying. "Just one look in his eyes and you know you're in the presence of G.o.d! He has the anointing, absolutely!"

Jim came closer. "Who are you talking to?"

She waved him off and kept talking. "Get up here as soon as you can. I don't know if he really is Jesus, but . . . oh, you just have to see him, that's all. Once you see him, you'll know."

Jim surveyed the cluttered kitchen table. They were supposed to be eating off that table right now, but instead of dinner, Dee had a list of names in front of her with many checked off and many more yet to be checked off. "Dee, what are you doing? You gonna be on the phone all night?"

By now she'd shared all the information she had with the party on the other end, so she went back to go over every thought again. "Anyway, that's what we did, we went up to the ranch yesterday and had tea with him and Mrs. Macon-and that place was a palace! I know, some women have all the luck!"

Jim felt the sting of that and went into the living room of the crummy, inadequate house he'd provided. Maybe he could put away some of the things he'd sweated and toiled for so the room wouldn't be such a mess. At least he could clear some s.p.a.ce on the couch he provided for his family so he could sit and read the paper, which he also paid for.

"You should have seen that cute outfit she was wearing! She looks great for her age!"

He sat and perused the headlines, tuning out her voice as he had unconsciously learned to do over the years. A door swung open and slammed shut down at the end of the hall. Darlene came into the room, her expression oblivious, her walk dazed and desultory like a week-old, half-filled helium balloon. "When's dinner?" she asked.

Jim looked over his shoulder at Dee in the kitchen, still on the phone. Well, he might be able to get a response from his daughter. He directed Darlene's attention to the socks, books, clothing, stuffed animals, and other debris that had somehow blown into the living room. "Darlene, pick all this stuff up and get it out of here."

"When's dinner?" she insisted.

"Get all your stuff out of here!" he repeated, and then went into the kitchen again. "Dee, you have a family, remember?"

She made a face at him but finally closed her conversation. "Okay. Love you too. Bye."

She pressed and released the little b.u.t.ton on the phone, clearing it for another call. She consulted her list and started dialing.

Jim pressed the b.u.t.ton on the phone and leaned in close. "You have a family."

She slapped his hand away from the telephone. "Don't you tell me what to do!"

He put his hand over it and kept it there. "How long have you been talking on the phone here? The house is a mess, there's no dinner -"

"You want dinner, get it yourself!" she snapped, and her voice could be like a trumpet when she was angry. "You think this isn't important? We're being visited-" She cut off her sentence.

"What?"

"You wouldn't understand."

The raucous sounds of MTV came blasting from the living room. Jim hollered at Darlene, "Didn't I tell you to put away your stuff? Now get at it!"

She wailed back, "When's dinner?"

Dee slammed the receiver down and came unglued. "I can't believe this family! You think my only purpose on earth is to wait on you two? You both have two hands!"

Having once been a marine drill sergeant, Jim was no stranger to yelling. "I've been working all day long with these two hands to put the food on this table that isn't on the table! What have you been doing all day with your hands? Have you even been home today?"

Then they got into it, and not even MTV could equal the racket. They yelled, raved, and waved their hands at each other. Jim slammed some pans on the stove and she slammed them back in the cupboards. She tried to tell him how unhappy she was while he tried to tell her how ungrateful she was while Darlene flopped into a curled position on the couch and withdrew from the fight, the family, the whole unkind world.

Only the slam of the front door could break through the noise and get Jim and Dee's attention.

"Oh, great, just great!" Jim fumed, storming into the living room. "Darlene!" He flung open the front door in time to see her running down the street. "Darlene, come back here!"

Dee yelled from behind him, loud enough for the neighbors to hear, "Don't yell! You want the neighbors to hear?"

He grabbed his coat out of the hall closet and the car keys off their hook by the door. "I hope you're satisfied."

"Yeah, blame me!"

Dee went back into the kitchen and picked up the telephone again, consulting her list.

