The Healer (16 page)

There was a nod or two of agreement, but then someone said that it was just the opposite, that it was progress that led to fear. Progress as in the city changing. Progress as in being thrown out on the street because you couldn't pay the rent. Progress as in being told you couldn't beg anymore, or being rousted out of your bed in the park, right there across the street. There was a lot of progress in the city and now the neighborhood, good for some folk maybe, but for a lot of folk not so good.

There were nods of agreement at this, murmurs of support and calls for action. Eventually, the group dispersed, and Payne, whose knowledge of the neighborhood was limited, decided to have a look around and see for himself what they meant.

The street the church was on was residential, as were the cross-streets at either end. Some of the homes were tidy, but a greater
number were dilapidated and run-down. This was pretty much as he remembered it from the last time he'd thought to look, but a block or two farther on, he came across some newly painted homes. Several more were under construction. One old rambling place, half a block long, was getting a complete face-lift. Soon it seemed that wherever he turned there were signs of development. Roofs were being replaced, entryways rebuilt, walls defaced by time and streetwise artistry scrubbed clean. Trees and beds of flowers were being planted. On a commercial block he counted six new businesses, which he could tell by the way they contrasted with their neighbors. There was a bakery, two restaurants and three boutiques. There were people shopping and eating, affluent people, many of whom resembled the newcomers to church.

The following week he spoke to Reverend Meeks, mentioning what he'd observed along with the concerns that his friends had raised. It was after the service, and the two of them were alone.

The Reverend, of course, had noticed the new faces in the congregation. He had met most of them and found them friendly. He was surprised to hear that others regarded them as a threat. In any case, it made little difference. The Church For Giveness was not long for the world. It had had a rich and illustrious life, but sadly, that life was about to come to an end. There were plans in the works to tear it down.

Payne felt like he'd been punched. “Why? I don't understand.”

“Because it's an eyesore,” said the Reverend. “Because it's bleeding money. Because the membership, the community, the support…it isn't there.”

Payne contested this. “It is. People come. As many as ever.”

The Reverend cast a doleful look overhead at the once-fine vaulted ceiling, then followed the open beams down to the chancel, then turned and gazed upon the modest nave. “There was a time, I'm told, when it was filled to the rafters with churchgoers every week. When it took the minister till noon to work his way through the receiving line.
When members who couldn't get seats stood two and three deep against the walls to hear the sermon.”

“Do you need that many people?”

“Do I? No. I had that many once. Twice that many. That time for me is past.”

“It could come again.”

“Yes. And the world might swallow itself. Neither one, though, is likely to happen.”

“But there must be something we can do.”

The Reverend spread his hands in a gesture of sympathy and helplessness. He had not meant to speak of this yet, not until the plans were finalized. He apologized for having done so, knowing in his heart that he would be better able to brave the inevitable outcry if there was nothing to be done, and attempted to move on.

But Payne was not about to give up so easily. This was a home for people. It was his home. He had not entered it as a religious man in the beginning, but he was changing. At church he experienced things he had known only rarely before, and then only in the act of healing. The sense of something greater than himself. The comfort and wonder of being in that something's presence. The certain, sublime knowledge of the interconnectedness of all things.

“It's a sanctuary,” he told the Reverend. “No one cares how it looks or how run-down it is. What's important is what happens here, on the inside.” He pressed a fist to his chest. “In the heart and the spirit and the soul. That's what matters most.”

The Reverend did not disagree. Indeed, it was a consolation to know that men of faith could live without a roof or walls. And for those who needed them, who needed a house to worship in, there were other sanctuaries. Other churches that carried the message and spread the word.

“But not other ministers,” said Payne.

“Yes. Those, too.”

“But none like you.”

“You flatter me.”

“I don't. It's true,” said Payne, and went on to raise more objections, until at length the Reverend asked him to stop.

“This is painful. I know. I shouldn't have burdened you. Forgive me. It was a mistake.”

But Payne would not be silenced. “When were you going to burden us? When they locked the doors? When the wrecking ball struck?”

The Reverend winced. He'd been hired to be the bearer of this news but clearly did not relish the job.

“I have to ask you not to speak of this to others.”

“Why? Because they'll object, too?”

“The plan is not finalized. Nothing's been decided for certain yet.”

“Meaning what? We could change their minds?”

The Reverend sighed, then bowed his head, as if praying for guidance. He was not a man who liked to lie.

Payne took his reticence as a sign of hope. “If it's a question of people, there are new people coming. If it's a question of money, they have money, too.”

“Perhaps so. But the real question is one of influence.”

“You have influence.”

“With the Deacon's Council? No. Not an ounce.”

“But these new people might. You could talk to them. Let them know what's happening. I'm sure they'll want to help.” Without thinking, he grabbed the Reverend's hand, pressing it between his own. “Please. Don't give up. The church is worth saving. Our church.”

Payne's earnest and heartfelt supplication moved the Reverend Meeks more than he wished, and it woke something dormant in his heart and mind. He recalled an earlier time in his life, when every day brought a new idea into his head and every morning he greeted with joy. It was an exciting time, when he aspired to great things and strove to make a difference, when he did not fear failure, and failure, if it came, did not cripple him.

“You understand there's little hope,” he said. “The outcome is unlikely to change, regardless of what I do.”