Jim went out to the car and drove off in search of his daughter.

"AWAKE, PEOPLE OF ANTIOCH, and know for certain that the Lord has come to you! See and behold, his winnowing fork is in his hand to separate the wheat from the chaff! On which side will you fall?"

His voice was a bit shrill and his British accent had to be a put-on, but Antioch was no bustling city where street preachers could simply be ignored and pedestrians could hide behind anonymity. Michael, prayer shawl around his shoulders and staff in his hand, was demanding attention and getting it. It was Sat.u.r.day, and he'd positioned himself on the highway between Kiley's Hardware and Anderson's Furniture and Appliance, the center of town. Weekend pilgrims with cameras stopped to take pictures. Newcomers stopped to ask directions. Natives like Pastor Howard Munson stopped to grill him.

"So who are you now?" Howard asked him.

"I am the voice of one crying in the wilderness, prepare ye the way of the Lord!" said Michael. "Make his paths straight! Every mountain and hill-"

"Yeah, yeah, I know the rest," Howard interrupted. "But who are you? What's your name?"

"Michael. It means, *Who is like G.o.d?'"

"And what are you doing here?"

Michael lowered his voice to conversational level as others gathered around to listen. "I have come to guide people to the answer, to G.o.d himself! In a distant land, G.o.d spoke to me and told me to travel westward, but I knew not where-"

"A distant land? Where are you from?"

"Chicago."

"Mm."

"Then his clear word came to me. A newspaper carried news of a visitor come to your town, a man some thought to be the Messiah, the Son of G.o.d." His eyes widened in antic.i.p.ation of a real zinger. "As I read more, I noticed the breakfast on my plate that morning included bacon. By G.o.d's divine plan, the very morning I learned of the Messiah I was eating a breakfast that rhymes with-" He held out his staff, the crooked tip pointing toward the widow's ranch. "Macon! My course was set, and just days ago, I found the object of my quest! The Messiah of Antioch, the Savior of this age!"

Howard shook his head. "Son, whoever that guy is, he isn't the Savior! Jesus is the Savior!"

Michael only raised his eyebrows with sweet, innocent insight. "This man is Jesus!"

That got the attention of a cl.u.s.ter of pilgrims. "Jesus? Where?"

Michael pointed his staff again. "He awaits you today, for the first time, at the Macon ranch, at two o'clock. Watch for the signs."

"The signs?" a man asked, his eyes darting heavenward.

"Cardboard signs that say *Macon ranch.' I put them up this morning."

MICHAEL'S MESSAGE was vague, but his announcement of an open-to-the-public meeting was clear enough, and fell on eager ears. Judging from the stream of cars and RVs heading up to the Macon ranch that afternoon, the Messiah of Antioch was going to have a packed house.

Kyle Sherman wasn't about to miss it. Ever since the little tea party up at the ranch, his telephone had been ringing and his congregation buzzing about this Brandon Nichols character. Dee was plugging Nichols for all she was worth, wooing new followers from among the congregation and from other churches as well. Roger Folsom, Adrian's husband, was on the brink of buying in. Johnny Davis, Blanche's husband, wasn't about to buy in and was having one heck of a time with Blanche. Brother Norheim was convinced the Antichrist had arisen and was demanding to know what the church was going to do about it. Folks like the Whites and the Foresters were calling, asking him what he thought so they'd know what to think. The church was in confusion, and it was time for the shepherd to get the sheep back in line.

Kyle was going to address the whole matter on Sunday, so he planned to have a thorough knowledge of his subject. His was one of the first vehicles through the big stone gate. He had a microca.s.sette recorder in his right jacket pocket and a palm-sized camera in his left. On the seat next to him was a spiral notebook for taking notes. If anyone in the church dared to tell him, "You shouldn't speak against this man without hearing him first," Kyle would be able to say, "I've heard him, seen him, taken notes on him, recorded him, and photographed him. I know whereof I speak!"

As he followed a van, a camper, and a huge motor home up the Macon driveway, he was already rehearsing his Sunday sermon, gripping the steering wheel as if gripping the edges of his pulpit. "Can't you people get a clue? Jesus warned us about this! *False christs and false prophets will rise and show great signs and wonders to deceive, if possible, even the elect!'" Then he threw in a bitter, parenthetical gripe: "And a lot of help we're getting from the cops! Brett Henchle's been bought! He's been bought!"

The driveway came to the brow of the hill, and Kyle could see the big Macon ranch house for the first time. The van, camper, and motor home veered to the left, directed into a pasture by Michael the Prophet/John the Baptist/Voice in the Wilderness, now wearing a fluorescent orange vest and waving orange traffic batons. Kyle followed, parking alongside the motor home. The parade of vehicles poured in after him, parking in semi-neat rows on the gra.s.s.

He got out of his car and found it fascinating, if not frightening, to watch people arrive. Old pickups and vans were rolling in and parking beside zillion-dollar motor homes. Nice cars, beat-up cars, old Fords and new Mercedes all parked together. Kyle saw young, ragged folks with dogs in their cars, gray-headed retirees in garish summer shorts and white shoes, wheat farmers in jeans with big belt buckles, housewives carrying babies. Some carried cus.h.i.+ons, some carried folding lawn chairs. The television folks were there, of course, the reporters well-dressed from the waist up and the crew people carrying cameras.

"Hey Kyle!"

Kyle turned to see Bob Fisher coming his way. He stuck out his hand and greeted the Baptist pastor. "Boy, am I glad to see you!"

"Come to check out the *messiah'?"

"Exactly."

Bob looked around. "Will you look at this! We're talking a hundred people at least."

"Any other ministers here?"

"I saw Armond Harrison a moment ago."

Kyle winced. "I meant ministers of the gospel."

Bob laughed. "Just you and me so far."

They walked together toward the white paddock fence where the gate was open-and guarded by none other than Matt Kiley and Norman Dillard. Already some television camera people were coming back, turned away. A retired couple, cameras in their hands, walked back into the pasture and called to those still coming from their cars, "They won't let cameras in!"

"Hm," said Bob. "This guy has a thing about cameras."

Kyle said nothing about the camera he was carrying, and felt no moral qualms about it. The camera was going in with him, and that was all there was to it. This "messiah" had to be seen, known, and exposed. Kyle's only concern was how to get a picture without getting caught. He'd just have to pray for the chance.

They strolled nonchalantly through the gate, past Matt and Norman who waved them in with the mantra, "Come on in; no cameras please."

The ranch house was a beauty. The big doors of the four-car garage were open, beckoning to the gathering crowd. The widow's Town Car and her late husband's awesome truck were parked in the circular driveway in front of the house to make room in the garage for a sizable arrangement of folding chairs.

"There's Nancy Barrons," said Bob, nodding in her direction.

"Hey, and there's, uh, the Episcopal guy." Kyle waved.

"Paul Daley."

"What does he think of all this?"

"He says he's neutral, but boy, is he hooked. He really wants to know who this guy is."

"Just like us. Oh, there's the priest, uh, Vendetti."

Michael the Prophet stood out in front of the garage now, directing people inside. "Fill all the rows. Please move all the way down to the end to make room for those still coming. Thank you. Thank you. Right this way. Second row now, second row. That's it."

Kyle and Bob ended up in the middle of the third row. The chairs were arranged in a wide fan pattern facing the back wall of the garage. As far as Kyle could see, there was no pulpit or lectern, only the workbench with Mr. Macon's tools still neatly arranged on and above it. He spotted Sally Fordyce near the left end of the second row, and in the first row, dead center, were Bonnie Adams and her daughter, Penny. There were other familiar faces here as well, but also a preponderance of strangers from out-of-town, among them the motor home set bringing abundant riches from afar. The local business folks in the crowd had to be noticing that.