Payne felt a wave of gratitude. From where he stood, there was little the Reverend could not accomplish if he put his mind to it, and he told him so, flat out.

The Reverend could not suppress a smile. “You are the Devil, my friend. The snake. You strike me where I'm weakest. Now go, and leave me in peace. I need to think.”

A month went by, and then another. When Payne asked the Reverend what was happening, the Reverend said he had his feelers out. The issue of preservation had been raised, and there was interest, to the point that a meeting was planned. That said, he cautioned Payne not to get his hopes up, and above all, urged him to be patient. These things took time.

Payne was heartened to hear this news, and he was further encouraged by the continued appearance of new faces at church. Every week it seemed there were one or two more. Young families like the Trotters, and also single men and women. Many of them seemed to know each other or be connected in some way. They seemed to bring their own sense of community to the church, along with their own ideas about what a church should be. These were not very different from Payne's ideas, from anyone's, although in practice the newcomers and the old-timers tended not to mingle. As time passed, some of Payne's friends deliberately stopped coming, while others seemed to simply drift away.

He was thinking about how things were changing on his way to church one morning, and how a person had to be flexible and spread his blanket on the ground that he was given. For a tesque especially this was true. At the same time, he missed his friends who had left. He
was looking forward to the service and the sermon that day, which promised to address this very topic. It was titled “Charity in a Time of Transition: Rising to the Challenge,” and he knew the Reverend would have something wise and useful to say.

He crossed the Bridge and passed beneath the arch, which someone had defaced with the words “Who Heals the Healers?” painted in bright red. Payne had seen this scrawled on one of the apartment buildings near where he lived, and hadn't give it much thought at the time, but here on the stately monument it seemed profane. He hurried past it, arriving at church with the daily loaf of bread still warm and fragrant. But when he mounted the stairs and went to the table to replace the old loaf, he found that this had already been done. And the glass had been refilled, too: he could tell by the level of the water. Puzzled, he went inside to talk to Reverend Meeks, whom he found at the pulpit, polishing its face. He was dressed in his deep blue cleric's robe and seemed preoccupied, which he often was while polishing. It was a ritual he performed every week, a time to gather his thoughts, the simple and repetitive work a meditation. He barely noticed Payne, and after a moment's hesitation, Payne chose not to interfere, resolving to speak to him after the service.

Over the next hour the church gradually filled, and at the appointed time Reverend Meeks entered and began. He was more spirited than usual, and had been for several weeks. He led the congregation in prayer; then one of the new members, a stout woman with a rich contralto voice, joined him at the altar to lead them all in a hymn. After that, Elv Trotter came up to give the reading. The sermon followed, but Payne had trouble concentrating. He kept thinking about the bread.

After the service the members of the congregation gathered near the door, chatting with each other while waiting to greet the Reverend, who stood outside on the porch, shaking and pressing hands. Payne made sure that he was last in line, for what he had to say he didn't want overheard. Finally, it was his turn, and as always, he
thanked the Reverend for the service and the sermon. Then he asked if there was any word.

“Word?”

Payne dropped his voice. “About the church. The plans.” He reminded the Reverend that there was going to be a meeting.

“Ah. Yes. The meeting. There was one, and a committee's been set up. It appears that our church is a historic landmark.”

“Does that mean it can't be torn down?”

“No, not absolutely, but it does give us another argument to preserve it.”

Payne was delighted.

“It would have to be restored. Which takes money. Lots of money.”

“Isn't there always money? If you want a thing enough?”

“There is,” replied the Reverend, “though it has a habit of coming with strings attached. In any case, we're not at that stage. We're taking it one step at a time. We'll just have to wait and see what happens.”

Their conversation was interrupted by laughter that came from a knot of churchgoers who had gathered at the bottom of the stairs. The Trotter family was at the center of the group, and Payne waited for the laughter to die down.

“Something strange happened to me today.”

The Reverend was enjoying the scene below and responded with an absentminded nod. “Did it? What?”

“When I came to put out the offering, someone already had.”

“That is strange.”

“Do you happen to know who?”

The Reverend turned to face him, looking a little lost. “I'm sorry, but I've been very busy lately. Preoccupied with all these new developments. You'll have to excuse me if I don't keep track of every little thing. We're talking about what now? The water? The bread?”

“Both,” said Payne, feeling petty.

The Reverend knit his brows and put his mind to it, and Payne happened
to catch a glimpse of Elsa Trotter. She was watching the two of them, trying to catch the Reverend's eye. And eventually she did, and flashed him an ingratiating little smile, which appeared to jog his memory.

“El,” he said.

“El?”

“Yes. The Trotters' son. His mother wanted him to do something. Something to contribute to the church.”

“But that's my job,” said Payne.

The Reverend lowered his eyes, then drew a breath and slowly let it out, then pinched the bridge of his nose, then finally raised his eyes and looked Payne squarely in the face.

“It's my fault,” he said. “I should have asked. Forgive me.”

Payne was speechless.

“I've been trying to juggle a great many things.” He sighed again, and then, uncharacteristically, his face brightened. “Perhaps we can work something out.”

“Like what?”

“There're other ways to help. Other duties. We've lost our mopper, for example. The man just up and left. We could use someone to replace him.”

“I don't want to mop. I'd rather do what I was doing.”